I Kicks The Flavor

September 23, 2009

CLM said something sweet. Now that she’s on her own for coffee in the morning, she bought a coffee pot to make her own. And she noted: “It doesn’t taste as good as when you make it in the office.”

I responded with “that’s because I make mine with love.”

A horrible joke because:
A – Like I have some to spare.
B – That requires a recipe and I ain’t thinking before coffee.
C – I was actually trying to be mean and imply she has issues loving herself. Self loathing, low self esteem, that kind of thing. But it missed its mark completely. But this isn’t about her emotional baggage. It’s about the nectar of life, coffee.

The truth of the matter is, my 11-year old coffee pot is a tested veteran in the ways of rich, delicious coffee. Her pot is a brand spanking new rookie. Just up from Double-A, with wide eyes that are caught in headlights over every little thing in The Show; not quite sure if it belongs; and still smelling of like fresh plastic.

Which leads me to think of all those times CLM looked down at my coffee pot and commented about how it needed to be cleaned and was gross or disgusting, only to hear me respond: “That’s flavor!”

See? Guys are more than just disgusting slobs who don’t want to clean something we need daily. We’re brewmasters. Each layer of previous coffee grime has its own aromatic purpose.

And while that primary purpose is “to prevent me from having to clean the pot,” it still makes a darn good cup of delicious coffee. I think someone owes the disgusting coffee pot an apology.


I am Just a Hot Mess

July 14, 2009

After last week’s softball game, and the July 4th kickball game, I was ridiculously sore. Because I am old.

At today’s game, I realized that my lack of arm strength from last week has somehow turned into me wondering where my right rotator cuff has gone. Basically, I have no arm left. I’m like Chet “Rocket” Stedman at the end of Rookie of the Year.

It left me wondering if I had injured it the last time I played softball (in Dayton in 2006) and just didn’t remember it (we tended to drink heavily after games. And non-gamedays). Or if it was something else (hockey-related perhaps?) or maybe stems from my previous back problem from last winter.

Needless to say, I can barely lift my right arm.

After a post-game shower, which included cleaning off the rug burn on my right leg from sliding on astroturf, I noticed I have cuts on three fingers on my right hand. Neither of which was all that painful, so I assumed my arm/shoulder and general stiffness was all the injury I had on the day.

Then I made dinner (bacon, egg, cheese on an everything bagel with tobasco). I pulled our grease cup from the freezer and set it in the sink.

I forgot that bacon grease is like five times hotter than grease from browning ground beef. The grease hit the frozen beef grease, crackled and hissed. I picked up the cup to put it back in the freezer…

… and the hot grease melted the side of the plastic cup, poured out the side down the fingers of my left hand. So now all my finger tips are scalded.

How could bacon do this to me? It knows how much I love it!

All the veggies from my freezer are now ruined, as I thawed all of them on my throbbing hot fingers.

But I’m a hockey player. So I manned up, and pecked away at this update fot you, my faithful readers. On the plus side, I don’t feel any of the normal leg stiffness from softball. At least til I try and get out of bed tomorrow.


Excruciating Sandwich

May 21, 2009

I just spent 10 minutes of hell in line at a Quiznos. The girl in front of me had never been to a Quiznos before, and is asking every stupid question there is.

I’ve never been to a Quiznos before… what is it like?
Quiznos guy: What other sub shops have you been to?
Oh, is it like a Subway?

Uh, in the sense that you pay them for a sandwich, yes, yes it is.

I don’t know what you have, what can I get?

My answer would have been either:
“uh, Subs”  OR “(points to the gigantic menu on the wall over his head that’s six feet from this very stupid girl)”

If I wanted a sandwich with turkey, cheese, lettuce, mustard and pickles, could I get that here?

Yeah, probably in about two minutes if you stopped asking stupid questions and just said “Gimme a turkey with cheese, lettuce,  mustard and pickles.”

What sizes are there?
It’s a freaking sub shop! Nevermind that the gigantic menu shows three prices for each sub, with the prefixes  SM, REG and LG… at ANY sub shop, there are four options:
#1 is a large, that’s the biggest. Every sub shop has this.
#2 is the small, that’s the smallest. Every sub shop has this.
#3 is the medium, which would be in the middle if they have a medium. Sometimes this is called a regular. Only dicks care about the semantics of the name.
#4 is the small you get when they tell you they don’t have a medium. This would be true of places with “Whole” or “Half”

The guy holds up two loaves of bread, one small white bread, one regular wheat to display size.

Oh, can I get that one in that one?

What? It takes three minutes to determine she wants a small on wheat bread.

And things weren’t actually annoying me at this point.  What set me into Frustrationland was the cheese discussion.

Do you have shredded cheese?
We have shredded cheddar.
Ok, I’ll have that.
Ok.
Wait. What other cheeses do you have?
Provalone.. Swiss… American…
Are they shredded?
No.
I wanted shredded mozzarella.
We have mozzarella, it’s just not shredded.
Oh, ok. No shredded cheese then.
Ok, you want the mozzarella?
No. No cheese. I don’t want any cheese.

I nearly jumped through their oven to stop the pain.


A Whopper Sacrifice Responds

February 3, 2009

Update: Link Works Now (Unless you’re a Mac user and don’t have Windows Media Player)

As you may remember, a few weeks back, I participated in the Whopper Sacrifice, a Burger King promotion in which I sacrificed my facebook friendships with 10 people in exchange for a free Whopper.

Today, I was confronted by Marisa, who was one of those 10 former Facebook friends:

A whopper sacrifice responds (video*)


Products Which Shouldn’t Exist

January 31, 2009

Tim brought me a pair of burgers while I was working the other night. They were good. Explaining what I wanted on them and why led to a conversation about Products Which Shouldn’t Exist:

Shaving Cream

We have shaving gel now. Who’s actually still using shaving cream? No one under 46 I imagine. The only places I’ve seen it is in grandfathers bathrooms or guest bathrooms. Hotels always carry it in the little pantry-area gift shop. The only places I’ve ever seen shaving cream is there, or in old people’s bathrooms. You know, the people who also have the small bottle of Old Spice or Brut after shave next to it.

Yellow Mustard

There is no conceivable function for which yellow mustard is better than other types of mustards. Brown or deli mustard (or “creole” in Louisiana) are infinitely superior to yellow, as are Honey, Spicy or Dijon.

On what is yellow mustard better than those other mustards?

Pretzels? No. (Nance’s Sharp and Creamy is good on those)

Sandwiches? Absolutely not.

Hamburgers? Don’t be ridiculous.

Hot Dogs? Sure you jest, you nazi bastard.

Monostat 7

Monostat 5 and Monostat 3 exist. Why use the seven-day product instead of the three? (See Howie Mandel’s standup for hilarious commentary)

American Cheese

America is the World’s Only Remaining Super Power. So how come our cheese sucks so bad? We should acquire a better cheese and eliminate American cheese. As this conversation from long ago with my friend Andrew illustrates.

Kev: You know, as Americans, we really got screwed when it comes to cheese
Andrew: You mean American cheese?
Kev: Yeah, it sucks.
Kev: We’re freaking America, we should just take someone’s cheese.
Kev: What about provolone. Let’s take that! What are they going to do?
Andrew: We already did
Andrew: American is just mild cheddar
Kev: Mild? it’s not even sissy little girl cheddar
Andrew: Provolone is a good cheese
Kev: Yes. And American sucks.
Andrew: I don’t mind American cheese. There’s worse.
Kev: Yeah, there’s worse. But we deserve the World’s Only Remaining Super Cheese.
Kev: America’s cheese isn’t the best option for anything.
Andrew: Sure it is. You’ve got ricotta and cottage. America crushes that. I don’t want to eat a cheese that looks like white vomit.
Kev: I agree. But I mean, “what’s the best cheese for _______?”
Andrew: You’re saying there is nothing that American cheese dominates. I see.
Kev: Nachos? no. Burgers? no. crackers? hell no. Tacos? Definitely not.
Andrew: So you’d put Provolone on burgers?
Kev: Over American? Every day of the week!
Andrew: Actually, that would be good.
Andrew: mmmmm New American cheese.

Andrews on board. Bush’s last act as President should have been to invade Provolone and take their cheese. Where is that, anyway? Italy? If that’s too hard, Swiss would be an easy target. Or any French cheese.


Why Kev-Fu?

January 22, 2009

After discovering I had a website, the second question you probably asked (after “why?”) was “and why ‘KevFu’ as a site name?”

It all goes back to my freshman year at St. Bonaventure, a small, private institution in upstate New York. One of our freshman classes was an ‘intro to college’ type course with a stupid name. Mandatory for all freshman. It was awful and a predecessor to some bad curriculum they adopted my senior year for all incoming students.

One of the requirements was mandatory attendance at a barrage of stupid seminars.

This fateful evening, I was required to go to a Cultural Diversity seminar. No one else I knew was assigned to go that day, and my friends mocked me for having to miss playoff baseball to go.

I wandered in, sat down and after signing the attendance sheet, looked back at the room behind me: Everyone else in the room was white.

The speaker was white. Keep in mind that I was attending a school which was 96.5% white. There was one student in my class who was male, did not come to school as an athlete, and was also African-American. His name was Dennis.

St. Bonaventures school colors are brown & white. The buildings are brown, the students are white.

St. Bonaventure's school colors are brown & white. The buildings are brown, the students are white.

Furthermore, probably 87% of my classmates attended private high schools. As a public school kid (attending a high school where all the inner city kids which got kicked out of their schools but were deemed worthy of a second chance got bused to), I was in the minority at St. Bonaventure in the sense that I’d even been friends with any kind of black person before.

And I was damned sure I was the only person in the room who’d ever helped break up a gang fight.

Upon seeing nothing but white faces surrounding me in this seminar, I promptly began to cough. Hard. Then excused myself to get a drink of water and went back to my dorm to watch playoff baseball.

Awaiting me on my marker board, written by one of my new friends was the phrase “Kev-Fu is one cultured motherfucker!”

So, when naming this happy place, I decided I wanted something cultured. So now that little story can remind you that when you’re reading about zombie attacks,  Death Pools, who’s the hottest Disney characters, Muppet raps, being enslaved by an army of aliens or robots, or any of the other topics that probably make me a bad person; at least you’ll know I’m cultured.


Farewell, My Friends

January 8, 2009

No, not closing down this site. I mean to the 10 people I just sacrificed my Facebook friendships with to score a free Whopper from Burger King. That is some quality marketing right there: www.whoppersacrifice.com

Speaking of Burger King, once, I actually had this conversation with a BK drive thru employee (DTE)

actual conversation between me — leaving work early because I think I might have strep throat — and a drive thru employee:

Me: Yeah, can I get a large chocolate shake…
DTE: your total is 2.29, please pull around
Me: Wait, unless there is one that is bigger than the large.
DTE: Do you want a King Size, then?
Me: Absolutely, just give me the biggest one you have.
DTE: actually, the Super King Size is bigger.
Me: Super King size?
DTE: yeah
Me: So the King isn’t really the King, is he?
DTE: I guess you could say that, sir.
Me: Would that make him a Prince?
DTE: I guess. At least he’s bigger than the medium.
Me: And the medium isn’t the medium either, if you have five sizes.
DTE: The medium is the medium.
Me: How can the medium be the medium if it’s the second biggest of five sizes?
DTE: We have a medium, sir. It’s one of our four sizes of shakes.
Me: Four?
DTE: Yes, sir. Medium, Large, King Size and Super King Size
Me: Do you even know what the word medium means? It means between something smaller and something large.
DTE: Well, if we put the medium between the large and the king size, it would confuse a lot of people.
Me: Yeah, why don’t you just call the medium a small?
DTE: It’s not so small, sir. It’s actually medium-sized.
Me: But it’s the smallest.
DTE: This is true, but the large isn’t the largest.
Me: And the king really isn’t the king.
DTE: Yes, The Super King is one bigger, sir.
Me: Does he go to 11?