Previous Posts - Things We Do When No One’s Looking

Cocktail Houring Like A Champion

ditching food at cocktail hour

She waits patiently in the periphery, carefully examining each potential landing spot for her food garbage.

She’s moving in.

“Don’t mind me — I’m just going to discard a few of my freshly-chewed lamb chop bones on this here tablecloth,” thought Gloria, as she delicately placed down another partially-eaten bone on the table, making it a clean half-dozen.

But now what—does she just walk away casually? Say nothing? Maybe she should just own it. You know, be very much up-front with the folks at that table, telling them straight that she’s just there to unload six loose lamb chop bones.

Let’s be real, though… we’ve all done it. I did it at my Uncle Charlie’s. Walked right up to a man and boldly placed my pesto-stained plate with a staggering pile of shrimp tails right next to his rum-and-diet while he was mid-conversation. Then I went back to business. Got me some cold motherfuckin’ sesame noodles.

Special thanks to Slurz & Adam for this lambchop selfie.

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Almost Peed In The Dark There

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m drunk enough to admit that I just spent at least ninety seconds — literally an entire minute and a half — frantically running my hands along every available wall surface inside this bathroom before realizing that the light switch was OUTSIDE of the bathroom itself.  Totally caught me off-guard.  Outsmarted by a damn light switch again…

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I Knew Those Pilates Classes Would Come In Handy Someday

I know exactly what you’re thinking, and you are correct.  Yes, when I’m down there in the squatting position, the denim covering my male under-barrel is taut like Kevlar.  But this is a serious situation. What, like you’ve never bootydanced in order to break in a freshly-laundered pair of dungarees?  Let’s be real here, I need to stretch these bad boys out.  Make room for the old under-barrel.  I’m going out later and do not want to end up looking like this guy when the bill comes.

So instead, I’m just gonna do this in the privacy of my own home, because these pants are tight as fuck, and I want me some well-ventilated thighs.

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It’s Okay Because I’m Pretty Sure It Comes Out In The Washing Machine

 

Am I a dick for not warning the waiter? Should I leave him a note or something?

“Enclosed, please find a medium-to-large glob of my mucus.  Thanks.”

However, as bad as I feel about it, I’ll only do this because it’s not my cloth napkin, so I don’t have to deal with the aftermath.  That, and I’m leaving in like two minutes.  I’ll just put it on my plate, and they’ll think the contents of the napkin are just the remnants of my guacamole.

No one’s looking… I can totally get away with this.  I mean, if I were really concerned, I could totally combine a blow with a cough.  That way, I could disguise the trumpet-like cadence of my nose blows.  But I’m not even concerned, so I’m just gonna blow.  I’m not gonna do a full-on drill-blow to loosen that real substantial stuff in the rear.  I’m just gonna do a light putter-blow to cast out some of the liquids near the tip and take the edge off.  Know what I’m saying, ladies?

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