Archive for the ‘i’m only happy when he maims’ Category

I tried, Maxie.  I tried so hard.  I tried so hard to find a way to say tigers are better than sharks.

Tigers are better than sharks… in cartoons.

I thought about every cartoon tiger I could remember because, as you all probably know by now, that’s how this brain I’ve got works.

I came up with









I could really only remember one cartoon shark of any real import: Bruce, from Finding Nemo.

credit: Disney Enterprises Inc./Pixar Animation Studios

credit: Disney Enterprises Inc./Pixar Animation Studios

I remembered Tony the sold-out-Tiger, but didn’t count him.  And so, honestly, even at a ratio of three-to-one, it was a tiger victory but not by a landslide.

And then I remembered Shere Khan.  Game; set; match.

We first met Khan in The Jungle Book


and then later on TailSpin

KhanAnd you know what?  Supreme badass.  Khan is a perfect example of everything I actually respect about tigers: ruthless.

My favorite thing about tigers is that they can be “take names in the evening, eat flesh in the morning” animals.  A tiger could’ve been hunting you for days and you’d never even know it.¹  Actually, I’d be careful on that walk home.

Also, we always hear about shark attacks.  All this attention on them and the marine biology community still thinks sharks only attack humans because they stupidly mistake them for other stuff.  You know why tigers attack people, though?  Because they’re there.  Because it’s something to do.  Because it’s 11 am and wtf else is a tiger gonna do at 11 am?

And, finally, we all know how we’re supposed to defend against a shark attack.  We’re supposed to punch it in the eye.  They hate that.  But if we can beat them with a mere bar fight technique, well, maybe they need to toughen up a little.  And I think it goes without saying but good luck trying to punch a tiger in the eye.  Un. Stop. Puh. Buhl.

All of these features are in Khan.  Go ahead; look at him again.  Look at the suit.

Khan would feed you to his little tiger cubs in a heartbeat; just because you looked at him; even though his cubs aren’t teething yet and they could only gum you to death; and they would gum you; to death.

As a matter of fact, from now on, Chuck Norris is dead to me.  Hail Shere Khan.

¹This “fact” has not been verified by the Discovery Channel or NatGeo. Wait for their verification, if you want. Wouldn’t recommend it, though.


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Everybody’s got something, right?  A chink in the armor here, an Achilles’ heel there, an awkward love/hate thing with The Nightman…  Insecurities abound.  Actually, for the purposes of this post, let’s just refer to all insecurities as “Nightmen.”

To conceal them, we wear hats, baggy clothes and clothes that are too tight.  We self-tan, eat more, eat less and watch reality tv shows.  We laugh at jokes about our Nightmen and even start jokes about them ourselves to get ahead of the curve in awkward moments when we feel a joke coming.  Some of these methods work better than others.

But you know what 60% of the time works every time?  Having someone scream your Nightmen at you in broad daylight on U Street.

Example, Saturday.

A friend and I had just left DC Noodles.  It was about 1:30p, gorgeous outside, and I was headed west towards 16th.  Feeling good, feeling great; watching my step at an uneven part of the sidewalk, and then, about two feet from my face…

Older Crotchety Dude: HEY!!
all of U Street between 14th & 15th: *turns*
OCD: lift yo head up, bwoy!
me: …
OCD: just ’cause you kinda skinny —
me: (hey; I’ve gained 20 pounds since —)
OCD: — and you ain’t as dark-skinded¹ as me is —
me: (great.  now no one will mistake me for Djimon Hounsou.)
OCD: — don’t mean you ain’t worth.  Just look at me!

And then he smiled a “where are my teeth” smile and just walked away, as quickly as he appeared.

I get approached a lot in public.  It’s probably because I look everyone in the eye and smile or nod.  But not looking at this dude is what got me publicly pitied by a man with no teeth.  Go figure.

I’m used to public accostings.  I’ve been told, loudly, to cut my hair and that my dad didn’t raise me well.  I’ve also come dangerously close to being punched in the throat by, I believe, the same lady who spit at a friend of LiLu’s B.

In short, I should see this coming.  I should be ready to defend my Nightmen on site.  But since practice makes perfect, I apologize in advance if I yell out stuff like, “My Nightmen keep me warm at night, so leave them alone!” in the middle of totally unrelated conversation.  I just have to be ready.

¹Yes.  I meant “skinded” and not “skinned.”

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30-days-official-website-only-on-fxMorgan Spurlock parlayed his Super Size Me fame and indie-film-street-cred into a number of really challenging adventures on 30 Days, a show on FX.

Every episode is a new venture into lifestyle immersion.  One of my favorite episodes is the premiere: Minimum Wage.  Spurlock and his special lady friend had to live on minimum wage for 30 days.  They started with a few hundred dollars and some clothes, but then had to find a place to live, find jobs, commute to those jobs, get health care, etc.

Condescending?  Arguably.  I get that.  But he’s trying, and that’s big.

Today, I have a similar yet wholly different ambition I’ve had since writing a science report in 4th grade:

I want to adopt and live with an adult, wild cheetah for 30 days.

cheetah-6090Here are highlights of how I imagine my 30-day experience, in note-to-self form.

Day 1:
Pick up chain-mail bodysuit from blacksmith on way to pick up cheetah at airport. Call Zipcar and ask what cheetah policy is.

Day 2:
Remember – handler said there is no “safe word.” There is bite and there is lose.

Day 3:
Ask Jeeves what cheetahs eat. Running out of time. Cheez-Its were no-go.

Day 6:
Earn trust. Give cheetah name; like “Killer” but with gentility of “Puddin’.”

Day 8:
“Stalks” not ready for playground, yet. Was too soon. Too soon.

Day 9:
Hid from Stalks and then I ran. I was playing. Thought being in house would quash speed advantage. Gotta learn to live with regrets.

Day 14:
Hospital release. Same insurance that didn’t cover the flu did cover readily avoidable cheetah mauling. America.

Day 15:
Unattended cheetahs poop in houses like undiapered babies: on anything.

Day 18:
Stalks finally let me pet him. Won’t admit, but missed me while I was in ICU.

Day 19:
Pushed envelope. Trained Stalks to hone murderous tendencies. Took all afternoon and three mailpersons.

Day 20:
Took Stalks out and about. Vanquished mine enemies. Didn’t have to wait in line at local supermarket for first time in ever.

Day 23:
Finally called boss. Told her Stalks was my bro; I am on bro-ternity leave.

Day 24:
Told roommate it was safe to leave bedroom now.

Day 26:
Missionaries came to door with pamphlets for my soul. Stalks was not afraid of their god.

Day 29:
Stalks caught bird in the house. Bird had it coming.

Day 30:
Drove slowly back to airport. Didn’t cry. It was allergies.

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Partner in “might as well stay inside” habitualism — Miss Bianca

  — and I decided to throw caution to the wind and abandon the great indoors, on Saturday.

Right before “the end of the world as I know it”* began, we went over, sideways and under on a magic carpet ride (read: we walked; I “made believe”) to


Now Duffy’s, is no

— since there’s this one server who looks at me, every time I walk in the door, like I gave her puppy the swift punt in the ass that Jack Black gave to Baxter in Anchorman — but it’s a neighborhood bar, close to the 9:30 Club and has absolutely no complaints when its patrons want to relax and be unimpressive.
Despite watching the Cardinals win, the afternoon was cool:

  1. We ate cheesy tater tots!
  2. I displayed the savoir faire of a young Don Imus: When our server said she was just glad the Detroit Lions season was over, I remarked how glad I was that they went 0 and 16.  Then, when she slipped in that she was from Michigan and expressed hope that at least it couldn’t get worse, I pounded her subtlety with my ignorance and promptly informed her that the 1976 Tampa Bay Bucs went 0-14 and then came back the next year and lost 12 more in a row, promising her it sure as hell could get worse.
  3. And for the first time ever, I emptied a keg** of my favorite,

But then there was this guy:

We sat at a table directly across from an arcade game, Big Buck Hunter.  And this guy, as you can see above — fake orange rifle in black-gloved-hands — spent the better part of an hour, blasting virtual creatures.
“Now, f.B,” you acknowledge, “you’ve never mentioned that you had a PETA card.”
And I don’t.  But what I do have is a heart.  And it unapologetically ached when I’d take a bite of my Duffy burger, look up to the left, and watch this guy air-gage pumping the sh*t out of unsuspecting little “dee-yas.”***
It was like watching the special features on Bambi: Uncut and Unforgiving.
Then came the squealing: he was shelling gophers.  Cuddly gophers.  And they would squeal when hit with a bullet in the face.  The screen read: “Number of gophers shot – 23 of 25.”  Oh, to be one of the maimed and gimpy two, I guess.
Then my stomach dropped.  Upon reaching the status of “Hunter Hero,” he got to some bonus round that let him go trap shooting.  But, of course, he wasn’t shooting at clay discs.

me: are those flying cowpies?

miss bianca: *aghast*

He was shooting flying cowpies; flying formerly-known-as-food balls.
We didn’t stay much longer.  In all honesty, it had little to do with the master blaster.  He ended up running out of bloodlust before we were done.  We had to return the magic carpet (translation: [none] you read that right.  And you thought I was kidding about the carpet).
Anyway, this post could never get this blog confused as a food or restaurant blog of merit.  So, think of it more as a theory on why we don’t get around much anymore.

*The division rival Arizona Cardinals hosted a home playoff game.
**Apparently Duffy’s carries 2-pint-sized kegs, since after two Stellas, there was none left in the whole bar.
***I’m guessing they didn’t care what kind of pants the son of a b$tch who shot them was wearing, either.

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