I got some Thai food last night.
As is always the case when I get Thai food, I asked the waitress to make it extra hot, and, as is always the case, she replied with, “Are you sure? I don’t think you want it extra hot.”
As is always the case, I responded, “Yes, I do. I wouldn’t have asked for it extra hot if I didn’t want it extra hot.”
As is always the case, she said, “Extra hot is really spicy. Most people that ask for their food extra hot find that the food is hotter than they can handle.”
As is always the case, I was annoyed and snapped back, “I’m not most people. I know what extra hot means, and I would like my food extra hot, please.”
The waitress was finally persuaded, and soon returned with my food, prepared extra hot, just as I had requested. “Good luck,” she said. “It’s really hot…”
“Thanks,” I said half-heartedly, extremely irritated that she didn’t think I was man enough to eat a plate of extra hot food. I quickly grabbed my fork and shoved some of the food into my mouth to show her that I could handle it.
As soon as that first bite hit my mouth, I realized that it was really, really hot; so uncomfortably spicy, in fact, that I thought the inside of my mouth would instantly disintegrate. Sweat poured out of my forehead and every drop of blood in my body rushed into my face. Just one bite in, I was already in severe pain.
I’d be darned, however, if I was going to let that waitress see my pain. She publicly underestimated my manliness, and I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of thinking she was right. So I kept shoveling the food into my mouth, never looking down at my plate, but instead staring her down with every forkful. “You don’t think I can handle food this hot, huh?” I thought. “Well, are you watching this?”
The sweat continued to rain off my head, and the spiciness had my nose running uncontrollably. My tongue felt like it was being cut by razor blades, and the only flavor I tasted was “hot.” It was a truly miserable meal.
But I finished it. I then dropped a few bucks on the table to cover my bill and a meager tip for my know-it-all waitress, gave her an evil but confident glare, and exited the place. I had proved what I set out to prove: I am all man, and no amount of hotness is too much for me to handle. Try to deny me my spicy food, Waitresses, and risk being humiliated.
Unfortunately, you never realize how hot food is until the next day. What your mouth can handle on Thursday, your butt has to deal with on Friday. I’m afraid no amount of pride could offset the extraordinarily intense agony I endured this morning as the Thai food exited my body like liquid, hot magma. And I’m sure that the pain will stay with me for a while. Abuse like this is bound to leave lasting scars on anyone’s body.
Yes, the pain will last, and it will likely affect how I walk, how I sit, and what I wear for the next week or so. But, if I could go back, would I change my actions at that Thai restaurant? Not a chance. Because every uncomfortable chair I sit in and every miserable step I take will remind me of my victory Thursday night, and no amount of hotness can obscure the taste of victory.
A woman in northern California won $2 million from a scratch-off lottery ticket the other day and is giving almost all of it to her goats (check out the story here). This inspiring, selfless act got me thinking about what I would do if I won the lottery.
First, I would take a cue from this California woman and try to do something charitable. Since I am unfamiliar with charities, I would probably research it for 15 minutes, get really bored, and then end up sending $10 to one of the Goat Lady’s goats.
Then, with the charity crap out of the way, I could focus my attention on more important stuff: making the most expensive sandwich ever assembled. I would hire a team of NASA engineers to design it for me and would require that it includes a stack of hundred dollar bills and some chocolate sauce. I can’t imagine that the bills will taste very good, but it will be worth it just to prove to everyone how rich I am.
I will have the NASA engineers assemble the sandwich in Hawaii. From there, it will be delivered to me via a solid gold rocket ship flown by a specially trained monkey. This probably means that the sandwich won’t be super fresh, but, again, it’s probably worth it to prove to everyone that I am very rich.
When the sandwich arrives, I will require that it be served to me on Mickey Mantle and Honus Wagner baseball cards that have been glued together and cut into the shape of a plate. And I will refuse to eat it if it isn’t served to me by two ex-presidents wearing the original, shoot-worn C-3PO and Chewbacca costumes (I don’t care which ex-presidents — beggars can’t be choosers).
Finally, a sandwich like this will almost certainly invoke an immediate need for excretion. Thus, I will quickly adjourn to the bathroom, where I will sit down on a diamond-ruby toilet with a mammoth-tusk flush handle and a seat cover constructed from an original Picasso. It has become way too cliche for a rich guy to wipe his butt with hundred dollar bills; rather, I will have my buttler (which I will spell with two “T”s) wipe my butt with hundred dollar bills for me while he sings to me (I will only hire accomplished tenors as buttlers). I’m not a big fan of opera, and I imagine that neither the diamond-ruby toilet nor the hundred dollar bills will feel very good against my tush, but it will be worth it just to prove to everyone how rich I am.
At that point, I estimate that I will be completely out of money. Already hungry for my next meal, I’m sure that I’ll turn to my friends for some cash.
And when all my friends refuse to lend me money, I will call up the goat to see if I can borrow back that $10 I sent him. The goat will refuse, and I will die of starvation.
I hope I don’t win the lottery.
How would you rate Jessica Alba on a 10-point scale?
Almost immediately after the base 10 numeral system was developed by Indians in the 9th century B.C., dudes began rating chicks on a 10-point scale. Since then, countries and religions have come and gone, but the 10-point scale has proudly remained. For the shallow man trying to communicate the hotness of a woman to his friends, it is truly an invaluable tool.
Like any tool, however, the 10-point scale is often misused. While the majority of dudes use it correctly, there are a few abusers out there that can make you wonder if it even makes sense to continue assigning chicks numbers based on how hot they are.
Below I’ve listed what I believe to be the five worst abusers. Major, major shame on you if one of these descriptions hits close to home.
1. The Bipolar Rater.
Some Dude: “What would you rate Jessica Alba?”
Bipolar Rater: “Definitely a 10!”
Some Dude: “How about Jessica Biel?”
Bipolar Rater: “Ugh. She’s a 1.”
As a Bipolar Rater, you rate every chick either a 1 or a 10. There are no shades of grey with the Bipolar Rater; we may as well be asking you a “yes or no” question. A Bipolar Rater can see two chicks of fairly similar hotness, and he’ll give one of them a 10 and the other one a 1.
You are a disgrace, and will remain so unless we someday devolve into a society that rates chicks on a 2-point system.
2. The Overthinker.
Overthinker: “Lindsay Lohan would be a 9.6, but I have to deduct 1.2 points because her eyes aren’t blue. The presence of freckles, however, increases her score by .6 points, and her red hair, while not a full 1-point shade of red, is attractive enough to earn her an additional half of a point.”
If you are an Overthinker, you can’t just assign a rating; you need to first engage in a thorough analysis. While we appreciate that you want to be fair, your analysis is so complete that’s it’s almost not even shallow anymore, which is the entire point of the chick rating exercise. And you have definitely crossed the line over into creepy.
3. The Dude Whose Opinion Can’t Be Constrained to 10 Digits.
Some Dude: “On a 10-point scale, how would you rate Megan Fox?”
Can’t Be Constrained: “Dude, she’s like a 12!”
Okay. I understand that you think Megan Fox is really hot, but we just established that we’re working with a 10-point scale. 10, then, is the maximum score. Thus, assigning her a 12 doesn’t mean that she’s extra hot, it just means that you’re extra stupid.
4. The Stingy Rater.
Some Dude: “What do you think of Scarlett Johansson?”
The Stingy Rater: “Dude, she’s a 6!”
Some Dude: “What are you talking about? She’s one of the hottest girls in the world!”
The Stingy Rater: “I know — that’s why I gave her a 6!”
If you’re a Stingy Rater, you’ve never rated a chick higher than a 6 or 7. It’s not because you don’t think any chicks are really hot; it’s because you’re reserving the higher numbers for some extremely hot chicks that neither you nor anyone on Earth has met or heard of yet.
Sure, we all think you’re an idiot now, but who will be laughing when NASA discovers a planet full of amazingly hot chicks and the rest of us dudes have to reassess all of our previous rankings?
5. The Dude that Takes Personality into Account.
Some Dude: “Did you see that chick? She’s got to be a 9 or a 10!”
Personality Guy: “No — I used to work with her, and she’s a bitch. I’d say she’s a 3, at best.”
When you start taking personality into account, you’re really missing the point of the rating system. We’re not scoring personalities here, so don’t let them cloud your judgement — a chick can be hot and be a terrible person.
You disrespect the 10-point scale by using it to measure how marry-able a girl is. Rather, you should embrace the scale for what it is: a measure of superficialities. Using it for anything else is crime against all men.
The next time an overbearing neighbor hounds you to keep your lawn mowed, get out and mow your lawn wearing nothing but a thong.
That will shut him up for a while.
You, also, would sleep with the lights on if you watched an episode of Paranormal State before bed and then had to spend the night listening to raccoons mating on the roof of your house.
On a separate note, congratulations to Lisa M. for winning last week’s Tubesteak Challenge! Lisa wins a limerick, which I will post on the blog as soon as I find a leprechaun to help me write it.
I’m incapable of looking at an All-You-Can-Eat Buffet as anything but a challenge.
I don’t care if the food tastes like crap, I don’t care if my stomach hurts for a week, and I don’t care if I have to step into the restroom to vomit so that I can clear room — if the cost of the buffet is $9.95, I’m going to make those bastards pay by eating $10.50 worth of food.
Sometimes I win, and sometimes the buffet wins. But this is undoubtedly true: the toilet always loses.