Parkside Q

One Fuck-UPS Too Many

"What can brown do for you?" That's the mantra that the United Parcel Service lives by, and, based on my recent experiences with them, will die by. If the past two and a half weeks are any indication, brown can't do diddly for me. Speaking of which, brown is an apt color scheme for them; it's the most accurate metaphor for their shitacular service. From now on, my mind will forever equate UPS's palette with steaming piles of Doberman dookie.

All I wanted was my damn poster that I ordered from the Obama store (P.S. our next President will be Black! Except for his white half, of course). All I got was two delivery notices, incompetent service reps trying to talk me out of murdering one of their truck drivers, three donuts and two cups of coffee. The latter two are courtesy of Dunkin Donuts, a truly awesome company that rose to the occasion and *gasp* actually gave me what I wanted when I requested it. And they even gave me an extra squirt of vanilla at BOTH locations, no questions asked.

Unfortunately, this story isn't about how awesome DD is (though this fact is undeniable). That would be too easy.

My loopy fiasco (see what I did there?) with UPS began with their initial attempt to send my package to my apartment. I caught my first whiff of the shitstorm that was brewng when I found one of those nifty info-notice postcards in my mailbox, instead of the box I was expecting. Usually, UPS leaves the package by the mailboxes; the explanation on my postcard was that my address was incomplete on the shipping label, therefore my package was undeliverable and brought back to the "local" shipping center (more on this later).

The first thing I tried to do was pick up my package from the local shipping center. I HopStopped the address on the postcard, and after work the next day went on my merry way to Midwood to pick up my package. I got to Midwood slightly later than expected, but the bigger surprise was still in store. The address on the postcard led me to an antique furniture shop. I asked the guy at the desk where the hell UPS was (since this clearly was not it), and he pointed out a Google map printout I missed on the way in. Because of the format of the address on UPS's postcard, I went to the wrong place; I was supposed to be in Canarsie, a lifetime (ok, like two train rides) away. At that point, it was too late to try to pick it up at the correct location, so I stopped at the local Dunkin Donuts for a tasty treat before heading home.

I wish this was the end, but the agony was just staring to be fully realized.

Piss Off

Before I start this post, I feel like I need to clear up a few things with the three of you that still read this blog. Not only am I a horrible blogger, but I am also a horrible liar. I said I was going to update more, and that has become a platitude of epic fail. It's also the antithesis of what my goal is here: to get my work exposed and build up my writing cred enough to actually get leads on freelancing. That would be a hell of a lot easier if I actually updated more than twice a month, and I clearly need to re-focus my energy on both writing awesome (if random) bullshit and getting people to give enough shits to keep coming back for more. Only way to do that is to post more and better articles, and that is my intent from here on out. Scout's honor.

Ok, back to bullshitting. This is something men will appreciate more than women, but it's still pertinent to anyone reading this as it deals with a subject that we all encounter on a daily basis: public bathroom etiquette. As a precursor, let me explain something that we dudes call the "One Three Five Rule" (I'm not sure if this has been inducted into the sacred halls of Man Law yet, but it should be). [EDIT: It is!!] Quite simply, you put at least one urinal of space between you and your fellow potty breaker when availability of urinals allow for it.
To do otherwise is an invasion into the privacy of one of man's most private acts: pissing.

Now I know what you're thinking: "What's the big deal? And don't act like you didn't publicly pee on than cop car last weekend you schmuck." Like I said above, you need privacy "when availability [will] allow for it". Going home after a night of hard living, based on the fact that you left the house in the first place, naturally trumps the preferance of privacy normally afforded to Seabiscuit impersonations. Besides, it's not like my friends stood around and watched me relieve myself against squad car 1-Tango-13 (the police sure did, though).

It's Over 9000!!!!!!

The above graphic shows the fluctuations of the Dow Jones Industrial Average for today. As the title of this post indicates, the market ended over 9,000 points, which conveniently allows me to post this old-ass meme:

That's the good news. The bad news is that this is the third day in a row where the market ended under 10,000 (which hasn't happened in four years). In case you've been living under a rock for the past month or so, recent market conditions are rocking financial institutions like hurricanes, and the bailout package recent passed by Congress and signed by Figurehead Bush ("President" is too kind at this point) hasn't kicked into effect yet.

I'm no economist, but my best guess is that things will probably get worse before they get better. I just hope that the "over 9000!!" vid becomes irrelevant again due to the market going over 10,000 as opposed to under 9000.

This Put A Smile On My Face

 

Why so serious Pam? Then again, I'd look that way if I were dating Michael Jackson, too. For real, it's almost a pre-requisite that you have to look like a hot tranny mess to date Jacko; he refuses to look worse than his significant others. Of course, Michael Jackson now looks like a zombie a la "Thriller" now, so this is no small feat

You know, I feel like I've seen someone look strikingly similar to Her Botoxness, but I can't seem to put my finger on it. Oh, shit, I know who she looks like!

 

Sheesh, at least the Joker's clown makeup was intentional.

Image via DListed.

Soapboxes And Stalls: Who'd Have Thunk They Could Walk In Twain?

Parkside Q is on tour this weekend; I am visiting my alma mater since it's a major weekend for campus community events. I'll update later regarding stepshows and whatnot, but I just had to post this first to show you all how random people can be.

I'm very proud that I graduated from Cornell, but sometimes this school just doesn't act normally. In this case, I was in the library checking my facebook when I decided to use the bathroom. Now, most public bathrooms have all sorts of graffiti, gang tags, and/or obscenities scribbled on the walls with Sharpie. Similarly, the library's bathroom has been vandalized, but Cornell's vandals are truly rebels with a cause. Check out my mini gallery after the jump.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do, Especially Without Warning

I still can't believe you walked out of my life and into the Brooklyn night. It took a while for me to even comprehend how and why our relationship could have ended so abruptly. I've been having a hard time gathering my thoughts since you left, but now I'm finally level-headed and sober enough to express how I feel.

Let's start at the beginning. When I first met you at school, I could tell you were very popular. You had the attention of guys and girls alike; everyone wanted you to hang out with them. That led me to believe you were a little high maintenance, but I was only judging from what I saw on the outside. When I finally got a chance to meet you up close and personal, chilling with you made me realize I was mistaken. You did have a cool, almost metallic exterior, but looking deeper I saw how beautiful you were on the inside, which only made me appreciate your stunning good looks even more.

Soon after that first introduction, we became close. Inseparable, even. You would come with me everywhere: class, meetings, dinner, the whole nine. People started to get annoyed since they thought you were taking over too much of my time, especially when I would listen to you while they were trying to tell me something. But I didn't care; you brought me joy, and I never thought that you being with me all the time was anything more than simply indicative of the bond we had. Or so I thought.

1000 Words: Patti LaBelle and Donatella Versace

Why does it look like Patti Labelle is trying to devour Donatella Versace's nose? What's more, what kind of fashion mogul allows herself to be photographed looking so hot, shitty, and messy? Sheesh, you'd think with all the money these women have, they'd be able to pay to make this abortion of a photo never see the light off day. But here it is, as plain as the fact that I want to vomit now that I've had to look at it long enough to post.

Also, is it just me, or is the Versace logo in the background made of tin foil? I swear, for a Versace cocktail party, it came off tackier than RuPaul remaking the music video for "Crazy In Love".

Image via DListed.

Government Handouts Are Bad, Unless You're A Collapsing Hedge Fund

There's an article in the New York Times today (via Consumerist) which details a disturbing development on Wall Street. The investment fund, Bear Stearns, had what is known as a "run on the bank". In layman's terms, BS said they weren't collapsing under the weight of their putrid subprime mortgage business - and the error of investing too heavily in them. Their investors begged to differ, and many of them asked to pull their money out of BS. The action of BS's investors would have lead to its demise, until the Fed, backed by JP Morgan, gave some short-term float cash to BS.

Now, take a sec to think about this. The Fed's action in this case amounts to nothing more than a government handout. In a truely free market, BS would have been left lying face-down in the gutter to bleed out and die, with its rotting corpse swept away to some unknown sewage treatment facility the next time there was a torrential downpour. This is not what happened. In fact, it looks like BS got the money from JP Morgan, but the Fed gave JPM the money to give to BS, since BS can't borrow the money from the Fed's themselves.

Away Messages And Diamond Ratings

As we all know by now, former NY governor Eliot Spitzer was caught buying poontang from an online prostitution ring. Though he has since resigned due to the political fallout, I just want it to be known that I am actually two degrees of separation from the booking agency, Emperor's Club VIP, that Spitzer frequented.

I know what you're thinking; no, I was not a john of the club (you really think I have $1000 to spare on luxury hookers?). However, a close friend of mine (who shall only be referred to by her IM handle) was involved in the Emperor's Club in a roundabout sort of way that you may or may not expect. Just read the AIM convo after the jump (da1crazymofodude is me).

Gov. Eliot Spitzer Linked To Prostitution Ring And Staten Island. Which Is Worse?

New York State's very own governor, Eliot Spitzer, revealed to the world today that he, in fact, thinks with his dick more often than with his brain. In what can only be described as "typical for a high-profile politician", Spitzer, accompanied on stage by (soon-to-be-ex) wife Silda, declared in a press conference that he "acted in a way that violates my obligations to my family and violates my, or any, sense of right and  wrong."

What was his transgression? He got caught with his pants down, in more ways than one. He was the subject of a federal wiretap of an escort ring called Emperor's Club VIP. This was Spitzer's first mistake; He was trying to play a game way out of his league. He is not emperor of NY, he is only governor. And who knows how much longer he'll keep that job (hopefully longer than he can keep "it" up).