Don't tap on the glass.

I love me some Subway. I mean, white or wheat... toasted or not... do you want to make it a meal? All questions that I feel I never get wrong. Makes me feel like I got a perfect score on my SAT's. I mean, if you wanted a sandwich so original, with just tuna, banana peppers, hard boiled egg, horseradish dressing and then burn it in an Easy-Bake oven, you can have that! And maybe the best perk? It's only $5... (as long you don't use any of the real meats in the cooler). Find me a flaw in that dream meal. You can't.

You know what I DON'T like about Subway? THE PEOPLE WHO EAT AT SUBWAY. Because everytime I'm in line and ready to be served, there is a lady... sometimes she's old... sometimes she's Russian... sometimes I can't tell her sexual orientation. But that lady will be stuck on the glass, trying to build her ungratefully complex sandwich that apparently should get the same attention that your filet mignon from Ruth's Chris should get. You know this lady.

"What's thaaaaat?? I don't want any of THOSE on there...." or "No.. a little more tomato... more... more... too much, take that one off." Fingers on a fucking chalk board to me as MY Sandwich Artist can't get to my awesome, loved ingredients because this lady has the whole assembly lined backed up. It sucks. If I didn't picture myself savoring my beloved sandwich and keeping my cool, I would have certainly made headline news a long time ago for bashing her face into the sneeze-guard, like a rogue cop in an interrogation room.

I don't understand. How do you NOT know what a black olive tastes like? And WHY ARE YOU TAPPING ON THE GLASS, like you're picking out a goldfish at the corner pet store? It's a sandwich. Those toppings and ingredients? Yeah, their the same ones on the menu since some immigrant opened this shack 80 years ago. I mean, don't get me wrong, if you've never been to a chain restaurant or say, America, before... you wouldn't know what to do because unlike Burger King, you CAN have it your way. However, it's a sandwich. I'm pretty sure that whoever this waste of space is, she's made a sandwich at some point in her life... even if it was an accident. You can buy a loaf of bread from the store, but it gets wet and mushy because the ice cream melted on the ride home, making the bread soggy and chocolate cookie dough flavored... guess what. That's technically a sandwich.

And for the tragedy that is my life for being stuck in the same zip code as this bitch, it takes her 8x as long as the average verbal human being to get this sandwich made to code. Now, the REAL horror begins becuase she didn't know she could make it a meal. And of course, she doesn't want a fountain drink... she wants a Sobe lemon lizard piss, which is in a cooler that ISN'T part of the meal deal. Oh, and the Doritos that anyone with an IQ over 84 automatically chooses? Yeah, she wants the Sun Chips...but doesn't like Garlic and Herb. "Don't you have any of those Sea Salt flavored ones?" What the fuck, lady?? You just made up a flavor that doesn't exist! You're literally asking for divine intervention right now to bring you non-invented chips to go with a sandwich that is obviously going to become dinner instead of LUNCH, because you logged in 5 hard hours here learning how to make a sandwich. I mean, no wonder Jared lost 300lbs... he starved to death waiting to eat behind you!

So, the next time you witness this lady... and her nose is pressed up against the glass, tapping her index finger at the onions and asking why the green beans look like green pepper strips... do yourself the honor of keeping your sandwich simple so she can get lapped and you don't have to fall victim to the Sandwich Nazi. You and your online date will have such a better time finally meeting face to face.

LeBran James

So, the hype of LeBron James coming to New York City is here. I mean, you can ask anyone that's been buying Eddy Curry, Steve Francis and Starbury jersey's the last 10 years... no, I mean, the actual "STARBURY" jersey's that the one super cheap sweatshop store in the mall was selling for $8 each with the matching shorts that said "ALL-STAR HOOPS" on them?

But I figure that one of the bargaining chips that the Knicks can offer LeBron is having a sandwich named after him. I mean, most NY celebrities get something done at the Carnegie Deli or maybe a dessert cake at Crumb's? Something wholesome, but stupidly expensive? Like a 10-dollar bran muffin? Or maybe a..."LeBran" muffin? And of course, there's different ways of ordering it. Like if you wanted it packed with butter, M&M's and lard, you can ask for the "Mike Sweetney" hookup. But of course, if you want it overcooked and to burn the hell out of it and say "Make it a Ewing," then it's gonna be hard as a "brick" (this joke does not apply unless you know the difference between bad baking and bad basketball in 1995). Finally, you gotta know that with this muffin is going to come with a bad cup of coffee, which is "The Sprewell" because it'll just choke you out and take your hard earned money (womp womp).

But in the end, everyone knows that Lebron has to deliver a championship or fans are going to get really, REALLY crazy. Like you know that whenever something huge happens in New York with sports, the over-the-top male fanatics do rediculous things like paint their cars with novelty license plates, or get tattoos of the date and year of a team, or the worst, they start naming their children after the sports icons. I mean, if you found yourself in 2020, wearing a sweatstained Starbury jersey, eating a nasty bran muffin, crying in front of your son, LeBron... I'm pretty sure you'd just start watching the Rangers.

Men have it so easy...

I think it's pretty unfair that everytime I go to a bar, I hear women complain, "Men have it so easy... they can pee wherever they want." What women don't know is that with great power comes great responsibility. Well, as a responsible package-toting individual, I know the benefits that having the right plumbing brings. You look at the bathrooms, girls are 43 deep in the line... guys? 4 to a sink.

But I don't think most of the problem is the equipment, but the actual priorities you have to go pee. For example, after a long night of drinking, women have to have a checklist filled out just to qualify fit to go number 1. They need proper privacy, like the stall has to have a working lock. Next, they need enough toilet paper to gift wrap the seat... WHICH THEY'RE GOING TO HOVER OVER ANYWAYS. And after that, apparently the toilet has to actually flush. With all that, you might as well just stuff a shotglass in it and forget you even tried.

For me, I only need two essentials for a drunken pee session: One, something to lean on... because my two legs aren't going to get the job done at 2:30AM. Far be it a stall, a wall or a random 4-legged bathroom teammate that's throwing up in the sink; there has to be something to steady the stream. Second thing, I need a target. But of course, it's not the same target the whole night. What fun would that be?
First trip, 8pm bathroom run means happy hour just ended... breaking the seal... I'm thinking focus on that toilet cake...make as much blue as possible. That's right. Every guy know what I'm talking about. Fire the laser...bullseye. Mission accomplished.

Then, after a few more rounds, the night is picking up, the 11PM urge hits and I'm thinking like Kobe Bryant. I'm in the zone, like shooting a three-pointer (and almost the same distance because I'm using the unnecessary handicapped stall). Just visualize, steady the hand... nothing but toilet*. (*Note, doesn't have to be in the toilet, just as long as I'm striking SOME porcelin).

Finally, 3AM strikes. I've got one good eye, half a cigarette-flavored jagerbomb in my hand that I FOUND and a "Dude, I have like the funniest 'Your mama' joke everrr" that no one wants to hear. So, i'm fighting my way upstream through the traffic of wasted faces, hellbent on finding the Promise Land... a drain inside the bathroom. Any drain.

After pissing off everyone and their mother and dishing out a few hundred "excuse me's", I get there. A toilet with my name on it. Eyes closed... one knee locked...slumped against the toilet paper dispenser...ahhhh. Finally, my night's complete. And then I leave the stall...

"UM... WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HERE??"

"Huh? Dude, I'm sooooo drunk. But that piss was so worth it."

"Ewww... you're so gross! You didn't even unbutton your pants!"

"No, it's cool... I flushed."

Canes aren't Abel.

So, I recently had knee surgery. And it was legitimate knee surgery... arthroooooscopic...the kind that pros like Tiger Woods require after hitting golfballs most of your life. Or because your no-longer clueless wife decided that you should wear the Escalade instead of that red Nike shirt for Thanksgiving this year.

I mean, I consider myself in my athletic prime. I actually tore some cartlidge making a blockbuster trade in one of the 12 fantasy football leagues I DON'T pay for... because then it we gambling... and that would say I have a serious vice.

It was actually a very quick procedure. Doctor Cohen-Bernstein-Weissenheimer shakes your hand, you go under long enough to miss Sex in the City 2, and before you know it, Nurse Betty is pushing you down the ramp in the direction of the nearest Carvel. However, upon my departure, I was expecting some low grade wood crutches... the kind that are guaranteed to rub the top 4 layers of armpit skin off or your next skin irritation is free. But Dr. Kosher told me "Oh, you won't be needing those... we're gonna set you up with a CANE." A Cane??!! What the hell is that? Doc, I NEED those crutches. When you have crutches, people hold doors open for you... they carry your groceries for you... they let you have the remote on Gilmore Girls/Ice Road Truckers night! You are OFFICIALLY injured if you have crutches.

A cane means "Oh, I have a club foot... and at some point, I'm gonna probably hang this thing over the back of the dining room chair and misplace it." You shouldn't be using a cane if you have less than 4 liverspots on the back of your cane hand. THIS IS BULLSHIT. If you're not going to give me a pair of crutches, then at least give me something cooler than a peg-adjustable geriatric cane. How bout a sorcerer's staff? I'm a tall guy... it's just plain better support, right? I've also been known to cast a spell or lead some of God's chosen out of Egypt. That's right. You didn't ask before, but my name full name is actually Joses. Don't laugh. It's Biblical. Look it up. And a staff is no joke. You can get people to listen with one of those thundersticks, any time of day.

My roommate is like "Hey, what's up with the stick, Joe?"

"YOU SHALL NOT PASS!"

"Um, what?"

"LET MY PEOPLE GO!"

"What does that have to do with anything we're talking about?"

"GRYFFINDOR HOUSE!!!!"

"............"

"Oh, hey man, by the way, can you hold the door and carry the groceries into the house? I'm totally watching Ice Road Truckers tonight."

Mustache

It's true people always talk about wanting something they can never have. How the grass is always greener on the other side... and that other side, is where people can grow mustaches. Thanks to thousands of years of asian heritage, melted down into my face that can muster as much stubble as a 12 year old burn victim. Think about how much instant respect people get from having one. I mean, you think about Teddy Roosevelt, Don Mattingly... Tom Selleck. They're all standing in that greener grass, right?

So, my ex girlfriend, who was a very sensitive, nourishing type, would constantly hound me to have the deepest, most intimate conversations so she would feel like we were connecting between episodes of Grey's. However, right before we actually broke it off, she found me sighing one day and she swoops down next to me on the couch, asking "What's wrong? I can sense your carrying around some real burdening emotions." And i tried to play the tough guy role and just give some bs answer about the snack machine eating my dollar. But not buying it, she went in for the embracing, both-hands-on-my-cheeks-followed-by-the-eye-to-eye-stare, "You can tell me, baby." So, being honest, I spilled it to her... I feel like people don't respect me because I can't grow a mustache. She countered me with "Ohhhh... well, you don't need facial hair to command the room or have people respect you." Of course she was right, but I told her "I just wish people would look at me the way they look at your mother."