Sunday, July 06, 2008

Consider, If You Will

Fair readers, a story to ponder:

This weekend I went and met up with my friend Salli for dinner. Now, when I say I met her for dinner, that is to say I got hammered on margaritas -rocks, no salt.

Then I went out for drinks.

At this second venue, Salli and I met up with two lady foreigners. One was a tall Australian and the other a well-coiffed Canadian, both of questionable immigration status.

During the course of drinks, we discussed current events and I donned a fuzzy scarf, leather Gladiator belt, and reenacted scenes from Spartacus, you know, like I do every Friday night. Just when we got to my favorite part when the ladies and I were overlapping -"I am Spartacus." "No, I am Spartacus" "Nay, I am Spartacus"- from the corner of the restaurant barks the order, "DO NOT RUN THAT CARD!!!"

The entire restaurant turns to find a Midwestern looking couple in a state of enraged horror. The gent, a man in his late 50's early 60's and his equally aged wife were demanding to see the owner for being overcharged!

[Editorial: For all you kids who don't live in New York, getting overcharged here is not only accepted it is expected. New York is expensive, so if you come here, don't be a douchebag and go to stores and say outloud, "this is soooo overpriced." It is that pricey for a reason -to keep your cheap ass in planted firmly in whatever shithole you come from.]

What were they being overcharged for that got them so upset? A 16oz. margarita. How did they come to know they were being overcharged? Upon being disappointed in the size of their margarita glass, Mr. Graduated Cylinder here goes to a deli gets a 16oz. bottle of iced tea, comes back to the restaurant and tries unsuccessfully to pour it's contents into the glass. The man then begins a shouting match with the bartender as the barkeep attempts to swipe his credit card.

Agape, the entire restaurant stares at the outraged Fluid Volume Expert. Sensing that he was not going to win this battle, he shouts to his wife, "stay here, I'm going to call 911." It is at the point the puzzled Canadian turns to Salli and I and calmly says:

"This is not an emergency."

Eureka. You know what Neighbor to the North? You are correct, this is not an emergency. This is an emergency:


This is not an emergency:
That is a 16oz. margarita glass, shit-for-brains.

The astute Canadian's comments really stuck with me as I went about the rest of my weekend. Because I care about your well-being, I want you to consider the following: as you review the bumps in the road, the stressors, the complexities of your own life; are your problems reeeeally emergencies or are you just an asshole with an empty tequila cup?

I think I may start my own cult.

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Holiday Wishes:



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