While playing a game of Words with Friends this week, I noticed the letters in my virtual tray possessed the ability to spell a pretty offensive word. Rather than continuing my game, I started to hit the shuffle button trying to get my phone to align the letters in the “right” order.
An exercise I supposed would take a few minutes of my time, and one serving no real purpose other than to amuse my immature brain, instead went on for several days. It was as if there were an unseen sensor blocking the letters from doing what I insisted they do. But I refused to give in. Persevere, I told myself. Multiple times a day, for several minutes at a time, I sat, repeatedly hitting that damn shuffle button. It began to consume me. There was no way I could play a word at this point. Not until my phone gave me what I wanted. Spell the word!! Spell the word!!
And then it happened. I finally beat the machine. Victory was mine. The excitement was thrilling. I did it. I won! I looked at it for a minute. The word — the one I had been trying to make my phone spell for days. The word — the one I had wasted significant amounts of valuable time trying to produce. The word — the four-letter word most women prefer never to hear, let alone to be called. Yeah. That word.
I stared at it, tilted my head, and then began to wonder which one of us had actually won the challenge.
Nobody puts bacon in the basket
Powering up with some Esquire nutrition after a few drinks is usually a brilliant idea. Pot stickers, broccoli balls, fried mushrooms … it’s all brain food, really. Recently, a friend of mine, visiting from out of town, ordered the grilled cheese with bacon. Sounds innocuous enough. However, when our food arrived, I witnessed an event so puzzling that I continue to reflect with disbelief.
Picking up her sandwich, she began stripping and discarding entire pieces of bacon into the paper-lined red plastic basket. Thrown into a world of loneliness, the bacon lost all agency over its own fate. As she mindlessly detached the salty gifts from her melted cheese, I couldn’t help but ask what the hell she was doing. Her response? “I don’t care much for bacon.”
Instinctually, and within seconds, my right hand found it necessary to avenge the crispy meat. Before I knew it, I bitch-slapped my friend in the middle of the bar. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Slowly, my friend put her hand to her face, opened her mouth, and looked at me in disbelief. I returned the gaze of incredulity. But mine was not in response to the slap. I was amazed none of my other “friends” followed my lead.
A few days ago I came across a picture of a Facebook “friend” with his not-so-great-looking toddler. I know that’s awful to say about such a young girl, but believe me; she’s gonna have to do a lot of math in her life … poor thing.
A few comments were listed below the picture of the little darling, and I couldn’t help but wonder if anyone else had revealed the truth to the proud father. On the contrary, and to my complete shock, the second comment read: “Totes adorbs!!” Suddenly, the ugly baby was no longer offensive. It was this “language” that made me sick to my stomach. Totes adorbs? That woman should be totes thankful she escaped my hand slapping her adorbs face.