Merry Kristenmas

Merry Kristenmas!

For those of you who don't know, today is Queen III's birthday. We all know how she loves men. So this year I went all out and looked up available guys in and around Everycity for her to choose from--one from each major race (except Jewish, naturally). It's up to Queen III to decide which dude will be the one that she gets into a frenzied, chaotic, neurotic, psychotic relationship with. Which one will it be? We're taking bets in the comments section of this post. The gang's all here, Queen III! Happy birthday to you!

Queen III's Birthday Surprise!

An Official 42nd Floor Poll
Which Race Will It Be?

Italian

Native American

Black

White

Don't forget to wish Queen III a happy birthday!

(as always, we at the 42nd Floor believe in anonymity and have taken steps to protect the identities of the people in these pictures)

The Polite Disclaimer

If there's one thing Noo Yuck lacks, it's good breeding.

Yes, while manners are all the rage down south in and around Everycity, Wackytown, and Mexibury, up here, Yankees have no problem speaking their minds loudly and profanely.

To all those blue-streak spewing vendors and cabbies, I'm here today to teach you some good manners.

The 42nd Floor Presents
"Forky is Mr. Manners!"
First Edition: The Polite Disclaimer

You know those people who are real jerks but pretend not to be? You know the ones. They often preface extremely rude comments with this simple phrase:

"I don't mean to be rude, but..."

Well, it may come as a surprise, but this statement really does work! The next time you have something bitingly honest to tell some poor slob, just tack this onto your comment/suggestion. You can get away with anything!

Let's use this phrase. It's fun and easy!

"I don't mean to be rude, but you are way too fat to be eating that."

"I don't mean to be rude, but I haven't been listening to you for the past five minutes because I'm so sick of your droning."

"I don't mean to be rude, but when was the last time you shut up long enough to breathe?"

"I don't mean to be rude, but you really suck at basketball. Hard core."

Now you try! And remember, be polite!

Confessions

I'm about to re title this blog "Confessions from the 42nd Floor" seeing as how I begin about 65% of my 90%-more-Fork posts with my famous catchphrase "I have a confession to make."

Catchphrases are important to have. As are catch phrases, hyphenated catch-phrases, and the occasional cachinnated phrases.

More confessions will be posted in the next few days as unemployment in Noo Yuck consumes me like an icky paint-like goop (it's moving!). But in the meantime, read the post below this one. Go on. Use the scroll buttons or your mouse wheel.

Happy Birthday

I'm an uncle now. My niece, Little Mab, was born yesterday at around 2:00. I don't know how much she weighed, but they said she was very healthy so it was probably around 18 pounds. That's a good, healthy weight. No anorexic babies in THIS family.

Interestingly...I had a curious toothache that lasted from early morning until around...wait for it...2:00!! Perhaps it was ESP! My twin sister and I ARE twins, after all. Maybe I was sharing in my sister's pain!

Or maybe I need to lay off the lollies.

Happy Birthday, Little Mab!

Numb

My time at Numbtindoughland is drawing to a rapid close. Friday is the last day. And even though I suspected they would ask us to stay on after the 26th, well--I was wrong. Dead wrong. We had our exit interviews and everything. All that's left is for us to be given the boot.

In many ways, I'm not sorry to see it go. For one thing, I'm ready to like people again. Honestly, after working here, I wouldn't trust any clergy or preacher who hadn't done at least one Christmas in the trenches, that is, working retail at a toy store. We talk about how children are sweet and pure and all, but when you get down and dirty with them at the Gii Sports station, you quickly learn that most of them are clenching little beasts with high potential for calculated, remorseless murder.

And their mothers are no better! But we already did a post on them...

Another thing I won't be sad to leave is how much I repeat myself. I could explain the instructions for the game in eight different languages (nine if you count sign language) and people STILL wouldn't listen to me. I tell them. I show them. I place my hand on theirs and do the movement with them. Still...STILL they turn to me three minutes later and ask, "What am I supposed to do?"

What do you THINK you're supposed to do, kiddo? Do you think when you buy this thing that I'm going to be included? That I'm going to appear in your bedroom and tell you, "Don't forget to point the gii-mote at the sensor bar! LOL!"

The Numbtindough Gii! Now with 90% more Fork!

At the same time, it wasn't all bad. For all the Roller Moms and the Rhoda Penmarks, seeing the Crockosmeller Center Tree lighting was cool. Walking through Crimes Square to get to work every day was something else. The whole Noo Yuck Christmas THING was something else. It was all...so...

Wait a minute...it's all finally starting to hit me. I just survived a Christmas in Noo Yuck working in a high-profile store in the most fashionable shopping area in the country.

Do I get a medal?


In other news, I had another audition for the Crimerican Snakespeare Festival yesterday, at which I was almost completely ignored, thanks to the two auditioners who had worked with them in the past and made NO small show of their being all chummy with the casting directors.

"OH! I'll do THIS monologue. You guys haven't seen me do THIS monologue, even after two summers ago when I was in your company, I didn't do THIS monologue.

Maybe they asked me to leave because they could HEAR my eyes rolling. Good grief, people. Have a little dignity. Your incessant name-dropping isn't scaring the competition, it's just making them hate you.


And finally, a little beam of sunshine...

My twin sister is great with child. My mother says she looks 40 weeks pregnant, whatever that means. I think it means it looks like she's about to explode. They're taking her to the hospital early tomorrow morning and inducing labor since this baby is apparently not in any kind of mood to vacate the premises. By this time tomorrow, I'll be an uncle.

I know it's a special time for the new mother and father. The new grandparents. The first child. The first grandchild. All that.

But who is the one person who gets left out whenever a child is born?

The new uncle.

Seriously, the new uncle is the worst person to be when a baby is born. There's a reason Dr. Spock doesn't have a chapter about the new uncle in his hit book. There's a reason why Rick Warren doesn't go into detail about purpose driven uncles.

That's because the new uncle is the saddest person of all when a baby is born. There's even a name for the condition. New Uncle Syndrome. Of course, it's never really talked about except in whispers in deserted bathrooms or private corners at lavish parties. It's shameful. Tom Cruise recently denounced it as psychological doo-doo. But it's time to address this crippling condition.

You're not a girl so you're not invited to the parties or the baby's shower. You're not a parent or grandparent so you're about the twelfth person who gets the phone call saying that the kid came out okay. And odds are, as this IS the first child/grandchild, the poor thing is going to be spoiled rotten, so the kid is only going to like you if you can lavish upon it gold-plated dollies and lollies whenever you come to visit. I suppose a well-read bedtime story wouldn't be enough.

Thinking about new babies makes me wonder...why aren't my married friends (like the Cachinnator, Bibb Leo File, and ADub) having children? And how is it some of my friends (like Queen 3) HAVEN'T had children? Seriously, folks. N.U.S. is setting in. Help me stave it off by naming me SOME kid's godfather.

Mono

Monologue, that is.

Yesterday we spent a glorious 75 minutes solid working with Director Da'ahnnielle on my little monologue for our 10 minute, seven page show.

"Forky, I need you to do it slower."

"Okay. Now do it faster."

"Umm...now how about as a Southern Baptist preacher."

"Uhh. Hmm. Could you now...how about a little crazy."

"Would you...could you with more speed?"

"Would you, could you with less need?"

"Would you, could you on a ball?"

"Would you, could you down the hall?"

"Would you, could you on a mat?"

"Would you, could you with a cat?"

"Would you, could you here or there?"

"Would you, could you anywhere?"


I'm calling in "sick" this evening.

It's %^&*ing Cold

Time for a brief update...

Our El Nino winter has broken temporarily. While we had been experiencing downright Texas temps this winter, this morning I left my apartment (on this, the first day off in recent memory that it WASN'T pouring rain!) and was met with shocking cold. My nose froze off. It did.

I'm sitting at Café Netto and two more Noo Yoouhkuhhs are sitting behind me. They sound exactly like characters out of a movie. While I might be charmed by such a thing, it leads me to something I've been meaning to blog about for a while.

Location: The Numbtindoughland Store, the Gii Sports game station.

Me: Anybody wanna play Gii Sports?

Jersey June: (she is thin, Italian, wears blue eyeliner, and is smacking gum LOUDLY with her two little daughters--who look like miniature clones of their mother) *smack* *smack* *smack* How much is dis $#!+?

I have to resist the urge to reply, "Dis $#!+ is $250."


Or how about this?


Me: Anybody wanna play Gii Sports?

New York Nell: Do you have any more Giis?

Me: No, we're sold out.

New York Nell: You $#!+ing me?


Or how about this very moment? Right behind me at Café Netto!

Bronx Bob: %#*ing #$7, I don't give a #(%&ing &#$(! What the %*(^? This is ()*%^$.


Or how about the director for this little show I'm doing?

Director Da'ahnnille: I could pretend to know what this play is about, but honestly, I'd just be $^&*ing you.


Okay, guys. I know this is Noo Yuck. I'm aware of this. But what I wasn't aware of is how Yankees were never taught manners. Seriously. What the &*)% is wrong with these people? Why can't they &*(&ing quit cussing all the &*)(%ing time?


I was very pleased yesterday to see the Bush protestors in Crime Square. Why, you ask? Because right next to them were some anti-protestors. Upon first glance, it reminded me of when A-Dub and I exercised our freedom of speech and stood up for Dubya, quietly and dignified. Of course, that doesn't fly here. Everybody, even the anti-protestors, were screaming at the top of their lungs.

That's just it. People here scream everything as if their lives depend on it. How is it the entire population of Noo Yuck isn't constantly doubled over in pain from their ulcers? I can't figure it out. Chill out, people? You guys are &*(%ing nuts.


Rehearsals have begun for the little show. It's...maybe I should refrain from saying anything until it's all over. You know how we 21st Century kids are. So let's just say it's fine. I guess. I mean, I'm going to give a good performance, anyway. Dammit.


Now Bronx Bob is asking, "Have you ever heard a gun go off in a car? It's #&*(ing loud!"


A gun going off in a car couldn't possibly be any louder than these rubes yaking away behind me. Dang. They're SO LOUD!!!! I'm THIS close to turning around and shouting something myself. Something along the lines of,

"SHUT UP! READ A BOOK!"

Leak

At the Numbtindough store...


PJ: (sniffing the air) Ugh. Fork, did you--

Me: (thinking quickly) Oh my gosh! Do you smell that? I think there's another gas leak!

Don't Light a Match

Today's my day off and, as usual, it's raining cats and dogs. Pouring. I swear, every time I have a day off it rains.

I slept in until 9:45 (!!!) this morning. It wasn't the pitter-patter of falling rain that woke me, but a peculiar smell. I didn't know what the smell was. Probably a dangerous gas leak from Bleeker Street or something. I rolled over, closed my eyes, and in about a minute, the smell went away.

That's right. You could smell it for about a minute. And now it's all over the news. I'm at Café Netto right now and the TV behind me has been yacking about gas, gas, GAS, GAS, GAS! for the past hour.

It's kind of exciting to be in the midst of a terrorist attack like this. Although a mysterious gas seems to be less like Osama and more the Joker. It's also the first time I've watched the national news from the City and seen the City. LIVE! Yep, it's rainy and windy up here. Why don't they talk about the crappy weather on my day off?

I can't smell a dang thing. What's everybody going on about?

Moms

At the last minute--the day before our temp contracts with Numbtindoughland are set to expire--they announced that we temps were allowed to dangle on for another two weeks if we so chose.

I thought, "Meh. What the heck/crap." I mean, the Xmas rush is over and the crowds have become MUCH nicer to deal with. I don't come crawling home in the evenings, desperate to remove my shoes and chug a bottle of cough syrup.

Still...there are some times...

It's the moms. Seriously y'all. The moms.

The "Cut the Cord" Mom:

There's a little rope that seperates the "gaming area" from the "observing area." Those two areas are mere inches apart, but to these moms, the ropes make it seem like a mile.

Me: Okay, you wanted to play Gii Sports, right?

Excited Billy: Yeth, mithter!

Me: Okay, right this way!

(Excited Billy steps in. I begin to close the rope behind me when Icy Mom clutches my wrist.)

Icy Mom: I'm his MOTHER. I need to go in with him!

I understand not wanting to let go. I understand being afraid something might happen to it if you let it go wandering off in the big, scary world all by itself. I understand that.

But the thing is, the kid isn't going anywhere, lady. There's a teeny rope seperating the two of you for just ten brief minutes...less if your kid is lousy at tennis or can't hit the baseball. Let your child go, Mom. Let him go. He has to become a man someday. Cut that cord. Today.


The "I'm Going To Defend My Child From Something Just Because I Want To Fight About It, Not Because My Child Really Needs Protection From It" Mom:

Another several Moms complained about one of our favorite Gii games, "Trauma ER Hospital Center 2." The game has you playing the role of a surgeon just out of med school who goes from removing shards of glass from a guy in a motorcycle accident, to stitching up horrible cuts, to exterminating an alien virus from outer space.

Mad Mom: This is SICK! I can't BELIEVE you'd put out a game where you hack people up like this!

Me: (unsaid) You're absolutely right, ma'am. I'll be sure to phone my mom and sister and chide them for their sicko medical ways.

Dumb Mom: I can't BELIEVE Numbtindough would allow children to play a game THIS VIOLENT. This surgery game is DISGUSTING! (meanwhile, little Tommy is blowing zombies heads off with a shotgun in Holiday Evil 4, which Dumb Mom says nothing about)

Two Moms reportedly fainted upon seeing "Trauma ER Hospital Center 2" in action. Normally I might try to be understanding. Some people are squeamish. But not today. It's the 21st Century, not 1928. King Kong is not a real monkey. He's a puppet. You shouldn't need to be wheeled out on a stretcher when you see cartoon video game surgery. And if you do, go spend an afternoon at the cineplex or do a search for the cell phone Saddam hanging. That'll fix you right up.

"Trauma ER Hospital Center 2" was replaced yesterday with "Happy Trucks."


Finally, there's my favorite kind of Mom.

The "Roller" Mom:

This Mom is the dumbest of the three Moms. Why is she dumb? Because her daughter is 9 and the Mom is still pushing the twerp around in a stroller. The kid has to bring its knees to its chest to keep its size ten feet from dragging on the floor. And Mom...Roller Mom...she pushes her kid around anyway.

WHY?!

First I want to go to little Paquita in the stroller and say, "Aren't you ashamed of yourself? Is there something wrong with your legs that you can't walk?"

Then I want to talk to the mother.

"Do you realize that the shameful coddling of your child will make it incapable of effectively adjusting to life without you when the time comes? Do you realize the implications this might have on your child's sexuality? Or the ability to make simple choices like which outfit to wear in the morning? What are you going to do when your child reaches late middle age and is still yowling out cheery Shirley Temple showtunes in pinafores in the living room? Don't you remember what happened to Baby Jane?"

Thing is, you see Roller Moms EVERYWHERE in this town. I guess they figure it's faster to just plop your 13 year old in a stroller and go, go, go. But they're not fooling anybody. The kid looks like an idiot in that stroller (which creaks and bends under the child's weight) and the mom looks like a moron for her willingness to be a slave to their child (who probably still breast-feeds).

Roller Moms, your child is not a doll. Be strong. Dump your daughter out of the thing and get it a pair of sneakers.


I know there are other Moms out there. What are some of YOUR favorite Moms?