Category: Wyatt’s Words

*scroll down for hot updates.  I would put them here but if you didn’t read the story yet then it’s a spoiler alert.  P.S. Walter White dies*

You know what you don’t hear anymore?

“Write your Congressman!”

It was always about oil drilling or war bonds or some similarly meaningless issue. Apparently the Capitol consisted of a few representatives and an army of mail sorters, and people from around the country would pen stern and, in exceptional circumstances, congratulatory messages to their congressmen (and that one chick who voted against WWII). These were the days when sexts required a professional photographer and “anthrax” was something just the squares in science knew about.

Then at some point in recent history it became “call your Congressman!” Yeah, like your congressman has nothing better to do than to shoot the shit with you over the goddamn rotary-dial.

Obviously this strategy was short lived–there’s one woman at the Capitol Hill switchboard who has been there since 1953 and her rheumatoid arthritis and early-onset Parkinson’s put a crimp on how fast she can plug you into Representative Grifter’s office.

Now, you can tweet your Congressman. This scares many people and rightfully so–after all, Rep. Tony ViennaSausage could be on the other end and expect you to nipslip your way into conversing with him. “NO DICE”, says this constituent, who is likely tweeting in a tanktop as we speak.

Which brings me to this: I live in LA in Henry Waxman’s district. Outside of having a comical nose, Monseiur Tussaud and I have nothing in common, so I am essentially a valueless constituent to him.

But back in Fresno, I live between two representatives: Jeff Denham and Devin Nunes. They’re a pretty straightforward and straight-shooting tag-team of legislative liberal lambasters and I love them for it.

Which is why my tiny heart sank when my attention was brought to the following comments from Rep. Nunes:

Rep. Devin Nunes had some choice words to describe some of his Republican colleagues on Monday, referring to them as “Lemmings with suicide vests.”
“They have to be more than just a lemming. Because jumping to your death is not enough,” said Nunes.
“You have this group saying somehow if you’re not with them, you’re with Obamcare. If you’re not with their plan — exactly what they want to do, you’re with Obamcare. It’s getting a little old.”

What the hell, Devin? I thought we were cool! Why you gotta go around and talk, for lack of a better term, shit?

I immediately tweeted Rep. Nunes and I’m eagerly awaiting a response. Maybe it was a misquote. Maybe it was explainable frustration.

Or maybe it’s indicative of deep-seated feelings that mean we have to look for Rep. Nunes’s replacement.

This is like when you finally visit the girl’s house who you’ve taken on a few dates and invited to your place and know all about her and have completely fallen for and you discover her cat-children–all 17 of them. It’s troubling and there’s little explanation unless they belong to her agoraphobic 70-year-old spinster duplex-mate.

But you see the kitty food bowls in the girl’s bedroom.

The cat hair coating any clothing a shade darker than Navajo white.

The “Have A Meowry Christmas!” photos on the wall.

It all looks dim.

Dimmer than your average congressional representative.

 

UPDATE: *bursts into empty room*

It’s been a few days and still no response from no-show Nunes, whom I politely tweeted again to no avail.

He did, however, release this response:

I wanted to share my views with you on the government shutdown. I strongly oppose ObamaCare, and I have voted to repeal or defund it around forty times. I also have argued that the Republicans’ current political strategy would result in a government shutdown but would not succeed in dismantling ObamaCare – essentially the worst of both worlds.

I will be discussing the shutdown today on America’s News HQ around 10:30 am PST and on Justice with Judge Jeanine around 6:25 pm PST – both on Fox News. For more information about my thoughts on this issue, please see the NewsMax article here, the Fresno Bee blogpost here, and my recent appearance on CNN here.

Translation: I fucked up and shouldn’t have called my colleagues “lemmings with suicide vests”.  However, I refuse to man up and admit it and instead choose to hide behind a few articles I vaguely contributed to where I dodge the issue completely so I still get favorable media coverage.  I promise I’m a conservative, now give me money because I’m running for re-election!

Is the Congressman blind to how his comments have been received?  They’re nothing but automatic fodder used by the media to pummel his own side.  They distract completely from Rep. Nunes’s ‘supposed’ stated goal: repealing Obamacare.

A smart man wouldn’t have said them in the first place.  A man with a lapse in judgment would immediately apologize, retract, and explain.

A coward would run, hide, and distract.

Memo to Rep. Nunes:  God hates a coward.

 

*scroll down for hot updates.  I would put them here but if you didn’t read the story yet then it’s a spoiler alert.  P.S. Walter White dies*

You know what you don’t hear anymore?

“Write your Congressman!”

It was always about oil drilling or war bonds or some similarly meaningless issue. Apparently the Capitol consisted of a few representatives and an army of mail sorters, and people from around the country would pen stern and, in exceptional circumstances, congratulatory messages to their congressmen (and that one chick who voted against WWII). These were the days when sexts required a professional photographer and “anthrax” was something just the squares in science knew about.

Then at some point in recent history it became “call your Congressman!” Yeah, like your congressman has nothing better to do than to shoot the shit with you over the goddamn rotary-dial.

Obviously this strategy was short lived–there’s one woman at the Capitol Hill switchboard who has been there since 1953 and her rheumatoid arthritis and early-onset Parkinson’s put a crimp on how fast she can plug you into Representative Grifter’s office.

Now, you can tweet your Congressman. This scares many people and rightfully so–after all, Rep. Tony ViennaSausage could be on the other end and expect you to nipslip your way into conversing with him. “NO DICE”, says this constituent, who is likely tweeting in a tanktop as we speak.

Which brings me to this: I live in LA in Henry Waxman’s district. Outside of having a comical nose, Monseiur Tussaud and I have nothing in common, so I am essentially a valueless constituent to him.

But back in Fresno, I live between two representatives: Jeff Denham and Devin Nunes. They’re a pretty straightforward and straight-shooting tag-team of legislative liberal lambasters and I love them for it.

Which is why my tiny heart sank when my attention was brought to the following comments from Rep. Nunes:

Rep. Devin Nunes had some choice words to describe some of his Republican colleagues on Monday, referring to them as “Lemmings with suicide vests.”
“They have to be more than just a lemming. Because jumping to your death is not enough,” said Nunes.
“You have this group saying somehow if you’re not with them, you’re with Obamcare. If you’re not with their plan — exactly what they want to do, you’re with Obamcare. It’s getting a little old.”

What the hell, Devin? I thought we were cool! Why you gotta go around and talk, for lack of a better term, shit?

I immediately tweeted Rep. Nunes and I’m eagerly awaiting a response. Maybe it was a misquote. Maybe it was explainable frustration.

Or maybe it’s indicative of deep-seated feelings that mean we have to look for Rep. Nunes’s replacement.

This is like when you finally visit the girl’s house who you’ve taken on a few dates and invited to your place and know all about her and have completely fallen for and you discover her cat-children–all 17 of them. It’s troubling and there’s little explanation unless they belong to her agoraphobic 70-year-old spinster duplex-mate.

But you see the kitty food bowls in the girl’s bedroom.

The cat hair coating any clothing a shade darker than Navajo white.

The “Have A Meowry Christmas!” photos on the wall.

It all looks dim.

Dimmer than your average congressional representative.

 

UPDATE: *bursts into empty room*

It’s been a few days and still no response from no-show Nunes, whom I politely tweeted again to no avail.

He did, however, release this response:

I wanted to share my views with you on the government shutdown. I strongly oppose ObamaCare, and I have voted to repeal or defund it around forty times. I also have argued that the Republicans’ current political strategy would result in a government shutdown but would not succeed in dismantling ObamaCare – essentially the worst of both worlds.

I will be discussing the shutdown today on America’s News HQ around 10:30 am PST and on Justice with Judge Jeanine around 6:25 pm PST – both on Fox News. For more information about my thoughts on this issue, please see the NewsMax article here, the Fresno Bee blogpost here, and my recent appearance on CNN here.

Translation: I fucked up and shouldn’t have called my colleagues “lemmings with suicide vests”.  However, I refuse to man up and admit it and instead choose to hide behind a few articles I vaguely contributed to where I dodge the issue completely so I still get favorable media coverage.  I promise I’m a conservative, now give me money because I’m running for re-election!

Is the Congressman blind to how his comments have been received?  They’re nothing but automatic fodder used by the media to pummel his own side.  They distract completely from Rep. Nunes’s ‘supposed’ stated goal: repealing Obamacare.

A smart man wouldn’t have said them in the first place.  A man with a lapse in judgment would immediately apologize, retract, and explain.

A coward would run, hide, and distract.

Memo to Rep. Nunes:  God hates a coward.

 

I’m not gonna lie, when I first saw this, I made weird noises of delight.

I did notice one thing wrong, however—apparently, the Cash4Gold rep refers to Carol and Tracy as “telemarketer’s”.

Hmmm.

Could it be possible? Could the petition for an “ungreased, backdoor, Hammertime lovemaking session” all be a hoax?

Unfortunately, it is, and was just a viral campaign by an artist to get attention.

Oh well.

The quadriplegic Thai hooker could not be reached for comment.

I’m not gonna lie, when I first saw this, I made weird noises of delight.

I did notice one thing wrong, however—apparently, the Cash4Gold rep refers to Carol and Tracy as “telemarketer’s”.

Hmmm.

Could it be possible? Could the petition for an “ungreased, backdoor, Hammertime lovemaking session” all be a hoax?

Unfortunately, it is, and was just a viral campaign by an artist to get attention.

Oh well.

The quadriplegic Thai hooker could not be reached for comment.

By now, you’ve probably heard the breathless meme: Kern County Animal Shelter is shutting down and euthanizing all 700 animals. In fact, they’re killing every animal in a three mile radius. No creature with four legs will be spared, and they will likely shoot the secretary at the front too, along with any passersby and their extended families.

Contrary to popular belief and the chain email from ALL CAPS AUNT GLADYS, Bashar al-Assad is not running the shelter and the animals will not be killed—they’re simply moving to a different location.

In fact, they’ve even lowered the price of adoption to $15 for dogs and $5 for cats. Cheaper than a bag of IAMS or crack.

There’s a difference between animal lovers and “animal people”. Animal lovers see the meme above and ask friends to adopt. Animal people call for the immediate execution of the shelter owner and protest everything related to Kern County and Bakersfield (the cow fart market would plummet). Animal lovers walk their dogs and cats and pick up their poo. Animal people let their animals shit everywhere and plaster their publicly-viewed belongings (cars, backpacks, Trapper Keepers) in PeTA stickers.

Which reminds me—PeTA fucking sucks.

You think you’re saving animals by donating to PeTA because you saw Alicia Silverstone flash some tits and minge on a billboard? Wrong. PeTA is like the Westboro Baptist Church of the animal world—out to get your attention and distract from their real acts. It’s why you see PeTA and their supporters throwing fake blood on a celebrity wearing a fur coat then turn around and kill 92% of the animals that come into their grubby, murderous hands. In the same vein, you see Westboro Bap-tits supporters protesting military funerals with “God H8s Fags” posters and shouting down Taylor Swift concerts (in line behind her myriad exes) to hide from the fact that they’re one family of lawyers trying to draw attention to themselves and humblebrag that they and only they will get into heaven (excluding the few family members who managed to escape and be normal. And you thought YOUR family reunions were awkward with your drunk uncle, whore cousin, and Tommy’s “differently-ethnic” new girlfriend).

If you really care about animals—adopt one, like my buddy Thomas did. She’s a little Siberian Husky/German Shepherd mix and she cuddled peaceably in my lap on the ride home.

Which formed an interesting bookend to a week that saw me being bit in the leg by my great aunt’s douchebag German Shepherd.

It just goes to show—animals will be animals. People will not bite each other (for the most part, I still remember that girl who liked me biting me on the shoulder once and ending any potential dating future) because it’s socially unacceptable. Animals are unaware of social constructs like that but, on the flip side, can be helpful and loyal companions. You’d feel like an idiot for trying to teach your dog calculus in the same way you’d feel like an idiot for putting a human on a leash (unhinged helicopter moms to the white courtesy phone please. Psychologically-damaging bitches, white courtesy phone).

Essentially—animals are animals to animal lovers. They love them because they’re animals. Animals are people to animal people—probably because they’ve weirded away normal people in their life and need to substitute normal human interaction with cat children. Animals are easy to love. Animal people could do with a little bit of the “Kern County shelter treatment”.

 

*pictured above: me cuddling a real-life AMINAL

I shall henceforth be called “Ambassador Torosian” by you poor fiefs.

What are you ambassador of, you say?

Why, you didn’t see my nomination and acceptance speech on CNN?

It’s ok.  Nobody watches CNN.

It just so happens to be that I’m an ambassador of…

Santa Monica.

That’s right.

The City of Santa Monica has named me one of their ambassadors.

How did this happen? You may ask.

Why?  Is it because you don’t think I’m qualified?  IT’S NOT LIKE YOU KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE AN AMBASSADOR, SUSAN, YOU CAN’T JUDGE ME YOU TITLE-LESS BITCH

*throws microphone across Press Corps room*

[Editor’s note: Susan Rice was indeed Ambassador to the United Nations.  We apologize to now-Secretary of State Rice for the above error.  The author has had a long week of moving and other, in his words, “wild shit to deal with” and appears to be under a lot of stress, though this newspaper sees that as no excuse for shouting down a US cabinet member.  We are grateful she also has quick reflexes.  Once again, our apologies.]

Anyway, lazy Susan’s interruptions aside, and to answer her lameass question, the call of duty was brought to me.

No, not the game.  I felt the stirring of the call of duty.

Actually, I ate a Call of Duty disc for lunch because I couldn’t afford Chipotle and it totally backfired on me.  But the real-life WWII action in my colon is amazing!

Having worked at Segway Los Angeles, my boss though it would be a good idea for us to get more involved in the community.

So he signed me (and my *fabulous* coworker Seth) up for what amounted to be the most boring afternoon I’ve ever spent: a Santa Monica education tour.

There’s not much to Santa Monica.  There’s a beach, a few streets, a street you can walk on with stores, a ferris wheel, hippies, and hobos.

We got on a bus, and drove around the city, as a nervous first-day-on-the-job guide told us about its history.

It was at times boring and at other times very boring.  I bit off all my nails in boredom, analyzed the pleather patterns on the headrest in front of me, and looked over at my concerningly-eager coworker, who, like a young puppy, was just thrilled to get out of the house and take a car ride.

But the best part was, at the very end, we each received our own certificate CERTIFYING that we, with the knowledge bestowed upon us, become Santa Monica Ambassadors.

*this is not actually me, my nose is far smaller in real life

No longer would I tell European tourists asking about the Venice Canals that I was pretty sure they didn’t exist anymore.  (They do exist, I found them like three weeks ago!)

No longer would I recommend eating a hot dog on the boardwalk as a smart dietary choice.  (Go to Ivy at the Shore, spend lots of money, we need tax revenue dammit!)

I was informed, empowered, and most importantly, like a certain Real Housewife of New York, had a bullshit title to my name.  (Spoiler alert: not Bethenny)

And there’s not a moment to spare, folks.  There’s a crisis brewing in Syria and the country, nay, the WORLD needs my input.

One on hand, you have Bashar Assad, the second leader of Syria who is accused of using chemical weapons.  He’s also an opthalmologist, which confirms my theory that all eye doctors are secretly evil.

look at how evil he is, using that cold and lifeless handshake with our Speaker of the House!

On the other hand you have an assorted rebel resistance, supported by the Muslim Brotherhood and sympathetic to al-Qaeda.

In the middle you have…excuse me for one moment *starts gnawing on Santa Monica Boardwalk funnel cake* would you guys try some of this?  Assad?  Come on, this won’t give you glaucoma.  Rebel leaders?  You can’t rebel against powdered sugar!

Anyway, in the middle you have chemical weapons which Assad allegedly used against the rebels and their kids and killed hundreds of people.  And of course you have President Obama who said that use of those weapons is a “red line” which, when crossed means we have to act.

We know how things work in Santa Monica.  People from around the world visit us when they could visit so many other nicer beaches.  Why?

The movies.

You Syrians need to get some movies made about you so people will want to visit your beautiful coastal cities like Latakia, Baniyas, and Tartus.  You need hot Syrian women running up and down your white-sand beaches.

this was Google’s top hit for “Hot Syrian Woman”.  there were also some photos of women who were scarred by chemical burns that just wouldn’t have worked here

To the rebels: what will you have to rebel over anymore?  You will be too distracted by uninhibited, hijab-free ladies!

Another thing we do well is banning things in Santa Monica.  So before you whip out your hookahs on beaches, think twice.  We also don’t allow food, alcohol, pets, cameras, tourists, oxygen, or people on our pristine beaches.

We managed to ban plastic bags which saves a landfill space the size of my first apartment every year from being filled with evil plastic.  It also saves the life of one shark which goes on to eat a swimmer.

So, Syrians, ban those chemical weapons and voila! they’ll disappear.  Although I don’t recommend charging 10 cents extra for one, best to just ban them altogether.

Mr. President, I believe my Ambassadorial duties have been fulfilled today.

Now please don’t transfer me to Libya…

[for those looking for an actual answer for what we should do:  tactical airstrikes only if we have irrefutable proof of the government using chemical weapons, but keep them absolutely limited and send no boots on the ground.  make sure the force is multinational that there is indeed congressional and UN approval.  and for God’s sake, don’t arm the rebels.]

I was in the middle of getting some work done this afternoon when I started tearing up out of the blue. I was alarmed. Did some bastard sneak in and slide a bowl of onions under my face? Is that ill-advised Botox™ leaking? Am I finally having an allergic reaction to the twerking epidemic?

By the way: twerking is hard work. You have to get into a squat position, which is admittedly difficult enough as it is, and then shake your moneymaker up and down. For the gluteally-gifted: finally, this is your chance to shine!  For the flatassed: better hit them cheddar biscuits at Red Lobster.

I stopped this optical menstruation and realized that I was just sitting there, getting work done at my computer on an afternoon with a cup of coffee, going at a normal pace.

But meanwhile, a close friend of mine is sitting and hammering away at his computer like a madman, building his business from scratch and covering more ground over 20-hour days than most people could manage in a month.

Another friend is at her office, likely handling ten phone calls at once as well as dozens of other messages as the youngest person in her field.

Others are struggling through another 12-hour day as newly-appointed managers in fast-paced offices, getting home from night shifts at hospitals, working from different locations day in and day out far from home, or taking exams they’ve studied their ass off for over the course of months—sacrificing hanging out for passing.

It’s an odd feeling to confront that you haven’t had to work for too much in your life. I never comprehended “working” for grades until maybe Garabedian’s AP Bio class in high school. Everything else just came to me throughout most of my education and everything was busywork. I loved being challenged—but when I stopped getting teachers who took a few extra minutes per week to give me extra work, I became depressed and stopped achieving. It was only in college when I was able to take extra classes to get back a little bit of that spark of a challenge.

I believe in surrounding myself with hardworking people because they inspire me to do more, put in that extra hour, take risks, and become stronger every single day. For anyone who’s stuck in a rut, wants to start seeing results in their lives—hitch your wagons to hard workers. Like Proverbs 27:17 says, “thou who hitches thine wagon, pimps thy ride”. Or something like that.

A Facebook group I monitor occasionally got into an enhanced Fujitsu Five shitstorm over the inclusion of a new atheist chaplain in the military. My notifications were blowing up and it had nothing to do with me, which is absolutely unacceptable.

So, I read diligently through all the comments (I read two, got bored, flipped through Twitter, which led me to the new Brazzers update, and the chain of events ended in me passing out for 15 minutes then waking up to crack my bitching fingers) and realized that there’s a huge problem with all this atheist chaplain bullshit.

First of all, it’s an oxymoron, like jumbo shrimp. Atheist chaplain? Gimmeafrigginbreak.

Second, this is distracting us from a far more dangerous threat—Muslim ideologues in the US military.

Before you easily-outraged, maxipad-bedecked professional bitch’n’moaners accuse me of being Islamophobic, remember—we had no Shinto chaplains in the military during WWII, nor did we have any atheist chaplains. It would have been strange to do so considering we faced two ever-growing world powers who represented atheism/statism (most importantly, Nazi Germany) as well as some bastardization of the Shinto/Bushido warrior code with Imperial Japan. Remember too—this was not a volunteer military back then. Now, if you really have an issue with there not being a Scientology chaplain to accommodate you—you’re just gonna have to deal with that shit on your own.

We have a few Muslim chaplains now, and while it’s strange considering the radical Islamic threat we face, they seem like nice people, such as Chaplain (Maj.) Agbere.

They’re not my concern. What concerns me the most is our military’s seeming blindness to Muslim ideologues in our ranks—who spread their faith where chaplains are not allowed to.

Case in point: Army Major Nidal Malik Hasan, a radical student of former George Washington University chaplain Anwar al-Awlaki, who has been connected to every major terror attack and attempt of the past decade.

L (Awlaki), R (Hasan).  Which one’s the terrorist?  Spoiler alert: both!

Hasan was in regular communication with Awlaki, which concerned the FBI so much that they launched an investigation (which was subsequently dropped when they thought that the emails posed no threat).

You may remember Hasan—he killed 13 Army personnel and injured 29 others at Ft. Hood in the worst terrorist attack on US soil since 9/11.

The Department of Defense embarrassingly classified this as “workplace violence”—despite the fact that Hasan was free to proselytize and spread his religion, going as far as handing out copies of the Quran the morning of and collecting fellow Muslim officers to pray.

How our military can be so blind to the threat that we face baffles me—especially when they’re on the front lines. While they dick around with atheist chaplains and diversity-approved Muslim chaplains, the real religious radicals continue to operate within the ranks—and 13 soldiers have lost their lives with zero lessons learned.

As you folks probably know, I’m a huge fan of Starbucks.

Well, the Pike’s coffee tastes like it was filtered through a wrestler’s jock, so—excluding that.

Hell, I’m a gold card member (bitches!!!) which means absolutely nothing other than that it’s probably the lowest barrier-to-entry metallic card you can get. I’ve noticed over the past few years how Starbucks has tried to take their stuff upmarket in certain areas, and judging by the celebrity* clientele at my local celebrity Starbucks, I guess my…*ahem*…celebrity-rich Starbucks qualifies.

(I once stood next to Kimora Lee Simmons there and she looked like a tan whale with Sharpie eyebrows.  True story.)

Clover-brewed coffee was the first move that Starbucks made upscale, and it’s individually-brewed coffee instead of the ratchet liquid that comes out of that big metal cistern. Some varieties are surprisingly smooth and not at all bitter—10x better than the normal coffee.

Which sets my twisted, conspiratorial mind ablaze—maybe…just maybe…they made the basic coffee shitty just so you’d pay twice as much for the drinkable good coffee. In the words of Gregory Peck in Moby Dick, “IM ONTO YOU STARBUCKS”

The hot breakfast sandwiches at Starbucks are delicious and just may be the reason why I’m still alive. There’s no greater relief than chowing down on a bacon gouda after you’ve drank green tea on an empty stomach and you’re pretty sure your organs will consume upon themselves and you’ll be the origin of the next black hole, slowly sucking in patrons until you bring about the end of the world.

The Starbucks in Calabasas now has Starbucks Late Night, and while it sounds like a shitty Baywatch reboot, they actually serve wine, beer, and snazzy appetizers (snazzetizers). I have yet to try that, mostly because what-the-fuck-reason-should-I-be-in-Calabasas, but the next time I get a Kris Jenner drunk sext, I’ll review it (likely in a bruised yet oddly-satisfied state).

Which brings me to “La Boulange”, the new bougie Starbucks product line that starts today based off of some obscure San Francisco bakery. The tagline is “delicious pastries NOW SERVED WARM at your neighborhood Starbucks”, so thankfully my cataract eyes can only read the important part.

As I ordered my “hot passion tea” this morning (which may as well just be a Viagra bouillabaisse with a description like that) I asked the barista (gawd I hate that word), “ah, this is the new stuff, right?” while pointing at the case.

He sneered. “It’s not JUST new, it’s also preservative-free”, before thrusting a brochure in my illiterate face.

I never thought in my life I’d need a brochure to read about pastries, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.

I peered into the case at the tiny little loaf cakes and croissants and noticed one thing missing—the price. Eventually, after whipping out my 7th monocle, I was able to survey the damage: $3.45 for a ham and cheese croissant.

I backed slowly away from the pastry case, which may as well have been displaying jewelry. Too rich for my blood!

Then the temptation grew, metastasizing like a benign tumor inside me.  After all, it has the potential to be really splendiferous and then I’ll ignore the price completely.

I did the unthinkable.  I coughed up $3.45 for a fucking pastry.

I don’t think the barista appreciated me half-joking that if I didn’t like it “it’s on YOU” but I can only please one person per day and it was just not his fucking day.

I got the weird little coaster-shaped object two minutes later. Starved, I bite into it with reckless disregard for the roof of my mouth, only to be pleased that today was not a day where I’d burn off my hard palate. The croissant part was pretty good, and tasted what I guess could be described as “fresher”? Maybe fresher than a croissant from the discount rack at the grocery store? I don’t frequently consume stale croissants so I don’t know what they taste like but I do know this didn’t taste like that.

Then I bit into the ham-and-cheese center. Bland, inoffensive, gormless, lifeless. I take one bite farther. Cold. Miserable.  Spiteful.  Lonely.

For some reason, I know I’ve tasted this before…

Oh yeah! It’s a ham and cheese fucking Hot Pocket.

Shit.  I  just spend three and a half bucks on a pastry I could have bought a box of at Ralph’s down the street for the same price.

I don’t know who you’re convincing that you’re all fancy and Fraaaaaanch, Starbucks, but you ain’t foolin me with your microwave-special-delights. Three thumbs down.

the cold-hearted offender…

UPDATEEE:

So what happened was…

A couple hours later, I went up to the counter to get my hot passion tea refill, and the barista asked me how the pastry was.  Usually I’d be polite and smile and say “good” but I grew a pair (of anti-ovaries) and said, “it was actually cold in the middle”.

I’ve never watched someone die, but this was as close to it as I’ve ever gotten.

He stammered–the oven this morning wasn’t working (well then why did you recommend I get an oven item, dumbshit?)–they were SOOO overwhelmed–he had cramps–WTC 7 was a controlled demolition–other unintelligible excuses.

Then he offered to get me anything I wanted on the house.  That was nice.  I opted for the tomato and cheese croissant to give this whole Boulange shit a second shot, fully realizing they would potentially nuke it this time out of spite.

I tried it and sure enough it was…pretty good.  For a Pizza-flavored Hot Pocket.

Goddammit.

The barista checked on his way out to make sure they got it right this time, so two thumbs up for that.

Two thumbs up for this too if it was a buck.  One thumb if it was a buck fifty.

Two thumbs down for being three bucks and change.

So if you guys really, desperately, still want to try the new La Boulange croissants, stop by my apartment later…

…we’re making Hot Pockets.

Let’s just start by getting this out of the way: my 6th grade teacher was leaps and bounds cooler than yours.

Imagine a dude who was around 6’4″-6’5″.  Easily pushing past 300lbs.  Voice deep enough to make Barry White shudder.

That was Mr. Cohagan, or Mr. C as he was affectionately known.

He was the kind of man who would walk around campus, the grocery store, the movie theatre, anywhere and spot some little punk-ass kid with his hat on backwards, pick up the little sonofabitch by his cap, and turn it back around, saying, “that’s the way it was meant to be worn, son.”  Imagine John Wayne as Mr. C and that’s about as close as you’ll get without having met him.

He didn’t have class, he held court.  Our desks were arranged in a semi-circle around him, where he would bellow loud enough for kids three doors down to hear.

His classroom was like a miniature Smithsonian.  Every fossil, rock, marine life, paleontology item you could imagine coated every surface of the class, every wall was pasted over with layers of marine posters and graphs, all punctuated by an enormous taxidermied shark literally coming out of the wall.  Between these relics and the years and years of Glade plug-ins, the room acquired a wholly unique aroma that seeped into the hallways.  The first few days it was off-putting.  By the end of the year it felt like home.

His class had a soundtrack.  Three CDs that played on a loop to where you knew every song by heart before Christmas (NOT WINTER) break: Remember the Titans soundtrack, O Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack, and the Coyote Ugly soundtrack.  Any of his ex-students could kick ass at karaoke for any of those songs now–we all know the words by heart.

I could say he made learning fun, but I would be lying.  He didn’t just make it fun, he made it a journey that was engaging, passionate, memorable.  He wasn’t a “by-the-book” guy.  He made up his own materials, his own curriculum, his own class–which chafed against the anally-retentive, federal-funds-seeking administration (namely Principal Uyeno, whose presence eventually caused Mr. C to retire when he still had a few years left in him.  Hope that $3000 rug for the front office paid for with federal funds and your St. John’s stretch pants worked out well for you.)  His class became the most popular and difficult to get into at the school–and it was all luck of the draw.  That of course pissed administrators off.  Why, everyone should be equal!  How dare a teacher go above and beyond!  We want each child to receive an equally mediocre education (teaching the standardized tests).  Mr. C staved them off as long as he could, providing his class as an experience for kids to learn and not minding how many kids were in it.  His departure a year later caused the entire school to suffer–after all, he opened the damn thing two decades earlier.

September 11th happened just days into that year of class.  I remember my mom waking me up to show me the TV and seeing the horror unfold.  We showed up to class in a daze, some late, all anxious.  We didn’t know about the world.  We knew there was just an election and that nobody liked Bill Clinton or Al Gore.  As we all sat, Mr. C lumbered up to the front of the class with his traditional gait.  He looked up solemnly and then away–unusual for a man who would look you in the eye to the point where you’d piss your pants–and said that “things just aren’t gonna be the same” after what happened that day.  It sounds paradoxical, but it was comforting to see an authority figure address what was going on in adult terms instead of lying and telling us everything would be ok like the “grief counselors” and other bullshit artists who pretend like they know how to deal with kids.

Like the movie “October Sky”, he helped us build rockets in class (which are likely against some bullshit regulation these days along with banning tag and kickball and everything that makes being a kid fun).  He gave us weeks to work on our rockets and build them however we wanted.  But when we tested them, we learned an important lesson–simplest was best.  My Finship Fantastica went at a diagonal into the dirt.   The one that was fooled-with-the-least soared into the sky, at least into flying altitude.  That lesson alone prepared me for physics–in my senior year of high school.  Mr. C’s lessons were simply innovative.  He didn’t think we had to learn 6th-grade-stuff in 6th grade.  He believed it was best we learned more complex things earlier while our brains were still growing and malleable than as disillusioned teens.

We also had to collect insects.  Literally, like 50 insects and put them in a box to explain what each one was.  Note to 6th grade self–avoid the crickets because they stink like hell.  Ants smell like Pine-Sol.  And for God’s sake, don’t scrounge around the garage the morning of because you’re 20 bugs behind.

We watched Bill Nye, we read “Harrison Bergeron”, we created our own countries, we had the “growing up” talk–we got an education that studying for a mind-numbing standardized test would have robbed us of.

Before our Sonora camping trip, affectionately referred to by the hardworking and stressed Parent Club moms as a “Dads Trip!”, the dads asked Mr. C at the school PTA meeting if they could bring a little wine and some appetizers to enjoy after the kids went to bed.  Mr. C told them “now…we can’t do that”, but after the meeting came up and said, “I’ll bring the cigars”.

At the end of the year, we had planned to go to Asilomar Beach to check out the tidepools–to see firsthand these little pockets of diverse life we had studied with such fervor.  Mr. C was incredibly excited about the trip he took his class on every year, until the school scuttled it due to scheduling conflicts.  I’ve never seen a grown man look so disappointed as he when he had to inform us we couldn’t go.

I remember kids going into his class being painfully shy.  The kind of kids who would cower if you so much as spoke a word in their direction.  Their social hesitance was no match for Mr. C, who would literally reach in and drag words out of them.  By the end of the year he turned the agoraphobic into chatty Cathy’s.

That quality also made him one hell of a football coach (unlike the other coach, Mr. Armendariz, the anti-Mr. C: a gladhanding, administration-suckling, corner-cutter who didn’t give a shit about his class or kids in general).  We were damn lucky to have an ex-49er lineman teaching a bunch of kids more interested in picking clover to play against the tough kids from the other side of the tracks (Pinedale, Nelson).

Mr. C’s favorite line: “my grandmother can run faster than you, and she’s dead.”  He would never miss a beat–and had a laugh that could echo through an open field like it were Carlsbad Caverns.  My buddy Jared Deaver got the grandmother quip a lot amongst others, mostly because he was a slow fat fuck and deserved it.  But I’ll be damned if he didn’t run faster by the end of the year.

Mr. C retired the year after our class, and the field was named in his honor.  As a last dig, Principal Uyeno put up an $80 QuickSign that said “Cohagan Field” instead of springing for something a little more long-lasting.  Last time I drove by Valley Oak, the sign was down.  Thanks, you bitch.

“Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” came on at Starbucks earlier and I began to tear up thinking about Mr. C and what a positive effect he had on my life.  He was the kind of man a kid could look up to and say, “I want to be him someday.”  And he’s the kind of man who could look down at you, hand on shoulder, and say “son, if you work hard, you can be anything you want.”

I was consumed with grief upon hearing about Mr. C’s passing a year and a half ago.  When we were in middle school, he had a severe boating accident that he miraculously survived.  Luckily, he got a few more years to enjoy his well-deserved retirement, and to go back to his true passion besides teaching–fishing and becoming a new grandfather.

We all had teachers growing up that inspired us to learn a little more, work a little harder, and light the fire on that intellectual curiosity that blazes for a lifetime.  I’ve had my share of good teachers, and great teachers, but Mr. C was in a league of his own.  Rest in peace as you fish that heavenly lake, and know that you influenced a generation of kids to become superlative adults.