Give me a small please.

Supersize me! Ever see that movie about the guy who eats nothing but McDonalds for an entire month? Actually pretty entertaining. My favorite part is when he orders the Double Quarter Pounder, with cheese, and has to supersize it do to his own rules on the social experiment. And then he pukes before he even finishes it. The moral of the whole story is that we Americans are supersizing our way to national obesity. Me? I don't have to worry about such trivialities, due to my Gilligan like body that devours sugar and calories, not unlike that of the modern day zombie guy that was eating the other dudes face off.

But! I am still offended that you can't go anywhere and and order a "small" anything anymore. "Small" has been replaced by "regular", meaning that portion we used to call "medium" is now the "small", and the "medium" is now the "large". And the "large"? It is now a gallon of soda, or a 5 pound bag of potato's worth of fries. On a recent trip to a Burger King, I snapped this photo of my order.

When my order arrived, I told the girl that I didn't want a large portion. She quietly ridiculed my ignorance explained my confusion by stating that this was indeed Burger Kings example of the word "small." Which of course was actually the "regular" portion.

The fries aren't necessarily the gigantic portion, and the photo doesn't look all that damning, but the container is more like what used to be a "large" fries from my teen days employed at a McDonalds. No, it is the drink that got me. Look at the cup. It has one of those shapes where they had to make the bottom smaller so that it would actually fit into the cup holder of my 13 year old mini-van. You know, the ones that predated the "Big Gulp" size cups that wouldn't fit anywhere? No, no, this actually is BK's "regular" size. You see why they can't call it "small"? It's like calling Nancy Pelosi moderate. It's supposed to be a relative term. Now when I order, I ask for the "smallest" size they offer. As if calling a portion of food or drink "small" is somehow offending the franchise.

I just can't drink all of that soda. I am like a hummingbird. I eat several small meals a day, rather than bursting my stomach lining with an entire seven course meal that threatens to explode my intestines. But a quick glance around at my fellow BK diners that day revealed that...wait a sec. I am the only one in the dining room! Meanwhile, the drive-thru was a line that snaked around the whole building. No doubt, everyone was in a hurry to get to the gym for their daily workout, and can't be bothered with getting out of the car.

What happened between the 1980's and now? Are we actually that much bigger as entire race that we need these gluttonous portions to fulfill our appetites? Were we actually starving ourselves back in the good old days by not putting enough fries and soda into our bodies? The answer, of course, is the almighty dollar. The more they sell you, the more they make. That "small", excuse me, "regular" soda they just sold is you is slowly creeping it's way towards 2 bucks. And it still probably costs them less than a quarter to serve it to you. Americas fast food empire is getting rich off of the belly of it's citizens. From now on I am going to order a "small" every time I go to a BK, or Mickey D's, or Wendy's, or Taco Hell, or any one of the 200 fast food places that dominate our towns. And watch with titillating glee as the person behind the counter says, "small, what the heck is that?" That is, until the Fast Food Police come charging in and arrest me on the spot for degrading their franchise.

Walsh vs. Walsh

I made a joke a while back, at least I think it was a joke in at least it made me chuckle like a giddy school girl, that guitarist Joe Walsh, he of the gravelly voice and
creeping guitar notes, was running for Representative in our great state of Illinois. If you ain't from these parts and don't know, U.S. Rep. Joe Walsh, that darling of the Tea Party wing of the Tea Party, is what we are stuck with. For now.

He's like a homophobic energizer bunny. I could bore you with my reasons for personally wanting to see his ouster, but it turns out the Real Joe Walsh just came out in support of Tammy Duckworth, opponent for the Fake Joe Walsh. Yep, that "Maserati" singing, guitar slinging, one time Eagle, is giving us his opinion. Now I like Ms. Duckworth, she has my vote anyway, and I know it would be a vast improvement over someone who caters to such a small choice of like minded narrow individuals, but can I really take Real Joe Walsh seriously?

Hey, I love his music. We do one of his tunes. He has a cool unique style that hasn't really been duplicated. But let's be honest. Does anyone else feel like he has probably seen his share of hallucinogens, beer bongs, bong hits, any any other combination of rock star vices you can throw at him? To me, he is kinda like Otis from the Andy Griffith show. You remember, the drunk that would let himself in and out of his own cell, walking around in a constant state of inebriation? Actually, he reminds me of a genetic mutation of Otis and Tommy Chong. But I have no actual proof per se, that would leave me to believe that the iconic rocker is anything but a stand up citizen. It's just a hunch. I think maybe I have seen a video of him a tad wasted out of his freaking gourd over served. But still. Why does the candidate, or the party, or the campaign feel the need to trot out celebrities in support of their cause?

It's actually sad that the common perception is that some housewife out there is going to vote for their guy because Alec Baldwin told them to, and that's good enough to get your vote. It ain't as hell gonna get mine. Jimi Hendrix could rise from the grave playing the solo to Voodoo Chile and tell me to vote for Joe Walsh and I still wouldn't do it. If Megan Fox walked out of a pool wearing nothing but a handkerchief and told me to vote him for I would laugh. And then go take a cold shower. I get it, it lends the cool factor to a candidates campaign, but the serious voter out their isn't going to be swayed by the circus show. And the campaigns aren't aiming at that vote anyway. If the candidate had any credentials in the first place, they would already have that vote.

Sing it with me now, "Out all night, sleep all day, I know what you're doin'. If you're gonna act that way, I think there's trouble brewin'". Recognize the tune? Hint: one of the Joe Walsh's wrote it. If the voters truly are gonna act that way, then there truly is trouble a-brewin'. Is it too much to ask to get involved? So that smart, honest, decent minded people start making our choices for us? We can do a lot better than bigoted, loudmouthed, homophobes like Joe Walsh. Yea I said it again.

Vulgarian-ese 101

"You're a true vulgarian, aren't you?" asked John Cleese. (WARNING: The following bit of inspired wit contains numerous vulgar words, references, insinuations and outright expressions of colorful vernacular. So if you are offended by nasty words that start with the letter "F", or if you are my mother, or both, please hit the back arrow on your browser or that little red "X" in the upper right hand corner now.) Kevin Kline's answer was I believe, "You're the vulgarian you FUCK!!" I am of course quoting from "A Fish Called Wanda". It seems all I do is quote movies these days. And curse like a fucking truck driver.

Of course, my speech wasn't always so heavily laden with damns and hells and motherfucking this or that. I was a nice little boy. Once. Oh sure, there were moments. Like that frozen moment in time when that cute little red haired girl I had a crush on walked by my house, and my friend was all like "Here comes so-and-so," and I was all like "I don't give a shit," and my mom, standing within earshot was all like "Get in the bathroom, NOW!" Yes I do know what soap tastes like, it was imbedded in my teeth for hours. Dinner that night tasted like Ivory. But pre-teen bravado aside, I didn't swear all that much. Just enough to be cool with my friends, and not enough to be what I would later become: a true vulgarian.

It was my first real job after college where I learned to be so colorful. Mired in the battlefields of Chicago, the wasted expanse of concrete, degradation and excess, were my lost years on the trading floor of the Chicago Mercantile Exchange. I went in with a bachelors degree in "shit", and came out with a PHD in "God damn motherfucking piece of holy dog crap." Everyone fucking swears. A lot. The old men, the women, the bosses, the runners, the bosses bosses, the guys that sweep the floor, they all cuss like truck drivers too. Only, it should be said that truck drivers swear like trading floor people. It is also where I met the woman who would in one fell swoop, ruin my life and in turn give me song writing material for years to come. God was she a fucking bitch. 3am screaming matches tend to bring out the worst in me, especially when it's in some hotel room half a world away.

But today? I can't seem to escape my past. A calm, leisurely morning turns to obscenities the second I get in the car. I can't even get on the highway before I am muttering to nobody, "Stupid fucking asshole." Even phone conversations with my mother aren't immune to my indelible charms, of which I instantly see the err of my ways and apologize. But by the end of a typical day, I think I have uttered enough cuss words to make Joan Rivers blush. She could use a little color in her cheeks. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to exit a conversation without the person to which I was over-vernaclurising most likely thinking, "Jeez, who does this guy think he is, Samuel "Fucking" Jackson?" I suppose I know the answer. Swear less. Mmmm-hmmm. Like that's ever going to fucking happen. You can take the man out of the gutter, but you can't take the gutter out of the man. I already know what some of you are going to say: go to church. To coin an old expression, fuck that.