Eggs. Cooked any which way, any desired texture. To my surprise, most people in my class prefer well done eggs, steaks, and custard. Their exposure must be limited due to the fact that I feed my puppy these very same items. With an appetite to learn and a willingness for eternal foodie hunger, I pushed these non-essential details aside and focused on the task at hand: Fry, Flip, Repeat.

We set our stations up with eggs, butter, pans, and spatulas. Butter the pan, break the egg, swirl, flip, repeat.Use the spatula and you get hit on the wrist with one. Is that why we brought them to our stations?

The simplest of all tasks, cracking the egg, is the first step that I learned in the womb. It's a skill that should be managable for any furry, smart-ass saber-tooth mammoth in culinary school to be an expert on. At least I thought so...

Cracking eggs can be done with one hand or two, depending on grip and girth (get your mind out of the gutter, will ya?). I always crack with two hands, which allows for non-breakage of the gooey yolk. I also use this technique so the yolk doesn't splooge all over (Oh, stop it). The girl next to me, found this task difficult.

Yes. This task.

We had a dozen eggs each to practice with. Chef told us if we needed any more that a career change might be a healthy option. Anyways, this girl broke the yolk on 12 eggs. In a row. When the yolk is broken, it's unusable for any overeasy, overmedium, or overhard egg that is being prepared. It can be used for scramby eggs, but we weren't working on those. Someone should of told this chick. So, being the charming fella that I am, I suggested, "Hey, try breaking it with two hands. Might have some better luck." She agreed, and tried again.

8 more broken. In a row. Once again, idiotically, I spoke.

"Maybe I can break the eggs for you?"

She replied, "Na. I got this, nooka."

NOOKA? REALLY? What is that? Isn't that what my 1 year old nephew uses when we want him to be quiet? I decided to stay in my own station and work on my perfect eggs.

Break two eggs into pan. Fry, swirl, flip, repeat.

These look like boobies!

The chef's were walking around and checking everyone's eggs for overeasy, overmedium, and overhard quality. They walked by mine: good, good, good. My partner's: good, good, good. The girl next to me: good, good, good.

Wait...good? You mean those 20 eggs broken and burnt to hell? Those are the good ones? Or am I missing something here?

He continued critiquing mindlessly.

The heat of the stove top, the screams of cut open ligaments, the too loud hood fans, the stinky mop water smell, the silly chef's hats, the crying from onions, the extreme looks of happiness and despair, the vulgar language used, and the product development from start to finish is why I'm here. I may be surrounded by idiots sometimes, but is there a job where you're not?

Yeah, that's what I thought. Boo-ya Lola.

The first few days of school were filled with orientations, awkward silences in the hallway with other classmates, holding farts in even when the teacher walked out of the room for a second, and countless thoughts like "I'm gonna ace all my classes!" or "I can't wait to do all these assigned readings!" There is more to this degree than just cooking, and people don't like to believe that. They think we cook and fuck around all day. That may be true to all extents, but there is a lot of reading to be done beforehand. We meet for an hour everyday before we go into the lab, and this was the first time going over the book. Exciting? Not at all...

We got our knife kits the week before we were actually going to be in lab. We received them in white cardboard boxes, and inside the box were the knives and a carrying bag for the knives all wrapped in plastic. The instructor gave them to us so we could go home over the weekend and test them out, try to get a feel for the knives. I have to be honest, I know what a knife looks and feels like, so I just took them, removed the plastic, and that was that. I thought that everyone would've been smart enough to do this, but boy was I wrong. When I arrived to the room, almost half the class showed up with the box in hand, everything still wrapped in plastic. Did I mention the carrying case has a shoulder strap? So apparently these morons would rather carry a big ass box than to carry a little bag full of weaponry. I looked around the room for some hope of intelligence, someone I could enjoy these fine moments with. Although it's only the second day, I already know that it wasn't possible. I was all alone, similar to when I was in Iowa suffering silently through my blog. I may endure the same sort of suffering, only there's homework involved. Oh, and one type of suffering....

I sat in the front of the classroom, always grabbing the seat in front of the teacher so I don't have any reason to fall asleep. It's easy to fall asleep in the back, acting like you're writing with your cheek on your bicep (we all know the move). I unloaded my notebook, unmotivated because it was the first day of REAL class where we would start talking about the book. Can't we just get in the lab already?

In comes the teacher. He's a burly little guy, beard half shaven and belly the size of Arnold's in Junior. By the way, that's our Cali governor. His pants were highwaters, seeing his yellow stained socks pulled up to his knees and matching his beastly teeth. His nipples were showing through his chef coat. Yes, HIS CHEF COAT. Those coat's are thicka than a snicka, and prevent from burns, hot temperatures, and bullets. This guy's nipples are in danger of all that. 

He said hello to everyone, coughed, and told us all he forgot his attendance sheet and wanted to try and remember our names from memory. He got to me, gave me a long look, and said, "Catheter, right?"

1) Seriously? Did he just call me a tube? Should I be insulted or amazed?

2) Definition: a flexible or rigid hollow tube employed to drain fluids from body cavities or to distend body passages, esp. one for passing into the bladder through the urethra to draw off urine or into the heart through a leg vein or arm vein for diagnostic examination.

3) How did that enter his brain as a possibility? It's like saying "You're name is Shit, right? Oh, it's Roger? Sorry..."

I replied, "No sir, It's Cababa. Common mistake, though."

He smiled, as if he was glad he didn't offend the one asian kid in the class. "Whew, that could've been an ugly lawsuit" was the thought in his small little brain. 

After roll call, he stood up, posted himself and his 3 month year old baby in his stomach in front of me, and started to teach. As soon as he started to talk, I grew lightheaded. My eyesight became blurry and I started to see spots. Where have I had this feeling before? Why is this all so familiar? 

Oh. My. Word. It's Dragon Breath Z's brother, The Dog Breath Whisperer. 

This guy was standing at least 4 feet away from me and I could smell his breath. Hot garbage from Aldi and decaying dog poop in the yard from last year were the comparisons I thought of right away. It was fire breathing with every word spoken, and burning my nostrils like Panther cologne. 

I placed my hand over my nose, trying to break free from this mini gas chamber he had put me in. I tried to think of pleasant thoughts: My puppy sleeping, Prince Fielder hitting a home run, Cabbage Patch Kids, fresh air, my DJ Qbert shrine. Nothing worked. It was too strong, too potent to focus on anything else. 

I then put both hands over the entire half of my lower face and looked out the window, yearning for outside contact. The guy sitting next to me looked puzzled by my actions, yet had the eye of understanding. He felt my pain. His sweatshirt was over his face as well. 

The class finally ended, my eyes bloodshot and my knees shot from all the kryptonite dog drool that dribbled down in front of me from his mouth. I stumbled to the door half dead and left for the day. 

Back of the classroom, you never looked SOOOOOO good. 

I have entered the world of the culinary arts. Cooking in class, minimal amount of books and homework, sizzling and popping noises from the stove, stained chef coats and bell peppered pants, screaming students cutting their fingertips off and running it under cold water, and avoiding those that talk the most because those are the ones that will make you fuck up your dish. It's an interesting field for those of you that haven't had a job in a restaurant. Interesting as in full of weirdos. 

I walked into my first class: Intro to the food service industry. It's a class for people that know nothing about the restaurant industry but is a required course for everyone in the program. So from Anthony Bourdain to Carrot Top, the class was full of people with various amounts of experience. Many people get into this field to cook because they 'love to eat', yet those are the ones that end up sucking on tailpipes in the parking structure because they can't handle the pressure of the line. The others (like myself) are bored as shit in classes like this and do anything to stay occupied, including making up characters for their blog. 

The first order of business in any class is introducing yourself and letting everyone know how awesome or pathetic you are. I find this exercise to be interesting because of what lengths people go to explaining themselves in the most detailed and honest way. For example: Our Different Strokes star Gary Coleman evidently has a bastard brother. Let's call him Swillis. He likes to make comments about everything the teacher is saying, and had this to say for his intro: "Hi, my name is Swillis. I just got off probation and before that did time for catching a case with battery. I'm here because I like food, and want to forget about the immature past that I have lived. Teach me to cook, chef. TEACH ME." 

It's all in the details, everyone.

Another fella, who looked like Livingston from Ocean's 11, gave this dissertation: "I took this class last year and failed it and that's why I'm here"

Professor: "Why did you fail it last year?"

Livingston: "Well I just never showed up to class and never did my homework. But I promise it will be different this time."

Here are 10 things NOT to say on the first day.

1) Your age. Noone cares

2) Where you're from. Again, noone cares

3) Reasons why you failed this class previously. Seriously

4) That you came straight from the slammer

5) Why you failed out of college the first time. No matter what the reason is, even if valid, keep it to yourself

6) That you have a non-related job to the field. "I work at Foot Locker." WHO CARES

7) That you love to eat. No shit, sherlock. If you didn't like eating then you wouldn't be here. Geez

8) Talk about all the war wounds you have acquired in the kitchen. It only reveals your idiocy

9) That you've never worked in a kitchen or cooked at home. Might as well say "Pick on me. Please."

10) That you work at Applebee's or Old Country Buffet. Immediate loss of major respect points

Sigh...I hope these fools get it together soon. A semester of this just may kill me. Stay tuned...

Gallery weekend in the winter time always has the same effects of a full moon: unbalanced. People puking on eachother, taking elevators up instead of down, walking backwards up stairs, sucking on dum-dums in a non-sucker environment, and ordering chocolate shakes at the bar (no, the bartender is NOT a large black lady from the Weiner's Circle). I realized this wolf-in-the-womb mentality, so I always proceed this weekend with caution. The only problem is that my friends were on the same crazy pills as everyone else. So, in other words, there really was no escaping it. I just had sit back, watch my step, and give my friends small doses of genius every once in a while. 

I was about to leave the house to check out a Bob Marley exhibit down in the third ward when I ran across a discussion about tapeworms. It involved roommate #2, Smatrick, and high guy (or, to illustrate, the guy on the couch. He didn't say shit). They agreed that they're not fun, and some people have real problems with them. It moved on to the hypotheses of how many tapeworms could swim around your insides at once, if they had eyes and ears, and if they did have ears if they could hear what we were talking about. It was an obvious discussion driven by the fine effects of marijuana, not to mention this gizmo 'slash' gremlin weekend we were in the middle of. I gave it little attention, waiting for Ms. Jameson to get her ass downstairs so we could get out of this brain cell killing conversation.

All of a sudden the topic took a sharp twist. Roommate #2 had the look of realization, the expression of wonderment and eagerness to possibly research this profound thought into a career inspiring lifestyle. He said, "Hey, aren't there buttworms too? I mean, I never really heard of them, but sometimes it feels like a worm is swimming around in my butt. It's awkward sometimes..."

Silence. My jaw dropped slightly, but not all the way to the floor. They continued to discuss. 

"I wonder if there has been any research on it because I'd like to be a part of that non-profit team." Roommate #2 said. 

My thoughts: "Where the FUCK is Ms. Jameson. We have to abort, NOW!"

It then took ANOTHER u-turn at the intersection of stupid and stupid. 

Smatrick blurted at me, "Dude, when we workout together, you're like a greek god with how much you can bench. It's awesome."

I didn't know what to say. Thanks? I then thought about what he said. I said, "So now I'm a greek god? I guess that's pretty....awesome....thanks Smatrick. You really know how to make someone feel good AND awkward at the same time. You should be a male cheerleader maybe."

He answered, "No, no, no. You're LIKE a greek god. There's a difference."

Rather than give this conversation any more of my intelligent time, I decided NOT to ask what the difference was or verbally determine Smatrick's sexual preference. I went to warm up the car instead. 

We all met at the bar later and another friend met us out, let's call him Matt X. He was high on life from winning at poker, and was ready to get his hands on anything (I mean this in every way. Just wait). 

He bought shots, talked about TELLS at the table, his lack of interest for souvenirs from the equator, and his love for R.Kelly. He asked me if I could ask the DJ to play an R.Kelly track, and I obliged. The track came on shortly after, and Matt X celebrated like a bull rider realizing his balls didn't get crushed like Sonoma grapes. All of a sudden, I felt my shoulders being massaged. Was it a women? No, too rough. The hands ARE quite feminine though. I turned around to see if Too Wong Foo was the culprit because that would be the only logical explanation. To my dismay, it was Matt X. He was dancing to the music and rubbing my shoulders to the beat. I tried to escape his kung fu grip but failed miserably. He was in a trance, a 'dance in my room by myself naked' state of mind. Not wanting to be a part of ANY of this, I turned my head slightly and said, "Hey Matt X, I hate to break your footloose stride but this is kinda Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal on the mountain if you know what I'm saying."

He replied, "No it isn't." Massaging continued.

I felt like Harold and Kumar at Guantanamo Bay. Was he gonna ask if I was ready for a cockmeat sandwich next? I had to do something. 

I motioned to the DJ to change the track. He looked at me like he had been in my situation recently, and quickly changed the track. 

Matt X said, "Oh come on, DJ! I was just getting into it!"

I escaped successfully as his rant only grew. 

I'll save gallery night for the summer from now on. 

Everyone that works out knows that, at one point or another, they will have to deal with people in the locker room. I have avoided it successfully for years. Showering at home, getting in and out as soon as possible with no chance of having to use the bathroom for any reason, and keeping hand sanitizer on me at all times. The painstaking task of preparing to go the gym became dead weight in my brain, so I decided to go with the flow and use the locker room as needed. Some people use it as a second living room and strike up conversation with everyone around them naked as the day they were born. I, on the other hand, use it as simply a facility to get your shit out (yes, pun intended) and store your belongings. Some people like being around other naked dudes (cough cough Smatrick), stepping into punches instead of dodging them. I have found that whatever Smatrick is all about happens to be what I'm definitely NOT all about. Ok by me. 

Now, I know what you think I will write about it: Naked dudes walking around like nothing is wrong and mingling with others (naked or clothed). Am I that transparent? Have my blogs become predictable? Is the bulge in my pants visible from 100 yards away? I'm sure your answer is 'yes' to all those questions, but only the last one is true. These two stories I have are from the same day, and yes the men in them were wearing their birthday suits. 

I walked into the locker room after a tough workout to get my jacket. My muscles were sore, I was semi out of breath, and had my music blaring at lowrider levels. The vibe in the room was much the same: guys making small talk, blow dryers rrrrrrrring on mostly bald heads, moustaches being trimmed to Burt Reynolds quality, and Milli Vanilli cologne spraying all over the place. My locker was toward the back of an aisle, surrounded by everyone else in the room. Of all the lockers in that huge locker room, mine was in the aisle where everyone else was. I approached my locker, opened it, and then tapped on the shoulder. I turned around, took my headphones out, and immediately diverted my eyes to the ceiling, awaiting for this naked stranger to speak. "Hey, do you know my son?"

I answered, "No, I'm sorry. You must have me confused with someone else."

He said, "Oh, I think my son may know you. He went to UWM. Is that where you went?"

"Yes, sir. I graduated from there about 5 years ago."

"Oh, he's going there now. Let me describe him for you. He's blonde, about this tall, and wears jeans a lot."

Really? This guy expects me to know his son with THAT? I answered like anyone answers to a description like that. 

"I'm sure I'd know him if I saw him."

He smiled and went on. 

"Well, he works somewhere in the union. He's an art major."

He seriously wasn't getting it. It's like meeting a friend of a friend for the first time, learn that you may have went to the same high school at one point or another, and try to play the "do you know so and so" game. Mine was similar, but with a naked stranger. 

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't think I know him."

He replied, "Ok, well have a good day. Good luck."

Good luck? With what? Finding my way out the locker room? Finding his son so we can be pals? I was left with the wonderment of why this man went out of his way to try and figure out if I knew his son. Of course, my conclusions were open-ended, and my curiosity fizzled quickly. 

My ending thought was interrupted by two other naked dudes talking about their wives. I was half listening, trying to dodge the bare ass around me. I then smelt something awful. Something only creatures in the wilderness smell. A smell familiar to farmers and foreign to city slickers.  A stench like I was on a tour of the inside of an ass. Gasping for air, I immediately covered my face with a fresh towel. It was unbearable, and then one of the naked duo made a comment about it. "Dude, you smell that? It's smells like a light fart."

Light fart? More like a steam room full of goat manure.

His buddy replied, "No, man. I'm notoriously a mouth breather, so I can't really smell it."

So, you taste all the farts? Is your mouth open when you take a dump, mister? Are you and Shaq the only ones who know how Kobe's ass tastes?

The guy who asked the question didn't reply and continued getting dressed. He acted like it was a normal answer and everything was cool. 

I decided to keep my headphones at full blast from here on out. 

Fricking weirdos. 

The cold weather has finally arrived. My toes are frozen, legs shriveled up like raisins in Florida, and my brain mystically awed by the guy running in shorts by the lakefront. Riding bikes or doing anything besides walking in this weather saddens me to the thought that people in my state are just plain dumb. For someone that has that urge to reach into their closed dresser drawer and get pants out for the statue freezing run their about to embark on probably has the same mentality of Tyler Durdan. In-sane. At this cold and depressing time of year, there is nothing better than going to an ice cold hockey game. The sounds of slap shots and fists being thrown is what the midwest is all about, only with hockey it's legal. 

I arrived at the Bradley Center with a few friends, stiff jointed from the 10 mile walk we had because I'm the dumbass that didn't want to pay for parking. We sat at our seats, and immediately the national anthem commenced. I removed my hat, closed my eyes, and waited to silently enjoy whoever's voice the organization had chosen. All of a sudden, from 2 inches away, I hear the singing of the anthem directly in my ear. "Was the singer next to me? Am I the lucky winner of the 'stand next to the non-famous national anthem singer' contest? What's going on?" I opened my burning eyes to realize it was my friend, whom we can call Randy Travis. There may be many people who are Randy Travis fans, (hopefully none of which read my blog) but I definitely am not. It was similar in tone-deafness, ear invading, and ugly physicality. To have my eyes and ears burning simultaneously was a first for me. The shrieks of cats in a bag, the cries of a baby with a full diaper of Indian food, and the voices of the Indigo Girls all rushed at me with furious vengeance. I thought maybe his horrible attempt to impress me like Simon Cowell would cease after 'the bombs bursting in the air,' but I had no such luck. It continued for the entire anthem, the smile on his face bigger than ever. 

He really thought he was good. It was almost a gay serenade, but, with the national anthem. 

I found myself accepting it, like a hairdresser fucking up your haircut. Nothing you can do about it. 

The 3 minutes of tortuous dying animal sounds finally ended, and I was so relieved. So relieved that I said to Randy, "You sing well."

What the Hell was I saying? Had he used subliminal singing to steer my thoughts?

He replied, "Really?"

I came to my senses. 

"No, I'm sorry. It was awful. I mean, REALLY awful. My dog has a better voice."

He spent the rest of the game on his phone. 

I returned home later, satisfied with the Admirals win and ready to relax. I went upstairs and flipped on the tele. Smatrick, who went to the game, was surprisingly well behaved the whole night. He didn't make an ass out of himself once. I was proud of him, the little cocksucker. He came upstairs, eyes red and dancing in place like a ballerina kangaroo. I asked him what was up, and he said, "Dude, I gotta use the bathroom. The one downstairs is broken."

What am I supposed to say? No, continue dancing like an idiot in front of me until you eventually shart? No thanks. I told him to proceed. 

All of sudden, I hear the water running. Why is the water running? Is he washing his face? 

No, no face washing. Wait, is he trying to cover up the sounds of his dump?

Exactamundo. Didn't surprise me because my female friends do it all the time. 

He exited, and I asked, "Hey, you know only women leave the water running when they're using the restroom, right?"

He hesitated, looked nervously around, and said, "Uh, I gotta get up early. Too bad. See ya around"

I heard him go outside and I swear I heard sobs of shame on his way to the car. 

What a weirdo. 

Most people that write on a regular basis at this time of year like to review the past year and some of it's highlights. Memories of friend's engagements, birthday parties, and experimental lobotomy surgeries get the most attention for detailed posts about their loved ones. It gives people a sense of closure, a way to look into the next year with a "I'm going to work out more!" mentality that 70% of people out there have but end up simply donating their hard earned money to the gym of their choice. It tires my brain, and gives me that I-just-ate-too-many-gushers feeling in the realm of my tummy. My approach yearns to be different, pointing out people's most idiotic moments and slightly fabricating them into the story it realistically was. "Well Jimmy, you wrote a story about me but it wasn't accurately portrayed." Well, I have to say that 1% of my writings of others may be stretched a bit. The other 99% is completely true. Yes, even the clementine boy. 

A few months ago I was out with a friend for some drinks (let's call her Captain Hyena). We went to various places, trudging around in the hot summer air and trying not to sweat in our armpits or crotches. It was comparable to a drink tour, sampling beverages at each bar and analyzing it's quality. The problem was that we ordered the same drinks at each bar, so comparisons were pretty elementary. "Oh, that's good" or "Oooh, that's not good" were about as intellectual as we got. 

Captain Hyena was getting a bit blue in the face, sucking down gin and tonics the entire night. Her movements were cruise-ship-stumbling, adolescently sea walking around trying not to fall over. She tried to maintain her composure, but the glassy eyes and geriatric slurring were just too obvious. She was captain of the laughing hyenas, paying tribute with every little joke that I cracked and dancing with no music playing. 

We arrived at what would be the final bar on the tour. She leaned against the bar with a giant sigh, and I decided to order another drink. She asked, "Weeelll, wshut aboot mee?"

I answered, "Ok. I'm not sure what you said, but I will order you one."

"Sthankss, E havve tooo goo bathhroooms."

As soon as she walked away, I said to the bartender, "Hey, hold the gin on that one."

She smiled, poured only tonic into her glass and got a fresh beer for yours truly. 

Captain Hyena returned, grabbed her drink, and sipped on it furiously like she was out in the desert for 3 days with Jim Morrison. She looked at me, looked at her drink, and asked, "What kind of gin is this? It's delicious!"

I replied, "I think she gave you some top shelf shit. I've had it before. It's so smooth you can barely taste it."

I don't drink gin. At all. 

She drank her cocktail, happy as a clam and sucking down the entire thing in a matter of a few minutes. She commented, "Man. I think that drink put me over the top! I'm really drunk now!"

Notice how her speech improved? The wonders of tonic. Only tonic.

She leaned over the bar and called out to the bartender, "That drink was sooooooooo good! Can you make me another just like it?"

The bartender looked at me, grinned and turned her back to make the drink. She served it, we exchanged a wink and a giggle, and off to the races Captain Hyena went on her drink. Wowsers.  

I decided after that night that I would always order my own drinks. Silly girls wanting guys to order for them. 

Here we are. A new year, another 365 days to look at ugly people, another 52 weeks to hear people getting fatter, and another 12 months to engorge as many vegetables as a juicer can handle. I knew the year was coming to an end, so I wanted to experience as many funny things as I could. It gave me a keen eye on things, a wolf-like ear for detail, and the wit of a Brontosaurus with a fanny pack. My attention span, as usual, was limited. Yet nonetheless, I ventured out into the cold, cruel world to find the meaning of life: the population's idiocracy.

I got to see an old friend from back in the day last week. Yet another jack-nose returning for the holidays and looking for me to show him a "helluva great time with lots of bitches." I tend to show people this sort of a time anyways, so it really wasn't any big deal. His enthusiasm was nauseating, but he's a good friend so my "mind over blog" mentality was destined to kick in. 

We arrived at the bar and took off our jackets. Marlo, let's call him, was wearing a v-neck sweater (warning #1) where the V came down to the middle of his chest. Was he wearing a shirt underneath, you ask? No, no he wasn't (warning #2). I know. Feel for me. 

The color of the sweater was "tangerine" as he referred it to, and tight as ever against his body (warning #3). Tangerine is a girly color to start with, but I then asked him, "It looks more like a clementine color if you ask me. Tangerine is a bit too manly of a color for THAT kind of sweater."

He replied, "Dude, it's tangerine. That's what the lady at the store told me."

I said, "Well, where did you buy it?"

"That's not the point, Jimmy. The point is that it fits nice and it's tangerine. End of discussion."

"Where, Marlo?"

He hesitated, coughed a couple times, and whispered, "Macy's."

I said, "Well, that's not so bad."

"He replied, "The women's section."

"Oh. Ok. Well let's get a drink."

His face was red and sweat was dripping from his forehead. 

I said, "Let's forget about it. Ancient history, my friend. What's your drink?"

He answered, "Well, I'm trying to not drink soda anymore, so I'll have a Captain and Coke."

Seriously?

This is what he really ordered. And yes, that's really how he explained it. He went on.

"I figured if I drink it with alcohol, then it will make me not want to drink it at all anymore."

I turned around, ordered his drink, and ordered myself 3 shots. He tried to take one. I slapped his hand away and told his clementine face to get his own. He obliged.

I returned home later that night, head full of burrito drunken memories and a deep craving for clementines (the fruit, not the sweater). My roommate was wide awake, playing UFC on PS3 and screaming like it was an actual fight. I asked him if he was hungry, and he told me he had a hot dog earlier that day. I stood there, puzzled at his short answer, and asked, "Well, was the hot dog good at least?"

He replied, "Well, I always go to the same vendor and get a hot dog everyday. His hot dogs are delicious, with the footlongs looking oh so juicy and the condiments ready to lube any surface with pleasures of taste and quality."

Interesting description. He continued.

"I enjoy the 12 inches of that hot dog to it's fullest, swallowing every bite with great satisfaction."

Ok. GAG. he went on.

"But every time I eat one of those damn things, I shit my life away ten minutes later. I mean, the shit exits my body without notice."

I asked, "So, you shit your pants every time then?"

He looked at me, looked away, and then yelled, "Oh come on! He was down!" at the television. 

I decided that it was clearly the end of that discussion so I proceeded to hit the hay. 

Hit. The. Hay.