foodcourtlunch.com

Well, it’s my turn again, and for crying pete I have nothing.  That being the case, please sit back and enjoy the latest installment of a breathtaking gander at the headlines that taunt the illiterate.

Committing Career Suicide? Food Court Lunch’s Guide to Starting a Non-Profit Blog

I write this post hunched over in my cubicle, in full view of at least 3 of my direct superiors.

Heidi Klum Trying to Lose 20 Pounds, Seal

I bet fat chicks hate reading headlines like this.  Sorry - ‘pudgy broads’.  In any event, Heidi, I would suggest a clubbing.

Swine Flu Causes Surge in Garlic Sales, Death

Never mind the pandemic angle; CNBC viewers want to know: Who is making money off this thing?  Seriously though, I was off last week with Swine Flu and it sucks.

What About Breast Self-Exams? Yeah, What about Breast Self-Exams? I gotta do everything around here?

Ever since I heard Peter Criss came down with breast cancer, the idea of a breast exam doesn’t seem quite as titillating anymore.

Camryn Manheim has a Bone to Pick with Obama; Well, it’s more of a Hambone, Actually

And whatever you do, Mr. Obama, do not ask her what a Manheim Steamroller is.

Ex-Fire Captain Jailed for ‘Vile’ Child Porn; Encouraged to Try More Acceptable Forms of Child Porn

Like the Abercrombie & Fitch catalog, or a family album.

Police: Body Parts Sold to Kebab Stand; All of Turkey: ‘And?’

Doners = gross, or amazing (depending on circumstances of consumption)

Venezuela’s Chavez: Do Sit-ups, Eat Well, Defy Imperialist American Swine

Oh, how times have changed.  If we were still back in the eighties, this guy would definitely have been assassinated by the CIA by now.

 

Well, it’s official - I am old. All of my hockey heroes have now retired, leaving me a broken shell of a man living in my parents’ basement, clothed in nothing but memories (and velour). As everyone in the Great White North knows, Mr. Brendan Shanahan announced his retirement yesterday after 21 glorious seasons. I would be lying if I said I did not cry when it was announced. I would also be lying if I said I did not masturbate at work, but that is not important right now - try to stay focused.

Shanny’s retirement probably hit me harder than most, as he was the last of the hockey icons from my youth (along with Gretzky, Messier, Yzerman and Sakic). Growing up, I worshipped the ice he skated on. I remember spending an entire week begging my dad to buy a new car from Shanahan Ford in the hopes that, for some reason, Shanny might actually be on the lot selling cars that day (a reasonable assumption, as it was the off-season). Admittedly I didn’t do my research, given that I don’t believe there is actually any familial connection between the franchisees and the hockey player (aside from a distant Mick heritage), but it didn’t stop me from pestering my father incessantly. He left us the following week for a stripper named Jiggles.

I once met Shanahan at a burger joint in Etobicoke (Apache Bruger) when I was about 18 years-old (I am frankly surprised he didn’t mention our encounter during his retirement speech). His shoulders were literally wider than the length of my entire body. I know this because I leapt onto his shoulders and wrapped myself around his neck as a sign of affection… I believe our brief (but meaningful) exchange went something like this:

Me - Aren’t you Brendan Shanahan?

Shanny - Yes, I believe I am.

Me - I like you… well, I don’t “like you”, but I like the way you play hockey. But maybe if I got to know you better, this relationship could grow…

Shanny - Please don’t touch me. I don’t want to have to snap you in half.

Me - I wouldn’t mind…

Anyway, you get the picture. It was generally pretty creepy…

In closing, I offer this video homage of one of my favourite hockey players of all time. Brendan, I will be at Apache Burger all week if you want to talk about retirement…

As an added bonus, here is a reminder of how sports interviews should be conducted:

After work last night I jumped into a cab at a taxi stand outside my office. I sat down, gave the cabbie the directions, and he pulled away. I then realized that the cabbie must have spent the last hour in the cab farting like he had a spicy form of chronic colitis with the windows closed and the heat on. It was like someone was shitting week-old jambalaya into the back of my throat (it’s a terrible experience, take it from me). It was like a steamy rectal stew in there. If the power window hadn’t opened I am pretty sure I would have shattered the glass with my face just to get some fresh air. Thanks a lot, Toronto cabbie. You are now the inventor of some sort of Masala-powered Gaswagen. I look forward to your prompt ethnic cleansing of Toronto commuters.

Once again, we are about as organized and prepared as a virgin with ADD dropped off at a porn set. I have no idea what that means, but what I am implying is that we have again failed to put up a post. Do we just let it slide today, or do we throw up a hastily-produced screed about things that piss us off? The B-side wins again, people.

1. People on Escalators Who Stop Fucking Walking When It Almost Reaches The Top

I commute to work every day, which means a ride on the subway every morning. Every time I arrive at my final stop, I have to take the escalator. People in Toronto (at least commuters) are generally smart enough to follow basic subway escalator etiquette, which is that people who want to stand in place on the escalator stay to the right while people who want to walk up the escalator stay to the left. I usually go on the left side, because standing in place on an escalator is pretty well the height of fucking laziness. I mean, they are providing you with electric-powered stairs. To not even participate in the movement process is the first step in complete capitulation to morbid obesity. If this keeps up, the thin, stair-climbing Asian hordes will overtake our fat asses in no time at all. This is for God and Country, people. Use the legs that the Baby Jesus gave you.

Anyway, basically every morning when I am walking on the left hand side up the escalator, some fucking idiot decides to stop walking because the escalator ride is coming to an end. This means that everyone behind them has to stop, or even worse, someone doesn’t notice the trail of commuters stopping and ends up walking into the back of the person in front of them. It’s fucking infuriating. Who doesn’t have the motor skills to step off a moving escalator? It’s not like they greased the floor at the end of the escalator. You can probably do it if you, you know, JUST STEPPED AND KEPT WALKING. If you cannot handle the Fred Astaire-esque choreography of simple bi-pedal movement, maybe you should stick to the right side.

2. Women and Doors

Yes, this is entirely sexist. But, yes, this is also entirely true. If you are a guy and you are walking through a door (such as a mall entrance), you either hold the door or push it open far enough so that the person behind you can follow right behind you and push it open for the next person. It’s common courtesy. If you don’t do it, you are a complete dirtbag. This code particularly applies during morning commutes. There is a massive wave of people going in one direction, so holding the door is out of the question. Therefore, you just do your best to push the door open for the next person. But no, not women, particularly young women. These selfish bitches come to a door that’s about to close, and instead of pushing it open, rush and slide through the opening so they won’t have to exert the effort of pushing the door. The door then slams in your face as you are right behind those women and assumed that they would show a modicum of consideration by keeping the door open. I don’t even have anything funny to say about this (although this hasn’t stopped me so far). Those women can fall off a bridge. I hope they lose their hands in car door accidents. Honestly, just fucking die.

3. The Really Fat Naked Old Guy In My Gym Who Stood Under A Hand-Dryer While I Shaved

It was just awful. It was like someone had anthropomorphized a boiled potato.

A heartwarming look at the headlines clamoring for your attention

Montreal Designer Creates Sleek Sports Hijab as Clerics Declare Jihad on Sweaty Headdresses

Most people don’t know this, but Jacques Plante was the first goalie to ever wear the niqab.

Fast Food, Coffee to Escape New Blended Tax: Socialism Has Its Limits

I love Canadians.  “You can tax the hell out of my income, but don’t you dare touch my Tim Horton’s! (or Lott’ry Winnin’s!)”

How a Halloween Get-up Went Badly Wrong: Here’s a Hint - It Melded Elements of “Blackface” and “Cool Runnings”

The best part of this story is how caught off-guard the university students are by all of the uproar.  “We just wanted to faithfully recreate the characters from the Cool Runnings movie, and to do it justice we had to paint our faces black.”  Makes sense to me.

Adjust Your Doomsday Calendars: Celine Dion Not Pregnant

It’s almost as if a svengali-like 78 year old man were never meant to procreate with a 44-year old praying mantis.

Palin’s Book Tour Steers Clear of Major Cities; Focuses on Bumpkin Population

I certainly hope for the organizer’s sake that there’s a “book-on-tape” version available as well.

Missing Canadian Teenager Survives Three Days on Ice Floe; Reinforces Commonly Held Stereotypes About Canada

Another commonly held but misguided stereotype about Canadians?  That we like Wayne Gretzky.

Varitek Exercises Option, Will Stay with Red Sox; Red Sox: Hooray?

I’m amazed that the Red Sox are keeping him on, what with him hitting .187 and not even bothering to kneel behind home plate anymore.

Earlier This Afternoon (Court House)

Judge: And how do you plead, son?

Devin: …

Judge: Son? Your plea.

Devin: (softly) Guilty.

Judge: Very well. We’ll reconvene for sentencing on December 12th.

Defense Counsel: You did the right thing, Devin.

Devin: (stares blankly into distance)

***

Four Days Earlier (Police Station)

Devin: Let me go! I’m innocent!

Officer: Oh yeah? Then how come there’s dead-guy-blood all over your boots?

Devin: It wasn’t my fault!

Officer: Oh! So you admit that you did it?

Devin: I…I want to speak to a lawyer.

Officer: Yeah, I bet you do. In the meantime, why don’t you grab a seat? (tosses Devin in cell, slams door)

Devin: (puts head in hands, sobs)

***

Thirty Minutes Earlier (Street)

Devin: (kicking man lying on ground) ASK ME AGAIN! ASK ME AGAIN, MOTHERFUCKER!

Pete: Devin! What the hell is wrong with you?

Devin: WHO’S HUNGRY NOW, HUH? WHO’S HUNGRY NOW?

Man on Ground: P-please…please. I’m a h-hemophiliac…

Devin: (raises foot in air) YEAAAGGHHHHH!

Leah: DEVIN! NO!

***

Three minutes earlier (Exiting Air Canada Centre)

Pete: You guys want to go grab a beer?

Leah: Definitely. How about you, Devin?

Devin: (teeth clenched) Such fucking bullshit.

Pete: Whoa. What’s up with you, buddy? You’re not still mad about the miss, are you?

Devin: (angrily) And what if I am?

Leah: Jeez, Devin, settle down.

Devin: No, I won’t! We just got screwed over!

Pete: Um, Devin? We won!

Devin: I can’t believe it was the Italian guy, too! You figure he would have given a shit.

Homeless Guy: (to Devin) Excuse me, pal, but can you spare some change for some food?

Devin: (freezes) What did you just say?

Homeless Guy: Just wondering if you could spare a couple of bucks so I could grab a slice of pizza?

Devin: Oh. You want a slice of pizza, eh? (advances)

Leah: Devin, what are you doing?

***

Ten Minutes Earlier (Air Canada Centre)

T.V. Announcer: …and that’s the final buzzer, folks. Raptors 99, Hawks 95. Nice win for Toronto.

Pete: Awesome! Big W!

Leah: Such a great game.

Devin: (rips up ticket, throws on ground) Damnit!

Pete: What’s the matter?

Devin: My five-year-old cousin makes that shot half the time!

Leah: Hey, it happens.

Devin: Let’s get the hell out of this place. (marches up stairs)

Leah: (rolls eyes at Pete)

***

10 Seconds Earlier

Devin: PIZ…

CLANG!

Crowd: OHHHHH!

Devin: He…he missed.

Crowd: (sarcastic smattering of boos)

Pete: So close.

Devin: I…I’m surprised how much I wanted him to hit that.

Leah: Ha. Told you! The chanting is infectious.

Devin: (stares blankly into distance)

***

1 Minute Earlier

T.V. Announcer: 98-95 Raptors, 2.5 seconds left, Bargnani at the line, trying to put this one on ice.

SWISH!

T.V. Announcer: And that should do it, folks! But I’ve got a feeling this crowd would love it if Andrea hit one more.

Crowd: PIZ-ZA! PIZ-ZA! PIZ-ZA!

Devin: Why’s everybody chanting?

Pete: You never been to a game before? If the Raptors score 100 points, everyone gets a free piece of Pizza Pizza.

Devin: What? I’m surprised they can even give that stuff away.

Leah: Give in, Devin. You’re powerless to resist the pizza chant!

Devin: I’m not going to embarrass myself for a free piece of shitty pizza.

Pete: Oh, come on. Loosen up, you old man.

Devin: Fine, whatever. (exaggerated) PIZ-ZA! PIZ-ZA!

Leah: That’s it. Get into it.

Devin: PIZ-ZA! Ha. This is fun. PIZ-ZA! PIZ-ZA! C’mon, big fella!

T.V. Announcer: Bargnani shoots, and…

***

Six Hours Earlier (Office)

Pete: What are you doing tonight?

Devin: Why?

Pete: Leah has an extra ticket to the Raps game. You in?

Devin: Okay, but it can’t be too late a night. I have breakfast with Mr. Lanzer tomorrow, and I think he is going to offer me the big promotion.

Pete: Congrats!

Devin: Thanks. Oh, and guess what? Judy’s pregnant!

Pete: No way!

Devin: We couldn’t be happier.

Pete: Wow! Sounds like you sure have a bright future ahead of you.

Devin: I certainly do, Pete. Yes, I most certainly do.

No, not an ill-timed erection, although as I understand it, there are scientific studies to support that it can happen to anyone and it has no bearing on sexual orientation. This happened again. It was a white guy this time, so my ill-founded racial theories were thrown out the window, along of course with my dignity and sense of personal space. I finished my shower and got out of there so fast that you would have thought that some guys decided to re-enact “Eastern Promises” in there.

Is this just me? I am torn between the idea of the guy doing it just being a random idiot who doesn’t know any better and the idea that I am about to be on the receiving end of some Larry Craig-style foot tapping. I don’t even know if that’s a euphemism. I feel like a Boy of St. Vincent now every time I try to clean up after going running. It serves me right for buying a membership at the Graham James Athletic Club. I thought it was odd when they asked me to oil up for my membership card photo — my suspicions are now confirmed.

I would assume that most adult men are trained in urinal spacing etiquette. Unless you are some sort of misanthropic hermit, you have to understand the need for men to keep some sort of spacial divide when it comes to bathroom-related matters. As such, I would assume that guys would extend their etiquette to public showers. Silly me. I thought it was normal for me to not be so close as to smell the soap other guys were applying. How gauche of me. Apply some to your back? Why, I’d be delighted! Lower? Lower still? But you’ve got so many other upper body parts that…oh, God, what have I become?

This does not bode well for winter. I am seriously thinking of going Never Nude until it gets warm enough to exercise outside again.

You have to love the 1970s. Stagflation, the Vietnam War, disco as a cultural phenomenon…wait, what the fuck? You don’t have to love the 1970s at all. In fact, you have my permission to look back on the decade with absolute derision. Still, there were a few good things about the Seventies. Okay, at least one: cold weather album cover shoots.

It was quite kind of Carly Simon to interrupt her run at the Belmont Stakes to get gussied up for the photo shoot. However, in the rush to remove her feedbag, she seems to have forgotten something. Can’t put my finger on it, but if I did, I am pretty sure that I would try to turn it like a radio dial. Jesus Christ, was someone applying ice cubes to those things when the photographer was changing rolls of film?

Man, the rest of my day is now wasted. Although Carly’s picture finally convinced me that I finally know what look Denise Richards has been trying for all these years, you know that I am going to spend the next five hours on the internet looking for erotic shots in the Anne Murray album cover back catalogue.

 

It’s been one of those weeks, so I’m phoning it in with a simple image that may be the funniest thing I’ve ever seen this early into a November. And I know it’s probably been around for years, but something like this never goes out of style, does it?

 

A particular hat tip to Tao, whose chronicling of the most fun anyone has ever had in Indy kept us riveted this week. Will we have a “Live from Balls State, Part Trois - The Flight Home” on Monday? Only time will tell.

 

Sorry, I misspoke. It’s “Tao”. Only “Tao” will tell. Carry on.

 

In the meantime, I have started a twitter feed (Gourmet Spud) where I am posting random stupid things that, if I tried to turn into a post here, would get me ridiculed and mocked by you, our cold, cutting reader. It’s kind of like the Fake Rick Reilly feed, only with far less confused, actual Rick Reilly fans for followers.

Have a good weekend. Keep working on those moustaches.

The wait is over!! My live update from my trip to Indianapolis is here! When we last left each other, I was looking for love in a Westin parking lot in downtown Indianapolis. Since then, I have had an opportunity to enjoy the many splendours of the metropolis that is Indy. On Tuesday, I attended the Pacers-Nuggets game at the vaunted Conseco Fieldhouse (I assume named for Jose). By way of quick overview, the Pacers looked liked the B-squad for the Canadian special olympics under-16 basketball team. The Nuggets did not. I don’t know if it was the 13 points the Pacers scored in the first quarter, or the fact that they trailed by double-digits the entire game, but it certainly was a magical evening.

As an aside, I actually watched a guy get mugged for his bus money on my way back to my hotel after the game (true story). I would like to point out that bus fare in the city is a thrifty $1.75… To all you aspiring criminals out there, I would strongly recommend that if you are going to commit a crime and risk criminal sanction, you set your sights above the $2 mark…

In any event, having witnessed 2 muggings (both on and off the court), I decided it was time to catch up on some sleep. In my continued love affair with the Indianapolis Westin, however, I returned to find that my air conditioning was broken. I therefore had the pleasure of waking at 4:00 a.m. in a lather of sweat that made me feel like Rita McNeil at a hot yoga class. Taking matters into my own hands, I went down the hall to get some ice, returning to find that I had not brought my key. I therefore made my way to the hotel lobby in my boxers and sandals, carrying a bucket of ice, where I was informed by hotel staff that I was not “properly attired”. Having listened intently to my views on their hotel and their city, the desk staff were kind enough to offer to send someone to let me back into my room and to fix my A/C if I would be so kind as to provide them with ID. Resisting the urge to whip out my johnson, I advised them that the ID that I normally kept in the cock pouch in my boxers was in my hotel room. They therefore arranged for a police escort back to my room, where I was asked to hand over my ID for inspection. Also a true story…

In conclusion, based on my experiences to date, I am ranking Indianapolis as the 35th best American city I have visited (right behind Bald Knob, Arkansas and Spread Eagle, Wisconsin).