Posted on September 27, 2010 by Matty Stone
Posted on September 20, 2010 by Matty Stone
This is an old morality tale.
I used to work at a restaurant with a guy named Thomas, that’s what I think he called himself. As far as I remember everyone just referred to him as “Stinky” but not to his face mind you. Thomas had–insert echoey reverbed voice–B.O.
And it was bad, really bad. None of us could believe how this normal, academic looking white-bread character wasn’t aware of his complete and utter underarm funk. I’m not talking about the musky smell of a recently exercised male here. I’m talking about the smell from the depths of Satan’s ass that made you gag as he wafted away. He wore a white waiter’s shirt that must have been deathly allergic to cleaning chemicals and only held together by its own stubborn understains. Heaven forbid any of the poor wretches that he waited on.
Who knows how many first dates he ruined by failing to acquaint himself with a bar of soap?
I won’t go into it too much more, but when he had left the scene of a conversation I swear you could still smell him a minute later. His odor was probably temporarily lost without him, like a puppy off its leash for the first time. If he came back before the minute was up, it was like he lapped his smell on the track forging an uber-funk that was seal up your nostrils with window putty intolerable.
So anyway, one morning after we all agreed that Thomas needed to know (he was having a particularly bad (underarm) hair day or something) I volunteered myself for the mission. Well, everyone knows I can be a dick, and I didn’t really care whether Stinky thought less of me for telling him.
So I said, “Dude, did you take a shower this morning because you fucking stink?”
Okay, so yeah, I could have handled it better (story of my life) but I said it. He was shocked, startled, embarrassed, and had not a clue that his underarm odor was being ridiculed by every single employee at the joint–including, might I add, all of the managers–none of whom wanted to say anything.
So after the deed was done, I mentioned what I had said to Thomas to some of my co-workers and everyone was grateful and relieved. They said things to me like:
“I can’t believe you said something! I hope he gets a clue.”
“About time someone said something to that stinky muthafucka.”
“Thank God, Matty Stone, you are a true savior, let me worship your genius while I gently massage your genitals and feed you peeled grapes.”
Okay, okay, that last one was obviously a lie. Just making sure you’re still paying attention.
The next week Thomas comes up to me and says, “I need to talk to you.” And I assume he’s going to thank me for saying something to him about his hygiene issue, and that people have been a lot more willing to talk to him for more than a few seconds at a time.
Instead he says: “You know, I asked everyone the next day if they thought I ever smell bad, and not one of them said I did; you’re a fucking dick.”
While he was correct, I can be a fucking dick, I couldn’t believe that not one of my co-workers backed me up–not one.
So the moral here, if there is one, is this:
If I tell you you stink, and you ask other people if you stink and they say no. You still stink, and they’re just a bunch of cowards who would rather make fun of you behind your back rather than confront you about a problem that could easily be resolved with a bar of soap.
All of which still makes me a fucking dick.
Posted on September 13, 2010 by Matty Stone
Here at The Bay Area Brit, we do not have an actual budget per se. We have pretty much alienated every potential corporate sponsor. As a consequence, this week’s Travel Section article about a trip to the idyllic Greek Islands is comprised entirely from a dream that I had last night, as I have never been there. Enjoy!
In my sleep I read the brochure and knew it was the place for me:
“You’ll come for the sun, the beautiful scenery and the sights and sounds of a different world; you’ll stay because you have been summoned to Mount Olympus and chosen by Zeus to fight Cerberus, the three-headed dog-dragon that eats bushy eye-browed babies and nubile young women bearing vowel-less names.”
On the isle of Mykonos, after unwinding in our sun-drenched chalet, my traveling companion and I walked the cobbled pathway to the pier to find repast at one of the restaurants. We had seen the fishing trawlers come back to port as dusk moved in, and had been told that restaurant owners bought fish fresh from the boat. We made ourselves comfortable at a table near the water and I ordered an anisette-based aperitif called Ouzo. My companion ordered Retsina: a white wine that tastes of pine needles. Our waitress approached, and bizarrely it was a woman called Mrs. Eleanor Firstein who was my piano teacher when I was nine years old. She used to have a freckle on her cheekbone that was shaped like a caterpillar. Strangely, the freckle had grown and was now shaped like a butterfly.
I ordered the anchovy and feta salad and suddenly heard a bellowing growl come from the horizon. The restaurant’s windows cracked and the olive trees in the grove nearby bent in half. I rubbed my eyes and watched in horror as Poseidon himself, silhouetted as he rose from the water, began to advance towards the shoreline. He was the size of a forty-storey building. I knew what I had to do…
I was suddenly awake and needed a pee. I padded to the bathroom, did my business and trudged back to bed. I gradually drifted back to sleep so that I might continue my sojourn in the Greek Islands.
It was the next day, and we were kicking around in the rubble at the Acropolis in Athens. My travel companion informed me that I had defeated Poseidon (who was disgruntled after eating an iffy kebab) by making the “God of The Sea’s” head explode after singing an off-key rendition of “Ain’t Misbehavin.’”
The Acropolis’s tour guide looked exactly like Abraham Lincoln…except, for some reason, he was completely naked but for his tall hat and a pair of bright red stilettos. I asked him why he wore no clothes and he told me that former Presidents that have been dead for a century and-a-half shouldn’t have to wear garments if they didn’t want to. I joked to him that it was all well and good, but I had no desire to see that porker Taft in the nude, and then Lincoln stepped on my foot with his high heels and then smeared chunks of pineapple all over my face.
I was awake again! My 4 month-old kitten had jumped on the end of the bed and woken me up by first landing on my feet and then cantered up the bed to lick my face like it was made of tuna. I had a gash on my foot from her needle-like claws. I put some Hydrogen Peroxide on my wound and hobbled back to bed.
Damned! I was going to need another vacation after this trip.
After a heated conversation with a three-legged goat regarding the pros and cons of pasteurization while I was in Corfu, I woke up in a cold sweat.
I’d had enough of Greece and the Greek Islands. For it was a silly place. And I decided that I would travel around the U.S. a bit more, as,
a) it was within my budget, and b) because (to the best of my knowledge) nothing strange or bizarre ever happens in the United States of America.
Unless of course you count something as insane as dressing up your four year-old to look like Miss America.
Posted on September 6, 2010 by Matty Stone