“Zee Kobe beef tartar, with un potato leek soup, and zee carrot and arugela salad,” the waiter proudly announces after he sets the plates down on the table.

And I’m looking at this thing like what the FUCK??  Are you kidding me?  Literally, the beef tartar was the size of a thimble.  The so-called arugela and carrot salad was two tiny shreds of carrot and two small sprinkles of arugela.  The potato leek soup was literally a teaspoon of soup that they spilled on a dish and then decided to put the pebble shit sized, beef tartar, on top.  This is what it looked like.

Yeah I know, the drawing sucks, … but I couldn’t find a picture on the web so I had to bust out my MS Paint stills.  You like?

Now, I’m all for fine food.  I may not enjoy food as much as many of you out there, but I can appreciate what people would consider fine dining.  But, … the one thing that I can’t stand is going out to a restaurant and leaving the place still hungry.  Can someone explain this to me??  How are you going to consider yourself a restaurant if you don’t serve FOOD???  I hardly consider portions where my thumb is bigger than the entrée, real food.  I mean, … I don’t care how fancy this cuisine is supposed to be.  If I don’t have enough food to be able to taste it, then I really can’t comment on how good it really tastes.

And then that gets me thinking.  Maybe these restaurants will serve small portions to try and make their food taste better!  I mean, hell, … if you were stranded on a desert island and haven’t eaten for days, and then someone throws you a cracker, … you’d think that was the best cracker in the world!!  Maybe these swanky neuvo French fusion places are taking up the same mentality.  Starve our customers so that whatever we give them, it’ll taste FANTASTIC!!  And I think it worked.  Because I’ll tell you something, … that Kobe beef tasted absolutely heavenly.  I was sitting there licking my fingers, sopping up the “potato leek soup” with the bread, licking the plate, and still salivating as I eyed my gf’s plate.

But then again, I guess I should have been more prepared.  Afterall, … what kind of portions would you expect going to a French restaurant with an Ethiopian chef? 

“That meal would feed an entire village in my country!”

I’m really annoyed at the invention of the quattro (4 bladed) razor.  Why?  Because ever since they came up with the “quatro” razor, the cheaper disposable razors that they sell in the stores all come with three blades.  You can’t even find a twin bladed disposable razor anymore (unless it’s a chick leg shaving razor). 

I guess if they “advance” in the fancy schmancy razor technology, the cheap plastic ones automatically get upgraded too.  (When the Mach3 was around, all of the cheap disposable razors were two bladed.)  Now initially, although this may seem like a good thing, for someone like me, it really blows ass.

See, … although I shave everyday, the amount of shaving that I do everyday is really not that intensive.  Meaning, … I don’t really have too many hairs on my face, but the hairs that I do have grow really fast.  So if I stopped shaving, I’ll end up with something that resembles a fu manchu.  So even though I only shave about 20 individual strands of hair everyday, … I have to shave those strands or else I’ll just look ridiculous.

Now, … because of my situation, I refuse to buy the fancy high-tech razors.  Beyond the fact that I find it a little disturbing to put FOUR blades against your face at once, … what a waste to spend all that money to shave a couple of hairs every morning.  So instead, I get a pack of disposables.  And although these disposables usually have a shelf life of a week or so after the first use, … because my shaving isn’t “intensive”, … I find that I can use a single razor for about 3 weeks to a month.  I just have to be a little more careful about my shaving strokes in the latter weeks.  But all in all, … how economical!!

Now, … with these new fancy razors that advertise, “more blades = less strokes = less irrititation,” sure, … that may be good for a grizzly bearded guy, … but for someone with random chin pubes, it doesn’t work out very well.  Don’t get me wrong, … the pack of triple bladed disposables that I recently bought do indeed get the job done faster.  But for me, that’s a very marginal difference. 

But, the big difference comes in when the blades get older.  After a week or so, I’m now forced to throw out the razor or else I’ll end up shaving off big chunks of flesh.  See, … “more blades = less strokes = less irritiation,” but also = more dull blades = more chance of ripping apart your skin and drawing blood!

And that’s what’s been happening!  If I don’t throw out my razor after a week, … I’ve been getting maimed!  It’s a conspiracy, I tell ya.  The fucking razor companies have been realizing that people have been using their disposable razors for a longer time period and now are adding extra blades to fuck with them.  Damn them all!

So I’m walking down the street near my house, and I see this tall lanky looking guy in a wife beater walking his dalmation.  (On a side note, … doesn’t Kai119 wear wife beaters?)  Anyways, so as I’m walking towards his direction, I notice that he’s starting at me.  “WTF, … you’ve never seen an Asian man before?” is what I think to myself as I prepare to give him a dirty look as I pass by.

But as we pass each other, I notice that he’s not really being menacing, but rather, just kinda looking at me up and down, … and then as I’m passing, he says to me in the whiniest, most nasal voice, …

“Hey, Paaapi~~~”

HUH?  Was my initial reaction.  WHAT?  Was my second thought.  WHY? came next.  And the sequence of thought ended at, …. EWWW!!

Now, … do you guys remember that story I posted a couple of weeks ago, about the fat chick catcalling me?  Well, … the point I made in that post was that no matter how ugly the chick may be, … a compliment is a compliment nonetheless and it will still make you feel somewhat good about yourself.

Well, … I’d like to make a provision to that.  Compliments from homos are not applicable to that.  Thanks.

I remember back in the sixth or seventh grade, there was this kid in my class who had three cats.  Anyways, … I was over his place one day just hanging out, … I think we got done riding our bikes or something, when he says to me, …

“Hey, Doctor Evil, … I wrote a rap about my cats.  You want to hear it?”

“Sure,” I say.  Why not?  I mean, … at that time, there was a whole rap movement spreading across the country.  Maybe my friend had some innate  rap talent, and he’d be famous one day.  Who am I to discourage such a possibility of a potential lyrical stylist.

So he goes, …

“I have three cats, and they’re really cool,

They are, Ivy, Strawberry, and Bamboo.”

“Um, … that’s all I have so far.  What do you think??”

Now, … at that point, … I really couldn’t tell him the truth and tell him that I thought his rap sucked ass.  He seemed too excited about the rap, and even for a bastard like me, I just didn’t have the heart.  But now, … after 15+  years of friendship, I think it’s only fair that the truth be told.  And in accordance with the radical apathy tradition, the truth shall be told in haiku.

Marlen cannot rap

His rap about cats blew ass

Please, don’t rap again.

But HAPPY BIRTHDAY anyways.

Please go and wish this old fuck a happy birthday on his website, … www.radicalapathy.com

So last night, … Me, Slimfast, and Chin went to Burger King to grab some Whoppers.  Both me and Chin order Whoppers, and Slimfast (the diet guru), gets a double whopper with cheese.  (Hey Yey, … are you sure you want to take diet tips from this guy??)  Because we were running late, we got the order to go and decided to eat in the car. 

In the car, I rumaged through the bag, give Chin his whopper, and now I’m left with a whopper and a double-whopper with cheese.  As I’m trying to figure out which burguer is mine, Slimfast chymes in, … “Dick, … don’t eat my Double Whopper.”

“Don’t worry about it you fat fuck, you can have your Double Whopper,”  I say.

And so I pick the seemingly smaller burger, and look off to the side of it, and see only one patty.  So I think, good, normal whopper.  And I start eating.  A few bites into the whopper, it dawns on me, … “wait a minute, … I didn’t get a whopper with cheese.”  And upon a closer look, I realize “Holy shit, … I’m eating a Double Whopper w/ Cheese!”

So Slimfast was very upset at me for the rest of the night.  I even saw a small tear form in the corner of his eye from despair as I mistakenly ate his beloved Double Whopper w/ Cheese.  Whatever.  I did that chubbs a favor is what I say.

NOW, … I bring this story up not because I want to tell you how mean I was to Slimfast last night.  No.  I bring this up because this a classic example of how I really don’t enjoy my food.  Last night, as Slimfast exclaimed, with tears swelling up in his eyes, … “How could you not know the difference between a Double Whopper w/ Cheese and a normal Whopper??  Oh for shame!!”  I’m thinking, … “Wow, … I must taste food much differently than other people.”

And maybe that’s why I don’t enjoy eating.  Honestly, if I never had to eat again for the rest of my life, and still be fully functional, I’d be happy.  Sometimes, it’s such a chore to eat.  It’s really rare that I’ll have a craving for food.  To tell you the truth, … the only times that I do enjoy eating, is not really the food itself, but more over the dinner experience, as it’s nice to sit down at a restaurant, talk, and enjoy a meal together.  I tell LouisV this, and she looks at me like I have eyes in the side of my head.  But then again, she’s on the other extreme.  She thinks about food more than anyone I know.  Even more than Slimfast.  She goes to bed pondering her next breakfast and wakes up thinking about dessert.

Now, … some of you people must think, damn, … “Dr. Evil is missing out.  To not be able to truly appreciate the different flavors and tastes of food!”  But I’ll tell you something.  Having my tastebuds in this state has come in very handy.  Besides the obvious reasons such as not getting fat (it’s hard to consistantly gourge yourself on food when you find it annoying that you have to eat) or saving money (if a $5 meal and a $20 meal taste the same, … why would I spend $20?) I’ve also found that this is good because I have amazing luck in dating chicks that can’t cook. 

I remember the first chick that I dated in college decided to make me a steak.  I don’t know what the fuck she did to it, … she must have baked it in the oven for an hour or something.  All I know is that, that fucking thing looked like a hockey puck.  Fucking tasted like one too.  Almost broke a knife trying to cut into it. 

To put things into perspective, her cooking was so bad that when the next chick I dated cooked me ramen noodles once, I thought she was Betty fucking Crocker.

Anyways, … this post is getting too long.  I’m tired of writing. 

Do you know what the world’s most annoying sound is??  And I’m not referring to the sound that Jim Carrey makes in Dumb and Dumber when he asks this same question. 

No.  I’ll tell you what is though.  It’s, … “CHI~”

CHI~ is the sound that a chick makes when you do or say something that she thinks is retarded.  CHI~ is the sound of disapproval.  CHI~ cuts through the air, pierces my eardrums and makes my body convulse.  CHI~ is the sound of annoyance.  CHI~ is the condescending little sound that makes my skin crawl and makes me want to pull down my pants and take a crap right then and there out of sheer frustration when I hear it.  CHI~ is the sound that’s usually preceded by the uncontrollable roll of the eyes making a chick look like the possessed bitch from the exorcist.

CHI~ is the ear piercing sound that all chicks are born knowing how to say.  It comes more natural to them than their urge to shop, their affinity for ridiculously overpriced bags, their need to gossip, or their uncanny ability to give the wrong directions.  And you know what’s fucked up about CHI~??  It can come at anytime, anywhere, without notice, or without reason.  And for those of you that still don’t know what I’m talking about, I’ll illustrate a few examples:

 <at home>

Her:  What do you want to do tonight.

Me:  Let’s just stay home, watch TV, and then bang.

Her:  CHI~

<at a pool hall>

 Me:  So you want a bet on this game?

Her:  Sure, … what do you want to play for?

Me:  A blow job.

Her:  CHI~

 <At the mall>

Her:  What do you think of these shoes?

Me:  Don’t you already have a pair of black, leather, high-heeled shoes?

Her:  CHI~

 <On the street>

Me:  Hey, … how YOU doin?

Her:  CHI~

You see??  Out of NOWHERE!!  Now, … let me ask you chicks this.  Why CHI~??  Why can’t you simply express your displeasure through words?  Why do you have to make that *snort* of a sound?  If you don’t like what I said, why can’t you simply say, … “Doctor Evil, … I am displeased with what you said.  And I am displeased because of reasons A, B, and C.”  Is that so hard to do?  Is that beyond your abilities? 

Wouldn’t it be more productive to explain yourself instead of making that noise, and leaving me thinking to myself, … “What, … what I say?”

So last week, me and my dad were at a business meeting and I was sitting there playing with a rubber band that I happened to have around my wrist.  For some reason, I end up having these rubber bands around my wrist often because I frequently sort through letters that are tied together with a rubber band, and I don’t want to throw the rubber band out (my attempt at being frugal).  But what ends up happening is me forgetting that I have these rubber bands around my wrist and then ending up wearing a rubber band bracelet for the rest of the day.

So on this occasion, I guess I must have noticed a rubber band around my wrist again, and I subconsciously started to play with it.  Maybe a nervous habit.  I don’t know.  But then, my dad notices me doing this and goes to our business colleague, “… he always liked to play with rubber bands when he was a kid.”  And starts chuckling!

Gee.  Thanks Dad for pointing out that your 29 year old, MBA graduate, son is still a kid that likes to play with rubber bands.  You rock!  That fucker.

But then this got me thinking.  I did like to play with rubber bands a lot.  I remember back in Korea, we used to have this thick black rubber band string that my mom used to use to replace the elastic that wore off on our underwear.  Well, one of my uncles once showed me how if you twist this rubber band around and around, it looks like a caterpillar.  And if you let it go once it’s all twisted, it slowly starts to unravel, making it look like it’s an actual bug that moves.  For some reason, I found this fantastically entertaining!  I literally sat there for hours twisting the rubber band and letting it go over and over again. 

I also remember that I liked to play with socks.  For some reason, I was able to entertain myself with a pair of socks as a kid.  I’d roll them up and fold it, .. and then unfold it.  Make a sock puppet, … make a sock ball and throw it around, etc.  Endless hours of entertainment, I tell ya.

Now, … you people reading this might think, boy, what a strange kid Dr. Evil was.  But you know what, … this doesn’t mean that I was a strange kid.  Sure, … this might mean that I’m somewhat easily amused.  I’ll give you that.  But do you know what this really means??   It means that my parents were too fucking cheap to buy me real toys.  Either too cheap or just didn’t give a shit enough.  Either or.  Regardless, … they just threw me whatever they had lying around.  A rubber band and some fucking socks. 

“Oh, … Little Dr. Evil has no toys.  Here you go, … go play with this.” 

I was walking down the street in Harlem yesterday, headed over to the subway station, when as I’m walking, I pass by this one girl who was standing there talking to her friend.  I notice that she’s staring as me as I’m coming up towards her direction, and as I pass, I hear, …

“Very Handsome!!”

Oh joy!!  Not only does my mom, my girlfriend, and jay321′s mom think I’m handsome, so does a random fat spanish chick with some piercings all over her face!  Kind of like Rosanna Arquette in Pulp Fiction.

But really tough, … I have to admit that I was very very flattered by the comment.  So much so, that when she said it, I giggled like a little schoolgirl and started squirming.  OK, … I kid.  But, … I did turn around, flashed a “How YOU doin” smile and waved to the chick. 

And as I proceeded to go down the stairs of the subway with a stupid grin on my face, thinking to myself, … “God dayum, … I’m so hot, … I’m so hot, …” I realized something.  No wonder you chicks are so friggin high on yourselves!  Shit, … if I got this everyday, I wouldn’t be able to get any work done because I’d be too busy looking at myself in the mirror all day!

Hell, my head is already bigger than it should be due to the one random compliment per year that I’m averaging.  Despite the fact that it’s usually a homeless chick trying to get change from me.  Imagine if I got like 15 catcalls a day like you chicks usually get?? 

And as much as I read these xangas about how you chicks complain about the “hey baby,” “yo mamma,” and the “how you doin’s”… I will bet you that if even for one whole month, you didn’t get one single catcall, one single random compliment, you’d start questioning your appearance, … wondering if you’ve gained weight, if you’re starting to look old, etc.

Now, … please don’t misconstrue this as a social commentary in support of men making catcalls.  That’s far from what I’m saying.  And please don’t think that I am writing this because I cannot fathom how a chick may find a catcall annoying.  That’s not it either. 

BUT, … as annoying as you chicks may find it, … I’m merely pointing out that you should acknowledge the existence of some sort of benefit that you can derive out of what you chicks may consider an annoying occurrence (but to me a fantastic thing to happen).  That’s all.

And for the chicks that don’t get the random catcalls and comments, … umm, … start hitting the gym.

Rineh430 made a post today about the power of a simple “thank you.”  Sure.  Thank you’s are all nice, fine, and dandy.  Someone holds the door for you, … Thank You.  Someone buys you a gift, … Thank You.  A chick gives you a random blow job, … Thank You Very Much! 

But sometimes, I just find excessive thank you’ers annoying.  Like when you’re at a restaurant and the waiter/waitress brings out your food.  Sure, … I’d agree that a “thank you” is in order.  But not much more is really necessary.  Hell, … if you want, … go ahead and give a little smile as you’re saying thank you.  BUT, … when people overkill it and say “thank you so much.”  THAT annoys me.  Why the hell is the “so much” needed?  It’s the person’s fucking job to bring you your food.  That’s why you’re at a restaurant.  Sure, I mean, if it’s a hot waitress and she’s going above and beyond her call of duty by bringing out your food and giving you a lap dance, well that’s different, … if that were the case I’d almost think that a “thank you so much” is a necessity.  Or if it’s a waiter, and he’s lacing your food with crack cocaine.  That’s also a “thank you so much” situation.  But, … if the waiter is simply bringing your food out to you, … fuck that.  A simple thank you is all that is necessary. 

Another situation that bugs me is when I’m going through a toll booth, or when  you’re at a parking garage.  I don’t have this problem much anymore because of EZ Pass, … but I always found it ridiculous that when people pass through toll booths, they feel the urge to say thank you.  WHY???  Think about it.  These fuckers are making you stop in the middle of the highway and pay a friggin toll.  Shouldn’t THEY be the ones to say thank you??  And yet, … we say “thank you.”  Thank you for taking my money which I don’t really want to give you, and making my road trip that much longer.  Thank you for inconveniencing me.

Am I the only one that thinks this is ridiculous??  Once I realized this, I actually had to train myself to stop saying thank you in those situations.  Now, even when I’m in a parking garage, I give them my money and then I just sit there looking at them, waiting for them to thank me.  And when they finally blurt out a ”thank you” because they don’t know what else to say, … I give them the heartiest ”YOU’RE WELCOME” possible.

A very horrible thing happened to me last night.  So horrible, so traumatic, I wouldn’t even wish such a thing to occur to my worst enemy.  I’m so deeply disturbed by the event, that I don’t know what else to do.  As you know, I don’t really use this xanga for much else other than shits and giggles.  But last night’s events have affected me to such a point, that I shall actually be serious on my xanga for once.

But before I begin, … let me start with one word of advice.  Do NOT trust anyone.  Even if you think the person is your friend, buddy, pal.  You never know for sure what the person next to you is thinking.

With that said, let me continue on with my story.  So last night, we were all just hanging out at my place, after dinner.  I go to my room to watch some TV, when Jay321 and Homo the Clown come in.  Homo the Clown decides to sit next to me on the couch and watch TV with me, while Jay321 tries to download music (on a side note, … I’ve never seen anyone as computer iliterate as Jay321.  I’m surprised how he is even able to write xanga entries.)

Now, … I’ve always known that Homo the Clown was a gay homosexual (not that there’s anything wrong with that), but I always thought that he respected my heterosexuality, and would NOT disappoint my trust.  But last night, all that changed.  So as I’m sitting there, minding my own business, watching Road Rules, I see a hand creep over to my crotch area and then make a *GRAB* for the remote control that was lying on top of my crotch.

Startled, I let out a yell in sheer horror. 

Me:  “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU, YOU FUCKING FAGALOID!”

HTC: What man, … I reached for the outermost edge of the remote. 

Me:  What the fuck!  Why couldn’t you just ASK me for the remote??!!

HTC:  Dick, …. shut up, … I just reached for the outermost edge.

And so HTC tried to explain it all away.  But the damage was done.  After he left to go home, I took a shower, only to sit on the shower floor, crawled up in a little ball, and cried for the rest of the night.  That experience last night has scorned me for life.  I don’t know if I can ever be the same carefree non-homophobic person ever again.