What’s with this whole five second rule?
If I’m eating an Oreo cookie and the damn thing falls on the floor…and five minutes go by, you still better believe that I’m going to kneel down (using my legs, not my back), pick up that glorious little cookie, give it a quick five-second burst of air, and shove that baby back into my mouth. I’ll do it at a five minute count, a ten minute count, and the next morning if I find it wedged underneath the fridge.
Because this whole eating off the floor thing has gotten a totally bad rap.
Bow your heads in reverence, please.
Now let’s all not say a word, let’s use this one full minute to be quiet. To reflect upon what’s happened. To reach deep inside ourselves and use that silence to connect with our emotions. To give that moment of silence to those who have died, faced insurmountable trajedy, and/or just simply want us to be quiet for a minute so the chaos can stop. Thing is, I’m sorry to say it — but I have a huge problem with the “moment of silence.”
That’s why today, we’ll be serving up another WFME prognosis on the bastards.
I cut off an old man in a Pontiac the other day.
He proceeded to chase me down in his behemoth, fist out the window, shaking and shaking in circular motions, making me think of three very important things. One, for an old guy — being able to drive a car with one hand while shaking his fist out the window, he must really still have all his eye-hand coordination workin’. Two, I hoped he wasn’t sane and a member of the NRA or else I would be in deep trouble. And three?
Fist shaking really is a pasttime that should have never gone away.
You’ve seen it happen, at least on TV.
A bunch of people are all having a quaint, quiet, cultured dinner at a high-profile restaurant. Wine is being poured, meals are being prepared, couples are looking longingly into each other’s eyes. A four piece mini-orchestra plays Mozart, candles glow throughout the room, and somewhere a woman with roses makes her way through the crowd. And then, out of nowhere, crashing glasses accompany someone shouting “Is there a doctor in the house!?”
Rude. Totally rude.
Hoo boy, I’m nervous just typing this one out.
That’s because one of my most traumatic experiences in life involved going to a restaurant/bar where I came face to face with a real life chin-implant force-feeler. And of course you’re asking yourself, what in God’s name is a chin-implant force-feeler? What could such a label mean for a real person? Why is Pauly so afraid of such people and why would it cause such traumatic memories for him?
In a nutshell, a chin-implant force feeler is someone who insists that everyone they know (or don’t know) touch, press and feel their most recent implant…which just happens to be inside of their chin.