Sean's Random Humor

I posted this on Facebook, figuring more people would read it there than here, but for those of you who haven't been sucked into the social hurricane, here's a little blurb I wrote after an experience I had a week ago...


On my lunch today I went out to my car, opened the door, tossed my keys and wallet and jacket inside, and was about to go in and sit down to read when a bee casually flies in the open door and lands on the back of my car seat.

It was actually kind of hilarious how it happened – I was taking my sweet time getting in the car, and the bee just makes a beeline (excuse the pun) past me and into the car…as if it had a right to be there.

“Excuse me, pardon me, seat inspector here. Hmm, this seat seems nice, I’ll take it.”

And as it flies in (bees in?), I’m just watching it, thinking “did that bee really just fly into my car?” followed by “Oh great, now what? Give the bee a harsh warning, and then count to three?” followed by “I should have done something instead of standing idly by…like hit it…no, like swat at it…no, like stand like an idiot and watch it manhandle (beehandle?) its way into my car while I stand back in a manly and unstung fashion, which could loosely be described as hopping up and down from foot to foot and yelling “ooooh! OOOH!! THERE’S A BEEEEE IN MY CARRR! A bee a bee a bee a bee bee bee bee bee”

Meanwhile the seat inspector starts to crawl around to the back of the seat…and in my normal coherently brave thinking, I think “Should I hit it? Hmm, but then it might get pissed and sting me. Better give it what it wants.”

And so it proceeds around the back of the seat, and disappears. So I do what any man in this situation would do – cautiously stick my head inside to see if the passenger door handle is covered in bees, unlock it, open it, and run away screaming like a little girl.

I’m not sure if the bee is still in my car or if it flew out of its own accord (if the dang bee has a car already, why is it bothering me?). It’s supposed to rain tonight, so I think I might take the chance and drive home with all my windows rolled down just in case it's still in there. Better soaked than trapped in a bee-infested car I always say.

Thanks to the gentle prodding (ouch! You sharpen your tuning forks?) of Yumi, I am making myself finish this blog entry about my first experience dining at Mastro's Steakhouse and Inferiority Complexery, where the dining experience alone has more personality than I do - not to mention more money, class, and pleasant odors. It is a fine establishment where just mentioning the word "ambiance" adds an extra $15 to your bill. Where the waiter will spend 10 minutes dutifully explaining every single item on the menu, including where it was caught (next time you are there, ask about the artichokes...funny story, that), what type of $300 wine goes best with it, and how high of a credit score it requires to order.

"Why, yes sir, this particular lobster was hand fed filet mignon and given regular deep exoskeleton massages (my, your shell is so hard! Have you been feeling crabby lately?) for the ultimate experience in tenderness. A bottle or three of the 1963 Riche Aristocrate would go splendidly with your meal, assuming of course you have a credit score of 2200 plus 25% gratuity."

In other words, it is one of those a la carte fancy pantzy steakhouses where the waiters have the little combs to brush off your table when you are done eating. Also included in the decor are artsy miniature lamps with soul-black shades on each table with actual candles inside that, due to the tint of the shades, give off absolutely no light.

Our table happened to be in the middle of a lifelike recreation of the Arctic Circle, or so the frigidity of the air conditioning suggested. But, knowing how well-catered-to one is at a restaurant like this, I wouldn't be surprised if they had a special waiter kept around with a hammer and an ice pick to break off the nosecicles as they form.

When we were ushered to our table, already sitting on the table were some neatly placed white cloth napkins. When we sat down, the usher seating us asked us both individually if we would like a black napkin. We both said yes, and they proceeded to artfully place a folded black napkin on our laps, and removed the white napkin from the table, presumably to be taken outside and beaten for not being good enough.

At one point, our waiter came up to our table, frowned at our lamp, which had gone out, and went to re-light it. We hadn't noticed that it had gone out because it didn't change the lighting of our table one bit. He re-lit it, and I still couldn't notice a difference. It went out later - again, unnoticed. So the waiter came up, took it away, replaced it with a lamp from another table, and lit the new lamp. This one stayed lit as far as I could tell, and by that I mean the waiter didn’t come back again to re-light it, so I assume it was lit. It was, you guessed it - still as dark as ever.

I almost felt a little guilty when the waiter would come up to re-light our lamp, as if he got paid in direct correlation to how many lamps were lit. Similar to the busboys at less-elegant restaurants like Soup Plantation who seem to be paid on a per-plate-cleared basis.

"May I take your plate, sir?"

"No, I'm not quite finished ye--Hey! Give my plate back!"

*running away* "23 plates! My children are gonna eat tonight!"


Part of me suspected that our waiter thought we had blown the lamp out. It probably takes all the restraint that those waiters have to refrain from shaking their heads while giving you a snide look of disdain and saying “Look what you’ve done.” And you know if you let out the slightest snicker they’ll bust you right in the chops.

“What’s so funny? Huh? My family's been table sweepers for five generations, way back to my great great great grandpa Bissel Hoover, who could sweep a table four times this size in just three strokes, with half of a broken comb! Oh, and then there was my father, Sweepy McGee, who swept his last table with just one stroke. I’d imagine all the shaking and his eventual collapse and death on the table itself did away with most of the crumbs.”

Of course, the best part of the evening was when the food came. And on 7000 degree plates, nonetheless. Our waiter warned us several times not to touch the plates, so naturally I had to touch mine. It actually wasn't as hot as I thought it would be, and the flames that spontaneously erupted on my finger were easily extinguished in my glass of a more modest choice of wine, the Frugale Farte.

I got the 28 oz. Prime Rib, Medium Rare, Dripping and Wiggling. I ended up eating about 20 ozs of it before my stomach threw the white flag, which was quite bloodied by this time. Strangely enough, my steak wasn't super warm, so I ended up pressing most bites against the nuclear plate to warm them up a bit.

When we left, we couldn't just get in our car and drive away. No no no, that would be too easy! Mastro's only offers valet parking (slogan: "As if you weren't paying enough already"). We had to wait for the valet manager to put in a call to whichever guy was currently joyriding around in our car and tell him to bring it back within the hour. Funny how our culture has convinced us that spending money to have someone else park our car for us and then waiting several minutes for it when we are ready to leave is better than parking our car for free and leaving immediately. Oh well, I guess they have to pay those busboys somehow.

Of course, I wouldn't have been able to go if it weren't for Erica budgeting for it and generously offering to take me there for my 24th birthday. Thanks 'Ca. :-)




Are you looking for more? I bet you're still wondering how the artichoke was caught.


Why, by a firm grip around its neck, of course.

I've been a big fan of the Garfield comic strip since I was a small child, i.e. less than six feet tall. Recently, David B. (for the sake of his privacy, I will refrain from mentioning his last name) (well, how many David's do I know really?) (I mean anyone who knows me could easily guess which David I'm talking about) (I know, I'll refer to him - nay, him/her as D. Braun) (brilliant) told me about a variation on the classic Jim Davis creation.

It's called Garfield minus Garfield. The premise of it is basically to show that Jon (the pathetic owner of Garfield) is not only pathetic, but without the leading role of Garfield's thought bubbles, actions, and expressions, he turns into a bipolar, schizophrenic loser. There have been better, more thought out descriptions of his behavior, but if you're like me, you'll just enjoy looking and laughing at the comics.

I started writing what was turning out to be a long blog just to try to get out one thought that came to me in the car on the way to church tonight, and I ended up erasing all of it and summarizing it as succinctly as possible. Hopefully it makes some sense now.


When making a decision, don't just focus on asking yourself if you will be pleasing the right people on Earth - your parents, your friends, your husband or wife, your boss, but rather ask yourself who you will be pleasing by acting on this decision - God or the devil?

You can't please everyone with all of your decisions, so make sure you choose wisely.

In response to Erica's latest blog with the same name, here's what she wrote. I suggest you read her blog first if you haven't already to get the background required to understand why we did this.

But in short, this is a cheat sheet of sorts that is meant to be given to someone that has the intention of trying to impress me, like on a first date. However, the trick is that all of the things listed are completely false. So here is how to win me over, by Erica Olson.

...


Oh, so you want to go out with Sean Reagan, huh? Well, you've come to the right place. I will help you win him over.

- First of all, make sure to wear lots of makeup, especially lipstick and lipgloss. He loves it.
- Ask him to watch Pride and Prejudice (any version) with you. Make sure that he stays awake the entire time. He doesn't want to miss a moment, it's his favorite movie.
- He really doesn't like sports, make sure to tell him that you have absolutely no interest in ever playing or watching any sort of sports game.
- He finds forgetfulness endearing.
- He really doesn't like joking around. It may seem like he's telling a joke, but he is completely serious. Make sure not to laugh.
- Do not bring up children, Sean does not want any.
- Suggest to go to a country music concert on your first date or, even better, a punk group.
- Bring him black licorice as a gift.
- Don't worry if you interrupt him or finish his sentences, he doesn't really mind.
- He loves to spend money for fun. Suggest activities that take money.
- He likes deep shoulder rubs. When rubbing his back go as hard as you can.
- His least favorite sport is basketball.
- One of his favorite shows is Desperate Housewives.
- He doesn't like talking about his day.

I was fortunate enough to receive two tickets from my work for the opening night of the Lakers vs. Rockets game on Tuesday. Having never been to a basketball game, this was an amazing experience to see the game I love to play being played just 11 rows away from me by players I root for all the time.