Arguing With Myself

What do we have here? That’s a good kind of cute. The kind of cute that putting makeup on would be a sin---

But that shirt. I didn’t know women wear Tommy Bahama. Tucked in to, what are those? Black khakis? Looks like somebody is off their diet. A meatball sub on a Tuesday afternoon? Obviously she’s not looking to impress.

Oh my God, Alan, you’re such a prick. How could you even think that? What a sexist, know she can see your thinning hair Tons-O-Fun. I should look down at my food for a while, don’t want to be suspicious. There you go, push that piece of lettuce there, you’re not going to eat it anyway. I'm not even mad at you. I'm disappointed. You see, I’ve saved her the trouble of finding out how useless you are by revealing your sham before she can find out for herself. Saves a lot of disappointing sex along the way.

She does look nice though. I know I’m not supposed to like pony tails because of all the bus ads telling me she might be born with it, but that “static-y” frizz is pretty adorable. Too bad I can’t see her sweater meat through that shirt. Seriously, what’s with the Hawaiian shirt? She’s either a lazy street rat with poor fashion sense or a lost tour guide that thinks this is where pineapples grow! Great Alan, you picked a real winner, a tit hiding simpleton that travels 5000 miles for her lunch break. Piss off! She’s probably a bitch anyway!

If you lean any closer to that delicious Italian sammy, your hair’s going to touch— don’t!


What a move. Putting the hair behind your ear. Genius.

Oh, c'mon, that’s hot. You marinara bathing temptress! You know how remorseful I felt about insulting you and now you’re throwing it in my face! And you dropped your napkin. How nice--

Tit! Houston, we have tit! Oh my lord, they’re more magnificent than I could have imagined. I wonder if I’m the only guy in the world that prefers boob in bra when in public? I might be. I can see side bubble at any awards show and plenty of exposed breast on Nat Geo, but here in the urban wild, nothing quite like one nestled in a holster for the eye to linger upon. I can’t be the only guy, right? Maybe I should open it up to more than guys? I can’t be the only person, since there must be a lesbian that agrees with me. If I ever need a second source of breast preference who would be better? I need to get more lesbian friends. I think Tiffany at work is a lesbian. She never has a boyfriend. Then again, no one brings their partners to work, so I guess that’s not the best variable to judge by. Miguel did bring his partner to work once, Michael. That’s hilarious, Michael and Miguel. I wonder if Miguel introduced Michael to his family in English or Spanish? Spanish would have gotten pretty confusing, right? Do you translate names? I should look it up.

What would we do without smartphones? Well, that’s easy, I’d have to use a computer. But what if this was still the ‘90s and I didn’t own one. I had to go to like an internet café or something. So weird. A Starbucks where the computers were provided for you. What would an internet café manager from ’96 walked into a coffee shop today? He’d probably order a coffee. Then be amazed at all the color screened palm pilots everyone was reading.

Shit, is it going to rain today? Nope. Glad I checked. Why did I pull out my phone? Oh yeah!

“How to introduce your gay partner with a name in a different language?”

Can a guy Google on his lunch break without being bothered by the office just once? Once!

Let me guess, Janet telling me how somebody else making twice as much as me is receiving another promotion…

Junk mail. “Hi, this is ashley, im 21 and ready for our date 2nite. please call or email me. lotsOfun69@hotmail dot com.”

I know you’re not real “lower cased Ashley” but I still wished you knew how to use an apostrophe. Or real words maybe.

I bet Meatball Sub can use a comma. Maybe she’s in favor of the Oxford. I hope so. Education is hot. So is grabbing that ponytail I bet. It’s like a built in handle bar. And if I took her from the back, she wouldn’t have to see me all sweaty, which is a win for both of us. Jesus, that’s somebody’s daughter, you really are an ass. A big stinky ass, just covered in more ass. You don’t even deserve a penis.

You blew it again. Just get some more poison in a cup and inhale aspartame until you get kidney cancer. You suck, Alan. Die already.

“I like your shirt,” said Alan.

“I’m sorry?” replied Meatball Sub, who genuinely didn’t hear what he said.

Strike three Alan. Go home.


Why do they never say hello? I love marinara.