So… a few New Year’s ago, my girlfriend and I decided to order in some food from our favorite Chinese place, China King.  I’m pretty sure Chinese take-out places have a large dartboard with words like “Dragon, King, China, Garden, Happy, Zen, etc” on it, and when they decide to name the place, they throw two darts, and their work is done.  At any rate, their stuff is always decent, and they’re always super-fast.  For some strange reason, every time we get a delivery from there, they feel the need to throw in something for free.  Sometimes it’s free food, or a bottle of soda (never a kind that we like), or even a bamboo calendar.  This should really make me much more nervous than it does… like they’re apologizing for something.  So, my girlfriend calls up and places our order.  Twenty minutes goes by… then thirty,  then 45 minutes.  Keep in mind, it’s usually there within twenty… so this is ODD.  My girlfriend suggests that maybe the delivery person got lost, and so I peek out the window.  Sure enough, there is an elderly Chinese man sitting in his car outside my house, looking very confused.  I open up the front door, and wave to him, and he excitedly gets out of his car, and walks up my sidewalk.  I take the bags from him, we do the money exchange, and I place the bags on the kitchen table.  This is the second time I’ve ever had the “pupu [tee-hee] platter”… but it seems very different from the last time I got it.  We start to munch on that while we open the rest of the containers.  “Hrm,” I think.  “I don’t remember ordering sweet and sour chicken.”  My girlfriend opens hers up and it’s some sort of beef dish.  She does not eat beef.  (My girlfriend is feral, and was raised by cows… don’t you dare judge her or our love!)  She grabs the menu out of the bag, and calls the place back up.  She explains the situation, and after awhile, I hear her arguing.  “No… this is not what we ordered!”  She grabs the menu that we circled everything on, and reads the numbers off.  “Well, I don’t know what to tell you, this is what we ordered an hour ago!”  My girlfriend is visibly angry now.  Apparently, the woman on the other end of the phone is also getting heated.  “I spoke to your husband, and this is what he ordered,” the woman said.  (I am refraining for writing this as it was actually spoken, because the phrase in the written word seems awfully racist.  Use your best Racist Chinese Joke voice when reading her parts in your head).  “You did not speak with my husband [‘bitch’ was certainly implied, if not said], you spoke to me, and I ordered the number 5, the number 18, and the number 24!”.  This goes on for awhile, until I emerge from the kitchen with a desperate look on my face.  Waving frantically to get my girlfriend’s attention, she finally mouths “WHAT?!?!”, to which I respond to by holding up the menu from the bag.  Then, I hold up the menu we used to order from.  China King and Happy Garden’s menus look similar, except for the contents, name, and phone number.  It turns out that our neighbors ordered food from a different place (Happy Garden) at the same time.  Our place has better food… just don’t order from them on New Year’s Eve.  They show up an hour later than usual.

So, it’s already been well established that I’m a complete and total idiot.  That said, not every incident where I burn myself is 100% MY fault.  I mean… why the FUCK does coffee need to be so god damned hot?  Seriously… molten lava is a lower temperature than your local Dunkin’ Donuts coffee pot!  I’m fairly certain that humans learned how to make glass when someone accidentally poured out their coffee in the desert.  Now granted, coffee is only hot for so long, and this is what truly amazes me.  I will first drink the coffee, annihilating all of the taste buds and feeling in the tip of my tongue.  10 minutes later, the steam from this coffee will still set fire to my nosehairs and tan my skin.  It is hot like the surface of the sun is hot.  30 seconds after that, it’s drinkable for roughly 10 seconds, after which time it becomes iced coffee.  I put the cup in the microwave to heat it up, and repeat the process until I am in the burn ward.
Speaking of steam, I think most people understand that steam is cooked food’s way of saying “hey… you might want to wait a few seconds”.  For some reason, my brain interprets this as “put that in your mouth”.  After my mouth realizes I have made yet another bad decision, my brain suggests relief.  “Swallow it, quickly!  DO IT!”  My brain is a prick sometimes.  I can feel my intestines cook as the food goes down.  Growing up, I would have the food already in my mouth when my mother would warn me, “Careful… that’s hot”.  I would stare at her, with tears welling up in my eyes.  “Yes… you are yet again 10 seconds too late,” my eyes would say.  “Please help me.”  This role is now my girlfriend’s, and she is also always 10 seconds too late.  Once, she did manage to warn me well in advance.  I looked at her like she thought I was a complete idiot.  I put the food in my mouth and immediately tried to cool it with the “reverse cooling breath” that never seems to do anything but entertain those around me.  I always walk away with a little tiny piece of skin hanging down off the roof of my mouth as a little reminder that patience is a virtue… and I am an idiot that can’t wait 30 seconds for his food to cool.  Pizza has become my favorite food to eat with other people, though… no one can escape pizza’s molten wrath.  It tricks you because the CRUST is nice and cool, and that’s the part you touch.  Cheese starts to melt at around 172 degrees Fahrenheit.  The place we order it from cooks their pizza just below the temperature where cheese turns into steam.  Ever bought a pizza and had cheese all over the top of the box.  Cheese steam.  My friend grabs a slice and puts it in his mouth.  “Careful,” I say.  “That’s hot!”

There is nothing quite as refreshing as a good pee.  I’ve never been one to say “ahhhh” while doing it, but having visited the occasional men’s room, I can certainly attest that there are plenty of men that DO.  Oh, God… I hope they were peeing!  That said, there is also nothing more bothersome than the act of urinating, and I’d like to share some of those gripes now… from a man’s point of view, anyway.  I’m sure women have their own unique problems, but I’m a dude, so you’re all on your own.  For starters, once you are standing AT the toilet or urinal, your body has already sent a signal to your bladder that everything’s a “go”.  You have roughly 5 seconds, then, to get your junk out before the flow begins…  This is where I notice that men’s underwear is unnecessarily complicated.  You know that little “flap” in the front of men’s underwear that women get so jealous of?  It is the fucking RUBIK’S CUBE of under things!  First, you pull the left flap to the left… which reveals a second flap.  You take that flap and push it to the right using your other hand.  Now, while holding two flaps in two different directions with two different hands, you have to find your dick, wrestle it out of your underwear (god forbid you have the emergency brake on… ie:  the “pee erection”) and aim it so that everything gets into the bowl that’s easily 2-3 feet away from your penis (except for urinals which are close enough to splash back onto you… or if you’re a male porn star, you probably just drop it right into the water).  Getting back to the pee-rection, though… imagine a faucet blasting away at full power.  Now, put your thumb on the part where the water comes out.  Now stop bitching about the occasional drop getting on the floor.  You’re lucky you don’t have to fucking repaint every week.
Basically, nothing can be done about the “spray” pee… the double-streamer, though… quick decisions must be made.  The decision is essentially this:  Which stream gets to go into the toilet, and which one am I cleaning up?  See… the penis is a funny thing.  At the end of it, is not so much a round hole as it is a complicated slot.  This slot can stick to itself in the middle occasionally, and PRESTO!  You have two streams.  I would sit down to pee if it just didn’t completely emasculate me.  I would honestly rather wipe up my own piss.  These days, I just pretend I’m the lost Ghostbuster and make sure the streams don’t cross.  We’re repainting Saturday.