I Need a Drink

It’s not even Tuesday and I already need a drink. Yes, I NEED a drink…and yes, I’m completely aware that the last sentence is the first indication of a problem. You know what? You’re right, I do have a problem. The problem is that I’m trying to do three people’s work, while looking for two more people to fill out my department at work, so excuse me if I feel the need to take the edge off with a frothy cold one.

I started my week off with seven meetings. That’s right, seven. You know what happens in meetings? Nothing. You talk about shit that you should be doing when you’re not in meetings. The problem is that you have meetings all day long, so nothing ever gets done unless you stay late…and there’s the rub. My Monday consisted of meetings from 10AM to 5PM with five and 10 minute breaks peppered in between, allowing me to answer a few e-mails and slam a sandwich and Diet Coke. Basically I was bouncing around the office today like I’d done an eight-ball of cocaine. I, of course, hadn’t done an eight-ball, or any cocaine for that matter. As a side note, if I ever were to do some blow, I would make sure that it was off a stripper’s naked body. I mean really, if you’re going to drop some nose candy you might as well go all out, right? Just roll up a C-note and run a line straight down a long-legged, blonde whore’s big fake titties…but I digress.

Point being, I was pretty wound up today, to the point that I was two seconds away from biting someone’s head off. It was after 6PM and I was on the phone with a woman from another company that I’m trying to do some business with and if she would have said, “I have 15 years of direct marketing experience” just one more time, I would have flipped my shit. I’m not joking.

Listen bitch, I understand that you’re trying to cover up your insecurities, but I don’t give a flying fuck how many years of experience you have. Want to compare pay checks? Read’em and weep, biotch. Money talks and bull shit walks, so strap on your boots and don’t let the door hit you in the fat ass on the way out.

Wow…OK, I feel better now. Breath. Once more. OK, now let’s move on.

One other notable thing happened today. As I’m closing the stall door to spend some quality time with the bran cereal I had ingested three hours earlier, I find a newspaper and an empty cup of coffee on the floor next to the toilet. Are you fucking kidding me? Some dude I work with actually brought his morning coffee into the stall with him so he could drink it while reading the paper. Unfuckingbelievable. How much do you want to bet this is the same “mystery shiter” that whipped out his cell phone and was talking to his buddy on the can a few weeks back? Hell, why does this guy even have a desk? Between his cell phone, the wireless web and his laptop, he could just set up shop right there in the stall…pants around his ankles and all.

Yes, it’s only Monday and I need a drink.

Cheers,

NYCDG

Random Thoughts - Volume I

I haven’t been ignoring you…really I haven’t. I’ve actually been in San Francisco for the past two weeks on business. Truth be told, I’ve been busier than a hooker at the Democratic National Convention. Nevertheless, I apologize for my absence.

My travels and the time away have given me a lot of time to think and if you’ve read my blog, then you know that can be a scary thing. Anyway, I’ve written down some of the random thoughts I’ve had over the past few weeks. Enjoy.

I hate going to Ethiopian food…I always leave the restaurant hungry.

Why is the hottest flight attendant always working in the first class section? Is this by design? And if so, how and when does that conversation actually occur?

Let’s play a quick game of “Otherwise Know As…”
The Diamond District of Manhattan, otherwise known as Jerusalem west.
The Puerto Rican Day Parade, otherwise known as the big Manhattan gang rape.

I have a drunken spinning theory. You know how you start to spin when you’re laying on the floor getting ready to pass out after you’ve puked all over the bathroom? Well my theory is that if you’re naturally left handed you spin counter clockwise and if you’re naturally right handed you spin clockwise. I’ve tested this theory with about 20 of my friends and it’s held true thus far.

I hate white cab drivers (yes, they do exist). At least Indian (dots, not feathers) cabbies make shit up when you talk to them as they are driving you home after a long evening at the bars. Little did I know that drunken NYU girls love to give head to smelly, hairy, Indian cabbies…riiiiiight, dude.

Speaking of Indian (dots, not feathers) cabbies, there’s a new game that I like to play with my friends before getting into a cab. I call it consonants or vowels. Basically you choose which one of the two you want, your buddy gets the other. When you get in the cab you count the consonants and vowels in the cabbies' name and whichever has more wins.

Is it just me or do The White Stripes sound a lot like The Electric Mayhem Band from The Muppets? Think about the song The Denial Twist…now think of Dr. Teeth banging away on his Organ.

Let’s play “Name that Band…”
“Dubs for Hire” would be a great name for a rap group and “Less than Stoked” would be a great name for a punk band

Is there bad signage in Albuquerque or was Bugs Bunny just really bad with directions?

And that concludes the first edition of Drunk Guy Random Thoughts. I’m back and I’ve missed you guys.

Cheers,

NYC Drunk Guy

Close Sitter

So I am sitting on the train on my way to work waiting for the thing to take off when the urge comes over me. You know, the urge that says you’ve had something to eat the night before that have given you the morning farts. You know it’s going to be one of those mornings the second you throw off the sheets and start to get out of bed. You’re suddenly stopped as a stench rises so foul in the air that it singes your nose hairs and makes you queasy from the bodily gases that have been festering under your comforter over the course of the last six hours. This is why they call it the “Dutch oven,” although I’ve never really understood this reference. Do Dutch baked goods inspire flatulence? Do Dutch bakeries smell like crap? I need to know these things.

So there I am on a train without air conditioning, not a person in sight, other than the homeless guy that’s passed out at the other end of the car, when the urge comes over me. I look around one more time at the empty subway car and figure, “fuck it, not only can I let it go, but I don’t have to worry about the sound it makes”…and as a guy, when you’re not worried about the sound it makes, you make it as loud as possible. So I loosen up my sphincter, give a solid push from the diaphragm and with help of the plastic subway seats, I get some decent audible action.

Sweet, I give it about a six. No wait, what’s that? Wow, with a smell like that, let’s make it an eight. As I’m trying to figure out what I ate last night that could possibly inspire a smell like that, an Indian guy (dots not feathers) walks into the car.

Shit. No way to escape this one. This guy is definitely about to smell the inner workings of my intestines. Actually hold on, there’s no one else on this train and it doesn’t have any A/C, so even if he decides to stay he won’t sit anywhere near me. After all, this is New York City, people value their space when they can get it…

…everyone, except for this asshole. No joke. A completely empty train and he sits right next to me.

Is he gay? No, not likely. I don’t know what it is about him, but he’s not giving off a gay vibe.

I glance over to see if he’s pickig up on my freshly deployed air biscuit. Nothing. Not even a nose twitch. The guy is clearly clueless.

Whew. That was a close one. I can’t believe that he doesn’t smell that.

What, what’s that? It’s not my fart anymore, although it’s just as pungent. I think that smells like curry. Yes, that’s definitely curry, but it’s not like he’s holding a bag of leftovers. It was more like the smell of curry after it’s run through one’s system to the point of saturation…so much that it’s coursing through one’s veins. The guy literally smelled like a walking chicken Vindaloo.

Whatever, he’s Indian (dots not feathers), who cares if he smells like my last meal at the Curry Leaf (my favorite Indian restaurant in the city)?

Funny thing is, I’m not even rattled by how close this guy is sitting next to me. I’m actually more surprised at how the smell of curry can counter act the effects of flatulence. Who knew?

NYCDG

Addiction

I have an addiction. No, it’s not starting my blogs with declarative phrases...although I do enjoy doing that. This addiction happens to be in the form of a television show. Before I tell you what TV show I’m addicted to, you need to understand a few things about me first:

(1) Other than watching sports (and I do a fair amount of that), I don’t watch television. I’m actually quite disillusioned with TV as we know it. Reality TV such as American Idol, Survivor, The Bachelor - the list goes on and on - has completely ruined television and I’m afraid there’s no going back. It won’t be long before we’re watching live executions, death matches and other forms of people killing each other on TV. I'm serious. Think about how desensitized we have become over the past 40 years to what we are served over the airwaves. We’ve come a long way since The Honeymooners. I just hope this leads to more nudity on TV. I hate being limited to the soft porn bull shit that’s on Skinemax after midnight...but I digress.

(2) While I don’t watch TV show when they are aired live - my sporatic schedule doesn’t allow me to get involved in any show (and I don’t have, nor want Tivo) - I do enjoy several shows that are on television. You see, I have Netflix, so I watch all of my shows after they come out on DVD. Yes, it’s somewhat archaic, but it works for me. For those of you out there that might actually care, my favorite shows include 24, The Sopranos, Curb Your Enthusiasm, The West Wing, The Family Guy and The Simpsons.

(3) Under normal circumstances I probably wouldn’t admit this, but after a few “hump day” cocktails, I’m feeling rather liberal with my inner-most secrets...so enjoy.

As of about a week ago I’m completely and totally addicted to The O.C. That’s right, yours truly can’t stop watching the modern day 90210. The funny thing is, I was never one to watch shows like 90210 or Melrose Place when I was growing up. This was probably due to the fact that I was living my own high school drama at the time. Captain of the football team, dating the captain of the cheerleading squad for our cross-town rivals. High school valedictorian with a penchant for getting myself into trouble every now and then. I mean the mark of popularity in high school (or anywhere for that matter) is when people know your name and you have no idea who the hell they are, right? This was my high school life. Hell, I was the modern day Brandon Walsh with a little bit of Steve Sanders and a hint of David Silver...so why watch it on TV?.

Now, in my staring down the barrel of the big 3-0, I find myself totally submersed in the “edgy kid from the bad part of town, meets Newport high society and drama ensues,” plot of The O.C. While I find the never-ending back and forth of Ryan and Marissa’s relationship to be somewhat unrealistic and contrived, Seth Cohen is a classic character, Summer is the “loveable bitchy snob,” and the dramatic tension created by exploits of Julie Cooper play the proverbial straw that stirs The O.C.’s drink.

Like most people with addictions, I am ashamed of my habit, but feel somewhat helpless to the draw of my vice. They say that admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery. If that’s the case, then I have something I’d like to say:

“Hello, my name is the NYC Drunk Guy and I am addicted to The O.C.”

Have a great Labor Day weekend.

NYCDG