On Measures

Later today when I help myself to bed, I'm going to put my hands together, bow my head and pray talk to the Intelligent Designer because there's something wrong with his masterpiece [me! me! me!]. Actually there's quite a few things that have malfunctioned over the years, but tonight there's not gona be room for that long list, as I'm planning to focus my few brain cells in a specific topic.
Few days ago, while having lunch with one of my co-workers, she told me that hot tea is very good for your body. She even told me specifically that Camomile tea is amazingly good for yourself. When I asked her what was the reason for it, or what was the evidence behind her claim, it took her quite a bit to answer as she'd just given a crocodile-size bite to her burger with extra bacon in it. When she finally swallowed, she said that it was just "common wisdom" -short for "I don't have fucking idea but don't you think that my bleach blonde hair looks great today?" [just for the record: NO!].

Anyway, as Jean-Francois is trying to get is life back on track, or finally on some sort of track, and he'd decided that he's going to start from the very-very beginning and is going to cut back on coffee and would start drinking more hot tea. That's indeed the beginning of the very beginning, based on his very own "common wisdom" claim. So today when he went to B&N to read magazines for free and to expand his horizons and knowledge, he ordered a Camomile tea; the 16oz size. Big enough to last as long as it was suppose to last.

And talking about lasting, is widely known that different units are used to measure different things: a minute, a second, a kilogram, centimeter, inch, foot, joules, volts, newtons, etc. But how about using the good old capacity of your bladder while trying to read a magazine as a measure?. And is here, my friends, where my complain to the Intelligent Designer out there is going to be directed to. Picture this for a moment: I started reading TIME magazine and sipping my coffee hot tea; the less steaming hot it got the more I drank and therefore the more I enjoy it. Hot women is cool with me, hot tea tend to burn my tongue therefore not cool at all. Before I finish reading TIME I've finished my hot tea and the empty paper cup was sitting on the little coffee table in front of me.


Let me point out that the first place that I went to when I walked into the store wasn't the adult magazines section, was the men's room in order to take care of "number one". So by the time I sat down with the magazines, the hot tea and the ChapStick in my jacket's pocket, my bladder was pretty much empty. Once I finished reading TIME from cover to cover [minus what I didn't want to read] my bladder was reaching a dangerous level that prompt me to make the second visit of the night to the men's room.

When I came back I picked up Newsweek magazine and things down my belly button resembled the movie The Fast and the Furious, as I had to make two more trips before finishing the magazine; two more fucking trips! Good thing I'm a man and I can pee standing up and therefore everywhere on this planet, but the disadvantages of being a civilized Hommo Sapiens is that there's specific locations where you have to take care of business, otherwise I would've pissed in the corner where all the monopoly games and the calendars for next year are displayed instead of taking that looong trip to the men's. [When I was a little kid I liked to pic inside the girls restroom, which got me in quite a few troubles, but that's another story].

So once I was done with Darwin and after I skipped the NoLa Blues, I put the magazines back where I took them from [I'm such a good citizen] and picked up another one about pc games and the new xbox. As I was flipping throughout the pages I really thought that this was a bad joke because then again, my free-sample size bladder was again reaching its limit and when I say enough it is fucking enough and it was enough with the whole peeing thing! I stood up, left the magazine on the coffee table, took the empty paper cup and crushed like if I was fucking King-Kong smashing a little Honda Insight on his way to the Empire State building and stormed out of the store. Then, stupid me, I had to speed on my way back home because that shit, I mean that pee, was real and I almost have to pee on my neighbor's car's tire like a dawg because it was either number one right there and right then or fucking number one in my pants. [For the record I manage to climb the stairs, turn the knob while unbuttoning my jeans, and even though I'm sure I spilled a little bit outside, I managed to score a three point shot in the electric chair. Way to go Champ!].

So, four trips to the restroom for a 16oz cup of hot tea and three magazines? Clearly something is wrong around here. And this goes to the Intelligent Designer out there: you better get your facts and graphics and original plans straight because I'm filling a big complain with you; and you better make some evolutions up grades changes miracles to your red haired MAstERpiEcE or face a fresh new wave of complains in the future. . . With all due respect, of course.