Megorious

Back in May I wrote about Westboro Baptist Church and their incessant picketing of funerals and disregard for, well, EVERYONE. Now it looks like they’re at it again….

Westboro Baptist Church plans to picket the funeral of Madelyn Payne Dunham — Barack Obama’s late grandmother.

WBC is so despicable even Sean Hannity thinks they go to far. Hannity told Shirley Phelps-Roper, the daughter of WBC founder Reverend Fred Waldron Phelps Sr., “You are a sick, soulless, twisted human being.”

She just laughed it off.

The BBC’s Louis Theroux recently showcased the hatred of Westboro Baptist Church in an hour-long exposé. The full video is available online and I thought I’d share it with y’all. With more and more “moderate” Republicans loosing their seats in Congress, religious extremists like this could be the future of the GOP.

According to the Westboro Baptist Church (WBC) of Topeka, Kansas, God hates Iowa. Wait, Iowa? God hates Iowa? If there is any state that God might be fond of I would think it could be Iowa. Apparently not….

Why does God hate Iowa? Three words: sod-o-mite!

That’s right. Sod-o-mite! Better known as Good Times in the butt.

Angry God, not to be confused with Angry Kid, unleashed a wrath of “killer whirlwinds” on the cockeye state — wait, that’s not right — the hawkeye state in the form of tornadoes for, get this, Iowa’s “sodomite” (apparently they just have the one). WBC will picket the funerals of the ungrateful who died for Iowa’s sins. Picketing is their thing…

Westboro Baptist Church is known for putting out extreme fliers and picketing funerals. All funerals known to man. These are the religious nuts who picketed Heath Ledger’s funeral earlier this year after rejoicing in the fact that Ledger was burning in Hell for all eternity. Not only is it a sin to be a homosexual, as noted by WBC’s tasteful website, godhatesfags.com, but it’s also a sin to play one on TV.

On the day of the Virginia Tech massacre, WBC declared its intent to protest the funerals of the slain students. Luckily, someone intervened. As he did following the Amish school shootings in 2006, radio personality Mike Gallagher offered up an hour of airtime in exchange for WBC’s written promise to leave the grieving families alone. I’m sure there’s a sin in there somewhere.

In March, citing “the Wrath of God upon the children of Disobediance” [sic], WBC picketed the funeral of University of North Carolina student body president Eve Carson, who was killed in a random shooting outside of the UNC campus in an apparent carjacking. There are countless others to mention…

According to Wikipedia, Westboro Baptist Church has 71 confirmed members, 60 of whom are related to the Messiah of WBC, Reverend Fred Waldron Phelps Sr., through blood or marriage or both. It must be hard to picket so many funerals when you’re spread so thin; both in physical number and in a tepidly shallow gene pool. Somehow they still manage to picket and even have time to sing songs and make music videos. Some of their greatest hits include: “God Hates the World,” “This Land is Fag Land,” and “Smell the Brimstone.” But of course my favorite is da WBC white girl rap, “Big Fibbin.”

So what’s with all the picketing? Well, Phelps, a disbarred lawyer who bears a striking resemblance to Reverend Henry Kane from Poltergeist II: The Other Side, believes that homosexuality and its acceptance have doomed the world to eternal damnation, and that America has become a nation of “Godless sodomites” and “fag-enabling fools.” Since we are all guilty of “fag-enabling,” whatever the fuck that means, then each and every one of us will have our own funerals picketed. I can’t wait.

Back in 2006, when Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert presented at the Emmy Awards, Colbert mocked Phelps and the Westboro Baptist Church. Phelps responded with a ten minute diatribe against both Stewart and Colbert. [Watch the video.]

It basically boils down to this: Phelps speaks directly for God. Whatever Phelps hates, God hates. God hates Iowa, Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, Heath Ledger, homosexuals (both real and make believe), murder victims, I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter…..

What else does God hate? Luckily WBC sends out weekly fliers to let the rest of us know….

God hates China for being an idolatrous nation, so he shook the earth in preparation for the second coming of Jesus Christ. That was mighty nice of him to do. For those who haven’t seen it, that’s basically the plot from Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer. In the film, the Silver Surfer destroys portions of Earth in preparation for the coming of the planet-eating Galactus.

God hates Ted Kennedy because the Massachusetts senator supports “sodomy and other soul-damning American abominations.” WBC plans to picket his funeral too. Maybe someone should tell them he’s not dead.

But perhaps most shocking of all is that God hates Mike Huckabee. Yes, that Mike Huckabee! The man who equated homosexuality with pedophilia and once suggested that AIDS victims should be quarantined and kept away from the general population. God hates that man. Back in February, while campaigning in Kansas, Huckabee was greeted by Rev Phelps’ homophobic flock from the Westboro Baptist Church. Why? Who the hell knows!? If Mike Huckabee doesn’t stand a chance of getting into Heaven, what hope do the rest of us have?

So, let’s review with a little pop-quiz. I’ll keep it easy by making it multiple choice, just like religion.

God hates…
A.) Iowa.
B.) Fag-enablers.
C.) Jon Stewart & Stephen Colbert
D.) Murder victims.
E.) Ted Kennedy.
F.) China.
G.) Mike Huckabee.
H.) Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer.
I.) Heath Ledger.
J.) All of the above.

The answer should be J, all of the above, but I guess since God technically looks down on us from Heaven, the real answer is all of the below.

All I can say is thank God Jesus loves us.

The other night Presidential candidate Chris Dodd was a guest on The O’Reilly Factor. O’Reilly was up in arms over an Adobe Photoshop® altered image that suggests Senator Joseph Lieberman was about to fellate the President. Oddly enough, it was only Lieberman’s head that was added to the picture. The original image did have someone kneeling before Bush, appearing to fool around with his junk. It also had someone one bump away from grinding his Presidential seal.

During the heated discussion, Senator Dodd called O’Reilly out on a November 2005 statement O’Reilly made that suggested terrorists blow up San Francisco. Now, technically, Senator Dodd was wrong. O’Reilly DID make the suggestion that terrorists blow up San Francisco but he didn’t say it on his TV show, as Dodd thought. He said it on his radio show. So O’Reilly didn’t lie when he said, “No. You’re wrong. I didn’t say it here,” because he didn’t say it “here.” He said it HERE.

Hey, you know, if you want to ban military recruiting, fine, but I’m not going to give you another nickel of federal money. You know, if I’m the president of the United States, I walk right into Union Square, I set up my little presidential podium, and I say, “Listen, citizens of San Francisco, if you vote against military recruiting, you’re not going to get another nickel in federal funds. Fine. You want to be your own country? Go right ahead. And if Al Qaeda comes in here and blows you up, we’re not going to do anything about it. We’re going to say, look, every other place in America is off limits to you, except San Francisco. You want to blow up the Coit Tower? Go ahead.

Charming. Is there anything more American than encouraging terrorists to blow up San Francisco? It’s definitely not as vile as some person on teh Internets posting an altered image of The Decider and Senator Palpatine Lieberman. We all know the conservatives in this country have a no-tolerance stance when it comes to oral sex (they’re more accepting of diaper fetishes.) I’m sure if Lieberman had blown The Decider they both would have been impeached by now and Lieberman’s blue suit would be at the cleaners.

Fortunately Mr. O’Reilly’s suggestion of San Francisco seceding from the Union was chock-full of delicious lodrick. If San Francisco were to become its own country, I doubt terrorists would be all that interested in blowing it up. After all, it’s “Death to America,” not “Death to San Fran.” I imagine the first action the President of San Francisco, or as O’Reilly might call it: the USGay, would take would be to establish an inviting foreign policy. I’m also sure that other nations would be willing to work on having healthy diplomatic relations with this new tiny, tone, and tan country. Well, except maybe for the United States. The USA would probably invade San Francisco to disarm them and to liberate its citizens. (Can you liberate liberals?) It would get messy, as there would be rampant seculartarian uprisings, unless of course it’s the weekend of Burning Man.

There is another glowing example of O’Reilly’s hypocrisy that compliments his hatred for those who don’t accept his ideology. O’Reilly has stated that any content on a website is a direct representation of that site. O’Reilly has even gone as far as to say that he stands by the content on his site.

Recently Hillary Clinton’s Communications Director, Howard Wolfson, was on The O’Reilly Factor. O’Reilly criticized Clinton for attending Yearly Kos because of the hate on the Daily Kos website. Wolfson responded to that with, “Bill, even your website has things on it that you would find objectionable.” O’Reilly fired back with his trademark, “That’s Bull!”

The following night, Jane Hall was a guest. She also told O’Reilly that his own site had hateful comments on it. In retaliation, O’Reilly had her mic cutoff so that she couldn’t have her final say. O’Reilly justified this action by saying, “Here’s the truth, I can’t let Jane lie.”

Well it’s a good thing Bill didn’t let Jane “lie” on his show. The only one allowed doing that is Bill O’Reilly himself. There ARE messages of hate on billoreilly.com. One comment even garnered the attention of the Secret Service by making a death threat against Hillary Clinton. So if Bill O’Reilly endorses the comments on his website, does that mean Bill O’Reilly endorses violence against Hillary Clinton? After all, we already know he feels about violence against whole cites.

There it is, plain and simple, clear as crystal. The source of so much information for so many people is built on a foundation of nothing but lies. Yet so many people watch and believe and will continue to do so because they lack the ability to form their own opinion and need to be told what to think. Remember: Just because someone says something is the truth doesn’t make it the truth. And that’s The Truth.

DISCLAIMER: This post is in response to those who felt it necessary to ruin “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” by screaming out spoilers. Feel free to READ the entire post as it contains NO spoilers whatsoever.

It’s Friday night, almost Saturday. Around the world millions of people of every age are lined up to purchase the concluding chapter in the biggest selling book series of all time. Perfect strangers talk to each other like best friends. Different generations mingle, and though they normally wouldn’t have a single thing in common, for this one night they do. That so many people could be this excited about reading is a testament to the power of words and the magic of writers everywhere. Only a loveless being, like Tom Riddle, would want to rob the world of that power. But Tom Riddle is merely a creation of fiction. Surely there can’t be real people who would try to maliciously ruin a book for children and adults alike.

In cities all around the country last Friday people did just that without remorse. They saw people who wished for nothing more than to exercise their imagination and tried to take that from them. Who are the biggest losers here? The people who wait in line on a Friday night to purchase a book, or the children who are so bored and lifeless that they have nothing better to do than to attempt to ruin said people’s good time?

In Harvard Square, which was renamed Hogwart’s Square for the evening, a pack of prepubescent goons decided to go and record their gay old time: See their video (WARNING: spoilers.)

For those who watched the video: it’s not too impressive, now is it?

For those who didn’t watch it and don’t want to be spoiled, you didn’t miss much. The intelligence level of those who made the video is laughable. They didn’t even bother concealing their identities. In fact, they thought boasting about who they are was the smart thing to do.

Zak Broman (yes, that is really his name) is his name and posing is his game. His cohorts names are Jeremy Sanderson, Tom Morang, Jordan Grillo, and “some kid.” They go by the name of “Tha KKKrew.” Charming.

But it’s Zak Broman who desires all of the attention. After all, he made sure to claim all of the credit by including only his contact information on the video. He doesn’t need the extra baggage of his boys. This is his play. He knows how America works and that cruelty can get you places fast.

Zak Broman and company went to Hogwart’s Square with a megaphone to shout out spoilers. It took about four tries to get anyone to notice them. The first attempt, underground in the subway station, was embarrassing, but you gotta hand it to them because that didn’t stop them. They had to get some attention so they tried again and again.

They spoiled a thing or two but nothing epic, at least not like the last book, and only to a few people. They failed and failed miserably. They knew they were failing too because one of the kids in the video decided to shout out, “Hogwarts Square is closed due to AIDS!” AIDS jokes: always the dark mark of desperation.

What’s really funny is that they couldn’t even succeed at being dicks. I mean, how incompetent do you have to be to botch something as simple as YELLING THROUGH A MEGAPHONE?

What’s the most pathetic thing about Zak Broman and his fagot of twiggy, emo/trendy hooligan chums is that they didn’t even have the balls to go through with their intended malicious act. Each attempt was executed from a safe zone where only a few people, if any, could hear their whiny emo cries. You can see it in the video. There weren’t hundreds or thousands, as they claimed, within an earshot of where they stood. They were too frightened to go up to the actual line of people or even to the front of the bookstore itself. All they needed, all they were there for, was to make the video look convincing enough so that they could upload it to sites like YouTube and ebaumsworld. Then they could be placed on a pedestal and given virtual handjobs by anonymous juvenile delinquents. That’s exactly what Zak Broman did.

First he had to edit the video by inserting necessary feeble captions to better explain what they were doing, since it wasn’t obvious in the video, and of course he had to insert some whiny music and a self-promoting Myspace shout out too.

Then, Zak Broman, you uploaded the video to YouTube and sat back, walloping in your own bile, waiting for the comments to role in. But you didn’t like all of the comments because some of them hurt your feelings; so you deleted said offending comments, leaving only the ones that made you feel like a man.

Then you used the power of Google to go ogle yourself and admire your handiwork. Eventually you ended up on LiveJournal, where someone posted a picture of your muggle-mangled megaphone. The comments there were spot on and cruel but you couldn’t delete those, so you decided to join in by showing your fray. (The thread has since been removed.)Naturally, you typed in ALL CAPS, (because that’s the kind of person you, Zak Broman, are) and resorted to a variation of the only derogative word in your vast aspiring writer’s vocabulary: “FAG.”

ZAK BROMAN HERE.
SORRY POTTERFAG, I GUESS I RUINED YOUR HARRY POTTER BOOK

ALSO, GOOD JOB DESTROYING A FIVE DOLLAR MEGAPHONE FROM SALVATION ARMY. I HAVE NO IDEA HOW WE’RE GOING TO REPLACE IT.

ALSO, HAVE FUN TRYING TO SLAP A LAWSUIT ON ME. I WAS CONFRONTED BY THE POLICE THAT SAME NIGHT, AND WAS INSTRUCTED THAT I HAD THE COMPLETE RIGHT TO FREE SPEECH, AND AS LONG AS I DID NOT INCITE A RIOT, EVERYTHING WOULD BE FINE.

I DIDN’T SEE ANY RIOT. JUST LOSERS LIKE YOU CRYING OVER A CHILDREN’S FANTASY BOOK.

oh, and thanks to douchebags like you, i’m now the top ten highest rated video on youtube.com

couldn’t do it without you.

And with that little rant of yours, you admitted to the world the only reason you did this in the first place: attention. You showed us all just how far beneath contempt you and those like you are. You’re so ignorant that you didn’t even realize you were expressing your right to free speech (much like I’m doing right now.) That’s the reason, other than being genuinely frightened by people dressed up as wizards and witches, that you guys hung back from the crowds; you didn’t want to chance getting arrested, even though you couldn’t. You had to be informed of your first amendment rights by a police officer, or so you claim.

Finally, you, Zak Broman, claimed to have made it into the YouTube top ten; joining the ranks of such fine videos as: Do-it-yourself dentistry, Play with Your Pickle with Mike Mozart, and a review trailer for a video game that existed before you were even born. Wow! Quite the dubious honor.

I did my homework. It only takes a matter of seconds to Google someone to find out everything about him or her. In this case, Zak Broman, the sausage kind of Wilmington, wanted everyone to know his name.

Since when did the epitome of cool become having a LJ? Zak Broman has a LiveJournal. Don’t people who like Harry Potter and people who have LJs go hand in hand? (I like Harry Potter and I have a LJ and I’m a dork.) He also has a website that has been “coming soon kiddies” since last February.

Ironically, Zak Broman wants to be a writer. As someone who claims to want to be a writer you above all should appreciate the power of literature. The Harry Potter series has turned a generation of kids and adults onto reading. Those who were nine when the first book came out in 1997 are now 19. They grew along with the story as it evolved from a children’s book to a coming of age tale of self-discovery. It captivated millions.

What you, Zak Broman, tried, but miserably failed, to take away from readers the other night taints any words you could ever possibly excrete onto paper. For you to have no reason for your actions, other than a piss-ass attempt at humour, makes you the lowest common form of human being. You appreciate nothing of the art of writing. The simple fact that you want to be a writer yet shit on writing as an art form makes you a hypocrite, not a hippogriff.

All of us Harry Potter fans need to stick together. If, and it’s a big IF, Zak Broman ever gets published, we must unite in protest at the sheer hypocrisy that he stands for by telling the world what Zak Broman, “the writer,” thinks of his craft. IF that day ever comes, watch for word by keeping an occasional mad-eye on your D.A. doubloon.

The highchair would like to recognize the distinguished gentleman in diapers from Louisiana. But before you read any further, watch this:

Now, in the first of the three ads that you just saw, imagine the diaper needing to be changed is not that of the Vitter baby but of the senator himself. Now go vomit. I’ll be waiting.

Louisiana Senator David Vitter (R, obvi), who publicly apologized after being linked to an alleged prostitution ring in Washington, was once a client of a high-priced New Orleans brothel.

U.S. Senator David Vitter visited a Canal Street brothel several times beginning in the mid-1990s, paying $300 per hour for services at the bordello after he met the madam at a fishing rodeo that included prostitutes and other politicians, according to Jeanette Maier, the “Canal Street Madam” whose operation was shut down by a federal investigators in 2001.

Now, politicians from both parties with torrid sex scandals is nothing new but within the last few years of their dominate power, Republican deviant sex scandals seem to be as rampant as perverse Catholic priests were a few years ago. So what makes the Senator from my home state so special? Well, it’s because back in 1998, during the Clinton impeachment extravaganza, David Vitter made strong statements about extramarital affairs.

Think Progress | Vitter Flashback: Clinton should resign

Sen. David Vitter (R-LA) first got his start in Congress after replacing former Rep. Bob Livingston (R-LA), who “abruptly resigned after disclosures of numerous affairs” in 1998. At the time, Vitter argued that an extramarital affair was grounds for resignation:

I think Livingston’s stepping down makes a very powerful argument that Clinton should resign as well and move beyond this mess, he said. [Atlanta Journal and Constitution, 12/20/98]

Back in 1998, Bob Livingston, who was briefly nominated to be Speaker of the House, fartyred himself in an attempt to get President Clinton to resign. I remember watching it live on TV. As soon as Livingston stepped down, voices called out “NO!” from the floor of Congress. Livingston’s political career ended that day while David Vitter’s began. But now, nearly a decade since then, David Vitter won’t resign because, unlike President Clinton, God has forgiven him.

This was a very serious sin in my past for which I am, of course, completely responsible. Several years ago, I asked for and received forgiveness from God and my wife in confession and marriage counseling. Out of respect for my family, I will keep my discussion of the matter there _ with God and them. But I certainly offer my deep and sincere apologies to all I have disappointed and let down in any way.
-Senator David Vitter

Thank God for God. I guess as long as you ask for forgiveness, it’s alright to defy the values of those who put you in office. Besides, Senator Vitter did the right thing by coming out and admitting his indiscretions when he easily could have just kept them secret. If that doesn’t exhibit character, I don’t know what doesn’t. Unless of course the only reason Vitter confessed was to beat the embarrassment of being exposed by Larry Flynt’s Hustler Magazine.

Larry Flynt’s ongoing investigation into the dirty secrets of prominent elected officials has exposed another hypocrite. Monday’s confession of marital infidelity by GOP right-wing marriage-protection advocate Senator David Vitter of Louisiana was the result of a multi-pronged investigation launched and run by Larry Flynt, publisher of HUSTLER Magazine.

I never thought Larry Flynt would be the moral authority of America, but his relentless crusade to expose hypocrisy in our grotesquely corrupt government should be applauded. You can read the full Hustler press release HERE.

I have a Libertarian view of sexual ethics. I think, and I’m sure Larry Flynt would agree with me, that people are entitled to their own PRIVATE fetishes and whatnot as long all involved parties are comfortable and of course a fun safe-word is selected. (I like ‘aardvark.’) But David Vitter is a public figure who built his political legacy on the foundations of hypocrisy. He was put into office because of his family values. Perhaps saddest of all is that the people that put David Vitter in office to begin with will probably put him back there. I can almost hear them now, “I don’t care if he goes to brothels and wears diapers, at least he’s pro-life and has family values.”

You might think I’m joking, but Louisiana has a tendency to elect and reelect corrupt politicians. Hell, former four-time Louisiana democratic governor Edwin W. Edwards, who will turn 80 in August, is six years deep in his 10 year sentence after being found guilty on 17 of 26 counts, including racketeering, extortion, mail fraud, and wire fraud.

Lastly, of all of the sleazy details that have come out about David Vitter this past week, one of the creepiest is that during his visits to the New Orleans brothel, he preferred a woman who went by the name of Wendy, which also happens to be his wife’s name. And what does the real Wendy Vitter have to say about all of this? Well, as ABC News notes, back in 1999 The Times-Picayune asked Senator Mrs. Vitter whether she could forgive her husband after an extramarital affair, as Livingston’s wife had done, Wendy Vitter told the Times-Picayune: “I’m a lot more like Lorena Bobbitt than Hillary [Clinton]. If he does something like that, I’m walking away with one thing, and it’s not alimony, trust me.”

So I guess it doesn’t even matter if David Vitter runs for reelection or not. He’s already going to lose his pole.

So, Senator David Vitter; because you are a true American politician; because your poor children have internet access and probably frequent YouTube; and because you make Kathleen Blanco, the incompetent governor of Louisiana, and the other two morons in the below picture look good, I have no choice but to make you the biggest Freak of the Week yet. Thanks buddy.

Here’s a circumstantial case for Nancy Drew that requires no hard evidence: CNN and Court TV moral agency narc, Nancy Grace, 48!, who just got hitched on April 21, is four months pregnant. Despite one comment on reddit that speculates that the pregnancy could very well be the result of Parthenogenesis,the father of said spawn is Grace’s husband, whose name and existence are both irrelevant.

Now I’m not one to criticize people for conceiving or having children out of wedlock or gridlock or any other type of lock for that matter, but for a gadfly like Nancy Grace who has made a name for herself by destroying lives of those she finds to be immoral by means of publicly convicting them in the Nancy Grace logic-less court of preposterousness, I find this news to be freakishly hypocritical.

I hope Nancy Grace is a better mother than Melinda Duckett, the 21 year-old mother who taped an appearance on Nancy Grace Live just two weeks after telling police that her son had been snatched from his crib. Nancy Grace was so demandingly, yet non sexually, aggressive that the day after the taping, Duckett shot herself to death.

Sadly the aforementioned incident is not even Nancy Grace’s biggest publicity brouhaha. Wikipedia has a great page on Public criticism of Grace’s broadcasts

And of course most recently there was the Duke lacrosse “rape” allegation where Nancy Grace spearheaded the year-long defamation of the alleged rapists. For commentary on that incident and how Nancy Grace handled that slight misstep I shall refer you to this clip from The Daily Show.

So, Nancy Grace, ravager of ratings, carny of the Evangelic, impermeable public pillager; because your Yin is Yang cancer on your poor and probably petrified husband and because your show is a ravening cycle of hypocrisy that makes even Fox News blush; I hereby dub thee an official hypocrite.

My roommate Audra proudly showcases her artwork on the walls of our living room; my favorite is a painting of a creepy old man holding a rubber ducky. Audra’s most recent is a painting of Phil, if he had just been in a fight. In the portrait Phil’s right eye is bruised and bloody and just above, on his forehead, there is a big, bloody gash. This ominous piece hangs just outside their bedroom door.

“I feel like he’s always watching me.” Audra confessed to me about the painting one morning. “He’s keeping an eye on me.” She added. Audra is not paranoid; it really does look like he’s watching. No matter where you are in the living room it looks like he’s looking dead at you. This was Audra’s intention.

Now Phil and Audra don’t always get along, they have some pretty intense fights. Audra cries, Phil yells and throws things. It’s quite the spectacle I would imagine, I’ve never seen one of their fights, they usually fight when nobody else is here, well at least when nobody is in our apartment. Some of the ladies on the first floor have heard the fights and they sound pretty wild and crazy…with a Z. That’s right, these fights are so INSANE that I have to use the wicked letter Z, and you know how I feel about the letter Z.

Last night the fighting was real, as in bad. I was in my room crying (I was sitting on the floor, cutting onions, balling my eyes out Jon Guidry-style. The onions, as in yellow, are for my chain of theme restaurants, Wiggly’s. I cut them myself to save on labor, a penny saved is a penny earned know what I mean Vern? hehehe….Obviously I don’t have the money for Wiggly’s yet otherwise you would see them on every street corner and after every little-league game right kids!? hahahahaha….ahhhh…where was I? Oh yeah, close parenthesis.) Mullet was in his room, not sk8boardin, and the ladies were downstairs (where they live) with Dave (where he doesn’t). It was just after 6, post meridian, when the yelling and screaming and crying started. Words were flying all over the place and maybe cats as well.

Phil was drunk and went on some sort of tirade, he had Audra all upset. Then, as Audra later told Ben Mullet and me, Phil started breaking things - Audra’s things. You see, Phil’s only possession is a deer antler and when you really think about it the antler belongs to the deer that was wearing it when Phil killed him…probably with a hammer. Phil was becoming violent, but he was taking his anger out on things, not Audra. Phil would never hit Audra because 1. He knows it’s wrong and 2. Audra would kick his ass.

When the royal rumble started I was in my room, when it got really loud Mullet and I starting IMing each other, wondering if we should do something. Then it got bad. BAD. It was loud and things were breaking (they were in their room) and then it sounded like Phil was beating the shit out of Audra. HA! He was NOT. It was quite the opposite. Oh you can bet Phil could smell what his 90 lb. girlfriend was cooking. Audra put the smackdown on Phil with his own portrait. Did I mention that this is a scale portrait of Phil and that the canvas is 6 feet high? Yes it is. She ruled him. He fell in line so to speak.

They broke up and Phil left, both the antler and the apartment. We all knew there was no place Phil could go but it took him twenty minutes of walking around to figure that out. Phil came home, they argued some more and now everything is better, I guess. He looks like shit. Phil’s right eye is bruised and bloody and just above, on his forehead, there is a big, bloody gash.

…and that my friends is irony, in it’s most delicious form.

My first semester at school I encountered a student named Rory. From that first moment I laid eyes on him, I knew he would provide me with humor.

Rory hardly came to class and on the days he did he was extremely late. Sometimes, more than two hours late (it was a four hour class.) One day Rory came to class (late) with a neck brace on. He told the professor that he could not perform because he was not capable of turning his neck.

You select a scene with at least two characters, but you don’t have a scene partner. You play all the roles. The way your audience deciphers between characters is based on how convincing your performance (interpretation) of the text (literature) is. In addition to bestowing each character certain traits to make them standout; you also clue your audience in by your line of vision. For instance: When the main character is speaking you look directly ahead. The second character would look slightly to the right. The third, slightly to the left. The more characters, the more times you will pivot your neck. Got it? Basically it’s acting with the script in your hand.

By now you should have already observed the irony in Rory’s neck brace. It was a performance day and Rory couldn’t pivot his neck. Of all the days to injure ones self doing… Wait, how did he hurt his neck? Nevermind. How Rory injured his neck is moot because no one in the class honestly believed him because he really didn’t hurt his neck. He came to class and told Aleksander that he could not perform because his neck was incapable of movement. The Professor told him he could perform though. “Turn your entire body”, he told him. And so Rory did. When his turn came, he got up in front of the class and delivered some strange scene where he sounded like John Wayne. All I can really remember of Rory’s (ahem) performance was when he said, “I come and go in this jacket.” Since Rory was ill prepared, his performance turned into a workshop. Rory was correct so many times that, “I come and go in this jacket,” will forever be imprinted in my mind.

The following week Rory came to class without a neck brace. The week after, no neck brace. The week after that was a performance class though, and Rory showed up with the neck brace, along with the excuse that he could not pivot. Earlier that same day, I saw Rory in the library, sans neck brace. Proof that he was either faking or just really sensitive to pivoting. Where does one acquire a neck brace for entertainment purposes anyway? I come and go in this neck brace.

One day Rory showed up late to class with the neck brace, but it wasn’t on his neck. He had it stored nicely in his satchel. Class continued until a girl in class, Jolene, (pronounced “Jo-Lean”) noticed a microphone on a chair. The microphone wasn’t stealth at all. It was one of those big microphones and attached to it was some sort of recording device. Jolene asked about the microphone but we all knew it had to be Rory’s. It was. Rory brought the microphone to class, like he apparently does in every class, to record everything so that he can listen to it later. Now this would make sense in a class where the professor lectured, but this was not that kind of class. Basically Rory recorded everything that happened in class, our performances included. I come and go with this recording equipment.

Upon the discovery of Rory’s microphone, Jolene, who did not take well to being recorded without her written consent, expressed her discontent for Rory’s malcontent. Jolene asked Rory why he needed the microphone. Rory responded that he listened to it at home, for reference. Jolene grew annoyed and complained that Rory only needed to record his performance and not everyone elses. Rory argued that he sometimes didn’t pick up on things and that the recordings helped him. Obviously Rory hadn’t picked up on the fact that everyone wanted to break his neck, for real. Eventually the matter was dropped.

About fifteen minutes later Rory left the room. As soon as he cleared the hallway, Jolene expressed her hatred of Rory to the class. Then someone else responded with another negative comment about Rory. And another. And another. Almost the entire class partook in the impromptu bitch session. It might have gone on forever if I had not asked if the recorder was still recording.

Everyone froze. Jolene looked as if she had shat herself. The entire class had just expressed how much they detested Rory and it was all recorded on Rory’s audio equipment. There was only one thing to do - Enron the evidence. One person stood guard and watched for Rory’s return while Jolene tinkered with Rory’s equipment. She played the audio at one point to see if she had gone back far enough. Everything they said was recorded. We laughed. Jolene worked fast but Rory rounded the hallway and she quickly abandoned the mission. Jolene wasn’t sure if she succeeded but we would probably know next class…

The next week Rory didn’t come to class at all but he was there the week after. That was our last class, final performance day. Our finals were showcases that consisted of three pieces of literature. Rory didn’t come to class on time, in fact he showed up nearly two hours late. When he entered, he interrupted someone’s performance. The entire class groaned. Rory was one of the last to go and just before he got up, he braced his neck. He only had one piece and it wasn’t ready at all. It was quite lame.

Towards the end of class Rory finally mentioned something about the recording. There was no drama; he just expressed concern that someone might have damaged his tape recorder. At the end of class, Rory offered everyone a ride home. Of course nobody accepted Rory’s offer, for fear of whiplash.

My room was deplorable for the last two months, maybe longer. It’s not that I didn’t have time to clean but I also didn’t want to. Slowly, my room was swallowed by my stuff and my bed became an island, accessible only by a clear path around it. My room was buried in books, dirty clothes, clean clothes, claw-machine trophies, computer stuff, notebooks, my old computer, cat, shoes, and much more. Finally, Thursday, I had enough.

When your bedroom deteriorates into such a state you can’t just clean it, you have to re-imagine the room and make it something special. Before I could crack out that old dust rag and can of Pledge, I had to find something to do with all that stuff on the floor…

Shelves! I had no shelves, so I headed down to Economy Hardware to find shelves simple enough for even me to assemble. What did I find? After half an hour of wandering around I decided on the black wire storage cubes, they seemed sturdy and were cheap. Plus, assembly was going to be a breeze: “NO TOOLS REQUIRED.”

When I got home, the first decision I had to make was what shape did I want my cubes to take. On the side on the box were pictures of all the possible set up options:

Before I continue my story of cube assibilation (is that a word? it should be) I have to let everyone know how ignorant I am when it comes to building, well anything. A few years ago I bought an entertainment center from Wal*Mart, my dear friend Brad accompanied me and assisted in the construction. We went back to my apartment and I got high while Brad got started. Over the next five hours the only “help” I contributed was spreading all the pieces throughout the living room, so that Brad could easily find them. Eventually I fell asleep, stoner’s coma, and when I woke up, Brad was just finishing my entertainment center. Good job Brad.

My new storage cubes are, as the box lead me to believe, “easy to assemble”. There are only two types of pieces: the wire rack and plastic snappy thingy that holds the racks in place. It’s all very simple; you take the first wire rack, attach four snappy thingies to it, and then attach more wire racks and more snappy things. Eventually you get your first cube, turn it on the side and then begin assembling the next cube. For me though, I had some issues…

First, when you snap a new wire rack in place, the preceding wire rack is more than likely going to come out, this process continued throughout my four-hour storage cube extravaganza. My next issue was what the instructions referred to as “sliding”.

slide
v. (slid, sliding, slides)
1. To move over a surface while maintaining smooth continuous contact.
2. To coast on a slippery surface, such as ice or snow.
3. To pass smoothly and quietly
4. To pass from one alternant Earth dimension to another.

This sliding, it didn’t really work out. There was a lot of snapping, but not much sliding, and it was this that led to problem number two: total structure failure. Just as I slid the top on my second cube, (remember, there are four cubes total) the entire mother-fucking thing collapsed. Yes! Time for a do over…

After swearing and shaking the grids like a crying baby I regained my composure and started from scratch. I eventually got that damn storage cube tower completely assembled, but by that time I was so exhausted and annoyed that cleaning my room just wasn’t my top priority. I went for a short walk and when I returned, I spent the rest of the night cleaning my room.

Even though the cubes were “assembled” doesn’t mean they were ready to hold anything. I moved the cubes to where I wanted them and stacked a few books on top. A shelf came loose; so I fixed it, but another popped out of place and so on. I finally managed to get the whole structure to hold itself together, and then I filled it with books. It held. Seriously.

I was so proud of myself that the next night I bought another shelf. Surely the second shelf would be easier now that I knew what to expect… It was easier, and I finished in a fraction of the time, but when I loaded the shelves with DVDs they started popping out. It was like trying to plug a leak, you stick your finger in a leak and the water stops. Then another leak shows itself, you plug it but as soon as you do another leak springs and another and another. Suddenly, there are too many leaks and you’re out of fingers, you start using your gum and whatever you can find but the leaks are getting out of control. Another, and another, and still more. It won’t stop! Before you know it, people are being indicted left and right (well, only right) for lying about the leak and you’re left with your index finger stuck in a wet hole without anyone to explain why.

I struggled with the shelves coming loose one at a time, that’s when I figured out the problem: the shelves were not “sliding” into the slots all the way. I tried my hardest (and I’m strong, like bull) but I just couldn’t get the motherfuckingsgvefvnsdfofvfdpa-
fuwnfgkbueatbabiesdfvsdfgfrgfmdsnfvj-
fhglkdsfhwpnguwenfgeuwirhgsdnfcwei-
sdfbgjfiknowerinwillreadthisughfdskbfv shelves to lock in place!

REMINDER: “NO TOOLS REQUIRED”

I could only think of two possible ways to get the shelves to slide in completely:
1. Lubricate it with mayonnaise.
2. Get a hammer.

We were out of mayonnaise.

Even with the phrase “NO TOOLS REQUIRED” haunting me I got the damn hammer. I required a tool, and before I got the hammer the only tool in this whole ordeal was me. Now who’s the tool?

I wiped the sweat off my forehead and knocked those bastards in place, one by one they locked in. I was a happy boy, until I went to the shelf from the previous night. All I wanted to do was make sure all the parts were tight, I should have left it alone, but I did’t. It collapsed, books all over, absolute chaos ensued. I didn’t freak out though, after I cried I pulled myself together, assembled the shelf and hammered everything tight. Virgin tight.

When the smoke cleared I had won. I beat metal and plastic. I reflected on a job well done, piled those shelves with crap, finished cleaning, showered, and passed out.

And the shelves? They’re standing four cubes high. Two more and I get a Tetris.

Today’s post is brought to you by the letter T.

Back during the summer, while Satchel was visiting me in Boston, he and I ventured out to the South Station bus terminal to rescue a biologist from the Peter Pan Bonanza. [NOTE: The preceding sentence will probably only ever make sense to three people.] Whilst waiting for the bus to arrive we sat next to a spacey looking woman with thick glasses and frizzy hair. She seemed to be drawn to me by some higher power. Maybe she was being steered by the hand of God or even her inept faith. Actually it was my t-shirt that read “Jesus Loves Me”.

The woman, whom I will call Eve, told me how she loved my shirt and I assumed she was in on the joke. Surely Eve doesn’t think I’m 4rizzle with the Jezzle? She does…interesting…

Conversation was sparked but not like sparked with a match or a lighter, sparked like trying to start a fire with two rocks and wet twigs. Eve, who was probably in her mid to late forties, was so impressed to know that a major clothing company was in the Jesus business. I swear Eve’s eyes almost teared at the thought that maybe not all the youth of America was damned to an eternity of boulder pushing in the topics of Hell.

Eve struck up a convo and asked what my denomination was, to which I replied that I had no denomination. I decided to go along with Eve instead of explaining that not only was my shirt meant to be ironic but also that she apparently didn’t know what irony was. Satchel would have been more than happy for me to juice Eve’s faith like a freshly picked orange but I didn’t. I kept lying to Eve, telling her I went to some non-denominational (cult?) church back home in Louisiana (at the time nobody had any idea that God was about to destroy Louisiana) and that I was in Boston visiting my brother who goes to Emerson. Basically I told her I was visiting myself. I lied and Satchel just kept staring forward. Apparently Christians have vision based on movement.

Occasionally I would turn toward Satchel and talk to him, pretending Eve wasn’t there at all but she would always chime in with something else. I underestimated this Christian because I think she was starting to figure out that I was indeed mocking her and that I wasn’t saved.

Ironically the Bonanza bus arrived and a Jew saved us from the Christian.

In an effort to sort out the mess that has been my Boston dating circus I have come up with a list of dating packages for the ladies to select from.

Date Package #1 - The Casual
This wonderful evening includes a walk through the park then dinner at a casual restaurant, perhaps drinks too. Top off the evening with ice-cream and a good night kiss.

Date Package #2 - The Contenential
***BEST VALUE***
Walking, lots of talking, drinks and appetizers. Then we go back to either your or my place for a movie, which we don’t pay attention to….if you know what I mean….and I think you don’t.

Date Package #3 - The Executive
This fancy evening involves drinks at a posh bar followed by dinner at one of Boston’s finest restaurants. After dinner we shall sip espresso accompanied with petit fours. With all the money I’m shelling out you better at least touch it.

Date Package #4 - The Kinky
Heavy drinking, make out session in an ATM booth. Back to your place for heavy petting, lots of dry humping and a nipple cameo.

Date Package #5 - The Nasty
Soo fucking drunnk…..Someone pukes….I keep missing and hitting your belly button. Skeet skeet. Hung over like a bitch the next morning. Who the fuck are you?

Date Package #6 - The Ohhhh Riiiight
Drinks at a bar, we run into your bi-curious girlfriend from school…need I go on?

Date Package #7 - The Mystery
I spike your drink and you wake up the next morning in a bathtub full of ice.

There is this woman who stands on the corner or Beacon and Harvard in Coolidge Corner some Sunday mornings screaming “ANIMAL ABUSE!” She is tall and lanky, with military short light brown to gray hair, grayish skin and a look pure carnage. She has two poster board signs, one in her hand, which reads “Sign for Animal Abuse,” which she proudly showcases when screaming “ANIMAL ABUSE!” and another that hangs on the little table she brings with her that reads Abandon Kittens. I’ve never been quite sure if she’s protesting animal abuse or offering it.

Last Sunday morning I decided to approach her and find out what’s going on. I recently decided that I wanted to get my own kitten and I figured she might be a good place to start. Not really, I’m just a shit. I walked up to her and said, “Can I ask you a question?” She replied, “I don’t have time for questions!” and went on screaming, “ANIMAL ABUSE! SIGN!” When I didn’t move she asked me to move out of her way, as if I was going to block her screaming.

Now before I continue I would like to state that it could appear to mean three different things when you’re holding a sign that reads “Sign for Animal Abuse” and you’re screaming “ANIMAL ABUSE! SIGN!” Those three things are:
1. You’re protesting animal abuse and you want people to sign against it.
2. You’re offering animal abuse and you want people to sign up.
3. You’re trying to draw attention to the animal abuse sign and that’s it.

The word sign has different meanings, kind of like the word draw.

I left the woman alone and went to regroup, she turned out to be more of a match than I ever could have imagined. After walking around, a quick bite to eat and a nice double espresso I returned, determined to engage this woman in conversation and find out what exactly she’s doing.

I came at her from a different direction and was right in front of her before she knew it, that way she couldn’t wave me away before I got close. Her teeth were coffee and cigarette stained and her breath smelled of capitalism.
“I’d like to sign,” I said.
“Ok a membership costs $25 dollars or you can donate $10 just to sign,” she said.
“I don’t have ten dollars.” I said.
“Anything will help, for the price of a cup of coffee you can save one cat’s life.”
“Well I have two dollars.”
“Do you have one more dollar? I can’t let you write the letter without another dollar.”
“I don’t. I don’t carry much cash.”
“Do you have change or anything?”
I checked my pockets and had 90 cents and offered to her, she said that would do. Then she moved my body to the other side of her little table and slapped a pen and pad in my hand. She handed me a piece of cardboard and said,
“You’re coping this onto this. Sign your name and then print it and put your address.”

The cardboard read:
Dear Senator Kennedy,
I am speaking for the ones who cannot speak. Please do your part by signing the Humane Treatment of Animals Act into legislation.

Sincerely,
SIGN YOUR NAME
PRINT YOUR NAME
PRINT YOUR ADDRESS

While I was doing my part a cute girl came up and said she wanted to sign as well. The woman told her she needed $10 to write the letter to Senator Kennedy and I said, “That’s some expensive stamp.” The girl said she didn’t have $10 and I said she only really needed $2.90. The woman was starting to dislike me more. I finished my letter, gave it to the woman who just glanced at it for a second and then stuffed it into an envelope already addressed to Senator Kennedy. Then I asked her where I could find a kitten and she said, “I don’t know. I’m out of New York but you can check the city pound, that’s where they kill them.”

The cute girl gave $3 and copied her letter and then the woman told me to move along because I was blocking her; then she reminded me to come back later in the day with the other $7.10 that I owe her. Just before I departed a man who obviously knew the scary woman came up to her and handed her a cup of Starbucks coffee. “Does it taste like kittens?” I asked and walked away.

Dear Senator Kennedy,

I am speaking for the ones who cannot speak, no not mimes, animals! Well not parrots, because they can speak just fine. Please do your part by signing the Humane Treatment of Animals Act into Legislation. Did you know that for the price of a cup of coffee you could save a kitten? Well the woman who made me write this looks like she’s had four kittens today. Thanks…oh yeah, send this lady $7.10.

Sincerely,
Marc Jakobs
123 Fake St.
Brookline, MA 02446

PS: You have a really big head.

Lately it seems as if everyone walking down Boylston St. has been consuming granola bars, everywhere you look people are snacking on them. Where did they get them? Ryan got his answer Thursday morning. Just as he was exiting the Arlington T stop Ryan was greeted by a shaggy-haired teenager offering him a granola bar - smores; the classic campfire treat now in a convenient and portable bar. Ryan knew there had to be a catch, people don’t just hand out bars and not expect something in return. Ryan was right. The catch was of course Jesus. Each bar came with a business card that to the naked eye almost looked like a card for the Army. This kid however wasn’t pushing something real, like the Army, he was pushing Jesus. This boy wanted to save Ryan with granola.

After Ryan accepted his bar he continued walking, then he was stopped by another Christian, a ridiculously hott one. This girl, we’ll call her Eve, stopped Ryan and offered him a small pack of Big Red® and another card for the Divinity Church in Cambridge. Ryan thought the girl was pretty darn cute so he talked to her for a few minutes; he told her that she shouldn’t hand out cinnamon gum because people might associate the burning sensation with burning in Hell. Amazingly Eve was taking Ryan very seriously even though he was wearing a t-shirt that said, “Jesus Loves Me”. Perhaps she took it way to literally. “Is that your boyfriend because that guy doesn’t seem to have his heart in this whole soliciting thing?” Ryan asked Eve, referring to the boy with the granola.
“No.” Replied Eve. “I love Jesus.”
“And Jesus loves me.” Said Ryan. “You might want to rethink your chewing gum options.” Ryan said as he excused himself and continued on his was to the Restaurant.
“Thanks! Have a grea - an AWESOME day!” Yelled Eve as Ryan left.

The following morning Ryan was again in his normal routine of heading to work. As he exited Arlington there was a fat man standing atop the stairs, he was handed out bars, oatmeal blueberry, and Jesus business cards. Ryan accepted the bar and continued on his way when he heard someone shout “I like your shirt!” Ryan’s shirt said “C is for Crunch” and the shouter was Eve.
“Hey, it’s you!” Said Eve. “Hey look…” Eve pulled out a pack of Juicy-Fruit from her satchel. “No more Big Red.”
“Hey hey…Juicy-Fruit for Jesus. Good choice.” Said Ryan. “I bet Jesus would have chewed Juicy-Fruit in his day, had they had gum. It would have come in handy what with being a carpenter and all.”

Ryan talked to Eve for a few minutes and learned that she wasn’t as young as she looked. Maybe she would be there next week and Ryan could talk to her some more. Maybe Eve could achieve her goal and save Ryan’s soul. Or maybe Ryan could achieve his and corrupt Eve.

Christians, like Eve, see people in two different ways: saved and damned. They try and save the ones they can and the one’s they can’t they pray for. They feel that one day judgment will come for all and on that day the ones that are righteous will ascend to Heaven and the ones who aren’t will go to work, without free granola bars and sticks of gum. Rapture is not a species of dinosaur anymore.

So you have to ask yourself, which gum do you chew? Do you chew the one that burns and tingles in your mouth or the one that floods your mouth with waves of fruity flavor? Chew too much Big Red and your tongue will become sore. Juicy Fruit, much like Jesus, tastes great, but loses its flavor quickly.

The concierge from the Ritz called Saturday morning to make a reservation for 3 or 4 people for 1:00 PM for Bono and guests. U2 is in town doing some shows and he must have heard how great Pino’s little avant-garde restaurant in the Louis Boston building is. Maybe Trent told him. Our biggest problem is not accommodating Bono but where to put him so that he can enjoy his lunch without anyone bothering him. It would be best if he could go unnoticed all together. I suggested the lounge, nobody uses it and it’s pretty friggin nice but he’d have to eat on our strange coffee tables. Actually we don’t have coffee tables; we have these solid metal pieces with wheels. They look like carts from an airport and they probably cost 10,000 dollars each. Now I’m not great with tools or even a comb but I could build these things for about 50 bucks, maybe less. The lounge at L is new, it has some interesting chairs and a big, comfy red sectional couch that’s in the shape of, you guessed it, the letter L. You kind of sink into the couch and the tables are really low and eating in there is not very simple. The Bono might look kind of funny sinking into the bold red couch trying to eat his tuna summer rolls but I imagine not as funny as when he is playing diplomat overseas in those silly sunglasses.

Obviously The Bono wouldn’t want to eat there, in fact the only people that I’ve seen eat there since we put in the lounge is the owner of Louis Boston and she’s always really drunk. That’s Debbie, she’s great. She drinks sparkling water and wine and eats at L everyday for lunch and many days for dinner. She’s a great tipper, she’s always entertaining and she always has an open bottle of wine with her name on it. And by name on it I mean we take a sharpie and write “Debbie”.

We just got a full liquor license this week; before we could only serve beer, wine and cordials. Now we have upscale liquor. We’ve been experimenting with drinks all week and Thursday night, our first night with liquor, our first customers to try out the booze were Debbie, Maria (the VeePee of Louis Boston) and Mario Russo (world famous hair stylist who has a salon inside Louis Boston and charges $200 just to sit down with him). The three of them and two other guests were all there, sprawled out on the L shaped red sectional, chugging back martinis. All of them, sans Debbie, were going to see U2 that evening. Debbie complained to me “They didn’t invite me.” to which I replied “You too huh?” Debbie LOLed all over the place but in her defense she had been drunk since before noon.

L is lacking hosti but we do have two. One of them is this melancholy girl named Julia. Julia doesn’t talk much, she doesn’t like to answer the phone and she doesn’t know the table numbers. Julia does however shine when it’s time to stick the picture frames that read “reserved” on tables. She’s also really good at saying “No” to people. It’s great to watch her tell someone “No,” like they’re a dog. A rich dog but a dog nonetheless. Saturday morning she was marking tables when she approached the bar, where Mike, our GM, was making martinis for the employees to try. Julia asked “Mike, where are we going to put The Bono?” Her delivery tickled us all deeply. I chimed in with, “Its Bono. His name is Bono, not The Bono. He’s not an entity.”

Some celebrities are humble in public, like Mr. Reznor. Other’s are not, like Andy Dick, who has been to L before and had his picture taken with the servers. Then there is The Bono, who, if you turned the letter N on its side would be The Bozo. This past Saturday was the first Saturday in two months that it didn’t rain and the first day in over 10 days when it didn’t rain, you see we’ve had a nor’easter problem here lately. This May has been the coldest and wettest in 40 years but Saturday it did not rain. It was a beautiful day and we were busy as hell. In the midst of all the chaos The Bono came and went faster than a virgin on prom night. He was upset that Pino wasn’t at the restaurant that day because Chef was in New York appearing on CBS’ The Early Show.

The Bono took forever to order, every time Dora, the server who waited on him, went back to the table Bono and company were not ready. I was on the patio and in the weeds all afternoon long. It never really stopped for me. I was waiting on Debbie, who was drunk, and her husband, Mark, and daughter, Samantha, and some of their friends. Once they were all done they just sat and drank sparking water and I was able to relax some. By this time Dora and Kristian (the other server inside) were in the weeds. I asked Dora what she needed and she asked me if I could see if table 55 (The Bono and guests) were ready to order. I approach Bono’s table and ask if they had any questions about the menu or if they would like to order. “We’re going to need a few more minutes.” said The Bono. I replied “Oh, you still haven’t found what you’re looking for?”