oreo grande

There are, quite honestly, too many beautiful women on the DC metro.

And I realize that "too many" sounds like an impossibility. Too many beauti...? That's like saying dinner had too much mashed potatoes. What do you mean?

There's too many because I can't go a day without experiencing, and subsequently having to suppress, marriage proposal tourrettes.

And this isn't good proposing. It hasn't been thought-out.

There's no impassioned plea. There's no endearing puns. No holy metro-mony.

I haven't bribed the conductor to make a big romantic fuss about it, announcing over the loudspeaker: This is Vienna station, last station on the orange line. Please check to see that you have all your belongings and take them with you when leaving the train. And, will one lucky woman also take Chris? He doesn't know your name yet, but you'll recognize him as the man who is both staring at you lasciviously and making an exaggerated gesture with his hands. He wants you to know he's miming putting a ring on your finger, and not vaginal penetration.

I won't even flirt: Excuse me, but food and beverages are prohibited on the train. So I'm afraid your sweet buns aren't allowed.

And that line would work too. It's a solid line. The only potential problem arises when they're actually carrying food onto the train, in which case I would come across as an unyielding self-appointed authority figure. But if she's not respecting the no-food policy, she's clearly the sort of rebel I shouldn't be flirting with anyhow. A year or two into that relationship and I'd be desperately using my bare hands to tunnel into Arizona, with a heart full of fear and a colon full of heroin.

But none of that can happen, because this is bad proposing. Terrible proposing, conducted with the demeanor of a weakly enthusiastic man collecting signatures for an admittedly ineffectual petition – bouncing from person to person, eagerly clinging to anyone that isn’t purposefully diverting their eyes to the nearest wall. This isn’t true love, this is senseless love, founded on that wicked combination of proximity and mildly good looks from a specific and rarely-viewed angle. This is the kind of love that produces spontaneous bathroom sex. This is the kind of love that, in its wake, leaves you relieved to discover you’ve only just got crabs.

But I must point out that my fascination with metro women is not purely a thing of lust. Fleeting thoughts of marriage take a back seat to my primary interest: the unusually high percentage of attractive DC women, which I find to be an intellectual curiosity. I see myself as less a leering pervert and more a sort of Darwin figure, encountering, and being subsequently intrigued by, a population's phenotypic peculiarities. I don't know how the DC ladies do it. I have to take my hat off to them. Because I need something to hide what's going on in my pants.

So why don't I pursue anonymous metro women? It seems like a great idea. Surely the opportunity to be confronted by strange men is one of the biggest allures of public transportation. It makes the whole experience that much more charming.

I don't do it because admiring metro ladies is like shopping while hungry.

I was in Safeway the other day. I had already bought a ridiculous amount of yogurt.

Which is necessary because I'm in an unbreakable cycle of yogurt binging. An entire shelf of my fridge is dominated by yogurts, and the yogurts have even begun invading adjacent fridge territories. The pudding principality, for instance, is under great threat.

They've disrupted the natural order. It's a disturbance that necessitates an urgent remedy, and so I'll eat an astounding amount of the yogurts in one sitting (though 'sitting' isn't entirely accurate as I'm usually prone and moaning) - paring down their numbers to acceptable levels. It's a bit like hunters limiting the number of deer; however, crashing my car into a wide-eyed tub of yogurt has never been acknowledged as a probable risk. So the analogy has its limitations, but don't we all?

Anyhow, the yogurt cycle is perpetuated because, when eliminating yogurts, I always go too far! A once thriving yogurt community gets reduced to 3 or 4 flavors I don't really care for.

The only solution is to buy loads more yogurt. And it won't be the perfect number of yogurt. It will be too much yogurt. The perfect number of yogurts is a fantasy. A myth. It doesn't exist.

And so I come home bearing a surplus. Forced, yet again, to drastically cut their numbers in an unhinged yogurt-gorging frenzy.

But that hadn't happened yet. I was still in Safeway.

After I put way too many yogurts in my basket, I strolled round to the dessert chamber to check if the Miniature Cappuccino Eclairs were available.

Eclairs are tricky. If you're after an eclair, it's important you see a label on the pastry, or contact a store manager, to confirm it is indeed an eclair. Otherwise, you could fall prey to the doughnut bar scam.

A doughnut bar is like this:
http://seattletimes.com/ABPub/2010/06/08/2012061835.jpg

See? It's got the basic dimensions of an eclair. So you might think it's an eclair. You might bring it home and brew a pot of Columbian coffee. Get out your crossword. Your erasable pen. Your reading glasses. And a napkin. Because you're probably going to get eclair cream all over your chin!

Then you bite into the eclair and all you get is dough. That's puzzling. Maybe the cream is more towards the middle of this eclair.

So you bite again. Still dough. What the hell is going on here? You rip the imposter in half and there's no cream. Not even a trace. You've just wasted $1.25 and your morning is ruined. God, the crushing disappointment of it all.

Mistakenly buying a doughnut bar is like having sex with, what turns out to be, a transvestite. You feel more than a little betrayed. And it makes you wary the next time you think you're buying an eclair.

But then, a few hundred consumed eclairs later, you start to let your guard down. And that's when the doughnut bar gets you. That's when the creamless little trickster makes you his fool.

And when you're sitting there, dumbfounded, holding the lump of dough up to your eyes, thoroughly inspecting it in disbelief... you're left to wonder: why was an ordinary doughnut parading around like it was an eclair? There are two distinct shapes for two distinct types of pastries. Doughnuts are ring/nut shaped. Eclairs are vaguely cylindrical. Defying these accepted laws of doughnutry is anarchy. It's the work of devious provocateurs who've no consideration for the consequences of their arbitrary and cruelly deceptive baking.

Safeway's cappuccino eclairs are labeled. So I know they're eclairs. I was not in any danger.

This time, there was no cappuccino variety. Just regular miniature eclairs. I'd have to come back some other day.

But I really had my heart set on getting some kind of dessert. One might argue the tremendous mass of yogurt in my basket was enough dessert. But a man doesn't think rationally when he's just discovered there's no miniature cappuccino eclairs. No. He panics.

I began darting about Safeways in search of a replacement. Not necessarily an eclair equivalent (which would be a cream puff, if you're wondering), but rather a special dessert I could eat on the weekend.

I came across Oreos, which are astounding in their variety. There are Oreo cakes, Oreos with different types of cream filling, Oreos with different amounts of cream filling, Oreos covered in fudge coating, Oreo straws, Vitamin Enhanced Oreos and Oreo fabric softener / pasta sauce / toothpaste. There is clearly no limit to what the Oreo can achieve.

None of these Oreo products were diet-friendly, and so I began to leave the Oreo aisle, dejected. Until something caught my eye....

100 Calorie Packs of Oreos! How exciting! But was this really my best option? Is this worth the money?

I stood transfixed, like an RCA dog, intensely staring at the 100 Calorie Pack of Oreos. A heated debate was raging internally. Out of all the cookies in the store, why would I want these? Perhaps because Oreos have something special. Something that makes them better than those other cookies that look the same but are mysteriously cheaper. I could get those other cookies… but how would I know it's okay to dunk them?

I know I can dunk Oreos. But, wait a second, these aren't Oreos! They're Oreo thin crisps! Little chocolatey cracker things. With white sprinkles on them? What the hell is that? Is that supposed to replace the cream filling? Is this somebody's idea of a joke?

The raison detre of the Oreo is cream filling. What is the stated mission of these sprinkles? Because I'm not convinced they contribute little more to this cookie than a slight variance in pigmentation. If they were put there to assuage fears that the cream was utterly neglected, then they've failed miserably.

I was disgusted. And yet…these Oreo thin crisps could be the ideal Oreo alternative. Maybe, just maybe, dare I say it? Better than the original Oreo. The chocolate cracker would surely retain the distinguishing chocolatley Oreo flavor, but with an incredible new crispy texture! And these sprinkles… these poor misunderstood sprinkles. They deserved not a fraction of my ire. They are not a buffoon’s cream surrogate, but rather the final product of years of laboratory research. Begoggled scientists have managed to harness the distinctive Oreo cream experience and package it in sprinkle form. If I were to buy these phenomenal cookies – I may very well spend the rest of my life eating them. They will become the center of my universe. I will come home to the delicious embrace of these cookies every night.

But, then again… there isn’t any cream filling…

I was alternatively falling in and out of love with these cookies – which I’d never eaten – by the second. Having put the box of Oreos into my basket and then back on the shelf upwards of twenty times, it struck me:

These are just cookies. Just cookies. I don't need cookies. Cookies aren't going to change anything. I'm going to take them home and, if I even bother to try them, they're going to be boring little chocolate discs with flavorless white sprinkles on them. And half the cookies will probably have less than three sprinkles. Nabisco didn't get where it is today by liberally doling out sprinkles.

I put the box back on the shelf and ran out of the store before I could slip up and make a terrible decision.

Oreo cookies aren’t the answer, even if I’ve compromised for the more responsible 100 calorie variety. I only think they’ll be perfect because it’s what’s in front of me at the time.

And that’s all you metro ladies are. A 100 Calorie Pack of Oreo Cookies.

…..and what I need is some miniature cappuccino eclairs

alter egos

Some people have alter egos... mostly personality disorder patients, but it's also something "hip" people can have.

Like Eminem, he has a cool alter ego, Slim Shady. I'm not sure what the difference between them is... but that isn't relevant. The point is this alter ego thing is badass.

I have an alter ego too, Sir Chris - level 30 Paladin. See, not quite as badass, but an alter ego nevertheless. The big difference is that Eminem can talk about his alter ego and it's cool. I start mentioning Sir Chris - level 30 Paladin and I'd be savagely beaten. Life is so unfair.

Sir Chris - level 30 Paladin is a lot like me. He tells jokes too. Maybe he multi-classed as a bard... anyway here's part of his routine:

I've been having a horrible time with relationships lately. My last girlfriend was a necromancer. Why do they call them necromancers? There's nothing romantic about bringing people back from the dead, let me tell ya! That shit is frightening. I'm no half-orc, I got out of that relationship so fast you woulda thought someone cast haste on me!

I dated a rogue before that and it was just as bad. We had a messy breakup... she stabbed me in the back!

But enough about relationships. I got this great piece of armor recently, the resists are amazing.

30% slash resist helps with all those sword-carrying psychos out there
35% fire resist works well with the dragon hunting
and then an amazing 40% blunt resist, for when teens pressure me to try drugs.

But seriously folks......

The other day I was in a pub relaxing after a hard days ogre-slayings when I overheard these two clerics talking about a troublesome fire breathing monster. So I tell them "hey, I'll lend you my sword to kill this dragon" and one of them goes "I don't have any dragon trouble! It's my mother-in-law!" Ain't it the truth...

I'll tell you what's a hard class to be... druids. Yeah, they can talk with animals and those conversations have got to suck. I dunno what I'd say to my pets... "how's your ass taste? pretty good? that's wonderful." If I was a druid though you know the first thing I'd do? Tell these birds to quit shitting on our steeds. It's ridiculous.

It's hard living nowadays... everybody wants to get into a fight! Just today I was imbibing me ale and some rowdy elf comes in and tells me I killed his father. The guy defied Tyr, what was I supposed to do? Ya know? Then the elf starts shouting to everyone in the room, "I want this man's head!" So I say "slow down sugar, why don't you buy me a few drinks first and see where we go from there?"

Everyone had a good laugh and then I eviscerated him. Tyr's will, whatcha gunna do?

in search of wisdom

As often happens in the lives of young men, I was once confronted with a crossroads. Coerced by the fates into making a decision, I did not trust my own judgment. My previous attempts at logic and reasoning had left me an unemployed virgin with chronic nosebleeds - I was beyond a square; I was a rhombus - my only real accomplishment being a Level 50 Paladin in an online gaming community. Sure, I had cybered with that druid a few times, and it was awesome, but who on the server hadn't? She'd do a half-orc in half a second.

But my purpose is not to weave erotic tales of e-debauchary; it is to enlighten to you of my quest for knowledge.

I had heard of a wise man living atop Mt. Mipleez, and worked up the courage to make the trek up to its great summit. Knowing I couldn't do it alone, I acquired the help of a local tribesboy named Lawrence. Sadly, Lawrence's presence was fleeting. Lawrence and I went our separate ways when I was seen feeding squirrels with his "trail mix." I argued that the Better Cheddars I had brought were enough for both of us, and it was silly to think we could subsist off squirrel-food. It was to no avail; Lawrence stomped off spouting jibberish in his native tongue that, while indecipherable, was hurtful nonetheless.

Now without my trusty Lawrence, I went on. For days I journeyed up the snowy cliffs, passing by the vulture-pecked skeletons of those with less constitution than I. Through avalanche I continued, through aching hunger I strove onward, till finally I reached the peak.

With the many crossed obstacles behind me, the feats of strength and determination conquered in my wake, I felt like a character from Greek mythology. And there, at the pinnacle, was the wise man of legend, masturbating. It was an awkward moment to end all awkward moments as he tucked his genitals back into his sheepskin loin cloth.

"Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed. "The one time in twenty years I get bored and whack off, somebody shows up!"

"Oh my God, that's always how it works isn't it?! And nobody knocks anymore! Nobody!" I said, comiserating. We proceeded to exchange tales of interupted privacy. After an intense bonding session that revealed a mutual love of waffles, I turned around and contentedly left my mentor.

As I trotted down the slopes, a detectable perkiness in my gait, I slowly realized I left my Better Cheddars at the top (though, to be honest, they were dead to me the moment the wiseman dipped those grotesque fingernails straight into the box). And furthermore, I had forgotten to request the invaluable good judgment for which I had so desperately sought.

Some would say that I left without advice, without being enlightened, with no more wisdom than that with which I had began my pursuit. But I now know what that old coot knew then - it was through the journey itself that I learned all that I need to know:

Bigfoot is real, and he will rape you in a heartbeat.

suits

Yesterday I was in a bathroom and there was a guy in a suit in there also. Once he gets done peeing, he just leaves. Doesn't flush the urinal, doesn't wash hands, just leaves.

I think if you're a guy in a suit, you've got a reputation to uphold. There's an image that you have live up to. And going around with penis on your hands does not correspond with this image.

C'mon people with suits, the world needs you, don't let us down.

"But Chris, I'm a person in a suit, what am I supposed to be doing?!?!"

*Slap* Calm down man! I can help!

First off, if you haven't already, put on leather gloves. Unless you are participating in an activity that requires fine manipulation of the fingers (unlikely, you've got poor people to do those things for you), your hands should be safe inside of the dead hide of a cow - pleather is unacceptable.

After relieving yourself, you should exclaim, with a certain air of satisfaction, "my, that was a fine bit of urine."

Next, you should promptly grip the flushing lever with confidence, and pull. Following a succesful flush, you should then throw away your gloves and replace them with new ones. If you're feeling whimsical, now is is a convenient time to challenge someone to a duel, since you'll be taking off your gloves anyway. As an added benefit, slapping an unsuspecting knave in the face with penis-y gloves is much more satisfying than doing so with clean, ordinarily gloves.

If you choose to bypass the duel, you should then begin combing your hair. Followed, of course, by combing your eyebrows. Do not neglect the eyebrows. A suited man with unruly brows is no better than a bedraggled homeless man shitting in public.

Finally, before departing the bathroom, you should smile into the mirror, whereupon a giant twinkle should eminate from your teeth. If you cannot achieve proper twinklage, it is good to point out to the other bathroom-goers, "my, did you see that blindingly bright twinkle? My teeth are like diamonds!" And they'll believe you, because you're in a god damned suit.

shut up and kiss me

I've been to a few wedding ceremonies but I've never really paid attention to what goes on. I got no idea what that priest guy is yammering on about.

The things everybody knows though are the "Do you take blabla" - "I do" - "Do you take blablabla" - "I do" - "I now pronounce blablabla, you may kiss the bride."

I think it's funny that this priest guy gots to give people the permission to kiss. He's running this shin-dig and there will be no kissing without his approval. The only situation in life that comes close to being similar to this is having a restraining order expire.

But as weird as this is, I think these priest guys would be pretty handy. I haven't been in a whole lot of kissing situations outside of my dogs, and they can't object anyway... but to me it seems deeming a moment in time kissing-appropriate would be a very hard decision to make. I've said before I have enough trouble picking what kinda ice cream I want at Baskin Robbins, and these kissing decisions have to be made on the spot, I'm not up for that kinda pressure. I need a few hours to analyze the pros and cons... weigh the possible consequences.

So having a priest around would be a huge help. You're sitting there, staring, not sure if this is a kiss moment, then bible-boy chimes in "You may now kiss the date" and you go for it. It could be five minutes into the first date, after you accidentally run over her pet cats, and if this priest gives gives you the go ahead... you can't really argue it. This is what he does for a living. It's practically God telling you to lock lips.

my accents are impeccable

I’m big in Austria. I suppose it all started with my guest starring role in that X-Files episode... I was the “freak” of the episode, a guy who could, through the power of his mind, compel others to do the jitterbug. The climax of the episode came as I shouted “Dance Mulder! Dance you sullen sonofabitch!” And as my character was shouting in glee, the intrepid FBI agent managed to make the dance his own and turn it against me.

There was no stunt double or special effects... that bastard Duchovny insisted on using me as a dancefloor in a most savage manner. I think it was revenge for me sneaking into his trailer and stealing his jelly donuts.

A little advice to all you would-be actors out there... don't get between Duchovny and his jelly.

Anyhow, this episode sparked a cult following in Austria. “Dance you sullen sonofabitch!” became a catch-phrase, the jitterbug re-emerged as a national pastime... I was a hit. This of course propelled my subsequent tv-project, a cooking show called “Sausage and Wafers.” It bombed in the U.S. as censors deemed by near constant "manipulation of sausage in a sexually explicit manner" unsuitable for audiences ... but the Austrians know quality programming when they see it. There were only seven and two-thirds episodes made (I attempted to make explosive sausage, accidentally igniting the studio with only 1/3 of the show left to do), but you can always catch the reruns there; I’m the Lucille Ball of Austria.

With my fame firmly established in the fine land of Austria, I was clearly the go-to choice for the starring role in the upcoming Austrian film “Noodles and Poodles” - a true story about Austrian cultural hero Werner Von Glockspleffpht, famed Poodle groomer of the 1930's who died a tragic death.

After beef stroganoff (the noodles) had been dumped on him (a traditional Austrian practical joke) by his comrades, his poodles unfortunately mutilated him. There was a lot of dispute over casting an American to play such an important Austrian historical figure... some doubted my acting ability and claimed the studio was just trying to cash in on my "Sausage and Wafers" fame.

To the disappointment of many, the film was canceled. I'm not sure why... it could have been the recent decline in popularity of poodle grooming, the amount of controversy that now exists over "stroganoff-ing" (apparently its a problem for Austrian fraternities), but I suspect it was the work of Duchovny.

women's underwear

Pardon the typical observational comic introduction, but what is the deal with guys smelling women's underwear?

It seems to me that whenever a male is in the presence of female undergarments, he cannot resist the urge to pick them up and smother his face with them. When did underpants become something you want on your face? From my experience, underpants come into close contact with sweaty nether-regions. Sure, the mental patient will occasionally don his britches on his head... but generally speaking, these are filthy articles of clothing.

Why then do guys have the sudden inclination to smear this filth all about one of the most bacterially-susceptible areas of their body? Is there something I don't know about the female anatomy?

Maybe the crotches of women are miniature paradises. They're full of a magical love-force, previously only tapped into by Care Bears... flowers sprout up spontaneously, without nutrients, simply by the sheer beautiful power of the vagina.

Who would ever have thought that the beauty of a pearl could be elicited from a seaweed-laden, odorous bivalve. Is it so far fetched then to conceive that fairies are spawned from female genitalia? I think not!

Men aren't rubbing panties on themselves for some base reason; they just want to fly like Peter Pan.

"But Chris, this is all poppycock! It's completely and utterly false!"

Silence!

I don't want to know the grim truth about what really goes on down there. I've got to believe what I need to believe. Now let me smell this mis-placed thong in peace.