Ehren's Guide To "Fuck-Me" Food

Restaurants are very important to men. More so, I think, than to women. Allow me to explain.

If I somehow convince an obviously insane or dimwitted female that I’m worth spending an evening with, it falls to me to plan the events for the night. And as much as I’d love to write out an itinerary like this:

7:00 PM: Arrive at your house naked.
7:01 PM: “Accidentally” trip, lodging my penis in your mouth when you answer the door.
7:02 PM: Discover you enjoy it and proceed to insertion into various other openings.
10:00 PM: Small talk.
10:01 PM: More sex.
2:00 AM: Drive home.

Somehow, it never works out like that…without the use of drugs, knives, or duct tape that is. And I’m just a woefully underpaid corporate bitch. I haven’t the money for that. So instead, I’m obligated to take said mentally deranged female out for the evening.

The restaurant portion of the date is perhaps the most important activity of the night. This is where virginities are lost or maintained. Remember, couples who eat together are 75% more likely to be open to threesomes with hot, unconscious hitch-hikers clubbed in the head with a bat when they ask you for directions. Think about it.

Women are always judging. What you say and how you two interact are obviously the most important elements, but don’t underestimate the value of a kick ass meal. Taking a first date to Sizzler says something about your taste, your esteem of her, and your willingness to be exposed to E-coli and the taste of crotch in the name of all you can eat “steak.” Hey, I’m not arguing that it’s actually a steak they serve there. I am, however, pointing out that the ads never specify that it’s a steak from a cow. Just throwing that out there.

You want a restaurant to be nice, but not TOO nice. That would imply you’re trying too hard. Besides, who wants to waste a decent meal on the skank from Saturday night who thinks that K-Fed is “like so super talented. And smart. Like, Jeopardy smart.”? Ideally, for a first date, you want a place that is a “diamond in the rough.” That is, small, local, with great food.

Yesterday, my friend and I grabbed some sushi at a place that would have to undergo major reconstructions and upgrades to be called “shit.” The waitress was horrible. I’ve experienced more sunny dispositions and compassion from guards in Siberian prison camps. The food was sloppy: warm fish, slopped on a dirty plate with no attention to presentation. My personal favorite, however, was the cup they gave me to drink tea from. It was the size of a regular coffee mug, but about one centimeter thick and lacking a handle. Basically, there was no way to take a sip without exposing your hands to second degree burns.

What does this have to do with where to take girls? I’m proud to announce that my friend and I swore an unholy oath to launch ourselves into the food critic business. Look for our new site, coming soon! That’s right, watch as I take my frustration of a dead-end job, depressing single-life, and complete lack of social skills out on poor, unsuspecting eateries, bistros, buffets, vendors, and waffle-houses!

In the meantime, guys, remember: Taco Bell does not equal fine cuisine.

Magic Eye: Great Equalizer Of The Corporate World

Ruthless office pranks aside, I worry sometimes that my job doesn’t allow me a constructive outlet for my malevolent impulses. Maybe that’s the reason why I’m so destructive in my personal and romantic lives. Oh well, that’s the price I pay for passing on that position as an interrogator at Guantanamo Bay.

Everyone in my company is given these bland little name tag things to hang up on their cubes, or outside their office. I’ve recently decided that I’m angry with this. I’m tired of being defined by my “Slave Name.” No, I’m not African-American, but my ancestors were slaves…if you go all the way back to Egypt.

Funny slavery story: ok, not really funny. Or a story. Or about slavery. But it's amusing! I have a friend who’s announced that he’s taking the word “Cracker” back for the White Man. He’s just waiting for the opportunity to get offended when someone says the “C” word in public so he can stand up and say, “Hey! That is OUR word. You have NO RIGHT to say it.” It’s a pretty amusing idea. The only problem is that no African American has used the utterance as a racial slur since the 1972 film “Superfly.”

Anyway, where was I? Oh right, my slave name.

So at first, I was planning on announcing a new name that I demanded on being addressed by. Something incredibly complicated with about 17 consonants in a row. But then I remembered that they charge a fee to legally change your name. It was then I decided that the real way I could honor my enslaved forefathers was through doing what they did best: shamelessly Jewing every penny out of The Man humanly possibly.

So instead of a name change, I opted to be extremely cheap. I could already feel my ancestors smiling down upon on me. Then I remembered we Jews don’t believe in Heaven and realized that it had just been a webcam hidden in the men’s room.

Finally, I hit on a way to stick it to The Man in a fiscally-responsible manner. Once in a while, someone will walk down the rows of cubes, looking for someone’s desk. As they go, they walk slowly and squint at the name tags. Because stopping to ask directions would require interaction with someone on a personal level. And ovaries. So I decided to go passive-aggressive in my revenge on the corporate world.

I visited a really cool site and made a new version of my name tag: in Magic Eye writing. That ought to cause some consternation. I can just see someone wandering down the isle:

“Robert Terwilliger, Momar Szislak, Quarky Jones, and wha, um, huh?”

Me: Can I help you?
Confused Corporate Asshole: Uh…yeah. Who are you?
Me [in a weary voice]: Read the sign, pal.
CCA: Huh? How do I...
Me: You have to look THROUGH it. Like a window.
[Long pause.]
CCA: I don't see anything
Me: Are you looking BEYOND the picture?
CCA: Yeah...
Me: No you aren't or you'd see it.
[Another pause]
CCA: Wait, is it an airplane?
Me: Of course not! What kind of idiot would hang a picture of an airplane up in place of his name?

It's such a great "fuck you" to the corporate world. I wonder if I can find a place that will do my business cards in the same format.

If I Did It

A while ago, I noted that I don’t really have a talent for office pranks. See, shooting rubber bands at someone, or putting post-it notes over their monitor just doesn’t amuse me. And I know a thing or two about being funny. Abducting someone’s kids at gun point and keeping them locked in the trunk of their fiancé for two days? Hilarious. But apparently, some people feel that when I do that I’m “crossing a line.” Get a fucking sense of humor.

One of my friends from work made the mistake of taking some time off from work. Vacation, religious holiday, dead wife…blah, blah, blah. I forget which. However, in his grieving, he made the fatal mistake of leaving his cube unguarded. Meaning I had the opportunity to issue payback for two and a half years of rubber band attacks. I think the picture below speaks for itself:



You know, it’s not often I get the contented, satisfying feeling of a job well-done at the end of the day. This might have been the most productive day I’ve ever had at work. So it’s nice to truly revel in my output.

Ahhhhhhhh….

I was thinking that the real fun will begin tomorrow when he gets into work. The first thing I plan on doing is putting my arm over his shoulder in a conspiratorial manner, leaning in close and saying, “Steve, I have no idea who could have perpetrated this childish, outrageous prank. Frankly, I’m shocked and appalled. But I’m making you a solemn vow, right here and now, that I will not rest until I find the REAL prankster, whoever he or she really is.”

I figure I’ll let about a week go by then shoot him an email, letting him know that I’ve signed a book deal to tell the story about how I would have booby-trapped his desk called, “If I Did It.”

Good times.

In other news, savvy investors, it seems, took note of my prank and as a result, shares of my company dropped a full dollar. Up until three weeks ago, this would have meant nothing to me. Except at the beginning of the month, I found out that I had a substantial number of stock options and today’s drop cost me personally over $500. That’s a lot of beer. Ordinarily, I’d be slightly depressed about that. But in the long-run, I’m betting that Wall Street will eventually come to realize the true value what I’ve done here today, and send my shares skyrocketing. Which is why I went ahead and ordered 3 live, greased pigs to be delivered to the office tomorrow. The plan (stolen from Jack Saddle) is to number them: “1,” “2,” and “4” before release them to run amuck in the building.

See, now THAT’S funny.

Better Dating Through Fear

I was thinking the other day that there are two possible ways to go about designing an evening that will win a lady’s heart. The first is through grand, sweeping, romantic gestures: flowers, candle-lit dinner, moonlit walk on the beach. Obviously, this is the more universally accepted way to woo. But I’ve been wondering if this approach is not completely off-base.

Not only does it set unrealistic expectations on what a man’s like, the whole approach seems way too needy. Which is why I propose a second, more fiscally responsible method. Though unpopular, I suspect it will prove much more effective.

Essentially, it’s a romance style based on Stockholm-Syndrome. Hear me out on this one.

What a dating really should do is prepare two people for a life-time of bad sex, disappointment and, ultimately, an existence devoid of any lingering hopes or dreams. What better way to capitalize on that than to make your dates so traumatic, that life with you seems dazzling by comparison. I’ve heard that fear is the greatest aphrodisiac. It’s time to take that theory and run with it.

Why buy your date flowers, when you can set a rabid pit-bull loose in her bathroom? In the long run, is a candlelit dinner really so much different taking her to a slaughter house? And by “taking” I mean “abducting.” In the trunk of your car. With duct tape. And why go on a star-kissed walk on the beach, when you can pretend your car broke down in the middle of the crack-district?

This is the best idea I ever had. It’s time to start exposing women to situations that make me seem awesome by comparison. For example, is a potential date not certain I’m good looking enough to sleep with? A visit to the burn-ward of the local hospital ought to change her mind. Do I not make enough money? Watch as I bust her cell phone and drop her off without a penny in “Driftertown” as it’s affectionately called by the locals.

I mean think about it: after a few weeks of dealing with random abductions, animal attacks, and close encounters with death, a girl’s bound to start breaking down psychologically. Leaving her just vulnerable enough to take up with the likes of me.

The real trick, I imagine, would be avoiding a restraining order and jail time during the courting period. Though such experiences would, most likely, work a similar effect on me, increasing my feelings for a girl exponentially. Nothing like a doing a little hard time to strengthen your interest in a girl. What’s that saying, “Absence makes the heart grow stronger?” Really makes you wonder about our current system for dealing with stalkers.

Because after all that, when you’re both completely paranoid, scarred, and emotionally broken, you’ll have no choice but to give up on yourselves and settle for anyone you can con into tolerating you. And in the end, isn’t that what dating is all about?

The Ismar Diet

I don’t consider myself the most health-conscious individual. My single bout with fitness came in high school, when I got a chin-up bar for my room. Every night I did 75 chin-ups, 30 pull-ups, 300 sit-ups, and then used free-weights for my forearms and chest. However, there was a problem: pretty much every single one of my actions was done simply as a way to get me laid. And I was Persona Non Grata as far as High school vagina went.

So I said, “Fuck it,” concentrated on college girls, and stopped working out. I often wonder whether I’d be running 3 miles a day and grating cheese off my abs if I banged just one girl back in tenth grade.

Now, as little as I’m motivated by physical fitness, I do understand the basic concepts of health. Things like, “Hey, maybe I shouldn’t eat this entire pound of cheese if I want to look good.” My friend, I discovered, has no such basic knowledge.

Because his car is in the shop, I’ve been shuttling Ismar about for the last week or so. On our way back from work, we stopped at the grocery store so he could pick up some food for the week.

“Ehren,” he said as we entered the store. “I’m really making an effort to eat healthier. I want to lose some weight.”

For those of you who want to take part in this revolutionary diet, the building blocks are:

• Chocolate Pudding
• 12 pack of Yuengling Black & Tan
• Teriyaki-Style Jerky

If anyone was curious what his Food Piramid would look like, I think it'd be something like this.

The experience was truly staggering for me. It left me wondering what the fuck he was eating before that was less healthy than this. Here’s what I’ve come up with:

4:30 AM: Sleepwalks to the fridge and gorges on full order of ribs. Drinks bottle of Barbeque sauce and a fifth of Jack Daniels. Stumbles back to bed, still covered in grease.

7:30 AM: Wake up. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day and no one knows this better than Ismar. He kicks off his morning with 3 pounds of bacon and a crisp, bracing gallon jug of milkshake, to go.

8:25 AM: Still covered in bacon fat, stops on the way to work for Dunkin Doughnuts and Coke. The drug, not the soft drink.

11:00 AM: Coffee break: 54 Mocha-caramel-brownie-fudge lattes from Starbucks and a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Tosses the jelly ones back because they look “suspiciously nutritious.”

12:30 PM: Ismar is a busy executive on the go! No time for lunch. Take 15 minutes to freebase cleaning solvents in the men’s room instead.

3:30 PM: Starting to crash! Snorts a pound and a half of Pixie Stix. Plus a suckling pig to tide him over until dinner.

6:00 PM: After a long day, it’s time to relax with a cold, refreshing pint of Everclear and a box of new "High Tar" Cigars.

6:30 PM: Dinner is served: half pound of fatback, fried in butter, a side of American cheese over micro-waved Twinkies and a single carrot: gotta watch the weight! Smothers carrot in Ranch Dressing. For desert: a punch bowl of Nerds.

9:00 PM: Large Hot Fudge Brownie Delight from Dairy Queen. It was on the way…to another Dairy Queen…where he buys second Brownie Delight.

11:45 PM: Can’t wait until Midnight snack. Buckles and eats 64 slices of American cheese to tide him over.

12:00 PM: Hurray, midnight snack time at last! Eat entire turkey, along with a nice, warm glass of gravy.

The good news for Ismar is that he’s a non-smoker…for 20 days now. Medical Science predicts a life expectancy for him of a long, ripe 24 years. The bad news is that he turned 26 in June. Ismar, I say to you “Live in the now! Forget the Jerky and Beer diet and eat whatever your heart desires. Chances are it’s on its last tick anyway.”

Lucite and Strippers: Together At Last!

On Friday I spent an interesting evening at Robot House. Perhaps my favorite aspect of the locale is the sheer unpredictability and volatility of every moment. Take 10 crazy young people: add alcohol, a sword collection, a remote control tank that shoots B.B.s at high velocity, and a complete disregard for dignity, ethics or hygiene and stand back. It’s really a marvel that the place hasn’t burned down yet.

Somewhere, between Yager shots and trying to videotape the live sex going on in the basement, we had an interesting discussion about new decoration ideas for Robot House. See, all the residents (and honorary residents, who bring them alcohol and don’t inform the authorities to their semi-legal dealings) agreed that a Stripper Pole should be the next big addition. I think the reasons are obvious: watching drunk people fall on their ass.

Several residents still hold out the belief that they will one day convince strippers to enter the house when they aren’t bound, gagged, and chloroformed. I’m not really sure why. Any gold digger who doesn’t take one look at that place and realize that she’s going to have more luck getting naked at a gay homeless shelter deserves the crabs she’s sure to contract. I don’t use the phrase “dirtier than a strip club” lightly.

At any rate, after some discussion, we decided that the optimum location for the pole where these mythical strippers would dance would be in the center of the living room.

“We need to cut a hole in the coffee table, and run it up through there.” Suggested one resident. “That way, when we’re sitting on the couches our eyes will all be at cootch level.”

I’m not really sure why this would be an appealing idea. Stripper crotch is the most ugly, depressing place on earth. Sort of like the opposite of Disney Land. Why you’d need a closer look is really beyond me—unless you were really curious to find out what chlamydia looks like.

“That’s not a bad idea,” I chimed in. “But if you guys REALLY want to do it right, you need to get a whole new table made out of the most glorious substance on earth.”

I paused to build the anticipation. The room leaned in to hear my idea. I grinned and said one word: “Lucite.”

The benefits of a Lucite stripper table are multi-faceted.

1. It allows a here-to-fore unheard of and unrestricted sight line to the cootch--nasty and oozing with the shame of a dozen of business men though it might be. Basically, it operates under the same principle as a glass-bottomed boat ride.
2. A clear tabletop would allow you to position lights from below, highlighting stripper strong points (i.e. fake breasts) and gracefully calling attention away from traditional stripper weaknesses (i.e. busted face and scars).
3. Said material, being durable enough to withstand bullets, might also offer you a slim chance of protection from some of the myriad dangers that await the stripper connoisseur. Dangers such as gonorrhea, snatch glitter, and angry bouncers.

With all due modesty, I think that my idea is clear proof of my awe-inspiring genius. Some people toil to send men into space or cure AIDS. I innovate ways for perverts to ogle cheap, molested whores, dancing vainly for daddy’s love. Who is it for anyone to say which cause is nobler? I have to say this, though: should anyone from Robot House be called for comment, I’m a fucking god. Take that, Sir Isaac Newton!

Hiatus

Hi all,

There's a lot going on with work, play, and life right now. Between that and a mean case of writer's block, I've decided to take a little break from writing.

I'll be back on 1/22.

Like the kids say, "Be there, scumbag!"

-Ehren

Lazy

There are days when I wish I ran the type of blog where I just comment on celebrities, weird video clips, or pictures of Britney’s snatch. Because you always have something to write or comment on. Unfortunately, I had to be “original” and write about weird thoughts that come to me during the day. Meaning that on slow days, such as today, I’m royally fucked.

Besides work, here’s what darted across my conscienciousness today:

1. I must be slipping. Since when does a girl sending me a photo of her nipple rings qualify as sending “mixed signals”?
2. Nipple rings are hot.
3. Revenge fucking an ex-girlfriend: worth it?
4. Did the Chinese place around the corner noticed that I stole one of their beer mugs?
5. I want silicon implants to keep on my desk at work. That way, whenever I’m stressed out, I can squeeze a breast.
6. Nipple rings are REALLY hot. The girl who sent me this is the devil. Now that this picture is in my possession, I’m never going to get any work done.
7. My Ex-girlfriend who cheated on me is a filthy whore. But she had an incredible rack. And ass. Maybe I should punish her through anal sex.
8. Masturbation in the work bathroom: Hmmm…Probably not a great idea. The C.E.O. probably doesn’t need to hear me whisper, “You like that, don’t you whore?” from the stall next to him.
9. Maybe I should get a tattoo. Or start cutting myself. I think “crack whore” is “in” again this year.
10. Nipple rings are REALLY FUCKING HOT.

None of those things is really worthy of a whole post about. Except maybe the nipple rings. But if I did so, I’d have to go ease the tension in the men’s bathroom. And that’s just too dirty, even for me.

So instead, I’m going to be unoriginal. Below is a picture of what my sister made for me. And by “made” I mean by hand, using enamel, bronze and a torch.



She’s the best. Hon, we need to come up with a cool alter-ego for you, like Jack Saddle did. Write in if you have any suggestions. If anyone’s interested in seeing her other work (she’s fucking amazing) check out her myspace page, which she uses to display some of her other art.

Lastly, I don’t usually go on You Tube. But today, I was listening to a guy named Monte Montgomery who’s absolutely sick. If I could play guitar like this, I would never leave my house again. He’s a fucking god, especially starting at about 1:30 in. Enjoy. Maybe I’ll get back to actually coherent writing tomorrow.

Why I'll Never Visit Ecuador

I’d be the first to admit that I’ve made some mistakes when it comes to women. OK, that last sentence is perhaps the understatement of the decade. “Some mistakes” doesn’t quite cover taking a girl’s virginity then breaking up with her and sleeping with her best friend three days later. Hey, I never specified the SIZE of the mistakes.

However, lest anyone think that the universe is not only just, but has an incredibly perverse sense of humor, I’ve also paid for the error in my ways. In general, I like to think I’ve caused less injury than has been inflicted on me. In retrospect, if karma actually does exist, I’ll probably be suffering for a very long time…before being reincarnated as the bike owned by a morbidly obese sexual deviant.

However, sometime, just sometimes, I can’t help but think I’ve done ok for myself, considering what I had to work with. Lots of guys can claim that they had crazy ex-girlfriends. I have proof. In what is a weirdly satisfying experience, you can actually Google one of them along with the words “paranoia,” “delusional" or “psychotic” and get valid results. I don’t mean you get someone else with the same name, or you get blogs about her: you get actual news articles on a girl I dated.

Now the articles that come up go on to explain that she was not suffering from the afflictions I listed above until the Peace Core doled her out a controversial medication. But still…it’s nice to get validation.

I’ve never been a really vindictive guy in my romantic life. I usually cut ties and let bygones be bygones. Yet if I HAD been spiteful, I’d be hard-pressed to come up with an ordeal crueler than the one she went through. I mean, how many guys can say their ex-girlfriend caught Malaria in Ecuador and then had to be treated for “depression, vivid nightmares, paranoia, hallucinations and lethargy”?

Now as weird as that is, there’s more to the story. See, remember the story I told you at the beginning of this post about taking a girl’s virginity and then sleeping with her best friend three days later? This ex was that best friend. Meaning either:

1. God is decidedly male and wants to fuck her over for her role in…well, fucking over her best friend.
2. God hates us both and is in the process of dreaming up equal or worse punishment for me.

In a related story, I will be sleeping, peeing, and living under a mosquito-net for the rest of my existence.

Temptations (Sexual and Asian) And Why I'm A Bad Jew

A new restaurant opened up around the corner from office, with the dubious moniker “Asian Temptations.” At least, I think it’s a restaurant. They have tables and a bar. Seriously though, with that name, would anyone be shocked if they turned out to be a massage-parlor/mail-order bride center/whorehouse?

Today I decided that, whorehouse or no, I was going to spend my lunch break there. Just to be safe, I took a coworker with me. Hey, who knows if they were on the look-out for U.S. identities to steal as part of their slave-trafficking/prostitution ring?

Now, while I certainly have no moral objections to the sex industry, I must admit that it’s not really my thing. I generally only go as far as downloading the videos. I’ve been to exactly two strip clubs in my life. Neither experience was so thrilling that I found myself eager to return. Maybe it was the cheap perfume, the nearly impossible to remove glitter and stench of fear that clung to me the next day, or the bored swaying of countless pairs of dead eyes and fake breasts. Or maybe I’m just an asshole missing the true beauty of titty-bars.

I’ve never had sex with a prostitute…that I know of…though I do harbor some suspicions about one of my shadier ex-girlfriends. Maybe it was the ownership of clear, plastic pumps, the fact she never kissed me on the lips, or the time she charged my friends money for sex. But deep down, something never seemed right about her. Something I couldn’t put my finger on.

I’m kidding. I never dated a girl who charged my friends money for sex. I did, however, have a girlfriend whom I later found out fucked a guy for drugs. But that’s totally different. And much classier.

One of the deciding things (other than my over-powering paranoia of V.D.) that no doubt factors into my hesitancy to purchase sex is that I am, perhaps, the worst negotiator known to man. I know. I know. It’s shocking, given my Jewish heritage. One of my friends said it’s because I never got bar Mitzvahed. Apparently, that’s where they program you with all the tricks on how to control the world’s media, suck at sports, and steal the White Man’s money. Fuck! I knew I should have sucked it up and attended Hebrew School.

How bad do I suck at negotiating? I paid full-price for my cell-phone. And I went in there with a corporate discount rate. That’s right. I some-how managed to increase the amount of money I spent from the sticker price.

Come to think of it, my inability to strike a fair trade probably explains the bulk of my relationships.

“What’s that, honey? You say if I promise never to drink, see my friends, or show any signs of independence, you’ll completely walk all-over me for the rest of my life and eventually suck me down into a joyless marriage? Where do I sign up?”

Now as bad as my haggling skills are, one can only imagine what they would be when bantered over a pair of naked breasts, fake or not. Basically, I’m smart enough to know that only one walking away from that transaction being thoroughly and properly fucked would be me.

Fortunately, Asian Temptations showed no signs of being a whorehouse. Which is good for my bank-account, self-esteem, and truly awe-inspiring lack of gonorrhea, but bad for my near-fatal thirst to get laid. Oh well, I guess I’ll just have to suck it up and go back to being charming.

Fuck! I’m never getting laid again.