The First Porn Experience

I don’t watch porn.  This statement is a fact and not an admittance of being a prude or anything.  I don’t see the point in porn.  Something gets lost in translation in watching another guy go to town on some plastic looking chick with daddy issues while she spouts out ridiculous things (i.e. “Oh yea, give me that cock!”) while you’re supposed to manually relieve yourself.  So are you jacking off to the guy banging the girl or the girl getting cornholed?  Call me weird, but it doesn’t do it for me.  Even so, I have a history with porn and nude magazines starting from the age of 8.

When I was 8, my parents decided to uproot the family and move to New Jersey from Queens, NY in the summer.  It was heartbreaking to leave the only neighborhood I’d known, but the prospect of having a yard gave me a raging 8 year old boner.  In addition, the expense of this move as well as our new status as home owners precipitated the need for uh, less then legal ways of obtaining cable.  This finally meant premium cable channels and what was unknown to me at the time as existing, porn.

The first night after we had arranged most of our furniture, my family all sat down in front of the TV to try out this new cable box.  My parents started flipping through the channels, exclaiming with each subsequent premium channel how amazing it was to watch movies on HBO or Cinemax now.  And then it happened.  Skimming through the channels, my parents hit a scrambled channel that look like an abstract watercolor painting.  The sounds were muffled and then…a groan. A loud groan. And then an “oooooooooh yea baby” in the direct inflection of a former toddler beauty queen.  I’m not sure if it was paralysis of the moment or curiosity, but my parents lingered on this channel until I broke the silence and asked what was happening causing them to snap out of their stupor and explain we were not allowed to view this channel whatsoever.  This being summer and me being a mischievous little cunt, I was determined to find out what it all meant.

If you want to know the truth about it, most of my summer time was spent unsupervised with my sister or hanging out with the neighborhood kids my age.  My parents didn’t have the means to afford having one of them be a homemaker, never mind hiring a babysitter.  As it was, summer time turned into “Lord of the Flies” between my sister and I; a battle of attrition to determine who could make the most out of the scraps left in the fridge until my mom stopped by at noon to make lunch.  Despite the culinary experimentation (and subsequent failures), I enjoyed the ample free, alone time I had to get in trouble.  Which is what I did. Frequently.

One fine Monday morning (to be fair, it could have been any day.  As a kid, summer time melds together into one long day where the only thing worth counting is how many scrapes and cuts you’ve accrued), I decided it was time to find out what was happening on the scrambled channel.  I plotted my scheme to maximize discovery time and minimize disturbance from my sister who would surely tell on me.  I told her I was going to watch sports on my parent’s TV, a sure fire way to get rid of her, and that she’d be free to watch Disney on our non-illegal cable box TV.  She agreed to this arrangement and settled down to watch “Fraggle Rock.”

Oh god the anticipation was killing me.  I was finally about to find out what was occurring on this channel.  Would I see my first boob?  I flicked on the TV and hurried skimmed the channels until I found my blurried treasure.  And oh the magical noises emanating from the TV!  I couldn’t take any more of these sounds, these siren calls aggressively commenting on the unseen things being done by a random guy.  “Why won’t you clear up you stupid TV?!” was a constant thought in my head.  I was primed, I was ready.  I wanted to see what was happening and then the screen started to flicker.  It flickered until, YES! – it was appearing to break and settle.  And there it was I was face to screen with this large appendage considerably larger then my arm and whiter too.  All this time I had been frustrated about not being able to see a gigantic penis on screen.  My eyes darted looking for any female form on screen, my confused mind calculating the years of psychiatric help I would need should this continue.  To my surprise, another male entered the room.  Wait what? Where’s the female?  This male then – ON NO HE ISN’T – kissed the other male’s mushroom head.  All this time I had been viewing the gay porn channel (I’d later find out their serious research and analysis that the gay porn channel was 2 channels before the straight porn one. C’est la vie).  I was too shell-shocked to comprehend what was happening but then I saw the clock on the cable box nearing 12pm, meaning my mom would be home soon.

How was I going to get away with this?  And really, what was I going to get away from, watching gay porn? I quickly changed the channel to the local Spanish network.  I managed a quick inventory of the crime and cover up to make sure everything was ok, but then I remembered the “last” button on the remote.  This button would recall the last channel watched so I entered the other Spanish channel and tested the “last” button to make sure it would toggle between the two.  I then placed the remote in the place where I had found it and made sure to clean up any trace of my presence.  Walking out of the room, I swore myself off porn and the like, but curiosity would later get the best of me.

The Facebook Status Conundrum

The ubiquitousness of Facebook (FB) statuses has clouded our collective skeptical reasoning.  No one has stopped and determined what, if any, purpose is served by FB statuses.  Does someone really need to know that you are currently enjoying a meal at whatever shitty restaurant you are in? This obsession with being heard and noticed, to have our mommies rub our head and tell us we’re all “special” has permeated our daily lives and now affects how we relate to one another.

I can support and understand Twitter.  It serves a clear purpose that strips away the pretense and white noise to isolate things you might be interested in.  For instance you can follow a newspaper or reporter and see when they tweet news stories.  Twitter is great for discovering new articles and columns or educational pieces that might otherwise be lost in the ribald internet ocean.  This stripped down mass communication is also effective, as has been seen lately, in breaking news or starting movements, political in nature (I’ll concede that the effectiveness of these movements has yet to be judged and will not be judged till history deems it appropriate and as a writer much smarter then myself said, political activists are usually really good at getting in power, but no good at staying in power once small, innocuous things such as making governmental decisions come into play) or otherwise.

Facebook however is a different beast, the “Teen Mom” of social media now that Myspace’s corpse is rotting.  Its status updates has afforded everyone with a megaphone.  When did it become ok to document the everyday mundane, trivial tasks that fill up our lives?  Are we really that lonely, segregated from the population at large, and in love with our own whiny voices so as to post about our daily experiences such as when we have our first cup of coffee of the day? Why do some individuals use FB statuses to intimate their insane philosophical meanderings and/or “inspirational” quotes?  I’m deliriously happy that you feel telling the world to “smile because it will all get better” is appropriate and note worthy, but really I wish you would shut the fuck up.  I realize how callous that sounds and I’m OK with that.  Telling the world that “not many people like you but with those that do, you don’t need anyone else” (actual FB status by the way) only reminds me exactly WHY people don’t like you and reinforces my original impression that someone indeed took a sloppy dump in your fetid gene pool.

Even worse are the serial offenders who take the supplemental measure of updating their Facebook with whatever mental diarrhea they can think of and then “liking” their own status.  Listen here mental defective, mathematical transitive theory would suggest that if you updated your own status then you should like it.  Liking your own status is giving yourself a blow job and swallowing the rotten load.  Sure there are those that can do it, but that doesn’t mean you should.

             Let’s all stop this nonsense and use the lump 3 feet about our asses to be more fastidious about what we choose to share with people.

Sweating and Changing Clothes

"Can you see my arm pit stain?"

In the northeast, we are currently experiencing what a frighteningly chippy, chiclet-toothed weather man on my TV describes as a “heat wave.” The weather graphics would like me to believe that the sun is wearing sun glasses (because he can’t look at himself in the mirror?) and sweating (some scientists would maybe disagree with this).  But I know the truth; we are just having what’s called a “New York City” summer.  I mention this not to piss off my (non-existent) constituents in colder climates, but rather to explain the circumstances which led to me changing my work attire after having arrived at work.

I’m a creature of habit and sometimes I demonstrate certain OCD-like tendencies.  To be fair, these tendencies are very slight and would probably classify as “being-a-lazy-shit-and-not-wanting-to-think-about-things-to-much” tendencies.  I have a very specific way of packing my pants pockets in the morning to maximize storage and availability of items.  My cell phone always occupies my front left pocket.  I prefer it here because it is a bulky item that I can use as an excuse to adjustment my package when the moment warrants.  My keys and chapstick (yes, I AM a woman but at least I’ll be a woman with moist lips) fit snuggly into my right front pocket.  In the certain cases when I am carrying my ipod and have no jacket, the ipod will also occupy this space.  Finally, my wallet slides into my right back pocket.  All in all it’s a solid routine that helps me not forget things in the mornings when I’m still a zombie.

This morning I went through my pant’s pockets filling routine and left my apartment for work.  Now my work is close enough such that I can walk.  On warmer days when the specter of me walking into work with my dress shirt sagging at the arm pits under the duress of sweat, I usually take the subway but today I made the executive decision to walk it out.  Of course, I arrived at work 20 minutes later dripping sweat in my (now) rumpled work attire looking like a whale tried to eat me.  But, huzzah, I was at work!  I would soon be in the cool comforts of AC!  So I went up to security ready to hand over my ID which was in my wallet, which should have been in my right back pocket…but it’s not there.  FUCK ME.  I’d left my wallet at home with my effects.  So I did the only thing I could do, I walked my soggy ass back home.

And that is the story of this morning.  I arrived home and realized that my perspiration had grown by a factor of 8.  I no longer looked like a whale tried to eat my but rather like I’d tried to commit suicide by jumping in the East River.  I immediately jumped in the shower and put on new clothing then took a cab back to work despite the close proximity.

Minority Shopping

Although I don’t possess the requisite set of testicles or talent for stand up comedy, I’ve always told myself that if I were a stand up, I wouldn’t resort to the type of comedy typified by race.  To me, racial humor is far too easy to do and is too easy to do incorrectly.  Some comedians (Chris Rock, Dave Chappelle, Louis C.K. to name a few) are good enough to imbue their comedy with racial overtones without it seeming that the only thing they are talking about.  There are times however when the experience of being a minority in a relatively majority world (in my case being Hispanic in Finance when 98% of the workforce is Caucasian) is something that deserves highlighting.

I have a Russian coworker who is adverse to buying things on her own.  I’m not sure if it’s embarrassment because of the language barrier, her accent, or outright laziness but she always delegated her purchases.  Recently, she accosted me to buy a tie for her as a present for someone.  She specifically asked me to please buy a tie for her using her credit card with the instructions that the tie must’n be less then $150 or more then $350.  Who spends that much money on a tie?  Now I don’t need to repeat my feelings on this useless accessory, suffice to say that I went about my mission with equal parts confusion and trepidation.  I knew what awaited.

See as a minority, anytime I enter an expensive store, I feel sick to my stomach.  The opulence and my own financial short comings form a lethal combination on par with a night of heavy drinking followed by spicy Thai food.  In addition, most expensive stores are usually only frequented by Caucasians that feel it’s totally fine to spend $90 on socks or $200 on a tie for example.  Myself? If someone gave me a $200 tie as a gift, I would immediately try to sell it or return it somehow for straight up cash.  I’m not sure that has anything to do with being a minority or having different skin pigmentation.  I’d like to think that it’s something rooted in me by an immigrant frugality.  I see an expensive item such as a tie, and can’t for the life of me understand why someone would spend so much money on something that looks similar to a less expensive item.

Anyways, I left the office on my way to the nearest high end male clothing store for the designer Ermenegildo Zenga.  As I reached for the door, I couldn’t help but sigh and accept what was about to happen.  I entered the store and everything stopped.  I could read what everyone was thinking by the looks on their faces showing a mixture of confusion (shouldn’t he be in the back unpacking something?), embarrassment (I thought the cleaning crew wasn’t arriving till nighttime!), and fear (oh god we have to follow him around so he doesn’t steal anything).  Immediately a sales man confronted me and let me know that their sale section was in the back.  For real dude? It was so blatantly racist but also helpful that I couldn’t help but thank the guy while giving him a soft stink eye.  I made a bee line for the tie rack with mister sales man/fashion school drop out trailing my ass like a dog in heat.  Have you ever tried shopping with someone so close to you that you’d wish they’d wear a condom?  As it was, I started sweating from either the pressure or the body heat emanating from the sales man.  I picked out the tie, paid for it (not before I handed the cashier my coworker’s credit card at which point the cashier asked me if the card was mine and I stumbled as though I were some drug mule, apologized profusely and handed over my actual credit card to pay for the item) and ran out of there post haste.

             So really what’s the deal?  I was wearing my work clothing (tie, dress shirt, pants) and I don’t exactly screaming “threatening.”  And I mean I wouldn’t steal anything (primarily because there were so many people around and I wouldn’t have time to take off the security devices, but still).  Am I just being paranoid about the situation?  Maybe the sales man had recently been spoken to by his boss about his poor sales figures.  Maybe I caught the sales man at a time of reckoning when he told himself he was going to pounce on every customer and make them supremely uncomfortable until they bought something.  Maybe I’m just over evaluating the situation and am hyper sensitive.

My First Girlfriend - Part 3: The Kiss

The dirty little secret no one ever talks about is that childhood and pre-adolescence are confusing, boring time periods.  Hours and days bleed into each other in a never ending cascade of nothing.  In my own case, this boredom was expounded since my parents didn’t have the means to send me to any type of summer camp or activity outside of my daily routine.  My summer camp involved basketball, football, or baseball with friends (most of whom were friends merely because of their geographical proximity) from morning until the last dying ray of sunlight faded to then watching whatever sports were on TV.  Looking back on it, it seems like nothing ever really happened so I don’t really remember specifics, but this summer, the one of 1998, was different.  Things happened that summer.

Yadia lived 3 blocks away from me, up two tremendous hills which I climbed studiously each day, contributing to my gigantic 13 year old calves that made me look like an overgrown dwarf.  Her house sat on the north side of the

70^th street

hill in a slight slant to make up for the incline of the hill which made the house look as though it was being swallowed by the earth.  It was wedged between other row houses in a tragicomical attempt by the town to recreate the brownstones seen on the “Cosby Show.”

Now I never knew why she asked me to hang out that summer and really I didn’t care.  I just wanted to be around her, even if it meant hanging out in her house in the constant company of her friends.  I felt like a marathoner reaching mile maker 25, so close to my goal.  In addition to Yadia, Janie was a constant presence since they were best friends.  She was a relatively large girl with a booming voice and a mousey laugh.  It was actually less a laugh and more like a breed between a giggle and a stroke.  I didn’t mind her presence since she always seemed sincere and aloof.  Unlike Yadia’s other friends, I never felt outright contempt from her.  She was always just there, a pleasant, not terribly bothersome individual.

One particular day, after about a month and a half of hanging out with Yadia and her friends, we were all lounging around in her poorly lit home.  Suddenly Yadia got up and whispered in my ear, “Hey Hector, can I talk to you in private for a minute?” BE STILL MY HEART! This was it, my time to shine.  All those hours spent practicing kissing my hand, I mean other females, was about to pay off.  “Sure” I responded in what I assume was nonchalant through I’m sure the rush of blood to my head made me look like an engorged penis.  So she pulled me into a closet nearby and shut the door behind us.  Had I not been short and chubby and unathletic, I’m sure I would have jumped for joy.

“Hector, the thing is, you’re a great guy,” she began as my heart pounded in anticipation.

“Thanks, you’re pretty cool too.”

“Great.  So there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you and I think now is the right time.”

“Ok.” My gregarious nature was of course in full swing.

“Well see I was wondering if you would…”

“YES!!!!”

“Be Janie’s boyfriend.”

…….

Wait, what just happened?  Before I could gather my thoughts or take care of my newly shat pants, Yadia burst out the closet doors screaming, “He said yes Janie! He said yes!”  I stood in the closet unsure of what just happened when I heard a rumbling noise, much like what I assume a stampede to sound like.  Janie was rumbling towards me, a run away freight train.  I stood there apoplectic still unsure about what just happened.  Did I really just get propositioned by my biggest crush to be the boyfriend of her best friend?  Janie reached me in the closet and almost knocked me over with her momentum, since I was suffering the effects of rigor mortis.  She embraced me and gave me my first kiss, while I stood there with my eyes wide open, not reciprocating.  Being that I had my eyes open, I could see what was happening across the room.  Yadia was in the embrace of some strange guy making out.  This is my life.

Things I Don't Understand - Dive Bar Wine Drinkers

As a denizen of New York City, I am familiar with the need to drown one’s liver on a consistent basis.  While I don’t begrudge what people drink per say (unless you’re an adult male ordering a Long Island Iced Tea), I do take umbrage with drinking choices in respect to the venues where the drinking is occurring.  See, I do not understand those people that go to dive bars and order wine.  Who are they trying to fool?  You are at a dive bar, an establishment whose sole purpose is to serve beer, shots, and cheap well drinks and yet you feel the need to walk around daintily holding a wine glass filled to the brim with whatever substandard cat urine that bar felt like serving.  Half the time I’m even shocked the bar has any wine glasses, let alone wine.  So let’s make it easy for everyone and run down “the rules”.  These are the rules as imagined by myself and should not be confused with any “real” rules that might be out there:

1.      Wine should only be consumed at dinner or at a wine bar.

2.      If frequenting a dive bar, stick to beer, shots (preferably straight liquor and not something like a kamikaze) or well drinks.

3.      If you are at a wine bar, it is highly recommended NOT to drink beer.

4.   If you are at a college bar where everyone’s age can be disputed as “maybe being 20” and you are over the age of 25, you should buy yourself a Hawaiian shirt, grow a mustache and embrace being the creepy guy in the corner.

Inappropriate Comedy

Lately I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about comedy and philosophy, in particular how it pertains to levels of appropriateness.  Now I consider myself, and am considered by those unfortunate enough to be in my orbit, to be extremely inappropriate.  I am not beyond dropping the occasional motherfucker or cunt when the moment suits me.  I have no patience for the particular niceties of daily mundane life, pretending that we aren’t thinking what we are actually thinking.  This isn’t to say that I’m special or particularly funny, it is just an illustration of how I go about my business.  I come from the school of thought that no subject, no matter how taboo, should be exempt from the tyrannous arms of comedy.

Now my particular problem manifests itself with the current age of supreme political correctness.  Walking on egg shells is no longer a repeated proverb but an axiom.  It’s nary impossible to say anything without someone, somewhere getting offended.  I was particularly stricken recently by comments Tracy Morgan said during a stand-up comedy show of his.  This particular bit he was working through was homophobic in nature and hateful and vulgar; it was also extremely funny and biting.  Sure enough, various rights groups got offended and demanded reparations and I was confused.  Weren’t they aware that this was Tracy Morgan?  His whole schtick stands on the foundation of shock, vulgarity and acting as an untamed id.  Whether he actually meant the hate spewing from his mouth is not really important – although you’d have to be one stupid, inbred shit eating motherfucker to believe he’d actually stab his son if his son were gay.  It’s not any different then comics who use racism or xenophobia to comedic effect.  He isn’t a politician or philanthropist or news personality of any consequence.  He’s a funny loose canon comedian.  But as is always the case, special interest groups got their way and the public were gifted with an awkward, forced apology from Tracy Morgan as well as several contrived appearances by the comedian condemning his own words and actions.

Now I understand it may be radical but I don’t think lines have to be drawn.  Some might argue that maybe that some lines must be drawn in order to protect the general public from “comedy” that might be hateful and fear mongering.  I would argue that like any good system, comedy is self correcting.  If you are unfunny, no one will hear what you have to say.  Comedy should be one of the freest forms of expression.  It’s a cathartic release for people from their shitty lives.  No one goes to a comedy show to pick up wisdom or life long lessons (I’m sure people will disagree but if you are getting your advice from a comedian then your disagreement is erroneous).  People go to comedy shows to laugh, hear stories that might be relatable in some way delivered in funny ways, or view current and topical issues (such as politics and religion) through the prism of comedy. 

            This isn’t to say that there isn’t bad comedy.  However, looking at it holistically, while I don’t find such comedy to be funny, I have no issue with the Dane Cooks, Larry the Cable Guys, Carrot Tops, or Jeff Dunhams of the world.  Sure their comedy isn’t in my wheelhouse, but I don’t begrudge them for doing their own thing and sticking to it.  They are famous and successful because some people somewhere liked their comedy.  Now, this isn’t to say I can’t sit on my high perch and call these people idiots, but I’m sure they wouldn’t enjoy the comedy that I enjoy.  I’ll continue to be inappropriate and follow those comedians that aren’t afraid of ruffling some feathers.

The Eddie Munster Syndrome

  

This could be your grandmother

Scientists in Sweden at the Hair Restorative Institutive for Hair have been long at work researching a new phenomenon in women’s menopause.  This new phenomenon has been termed the “Eddie Munster Syndrome” after the namesake character in “The Munsters.”  “We really believe this is at the fore-front of research” claims lead scientist Dr. Alf Reedlson, “We saw a pattern in menopausal women that caused us to really dedicate our resources to finding out what was happening and why.”

            The coined condition, “Eddie Munster Syndrome”, refers to the particular phenomena occurring in women’s hair around the time of menopause.  As the scientists detail it, the hair follicles begin to shorten.  As the follicles shorten, they also become compact and the hair style reshapes itself into an androgynous bob resembling that of the Eddie Munster character.  Scientists believe this is caused by a defective enzyme found on the 9^th coding of the X chromosome.  Over time, this enzyme becomes corrupt and starts flooding the hair receptacles with foreign messages.  “We’ve studied menopausal women and we found a major occurrence of this enzyme in the body usually clashing with other enzymes and being an overall nuisance,” stated Dr. Reedlson.  While the research has not found any negative overall health impacts, there is the fear that old women will start to resemble old transvestites with afros.

            Asked to comment on any possible cures, Dr. Reedlson let out a depressed sigh.  “Unfortunately, we don’t think there can be any cure for this.  We feel at this time that the resources needed to find a cure would far outweigh any of the benefits.  The world will just have to learn to be tolerant of those females with Eddie Munster hair.”

*Note: This article originally appears in Fake Medical Journal Monthly.

Things I Don't Understand - Inaugural Post

Now, I don’t mean to brag or boast but I usually consider myself to be a rational, mostly competent, able-to-read-at-a-college-level individual, which is to say, I understand a fair amount of things.  I can internalize and think about things but sometimes, there are things in this material world that confound my wee male brain.  As such, I’ve decided to write a regular feature where I would list things that I don’t understand or confuse me at that point in time.  If you (the one or two imaginary readers) would like to explain anything in the lists to me in the comments, I’ll be more then happy to ignore it.

Let’s start off shall we?

1. Ties.

A quick search on the history of neckties reveals that they are descendants of fabric worn around the neck by Croatian mercenaries in the 1600’s.  These mercenaries arrived in France with their fancy neck decorations and the French were all like “Oh mon Dieu! Fantastique!” And so there began what we now call neck ties as French men and women starting wearing neck decorations in hopes of masking what I assume was some superbly offensive body odor.  In essence, neck ties started out as Glade air fresheners in porta-potties.  As always, blame the French.

And I do still blame the French.  See at my place of employment (where it is STILL looked down upon to adjust your manhood in front of people, seriously. Sexists) we are required to wear ties at all time.  Through various forms of research and postulating, I have decided that 63.456% (with a standard error deviation of 63.456%) of the United States workforce must wear ties during their work day.  I’m not one to rile people up but why do we wear ties?  It is a lengthy piece of fabric in the manner of a noose.  I don’t want to speculate on your particular feelings on nooses, but I for one don’t feel like wearing one throughout the day.  Sure the patterns are nice and finding the right tie/shirt combination can make a guy get all wet in his lady parts, but the tie brings nothing else to the table.  It doesn’t make you a better worker or someone less likely to lie or steal or cheat.  It doesn’t help me put together presentations or add stuff on a spreadsheet. Now I understand one perk of a tie is loosening it up when you are not at work so you can look like an out of work banker.  This is really the same inherent pleasure that is attached to sunglasses, mainly ripping them off like a 3^rd rate cop on a 3^rd rate procedural drama on TV.

This brings me back to my original point about nooses.  What is conducive about wearing something around your neck strangling you throughout the day?  It could be a metaphor for how professional life slowly but surely sucks the life out of you.  Or how no matter how autonomous you are at your job, there will always be an overseer who controls your fate.  At any rate, I fully expect some hipster from deep in the bowels of the Williamsburg underworld to design a neck tie that looks like a noose and claim it is “retro-chic.”

2. People who don’t say “thank you”

One of the few things my parents managed to get right was instill in me the values of saying “bless you” to someone when they sneezed and saying “thank you” when the moment called for it.  I don’t consider myself to be a kind and gentle person by any means, but damnit, a man’s got to have some guidelines.

As is usually the case, I found myself in the subway last week enjoying my perfecting morbid commute to work.  I was in the middle of the subway car (which really is the best since it’s like being at the head of the table, I imagine all the other people in the subway car are my court jesters but I digress) and across from me, a fairly middle aged lady sat down reading some horrible romance novel.  Usually I am ambivalent about my surroundings but often certain things can trigger me back to reality.  One of these triggers is when a person sneezes within my vicinity which the lady sitting down did.  She sneezed and I obliged with a forceful “bless you” and awaited a return “thank you” volley.  Instead what I got was a 120mph serve of “I HOPE YOU DIE” eyes.  I’m no sensitive nancy pants but I couldn’t for the life of me understand this.  I went out of my way to use my vocal chords and the air in my lungs to create a sound that came out of my mouth to be nice to you because you sneezed and all I get is a case of the “death stare.”  What happened to courtesy?  Give me the death stare but also give me a begrudging “thank you.”  I would understand if she had sneezed and I told her to shut the fuck up, but I was perfectly within reason to say “bless you.”  Anyways, it’s not the first time this particular event has happened to me.  So now I’m forced to rethink my strategy.