Tales to Astonish!

We’ve all seen the poster. Outline Man hugging Outline Woman. His arms wrapped tightly around her from behind, pulling her closer to him, close against his body. Her lips are parted. The anticipation is almost unbearable; you could cut the sexual tension with a knife. A knife that she should’ve used to cut her steak into much smaller pieces.

Is this a scene from my last super-hot date? A hint of the adults-only version yet to come? No. This is… the Heimlich Maneuver, the world’s hottest maneuver that isn’t listed in the Urban Dictionary. It brings the sexy back to choking on food. Or, if you’re into auto-erotic asphyxiation, it’s just sort of like a big hug.

AUTOEROTIC ASPHYXIATION

I see a lot of these Heimlich posters, since I tend to stare at the walls in restaurants as I eat alone because I live in Queens and no one will come visit me, and I’m often struck by the weirdly sexual nature of them. Not that my mind hasn’t progressed any since the sixth grade, but once you get the idea in your head in the first place it’s hard to get it out. I find it amusing that with all the calls to ban ‘grinding’ on the dance floors of high schools everywhere, almost every restaurant I’ve ever been in has what might appear to be instructions on how to do it doggy-style.

Also, this one made me think that, according to the conventions of mid-sixties Fantastic Four comic book art, she has INVISIBLE BOOBS.

For what it’s worth, invisible boobs are still good boobs.

In my lifetime, I’ve been accused many times of having problems with self-esteem. SOME PEOPLE have recently said that if there’s one thing that’s true about me, it’s that I’m self-deprecating. But to that, I say…

…NO MORE!

Because today and from now on, I AM AWESOME.

And I’m not just saying this facetiously. This isn’t a one-post pony. This is grade-A, here-for-the-duration, staying-the-course awesomeness. It hit me like a bolt of lightning this morning: a sign — a sign that I am clearly destined for great things. I would like to share this with you. If you have a weak heart or low blood sugar or are afraid of pure unadulterated kickassity, I recommend you avert your gaze immediately. Are you ready?

In a feat that can only be performed naturally (sans special effects trickery) perhaps one in a million times, by perhaps one in a million awesome people, I completed the ultimate, incomparable deed:

TEARING A SNICKERS WRAPPER
JUST LIKE IN THE COMMERCIALS

Before today, I thought that the only way to tear a Snickers wrapper glamourously straight across was to involve scissors or something outside the laws of physics, like time warps. Usually candy bar wrappers are completely destroyed as they’re torn open haphazardly, the plastic tearing along mysterious and random lines in an uncontrollable manner. As far as my un-awesome self was concerned, the Perfect Tear was a thing, like supermodel orgies, that only occurred on TV or in George Clooney’s house. I WAS WRONG. All it took was the epiphany that I, much like Mr. Clooney, am awesome.

In case this hasn’t sunk in yet, here’s a publicity shot from the Snickers people:

Now here’s mine again:

The only real difference is that they tore it open at the very tip (or were using a special, super-long wrapper) so that they could still keep the whole name of the product in full view. That’s not impossible to do with your bare hands, but it’s pretty impractical for someone that’s actually going to eat the chocolate bar inside. If I tore the wrapper that high up, I’d still have to shake or pull the Snickers bar out of the wrapper. What I am saying is this: MY WAY IS MORE AWESOME.

Seriously, if this is not proof enough that I am ranking in the single digits of the Most-Awesome list, I simply don’t know what else I could do to convince you. Phooey on the non-believers, I say. I am awesome, and I am here to stay.

Also, my penis is huge.

I’m not that old. In fact, I’m a strapping young lad, aside from my bad hip and unexplained memory lapses. But every now and again, I still feel the shadow of age creeping around the corners of my days, revealing itself just enough to remind me that I’m not actually immortal as I once believed. Last night, that shadow revealed another truth of growing older:

I have had enough of trying to eat Chinese food with chopsticks.

There was once a point where I was really, really intent on learning the proper application of chopsticks. Since my hometown was small and rather dinky on the culinary side, I didn’t actually have real Chinese food until halfway through college — I’m pretty sure that’s why the art of chopsticking still had that mysterious allure, that hint of The Other. I was also informed that they were useful in controlling insect populations, which happens to be very important in buildings that house more than seven male college students.

Ever since I moved to New York, Chinese food has more often than not been a staple of my diet, and I’ve diligently soldiered forward with my chopstick usage, never quite mastering the art of getting food from the foil tray to my mouth. Probably better than a 50/50 chance, but I’ve also scored at least a 75% success with eating like Ralphie’s brother in A Christmas Story, so I don’t know if it counts. After treating myself to some sesame chicken and pork-fried rice last night, something snapped in my head.

As I fumbled with the sticks, trying to find the oh-so-delicate balance between “rice cohesiveness” versus “chopstick gap,” I made a decision:

Not too long ago, I mentioned that I was becoming an Incredible Shrinking Man. For the past six months, I’ve been steadily losing weight, thanks to a vegetarian diet and my medicine, and for a while it was good; I needed to lose some of the weight that I’d gained over the past several years. On the other hand, I can’t seem to stop.

I suspect: a gypsy curse!

Actually, it’s probably the diet, no matter how awesome I think it would be to have a real gypsy curse. If I was cursed, you would know it. I would bring it up constantly. I’d mingle at parties, showing off the size of my hex, using my cursed status to entice the thrill-seeking ladies. If I was especially lucky, I’d get that thing where a bloody pentagram appeared on my palm, which would be useful in getting out of meetings and stuff. At the very least, I wouldn’t have to shake anyone’s hand, and I could make pained faces all the time for maximum emo effect. Tortured soul, indeed.

Unfortunately, I have not — to my knowledge — been cursed, but I’m becoming skinny anyway. Thanks to my journey to the Orient, only two of my friends have actually seen me in the past four or five months, so most people don’t realize that I’m quickly turning into a more talkative version of Lurch. I’m pale and thin and tall, and I wear tuxedos and bring people drinks, so I guess the comparison is apt.

All this has got me wondering: should I go back to eating meat? Will that stave off my imminent demise? Should the poultry and cattle of the world begin to tremble in fear?

I dunno. It’s either that or the silver bullet thing. I’d prefer a medium-rare cure.

This morning, as my cloaked form swiftly darted between the shadows of Manhattan’s towers, I was suddenly stopped in my tracks; I had accidentally made eye contact with that most nefarious fellow, my nameless arch-enemy. Even after a year since our last encounter, his fiery glare betrayed his still-burning hatred for me.

It might surprise some of you that I actually have an arch-enemy. Others among you are probably wondering where to get in line to express your own burning hatred of me. If you’re one of those people, be assured I’ll get around to each and every one of you in due time. But the fact remains: I came into contact with HIM this morning. HIM works at Dunkin Donuts near where I work, and he is the only food industry employee I’ve ever gotten into a heated argument with. You see, he gave me a latte.

A latte.

But I didn’t order a latte. I ordered a large coffee. The same thing that I ordered from HIM every single weekday at the same time every single day for nearly eleven months. But, he argued in his oddly venomous voice, he very clearly heard me ask for a latte. We were fortunate that none of the witnesses to our tremendous clash called the police. And so, on that fateful morning when our special coffeemaker/consumer bond was bitterly snapped in two, we knew we would be forever locked together in hate and loathing. Although I was a loyal and dedicated Dunkin Donuts man, I walked out and never looked back — until our eyes met this morning, and he issued a defiant stare, as if to say, “Come in and order your pathetic coffee — and see what you receive!”

So, tempting fate, I pushed aside the heavy glass door and made my way down the narrow, Arabica-scented corridor. He smiled that I had accepted his challenge, baring his fanged and crooked teeth. I looked HIM dead in the eye, and said, “I’ll have a–” and then before he could react I quickly turned to his attentive coworker and finished with, “– large regular coffee, milk and sugar, please.” I smiled charmingly at the woman, who fastidiously gave me exactly what I ordered.

As I turned and left, my dark cloak swirling around me and fanning the smell of the fresh-roasted beans in my large coffee, I noticed him crushing the special latte cup he had been secretly concealing behind the counter. I smiled and sent forth a mirthless laughter that neither he, nor the other customers (especially the one with the baby), will ever forget.

Ah, the bitter scent of revenge.