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Monthly Archives: June 2011

Day #72: Nailed It!

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The Story:

You have 10 guesses to figure out who I am:

1)      I talk way too loud on my phone

2)      I dress like a 1970’s pimp at a pajama party

3)      I tell the dozen of compliant women I am surrounded by where their place is

4)      I walk around for most of the day stroking the extraordinarily long white hairs that are growing out of the mole on   my chin

5)      I judge my customers by their color

6)      I only understand four words of English and yet, I run an exceptionally profitable business

7)      I shampoo my glorious coif with a serum composed primarily of tiger tears and the musk of 1,000 roses from Damascus

8)      I had a foot fetish growing up. I’m not completely cured.

9)      I always have at least two younger guys hanging out around me. Usually on the couches or lounging in a chair, feeding my pet miniature yorkie.

10)   I usually have one very long or bedazzled pinky nail on one of my hands that I like to show off.

Mmmm.... nice toes.

WHO AM I?

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

Please keep your arms and obvious she-needs-a-tan remarks inside the vehicle at all times.

ONE:      Tonight I was lucky enough to accompany my loverly mom (aka Ginger Spice) for a fun mother-daughter date. We got things off right by heading to one of Orlando’s better nail salons for a much needed (in my case) pedicure. Now, I am not what you would consider a very girly-girl, and neither is my mom but getting your feet and lower legs pampered while sitting in a behemoth massage chair that can rub, knead, slap and press every inch of your body is hard to pass up. While experimenting with the different chair settings, and wondering what the two ladies rubbing down our feet were saying (are they talking about me?!?!) I noticed what I assumed to be either the manager or owner of the salon. This guy was a character (see picture above). He chatted loudly into his cell phone in a language I couldn’t hope to identify (let alone understand), he drifted up and down the aisle between the manicure and pedicure stations, slouched down on the lounge chair to play with a small dog (Yorkie, I think) and would periodically wander outside to stretch, look around at the world and absently scratch his belly. I was mesmerized by this guy, to the chagrin of my nail tech who kept slapping my feet to get me to switch positions or take them out of the sudsy water, but I couldn’t look away as he passed near my vibrating massage chair. Then. I saw it. It= the longest effing chin hairs growing out of a mole I have ever seen in my life. I mean these suckers were hanging down to about mid-chest, I kid you not. Now, as a semi-proud owner of my own witchy chin mole, I know that those troublesome hairs that tend to jet out can be a bit of a nuisance. Knowing how self-conscious I am about my chin/mole hair I was amazed at the balls (can I say balls?) on this guy for refusing to pluck the tenacious hairs. The things these hairs must have seen in their time… one can only imagine. Two tips of the cap to you, mole-hair dude, two tips of the cap to you.

Love & Squirrels.

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Day #71: Stay Tuned for Tomorrow’s Forcast…

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The Story:

“So, let me get this straight,” Doug leaned in closer and stared intently at the strange looking woman with the ratty crow’s feather poking out from her mess of greying hair, “you can tell my future, just by looking at that do-hickey?”.

“It is my gift,” the woman smiled revealing an overcrowded mouth of what looked like teeth that had been filed to a point. Doug visibly shuddered at the wicked grin. “Ok lady, I’ll bite. How much?” Doug normally wouldn’t have been caught dead talking to what he considered a scam artist, but he was desperately in need of advice. At this point he would try anything. “Fifty dollars, flat rate,” the woman said in a guttural hiss.

Doug put on a show of protest, but they both knew he would fork over the dough. Counting the wrinkled ten and two twenties, the shark-toothed woman tucked the cash into her brassiere and beckoned Doug to follow her to the back of her booth. Directing him to an orange plush armchair that he all but sank into, the woman sat down in the chair across from his and clicked on the flatscreen that was hanging on the wall to Doug’s left. She quickly muted the television as The Weather Channel came into picture.

“OK, Mr. Belvin, I want you to think of the pressing matter that has brought you here today. I want you to close your eyes and focus on this, and nothing else,” the woman hissed through her fanged incisors.

“No problem there,” Doug mumbled indignantly.

“Silence! Please, Mr. Belvin, concentrate!” the woman spat her command at Doug. A few minutes passed before she spoke again, “Now, open your eyes and look at the screen. I will now reveal to you what I see”.   

She stared at the screen a few more moments, Doug assumed for dramatic effect, and turning towards him she said, “The answer to your question is this: You should move forward on the decision that originally brought you hear today. Within a short time of finalizing that decision you will come to greatly regret it, but take heed! Do not renege on your original agreement! Wait three days and then call the number you were given in the coffee shop. This is the decision that will set the tone for the rest of your life. Abide by what I have told you today, and you will be a happy man,” the woman folded her arms and leaned back into her chair. A light sweat had broken out on her forehead and she looked a bit peaked.

“That’s it?” Doug said in apparent confusion, looking first at the Doppler image on the screen and then at the ‘seer’. The woman sat stone-faced and stared straight ahead. Doug gave a huff of frustration and heaved himself out of the butt-sucking chair. Looking over his shoulder at the seemingly catatonic woman on his way out, Doug wondered briefly if he should check to make sure the hag was still breathing. Just as he decided to act on that impulse the woman began snoring, confirming to Doug that she was indeed still among the living.

Walking out of the woman’s darkened booth, Doug was immediately engulfed by the cacophony and smells of the flea market. The dramatic difference between the medium’s velvety, incense-drenched recesses and the flea market’s swarming heat and humanity almost knocked Doug off his feet and it took him a second to readjust to the bustling around him. Soon though, he was continuing on towards his original purpose for coming to the flea market that day and arrived at the antique furniture booth he had phone earlier about a 19th century writing desk he hoped to purchase. After about an hour of assessing the piece and haggling over its price, Doug was the happy owner of a very unique and quite beautiful writing desk. Tying it down in the back of his truck, Doug hummed contentedly to himself as he pulled out of the dirt parking lot and headed home. Not ten minutes into his half an hour drive, the cloudless blue sky suddenly darkened and it began to pour… and then hail. “Damn weatherman! I thought it was supposed to be clear all weekend!” Doug yelled angrily as he saw the chunks of ice bounce off of his prized piece in the bed of his truck.

Pulling off of the road, Doug saw a coffee shop with covered parking about 500 yards away. Parking his truck in one of the spaces, Doug turned off the engine and walked around to his truck bed to assess the damage. Most of the desk had been spared any real harm and Doug was just about to sigh in relief when he saw a large gash pinged out of the right corner or the writing surface. “Daggum! I say, DAGGUM!!!” Doug bellowed as he ran his palm over the scarred wood. “Well, this is gonna cost me a pretty penny,” he grumbled. Inspecting the imperfection a minute more, Doug decided to grab a cup ‘a joe while he waited out the worst of the storm.

Throwing up his collar and pulling down the bill of his cap, Doug made a dash to the front of the place and rushed inside. Ordering a black coffee, Doug grabbed a newspaper and found a table near the window so he could keep an eye on the storm. After about twenty minutes the storm seemed to be pushing off to the east and Doug thought it safe to continue on his way. Downing the last gulp of coffee, Doug stood up and tucked the paper under his arm. Moving towards the door, Doug heard a soft, musical voice say, “Excuse me sir, I believe you dropped this”. Doug turned to face the most beautiful woman he had ever seen looking back at him expectantly. He then noticed her outstretched arm offering a slip of paper she believed to be his. “Uh, thanks,” Doug said taking the piece of paper from her hand without looking away from her warm hazel eyes. Feeling a bit awkward, he quickly snapped out of it, or tried and giving the lovely woman a lopsided grin he made his way back to his truck.

Doug frowned at the writing desk and shook his head. Over the last three days Doug had tried everything he could think of to repair the blemish on its surface and had failed miserably. “That’s it. I taking this sucker back,” he said to himself. “Now where is that receipt?” He wondered as he subconsciously patted each of his pockets. “Oh right,” he said as he noticed his jacket hanging on the back of the dining room chair, “I must have left it in my jacket pocket”. Rummaging through his pockets, Doug felt a crumpled piece of paper and pulled it out. It was the slip of paper from the coffee shop beauty. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her, and was mentally kicking himself for not asking her for her number. Unfolding the paper, Doug’s eyes grew wide in amazement as he read:

 

His mind immediately drifted to the words of the psychic he had doubted.  Awestruck, Doug smiled as he began to realize that if the words that crazy lady continued to manifest as she predicted they would, he held in his hand the phone number of his future wife.

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      It is officially that time of the year where I stalk every radar site, station etc. about twenty times a day. I’m not quite sure why I do this, I mean it’s Florida, it’s the summer… it’s GOING to rain. But for whatever reason I need to know every fifteen minutes if the green blob over my house (or office) is going to turn into a yellow blob or even a red and (gasp!) pinkish purpley blob (I secretly long for the pinkish purple blob, I am super fascinated by inclement weather). It’s a small obsession I have and I make no apologies. So while watching the weather blob today on my computer screen, I let my mind kinda wander… always interesting when that happens. And what it wandered to was the notion of a Doppler radar being about to predict more than a little precipitation… what if it could predict THE FUTURE (cue dramatic music)!

TWO:    I was also inspired by one of my friend’s FACEBOOK statuses expressing his frustration with our recent influx of summer storms in the area and how the wet conditions put a damper (get it!) on his plans to purchase and bring home furniture when neither of his vehicles possess a roof (truck & motorcycle). So Dallas, if you happen to read this, thanks for the inspiration and I’ll be watching the radar for a few rays of sunshine for ya tomorrow.

Love & Squirrels.

Day #70: Potato Wrangler

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The Story:

 

You are the lowest of the lows,

Your belly usually firmly pressed against the cool laminate floor.

Your work receiving no accolades,

But you smile at each incident-free day that rolls by.

Never expecting your picture to be featured on the wall with the company best,

You attack your duties with the vigor of a man who knows his rewards are greater

Than any Employee-of-the-Month award could be.

 

Happily you crawl and wriggle about,

Unaware, (or is it uncaring?) of the curious customers who might catch a rare glimpse of you at work.

Using broom handle, yardstick or your own outstretched arm,

You wrangle those unruly spuds with a flick of a wrist, a swipe of the arm.

Happily, they seem to wobble towards him on their own accord,

As if they were penitent children, overjoyed to be found,

Thankful not to be lost forever in the yawning darkness they had found upon their ill-advised escape.

 

Purple Peruvian, fingerlings, sweet and Yukon Gold,

Russet, Idaho, new, Kennebec or La Rouge, it makes no difference;

They are all your lost brethren, and you- their savior.

Carefully you collect them, no corner goes unsearched, and after a gentle scrub

Back they go, returned safely, they rejoin their flock.

 

And with a sigh, you place your hands on your hips,

Knowing before the day is through, you will be beckoned once again.

For shoppers are clumsy, impatient and obtuse.

They hunt through the pile for the perfect specimen, all others must make way.

Should an ill-fated or poorly replaced tuber happen to obstruct their reach,

Down it will fall, its fate flouted, as it wobbles slowly out of sight…

Hidden and alone it finds itself in the bowels of its former home.

And then you will be called, broom in hand, to wrangle those lost souls,

And return them once again,

To their mounded home.

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      On a brief trip to the Publix Supermarket today (we were on a mission to buy gelatin for the makings of some homemade zombie makeup… yeah, really) we were heading towards the produce when we happened upon an odd scene. There, in the onion, garlic, and potato aisle were two legs kicking about from under one of the potato display bins. Soon, as if by magic, potatoes of all sizes and shapes began to roll out from under the display, seemingly under their own power. Only then did I see the sweeping arm gripping a broom handle and the head and torso of the teenager who emerged in time to throw a whatareyoulookingatyeahthisismyjob kind of stare. I was too fascinated to care, and continued to stare unapologetically at what I immediately dubbed the potato wrangler. Seeing I was not going to move on, the kid gave an almost-audible sigh and went back to his wrangling. Best grocery store shopping trip ever. If only he had a lasso instead of a broom handle…

Um... I need this.

Love & Squirrels.

Day #69: Could You Sign This?

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The Story:

The fallout was even worse than they had imagined. For years, it had been a closely guarded secret, well, not a secret exactly, but close to it. It was common knowledge that devices like the one in question existed and even that they were utilized by a few people in the trade, but it was also conveniently forgotten; like the crazy uncle everyone knows about but no one mentions. “Ok Marcie, damage control- go,” Nathaniel, a craggy-faced man with greying temples and a few too many wrinkles for his 48 years looked to his junior partner, a young but highly capable young woman with nothing but potential. Her career was on the fast track in the highly competitive world of publishing… but all that might change in the next 18 hours.

“Plausible denial, sir. We provide J.P. with a statement, one that he can ad lib a little, and redirect the focus. Place the blame on the corporation,” Marcie held up her hand, when she saw Nathaniel’s’ violent reaction to her last suggestion. “Now just hear me out, sir. We divert all attention away from J.P., he can claim he submitted an original manuscript to the corporation and then claim that beyond that step he would have had no idea of a ‘switch’ until it was published and on bookshelves. Instantly he is transformed from a soulless sellout to the victimized dreamer. We’ll line up a slew of interviews, Regis & Kelly, Piers Morgan, Dave, the Today Show, all of the usual suspects. They’ll cart him out and he’ll sit there, appropriately wounded and crestfallen. He’ll pander to the sympathetic hosts, feign outrage and disgust as one more artist misused by a faceless corporation, the whole bit. They’ll be eating out of his hands in no time and the public will be quick to follow,” Marcie looked at her boss and tried to hide the look of triumph on her face. She was unsuccessful.

“OK smart guy, what do we do about keeping the big boys happy in all this? They are not going to like the attention being turned in their direction,” Nathaniel had a tendency to refer to Marcie in masculine terms, due partly to his history of hiring only men, but also as a result of Marcie’s fondness for menswear and her habit of keeping the thick mass of her chestnut hair buzzed short around the ears, leaving it only a little longer on top. She had a striking resemblance to a young Patrick Swayze.

“That’s the best part, boss,” Marcie didn’t miss a beat (she secretly liked that Nathaniel thoughts of her as ‘one of the guys’) “The bait and switch routine with J.P. will buy us a little time. While J.P. is on the interview circuit we’ll have time to bury the ‘real’ culprit in legalese and send anyone wanting to dig on a wild goose chase.  Of course a villain will have to be produced eventually, the media needs someone to crucify and we need something to take the heat. So…” Marcie paused for a dramatic effect (something she had picked up from her years around story-tellers, authors and politicians alike), “we hand them a low-level copy editor determined to get his story to the masses at any cost. He’ll be fictitious of course, but as long as we throw the media a juicy-enough bone, they’ll be satisfied and point their noses towards the next story… no one will ever need to know the villain doesn’t actually exist,” Marcie crossed her arms across her chest and waited for a reaction.

Several silent minutes passed. In the darkness of the dimmed office, Marcie began to wonder if her boss had drifted off. Leaning forward a little, careful not to slide off the top of the desk she had been sitting on, Marcie was just about to tap Nathaniel on the shoulder when he leapt out of his chair. “Kid, I think you may be on to something there… now there are a few holes I can see, but by God I think we could pull this off!” He almost yelled in relief. “Ok, first things first, grab some markers and pull that dry-erase board over here. We have to hammer out all the details, come up with a believable script for J.P., schedule the interviews and create our scapegoat. Ring up Mike and Jackson and tell them to get their asses up here, we’ve got work to do!” Nathaniel was practically giddy; Marcie had never seen him so enthused.

“And tell them boys to pick up some grub on the way, and lots of coffee. Creating a cover-up for a cover-up is gonna take all night,” Nathaniel was already beginning to scratch out some things on the dry-erase board. Marcie couldn’t help smile to herself. “Who knew that her participation in the massive scandal of the forgery of the most beloved series of young-adult fiction novels in a century might actually lead to something other than absolute ruination,” she thought to herself.

And we return now, to our top story. Now this story has fascinated the nation since it first broke last Tuesday, when the beloved Unicorn Travels series author was accused of fraud when it appeared that the outrageously successful, best-seller books supposedly written by J.P. Newcastle were actually being written by specially-designed computers. Well, now sources are reporting that this story gets even more bizarre when Newcastle appeared on The Today Show and revealed that he was as surprised by this realization as the rest of us. We go now to that clip…

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      Writers block stinks. I had it bad today. I blame it on the weather (that’s always convenient) as it was a pretty nasty day today here in good ol Flor-i-da. Getting drenched on my frantic run which quickly turned into a defeated fastwalk to my car (the ONE day I forget my umbrella!) I thought I would snuggle on the couch and contentedly write about… well, I figured it would come to me.

Cause...

Fast-forward four hours later and still nothing. My usual decorum (haha!) began to wear thin… “I want this story to write itself!” I pouted, tossing my head back dramatically on the couch. And that’s when inspiration struck. What if a story could write itself? What if world-renowned authors, once they got a few best-sellers under their belt, just sort of… phoned it in? What if they could upload their past work, a few themes they’ve been knocking around, some character names and descriptions, maybe a possible ending or two and KA-POW!!! fiction is created! Genius… someone get on this right away (I have almost 300 days left of this craziness, I’m going to need the help).

Effect

 

TWO:    This idea was partially inspired by an article I read today on FOX News about the president using an autopen to sign into law an extension of the Patriot Act that was about to expire (he being of the country at the time couldn’t physically be there to sign before the act expired). It struck me as pretty interesting that Presidents (yes, other presidents have been using this technology for years) and other big-wigs have an actual machine that does the heavy-lifting when it comes to providing their John Hancock (I don’t believe Hancock used an autopen for his famous signature, but don’t quote me on that).  Anywho, if you’re interested here’s a link to the article: http://www.foxnews.com/politics/2011/06/26/white-house-remains-mum-on-use-autopen-to-sign-legislation/

Yep, even ‘Dutch’ used the infamous machine (click pic for image source)

Love & Squirrels.

Day #68: Two is Better Than One

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The Story:

“Vampires are all the rage, nowadays… so don’t bother removing us, we’re trendy.”

“We claim this wasteland in the name of Caesar and for all of the Roman Empire. We will grow many prosperous fields here… look we’ve already started.”

“Man! How’d you get to be so tall??? Every time I get even close to that height, I get yanked out by the root and have to start all over again!”

“I am the hair that blends into the night. Do not search for me, for I cannot be seen in your sad excuse for bathroom lighting, nay… only during the most inopportune time will I make my appearance known. And you will be sorry, oh yes! You. Will. Be. Sorry.”

“You have such beautiful eyes. Can I stab one?”

“Listen, Halloween is right around the corner. Do you really want to take options like Bert and that Frida chick off the table?”

“Ah! Come on! Leave me! I give you so much more personality…you know it’s true.”

“Getting uprooted like this every week or so is really starting to wear on my nerves. You keep this up much longer and I’ll turn gray on you, missy.”

“I’m not a chicken for gosh sakes! Stop plucking me!”

 

Delores? Who are you talking to in there?” A voice called through the closed bathroom door jolting Delores out of her daydream.

Nothing mom! Be out in a minute!” Delores hollered back at her mother before turning back to the mirror. Tweezers at the ready, she scanned for any stragglers and content with her tweezing job, checked her makeup one last time before unlocking the bathroom door and flicking off the lights.

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      Ever wake up one morning and POW! what was two perfectly groomed brows (emphasis on TWO) has somehow, during the night, morphed into one rather unruly unibrow?

Yeah, this gal knows what I'm talkin bout.

Call it laziness, call it a faulty beauty regiment, but there are times when I just fail to groom those weird tufts of hair above both my eyes. Being a natural blonde, I can kind of get away with it, I guess…for a time anyway. After hopping out of the shower this evening, I’m going about my usual post-shower routine when I happen to glance into the mirror and almost gasped at the state of my eyebrows. “Someone get me a weedwacker!” I almost yelled. I shaped them as best I could, given the poor evening lighting, but I can almost guarantee that there will be one big ugly hair starting back at me tomorrow as I wash my hands or check my hair (on my head) in the Ladies Room. The story above is how I imagine a teenaged me would converse with those unruliest of hairs… or more accurately, how they would converse with me.

Stubborn lil suckers...

Love & Squirrels.

 

Day #67: Over-the-Top Man

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The Story:

Over-the-Top Man: A Profile
(Might be fun to read the following like the guy from the Bud Light commercials)

When he orders a drink you better believe he’s getting 2 gallons of sweet tea… and sucking it all down until he winces in pain from the imminent brain-freeze.

Want a can of Maine’s finest beverage, Moxie? Good, cause he’ll bring you over five cases without blinking an eye.

Hungry? That beeping you hear is his dump truck backing up to your house, filled with homemade barbecue and all the fixins’.

Need some motivation to do something with your life? Well, watch out… before you know it you’ll be on an all-nighter to Ireland, following up on your life-long dream to be a Flogging Molly groupie.

Break room at work not providing you a peaceful setting to enjoy your turkey sandwich? No freakin’ problem, cowboy cause here comes Over-the-Top Man and he’s ready to whip up one hell-of-a mural that will have you chewing happy for years to come.

Have an assignment that you think will only take you an hour, tops? Not so fast soldier, Over-the-Top Man has a few ideas he’d like to jam out with you…for over five hours.

Singing along to your favorite song on the radio as you drive home from work? Not if Over-the-Top Man is riding shotgun. You better blast that hair metal till your ears bleed and drum your steering wheel or thrash that air guitar until you wreck into the retention ditch on the highway.

Going to a themed party tonight? Kick into Over-the-Top Man mode and body paint yourself green with a rainbow leading to your own personal pot of gold… if ya know what I mean.

So if you’re gonna go… Go Over-the-Top… Man.

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      There were a lot of things today that started off being small potatoes but by the time we got down with them or got to them they had grown much bigger in scale. Each of the ‘over-the-top’ scenarios above were based on events today (except the dump truck filled with barbecue, but how cool would that be?). The day consisted of my tagging along with Andy to Renniger’s, an antique mall in Mt. Dora, so that he could break down a movie script with the Art Director for the feature (who also owns a booth or two at the antique place). On the way, Andy got a craving for a specific brand of soda, Moxie, so we stopped to pick one up…and left with 12.

What was intended as a short trip, maybe an hour- hour and a half tops, ended up being over five hours. Breaking down each item that would appear in each scene of a feature, our little group huddled around a table at the snack shop located in the antique mall. We could have chosen a worse local… since one of the booth operators who is also an artist had painted an awesome Florida scene on three of the walls that housed the snack shop. It was like working on the banks of a river with a perpetual sunset casting its pastel hues on our backs as we moved tirelessly onward. Plus, they had some awesome sweet tea… I think I probably drank two gallons of the stuff while I was there.

Andy's Mom, Mary in her Flogging Molly threads

Later tonight, we attended the photo-viewing party of Andy’s mom and her friend, Bobette, who recently traveled to Ireland. It was an Irish-themed party (wear your green!) and Mary, (Andy’s mama) was so cute and went around telling everyone that if it wasn’t for me showing her my pictures of some of my travels she would have never gone on the trip. It was so sweet. On the way home from this very long day, we decided to rock out to some Slayer and other metal bands in the car (and by we, I mean Andy). I swear to God I thought we were going to go off the road a few times as he rocked out, full on head-banger style while pickin his axe… ok, ok, I admit, it was pretty epic.

Love & Squirrels.

 

 

Day #66: Helpful Halitosis

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The Story:

Wish you had a little more self-control when you are dining out?

Have diets, pills and calorie-counting all failed?

Is portion-control something you struggle with?

 

All that can be a thing of the past with the introduction of a new and revolutionary food-management technique that is sweeping the finest restaurants and cafes of Europe and Canada. Now, available in a growing number of fine dining establishments in cities across the nation, comes:

The program is simple. Wherever you see this logo on the menu:

 

Just order as you normally would and ask your meal be served by a HH certified server. Your food will then be hand-delivered by a trained and overly-friendly server diagnosed with a severe case of Halitosis. If you can make it through half of your entrée without a total loss of appetite, simply breathe deeper or ask your HH certified server about the specials or dessert options.

Here’s what people on the program are saying:

“I was so disgusted and preoccupied I could only take a few bites. This program really works!” – Sheryl Dupont, Boston

“I’ve already lost 10 pounds thanks to the HH program. I make sure to always order from a HH certified server and I haven’t made it through an entire meal yet. Thanks HH!” – Douglas Buford, New Orleans

“I had my doubts, but this really works! Not only does this program allow you to eat whatever you want, you usually are able to eat several satisfying bites before the program takes effect. It’s great!” –Betty Griswald, Miami

Be sure to ask for the HH program the next time you visit your favorite eatery! For more information and to view which restaurants in your area offer the HH program, please visit our web site at: http://www.theHH.com.

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      The craving for a tasty dessert hit the boyfriend and I late tonight, so we decided to take a trip to our local Cheesecake Factory to satisfy our sweet tooth (sweet teeth?). After several minutes of scanning the massive menu, I make my selection (key lime cheesecake, if you’re interested) and as I was handing over my menu to our very pleasant server, I noticed Andy had a very odd expression on his face. “What’s with the face?” I ask. Removing the hand that had been subtly covering his mouth and nostrils, he replied, “Either our server has the worst breath ever or… he pooped his pants”. The way he said it, almost apologetically made the statement even funnier to me, and for the rest of the evening every time our server would come and check up on us, Andy would look away or scrunch his face. Hilarious (Andy’s reaction, not the Halitosis). To make it even more entertaining (for me) our server happened to be a close talker and a very ‘interactive’ bloke, getting within inches of Andy’s face when asking about the chocolate tower of death dessert he ordered or refilling his water glass. The experience pretty much zapped any appetite either of us had, which was probably a good thing (my jeans might have actually sighed in relief). I felt pretty bad for the guy, he was very nice and doing his darndest, but man… you would think one of his coworkers would have enough empathy to pull the guy over and offer a stick of gum, an Altoid, something to mask the very di-stink-tive odor emanating from his mouth. Perhaps instead of leave a very large pity tip, I should have left him with a more valuable tip- a piece of Doublemint and the name & number of the closest dentist.

Love & Squirrels.