I think it’s fair to say that every fear I had about making a commitment to the Beijing Olympics came true. Not only did I stop watching as soon as I realized that, despite my formidable skill with a TiVo remote, it was physically impossible to follow every Olympic event, I also developed a sizeable hatred for the most populous nation in the world. I won’t call it a racism, per se, because it has nothing to do with the fact that they are Chinese; it does, however, have everything to do with the fact that they are manipulative cheaters who are mean to little girls.
In truth, I imagine the games will be better in hindsight anyway, when I can pick up a magazine from the local newsstand and have all the heartwarming triumphs and bitter defeats condensed and organized like a Chinese take-out menu. Maybe it lacks the emotional cache of witnessing the events in twice-pre-recorded time, but my emotions are stretched thin as it is, what with Brooke and Puppy and the upcoming fall TV season.
Besides, all isn’t lost. Now that a majority of the events are said and done, it’ll free up some time for me to catch the rhythmic gymnastics competition this weekend. Those girls are really bendy.
On to the questions.
Does James have a girlfriend? If not, do you think he'd be interested in a pale, Jewish, Seattle native who enjoys sewing, brewing spicy chai, making wallets out of cassette tapes and who may or may not get around in a Rascal? I'm asking for a friend.
PS: I think the Confederate flag adds some panache to
my her mobility scooter.
Funny you should ask, because in fact James doesn’t have a girlfriend. He has a fiancé.
I’m not sure exactly how it happened. I assume it was some sort of mistake because I assured James from an early age that as an artist he could snag a bunch of weird tail. But the next thing I know he’s falling in love and planning a wedding, which will make him the fifth of my friends to tie the knot in the past two years – an epidemic by any governing board’s standards.
But fear not, Rachele! I am nothing if not a helper. Though I technically haven’t fixed up two friends since the great blogger set-up of ’06 (code name: Must Love Blogs), I have to say I had quite a knack for it. (I think they could have had something special if not for her crippling Ambien addiction.) I’m pretty confident I could find a nice, pale Jewish girl who appreciates Eastern teas and Western crafts a decent boyfriend.
So please, anyone who isn’t a murderer in Seattle, send me a note! Petty crime will be judged on a case by case basis. Put your best (read: most attractive) foot forward, and you may be the recipient of a cassette tape wallet – and some delightfully weird tail.
Hang in there, Rach! (Can I call you Rach?) I won’t let you die alone in the rain!
Lots of bad things happen to good people. Specifically in financial exchanges, I tend to believe people. I get burned a lot (as does everyone). As a younger man, I would pass it off as tuition, and move on. Lately I am getting too angry. My question is: How do I protect my "Karma" from dishonest assholes?
I have a mean uncle who used to spout pearls of wisdom between scotch-soaked spittle, one of them being “Bad things don’t happen to good people. Bad things happen to stupid people who let bad things happen to them.” (He probably wouldn’t have liked you.)
Now, I’m not sure what kind of financial exchanges you’re talking about: Did you submit your credit card information for identity verification and you’re still waiting for that free iPod? Or did you lend a hooker money for an abortion, only to find out she wasn’t really pregnant. (Again!) Regardless, let’s just say that, as a general rule, you should think of all financial transactions like Craigslist casual encounters: If it seems too good to be true, it probably is.
Moreover, you have to do your due diligence. Just like Bob Barker used to remind us at the end of every Price is Right – most people are ruthless and out for themselves, the animals be damned. This means that before you do business with someone, you have to perform surveillance on them. An easy way to do this it to friend them on Facebook from a fake name and start tossing sheep at them and giving them toy boats. If they don’t toss back, they’re probably scoundrels.
And for god’s sake, the next time Candy comes asking for cash, ask to see the sonogram.
girlfriend ex-girlfriend is an avid reader of yours so I thought you might be able to help me out. She tells me how much in love with me she is, but also thinks we're not "right" for each other and therefore shouldn't date anymore. I don't understand the reasoning. If we both agree we love one another, then aren't we "right" for each other and shouldn't we continue dating? Would you please tell her she's crazy? She seems to take offense when I say it.
Pookie (if that’s your real name), I’m going to be frank here: Your ex-girlfriend hates you. She can’t stand how you still listen to The Police and wear t-shirts under your button-downs and call her “Baby” in that soft voice when you’re trying to calm her down, because how dare you SHE HAS A RIGHT TO HER EMOTIONS.
Here’s a story: Back when I worked in the Financial District in New York, there was a deli I would go to almost every day for lunch. The Pakistani guy behind the counter was really nice. He would help me pick out which sandwich I wanted that day, not charge me tax, and sometimes even throw in a free soda.
Then one day, after eating the Italian hero, I got violently ill. It was the flu, not food poisoning, but because the two incidents had happened so closely, my mind connected them. I was out of work for a week, and when I finally went back, I couldn’t return to the deli for lunch. I could hardly even look at the place due to of all the bad memories.
Almost a year later, on a day when it was bitter cold out and I didn’t feel like traveling far, I finally went back. My old friend recognized me as soon as I walked in. I made pretend he didn’t. I ordered a sandwich, and while he was ringing me up, he coyly said, “Haven’t seen you around in a while.” Caught off guard, and not wanting to hurt his feelings with my story of the flu and his Italian hero, I lied. “I was transferred for work. Been in London for the past year. Just got back and had to stop in!” This made him happy, and he gave me four cookies when I only ordered three.
When I got back to the office, I could only eat half the sandwich, so strong were my negative sensory memories. I threw the other half away and never went back. Pookie, you are that Pakistani guy, and I am your ex-girlfriend. And your love is that sandwich in the trash.
The cookies, however, were delicious.
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