Kobe or not Kobe
Wrong Kobe, in more ways than one.
The signs were there, if one was enlightened enough to see them. You know you’re in a classy restaurant when the waiter hands you a game piece that reads “DO NOT OPEN” and tells you that you just might win $25,000. Also, this meal was going to be a golden opportunity to earn “triple points.”
Yep. Classy. No John Dory. No risotto. No Gordon Ramsay. Just class.
I ordered the “signature” steak but, alas, it was a rip off. There wasn’t even any writing on it!
I was about to leave to find a real restaurant that served a taco with a strip of bacon or “mighty” wings, but then I noticed something else on the menu.
A “Kobe” burger.
Shit. They sure know how to bring the full-court press. My buttocks clenched, which is just about the only defensive play I know.
Kobe.
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You Don’t Know Polite
Why does shit like this happen to me? (This is my version of the “dark and stormy” night opening as a literary device.)
My wife and I were out to dinner and having our usually jolly time. Things were clicking. My jokes were firing on all cylinders. I was witty. Our repartee was fast and furious on a highly intellectual level.
As we exited the restaurant I was feeling pretty good. (It could happen.) I saw four people behind us. They were far enough back that I could have let the door close and no slight would have been perceived. I decided to be nice and waited to hold open the door.
They came through single file. As she passed, the first person actually said, I kid you not, “Thank you.”
Wow. It’s a modern day miracle. I’m now that much closer to sainthood. I was momentarily stunned and at a loss for words. As quickly as I could I responded with, “You’re welcome.”
Oops. By then the third person was already walking by. She heard what I said and turned and looked at me. With dagger eyes. Of hatred and death.
Ah. She thought I was talking to her and assumed I was being snotty because she decidedly did not bother to say thank you.
Good intentions: 0. Crass misunderstandings: 1.
Bad form, Mr. Smee. Bad form.
And now some politeness tips from yours truly.
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Candy Crushing
Hey, have you heard the latest? There’s a game called Candy Crush Saga for your handheld device.
Behold! I give you the ultimate evil in the galaxy!
I installed the damn thing once. By doing so I think I earned a few “Dino bucks” in my dino wranglin’ game, but that’s another story.
I opened the game and played a level. I found the motif totally inane and annoying. The game itself was vapid and uninspired. I said to myself, “Hey, self! Isn’t this game just a rip-off variation of those 42 million other games where you match and line shit up so more shit will fall down?”
I promptly deleted it from my device. What a stupid piece of shit, I thought. Luckily I’ll never have to hear of it again.
Wrong!
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Hyppo and Critter: The Snot Heard Round The World
And a bonus from the Hyppo and Critter archives…
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Too Many Words
Like Mozart with his “too many notes” I have been shamed by the assertion that my heretofore writings contain, and I quote, “Too many words.”
The charge, bitterly leveled by my otherwise serviceable spouse, had placed me in the uncomfortable position of scheming the proper retort.
Thus quote the author, “.”
Shouts from the Abyss 
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