END O' THE WEEK MORON...

In an effort to make this web-log into something a little more interesting, adding stories with a weekly purpose might just do the trick and get you back here to read occasionally. So I'm instituting the "End O' The Week Moron", an oxymoron which I somehow can connect to something fucked up that happened to me this week. It doesn't have to be an earth-shattering event, or even something of newsworthy acclaim, but I think its fun to connect conflicting words to a objective topic. Simple enough.

Kicking off the first moron is:

CONVENIENCE STORE

Not convenient at all. I've never felt convenienced after walking into any small grocery store, because I HAVE TO DO MY OWN SHOPPING. How is that convenient? Have you ever been to 7-11? It's a mess. Get me a blue raspberry slurpee with a twisty straw, make me a nice and gooey salisbury steak sandwich, and deliver that shit to my house! Now that's convenience.

Another inconvenience with these places is that you might have to talk to someone that doesn't even speak English. The other day I went into a one of those stores with a shady name like "GHB Incorporated" over on 1st avenue. I walked up to the counter and a nice young Asian lady greeted me and asked for my order. I told her that I would like an egg and cheese breakfast sandwich, and she began to reach for her ladle, which confused me. She turned around to face the kitchen, and ten seconds later I had a to-go container full of split pea soup in front of me. Not really sure how she confused "egg and cheese" with "split pea", but maybe that's what they call it in Rangoon. Who knows. I was hungry so I just took it and left.

A couple minutes later, I was sitting on the subway next to some really annoying old lady that looked like Cruella Deville and kept on breathing heavily out of her nostrils. It honestly sounded like a wet noodle being blown by the wind against a piece of drywall. Even weirder was that she kept on touching me by accident with a prosthetic hand! As we were getting into Union Square, the train jerked to a halt, and I ended up spilling the soup all over my pants, and the old lady's creepy plaster hand. She didn't even notice. Lack of nerve endings in her fake hand maybe? I guess that's convenient.