Dear Subway,

We've had some good times together, haven't we? Who could forget the time when we first met? I asked you for turkey, you smiled, laughed and asked "Toasted?" Blushing, I accepted your offer. I ignored the warning signs, that things were moving a little too fast. I mean...toasting? On our first date? I couldn't help myself, it just felt so right. You asked me "What else?" and oh, sweet sweet Subway, you showed me a bevy of options...green bell peppers, spinach, lettuce, pickles, tomatoes and oh so much more. I thought This could be the one. I watched as you seductively squirted mayonaise and mustard onto the goopey, melty cheese that was the symbol of our love. You're a lady, Subway, and you didn't want to give it all up on our first meeting...you didn't give me all the lettuce I wanted, but I understood.

Over the years, things started getting more serious. You knew that you had to keep things interesting or I'd get bored so you introduced things like new breads and those little breakfastey things that I never ate because you know I'm not a morning person. I knew I could count on you and you knew you could count on me.

But we've had our bad times, too. I know it's been years and you swear it meant nothing to you, but what you did with Jared...it's hard to regain trust after something like that. Still, we tried. We went to couples therapy, we even took a break to see other people. I know it must've hurt to see me with Quizno's all those times...I know it must've hurt because when I came back there you were. With Jared. I'll never forget that night outside your apartment when I stood there in the rain watching you and Jared's silhouettes in the sweet embrace of sandwiching.

Against my better judgement, against everything in my head that told me Just walk away, Phildo. Walk away before it's too late and you're damaged forever...we decided to give it one last go.

To show me you were willing to make the effort, you said you'd only charge me $5 for a foot-long sandwich. You knew exactly what buttons to push to get me back. At the time it seemed too good to be true. I mean, five dollars? You didn't even do that for Jared. You moved in down the street; I mean we weren't really sure if we were ready to move in together after our break, and I'd come over most nights. Things were really turning around.

Then...with no explanation, you changed. No more five dollar foot long turkey sandwiches? I asked you why, you were cold and distant. You started trying to make me buy weird combinations of things like pepperoni and meatballs; the Subway I fell in love with and worked so hard to stay with for all these years just wasn't the same.

Today when I came over, though, you did something I never expected you to do...you told me I could only have 16 pickles. What's worse, it wasn't even you who told me. You had your friend tell me. Shocked, I didn't know what to say. I asked if you were around but Pita told me you didn't want to talk about it. Sixteen pickles. All these years together and in the end it came down to sixteen miserable little pickles.
You really woke me up today Subway. Breaking up is never easy but this isn't exactly the first time we've done this dance, is it? I mean you can't even have the decency to tell me face-to-face that you don't want me to have your pickles anymore? I'd say this was a tough decision to make, but you kind of made it for me. I know the lease is up on your place soon so I'd appreciate it if you didn't renew it. I think it'll be best if we just never see each other again. I'll always have fond memories of our time together; the early days that is. Meanwhile, go to hell you miserable bitch.

With regret,
Phildo

P.S. - I debated as to whether or not to tell you something so...intimate...but I'm going to do it because I want you to hurt like I do. Quizno's? Oh yeah, Quizno's and me are getting back together. Because she has a full pickle bar. All. You. Can. Eat.

This post was guest illustrated by The 21st Century Mrs. Be sure and click her name to check out her hilarious musings and secret dance parties. 

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If you asked me where I came across this product I'd have an awful lot of explaining to do and you'd have to pay an awful lot for enough booze to get me to talk about it. I think you can probably gather what kinds of search terms were involved.

I am so...enlightened. Folks, let me let you in to the secret world of camel toe.



Can we, for a moment, talk about how many times this woman actually says the phrase "camel toe?" Four times in one minute and thirty seven seconds. That's four times in 97 seconds. Once every 25 seconds. On my best day, I don't say camel toe more than once a day.

First of all, is there not a more scientific term for camel toe than camel toe? I thought camel toe was what we all laughingly called it while beating off to it? No? Do women in locker rooms go "Oooh...Margaret, heads up, trousers down I can see your camel crown?"

God...I hope so.

So there's no appropriate way to talk about camel toe other than saying "Hey Madge, your vag looks like the toes of a Middle Eastern beast of burden." Great. Neat.

I guess I always thought that camel toes were like vadges (hahaha get it?) of courage. Like clearly if you're out and about you're going to notice...somehow....that your vagina is literally protruding through your pants. I don't have a vagina, but I've encountered a few, and it's my general understanding that it's not exactly a completely nerve-deprived area. I think the solution is just...be cool with your vag. I know I am.

If the photos for the SmoothGroove leave anything to the imagination it's that...well the phrase...."NOTHING" comes to mind.

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So I'm taking the opportunity of being unemployed AGAIN to learn myself some French. So I procured a copy of Rosetta Stone for French and I'ma do this shit. As I'm working my way through lesson one, I'm thinking "Wow. This really is intuitive. They have me thinking in French instead of thinking what the picture is in English and then brain-smooshing it into French. Cool!"

But then I noticed something was kind of fishy...what's going on with these pictures? Take the one for "Ils lisent" for example:

First of all, am I supposed to be learning that all men in France wear some variation of turtleneck? We've got micro-crew-neck, crew-neck and two full-on turtlenecks. This software is dated 2010, folks. Even Steve Jobs gave up the halfsie-crew-neck-turtleneck-neckaneck. Also, is that James Franco on the right? That guy is fucking everywhere!


We all know that all French men are gay. The movies, literature, history, the movies, and also the movies, have taught us that French men, even if gay, will have sex with your family and we will all be okay with it thanks to the debt owed to General LaFayette (if you catch my homage there, we're getting married). Which explains this image for "Les hommes cuisinet."

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Okay. Maybe someone can explain this to me so I won't feel like I'm going out of my about-to-be-unemployed-again mind. Subway's $5 Footlongs, we need to talk.

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So there's this ex-con guy I know. Like...not a slicked-back hair wearing used car salesman who did a 3 year stint for touching his seventeen year old niece-in-law...we're talking a hardened criminal who did ten years for soliciting prostitution, dealing hard drugs and fucking shooting someone.

Why my office decides to keep him on staff continues to perplex me (I've come to the conclusion that he's part Native American or something and we have to keep him on staff to meet diversity requirements) because he's so vastly unprofessional that it's just astonishing...but I digress.

I loaned him twenty dollars two weeks ago. Y'know because I'm a white guy and any time someone insinuates that we're not giving or generous we go out and give everyone a bunch of fucking money and smallpox blankets and AIDS and shit. Well so I let him borrow twenty bucks for "bus fare" which is apparently what the so-stupid-that-you-have-a-full-time-job-and-you're-still-almost-homeless are calling "Four Loko money nigggggaaaaaaaz!" these days. He promised he'd pay me back January 5th, 2011 AD.

That day came and went. We are now onto January 8th...and I politely ask him,

"Where's my money?"

He replies, "Oh I'm 'on have to get that to you on the next one."

"The next what?"

"The next paycheck."

"What happened to this paycheck?"

"I um...I been taking the bus a lot lately."

Really? You're going to commit to this? You spent your whole fucking paycheck on bus fare? Where the fuck are you taking the bus to every day? Do you commute from fucking Oregon?

"Yeah. So that's bullshit. Don't bullshit me."

"Um...yeah but we cool, right?"

"No we not cool."

"Well it's just I...y'know I went out and partied a little hard."

I'm a white dude who grew up largely in a major metropolitan suburb and I don't even seriously say the phrase "partied a little hard." Bridging the ethnic divide we are not.

"OK so you're telling me now that not only do you not have the money that you promised me, but that you also don't have it because you made partying a higher priority than keeping your word? AND you're telling me that you lied to me about the purpose of the money in the first place? No. No we are not cool."

*pause*

"Have my money by tonight or so help me God I will spray you with pepper spray until your dead little eyes pop out of your skull."

I'm such a fuckhuggable delight.

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In the words of Gerardo Mejîa, "Bust A Cap In 'Em."

It's day two of the new year and I'm gonna keep up my promise of blogging something every day. At this point I have no clue what today will hold, so this son'bitch is just a placeholder until I come up with something monstrously radical to post later.

That's right...monstrously radical.

Boobs.

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Fix me.

So I have this deviated septum. I've had it ever since high school when this fucking kid in a fucking play was supposed to fake punch me but then he actually fucking punched me in the nose. So I've lived the entirety of my adult life with chronically stuffy sinuses, frequent winter nosebleeds and just general olfactory curmudgeonliness.

Well, fuckos....it stops NOW. I've had this nosebleed for a little over 20 minutes, which I know I know...you're supposed to go to the doctor if this happens. But I've been before. They just say "well you could have your entire fucking nose operated on" and then wipe their asses with money and lawsuit paperwork. But as of tonight, I've fucking had it. First order of business in 2011 is to get this shit operated on. Cut me open doc, bleed me dry! I'm fucking tired of fucking having fucking nosebleeds in the fucking wintertime! Everytime the air is the least bit dry my nose goes "Oh, ho ho! LET ME BLEED FOR A YEAR."

No, I don't do cocaine.

"Oh! Ho ho! BLEEEEEEDING!" Fuck. This. Noise.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, AND ALL THAT IS HOLY...MY NOSE....IS BLEEDING!

I'll be the first to admit, I've been pretty hard on this body of mine. If our bodies are temples, then I'm some sort of weird militant lesbian buddhist waging a war against corporate oligarchy and my body is my battered Tibetan temple. But c'mon. The FIRST thing someone assumes when I'm like "Whoopsie! Time to bleed out!" is Oh I bet he does a shitload of cocaine. Well lemme ask you something, bucko, do I look like I do a bunch of cocaine? Fucking no I don't.

Okay. It's really fucking hard to find a concise video of a nuclear explosion, which is what I was going to try and use to close this shit up...so fuck it.

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I was going through a derelict image folder just now and found this screengrab...this guy has been around since the internet was just a place that AOL wiped its ass with. Wonder whatever happened to him. Its sardonic motherfuckers like him that helped build this playground we all call "the net."

Ha. Who calls it "the net?"

Fags.

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Today I will write about nothing.

Except that in so doing, I'm writing about something. Assuming that nothing is in fact something.

You can probably see why I contemplated not writing. Since I'm of no use to society on this day, I'll just waste all of our time and list some things that I'm currently digging.

• Baby Carrots (or really any food that is baby-sized, like baby corn? Fuck yes!)
• The debauchery of The Cabinet. Reminds me of my younger days.
• My new moonlighting gig. Not literally, you silly readers! 
• The fact that YouTube recommended a video called "The Most Racist Commercials" for me to watch.

• Chicken quesadillas. 
• Having absolutely no gumption to write anything substantial.

I'll leave you with this glimpse into what my life has been like the last six months.


I've got a few juicy posts in the works so stay tuned.

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In another astounding testament to her superior intellect, Sarah Palin claims to have clear and vivid memories from when she was a mere three months old.

The Daily Dish reports:

Another Odd Lie?

01 Jul 2010 10:45 am

From a speech delivered at the International Bowl Expo in Las Vegas yesterday:

Palin recalled her youth when her father set pins in Idaho. "My Dad was on a Thursday night bowling league," she said. "He bonded with his buddies. I have memories of that point of my life which mean very, very much to me."

A press release confirms that account:

Professing a personal appreciation for the bowling industry, Palin also noted that, during his high school years, her father Chuck Heath Sr. worked as a pin boy and that she herself has fond childhood memories of watching him play in this Thursday night bowling league.

Palin was three months old when she left Idaho.Maybe there's some explanation for this that I don't know of yet. But the truth is: Palin constantly makes stuff up to appeal to whatever audience she is in front of.

God knows I have some great memories from my first weeks of life. I look back fondly on the incubator that nursed me to health, to the bigass needle they allegedly put in my brain for some reason (I maintain that I'm a genetic experiment...it's why I have the super-ability to be amazingly awesome)...and don't judge me. We all know that there's only two places Sarah Palin can end up and one of those is the Red Shoe Diaries.

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Okay. Not really zombies, but the next best thing.

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First of all, how much do we love that title? Yes. We love it. Anyway, according to Popular Science, some blokes in San Francisco (or bears*, possibly) have decided that cell phone makers have to now provide hard-to-read graphs illustrating how much electromagnetic whatchamacallems enter your brain.

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Okay. It's Tuesday. It's hot out. This old dude across from me at the coffee shop has been blathering on and on about his stupid dead wife. She got hit by a bus. I know, right? Also pretty sure I'm suffering from withdrawal (meth, it's tough to kick, y'know). So, here's a list of things that are currently chapping my chappie.

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Give me money. Just sayin'.


(via Happy Chair Is Happy)

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So I was on WebMD trying to diagnose this pressure in my ears and sore throat and blah blah blah that is currently making it impossible to sleep and/or enjoy anything in life and I came across the following symptom:


Now, I'm no doctor (though I do play one on TV)...but tasting words? I have GOT to get down on this!

If you or someone you know can taste words, please click "Contact Me" above...and freaking tell me about it!

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I just figured out how to stop the oil from spilling into the gulf!

You know how oil and water don't mix? If only we had a bunch of WATER to put with all that oil, it'd just separate out!

Wait a minute...

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