Monday, March 8, 2010

Warning Signs: Folded Credit Card Slip Edition

Is it any wonder that someone who goes to great lengths to hide the printed face of a credit card slip might be a lousy tipper?  And just to be safe, lest an errant breeze should traverse the room and lift the folded flap of the paper, exposing their cheapness for all the world to see, a pen is invariably laid across the slip--an extra barrier for the server to remove before being met with the inevitable disappointment.

Perhaps, you say, the person is only trying to protect their personal information by folding the slip of paper.  We, after all, live in the age of identity theft and cyber-criminals wearing special credit-card-slip-reading glasses are doubtlessly clinging to the very ceiling above with the use of suction-cupped gloves and knee-pads.  It is easy to say that if you've never lifted the obstructing pen and peered between the folded leaves of paper, only to be met with a sum crafted a mathematician of the vilest, most black-hearted stripe.

In a perfect society, people would be forced to wear a digital display on their foreheads, indicating the lifetime tipping percentage.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

High Fives

At what age can one be expected to abandon the practice of giving high-fives?  Twelve?  Fifteen?  Perhaps eighteen, the age at which one is legally recognized as an adult?  The end of childhood seems to be a reasonable--if not generous--point at which one can leave high-fives behind.

Not so, if you happen to be the Rich Dude or are fortunate enough to belong to his inner circle.  High-fives are freely exchanged, particularly between The Rich Dude and Bobby Gift, the alpha and beta males of the group.  The fact that both men are nearly fifty years old does not phase them in the least.  The resonant slap of palm on palm echoes throughout the room, so that all present can be certain that The Rich Dude and Bobby are in full appreciation of each other’s sense of humor.

One can only assume that the jokes are sexual in nature, since the Rich Dude and his circle comprise a rather well-known sex cult that makes frequent trips south of the border to the Rich Dude’s Mexican Pleasure Palace for weeks-long bacchanals (and, mostly likely far beyond that, to international waters, where the law of man cast no shadow upon the writhing, flesh-hued pleasure ball that for them represents an ideal existence, from which all deviations in life--besides that of cramming sushi down their throats or talking about Avatar--are mundane and trivial).

Though it’s difficult to hear above the din of the chatter, laughter, and clacking chopsticks, the basic anatomy of a high-five goes something like this.

The Rich Dude picks up a piece of tuna and puts it in his mouth.  He chews.

The Rich Dude:  Wow, this tuna is really good today.  So fatty.

Bobby Gift: Kind of like _______’s thighs.  (Where _______ is the latest initiate into the cult, who, after some days spent in the clutches of the Rich Dude, was released from her servitude to be passed around like a form of sexual currency by the subordinate members of the group).

The Rich Dude laughs so hard that a piece of tuna shoots out of his nose.

Rich Dude:  Too true, Bobby.  Too true.  Here.

The Rich Dude raises his hand, palm facing Bobby.

Rich Dude:  Hi five!

Unable to resist the invitation, Bobby Gift slaps the Rich Dude some skin on high.  The crack of palm on palm in the small dining room is not unlike that of a high-powered rifle being discharged.  Other diners in the room flinch, spilling cups of green tea and fumbling pieces of sushi from between their chopsticks.

Bobby Gift, second-in-command in the Rich Dude's band of sensualists, silver fox, mustachioed Lothario so secure in his own sexuality that he need never diverge from his pink-shirted uniform, still harbors a secret fear that his invitation to high five will be snubbed.

Friday, March 5, 2010

Brother Blood On Sale Now

Now that you've read Drought Resistant Strain by Mather Schneider (and doubtlessly loved every line of it) you may be in the mood for some slightly different fare.  Well, look no further than Brother Blood.

Brother Blood is a good, old-fashioned blaxploitation vampire novel, set in gritty 1969 Los Angeles, written by Donald F. Glut.  Bill Cunningham at Pulp 2.0 says it much better than I do, so jump on over to his blog and pick yourself up a copy.

And I should mention that the gorgeous cover art is done by no other than faithful People Reviews reader, Nik Macaluso.  Nice work, Nik.  It's reason enough to pick up the book, if you ask me.