SaturDATE: Vinny’s Deli

Him:  My friends say I’m self absorbed but I don’t think I am.  I just like focusing on myself, and what I’m doing, and I get wrapped up in it to the extent that I don’t notice other people.

Me:  That doesn’t sound self absorbed at all.

Him:  You’re an idiot.

Me:  You’re adorable.  Hey, let’s duck into this deli.  I want some coffee.

Him:  Okay.

Vinnie:  Hey, Mike!!!  What-a can I a get for you?

Me:  I’ll have a large coffee – milk, no sugar.

Vinnie:  And-a you friend?

Him:  I’m good.  Unless.  Do you carry Four Loko?

Me:  He’s kidding.  You’re kidding, right?

Him:  Jerk –  It’s the middle of the afternoon.  You’re not the only funny person in the world.

(I smile.  I love when people call me a Jerk now.  I also consider that he might be right: There might be other funny people in the world.  Nah.)

Me:  Just the coffee, please.

Vinny:  Comin’ right up.

(Another Customer enters.  He’s clearly old friends with Vinny.)

Another Customer:  A!!!!!!!   O!!!!!!!!  Look who it is!!!  It’s Vinny.  Vinny the fuckin’ HOMO!!!

(Vinny is not a homosexual.  He has a wife and children who I am well acquainted with.  His deli is next door to my apartment and I’ve been going there for years.)

Vinny:  You are!!!!  You a fuckin’ HOMO!!!

Another Customer:  You!!!  You’re the fuckin’ HOMO.

Vinny:  All the dick you suck, and you think-a I’m a HOMO???

(Pleasegivememycoffeepleasegivememycoffeepleasegivememycoffee)

Vinny:  Hey-a Mike!  You think-a I’m a big HOMO?  Or this-a guy?

Another Customer:  Yeah!  Who’s a bigger faggot, me or him?

(Long pause.  I consider saying something diplomatic.  I consider just walking out.  Instead:)

Me:  Why don’t we try this?  Why don’t you two bend over and pull your pants down?  Then, I’ll take turns fucking you both and we’ll see which one enjoys it more?  Then we’ll know who’s a bigger HOMO!!!!  A!!!!!  O!!!!!!  On second thought, maybe I’ll just take my coffee and continue on my date with this attractive, polite young man, since you two are both dumpy, middle aged idiots.  Capiche?

(Silence.  I pay for my coffee.  There is a long pause.)

Me:  Now is where you tell me to have a nice day.

Vinny:  Have a nice day.

Me:  Thank you. O!!!!!!

Surprise Ending!!!  I’m never going back to that deli!  It’s the closest and most convenient to my house, and I won’t ever set foot in there again!  I’m not humorless and I know Vinny was joking, but I still won’t do it!  I don’t need that energy in my life and I don’t need to associate with people that put that energy out into the world.  I don’t wish him ill, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to send his kids to college with my candy bar money.

P.S.  The rest of the date went really well.  He’s so sweet and cute, and kind!  You can’t let someone steal your joy, kids.  Don’t let your whole day get ruined just because of the actions of one –

Jerk.

The Easter Lamb

This is Jonathan.  He came over on Easter Sunday.

He contacted me online, because he saw my post about Cups baked goods.  Sometimes that happens.  People send me emails saying, hey, can I bake with you?  Sometimes I say yes.  He sent me a really cute pic of himself but this is the pic that sealed the deal:

I mean, right?

This guy sent me a picture of his dog, through the kaleidoscope of a frosted pink donut.

Clearly this guy is a weirdo with a sense of humor.  Just like me!

Also, he’s pretty easy on the eyes.

We wanted to make a savory Lamb pie, in honor of Easter.

You know.  Cause we’re so into Jesus and stuff…

He’s a great guy (Jesus) and his followers are always so kind and non-judgemental!!!

His followers do a lot of good for the world.  Except for the Crusades, and Imperialism, and West-ward expansion, the Genocide of the Native Americans, the Genocide of the South American Natives, the financial enslavement of Africa and Colonization in general.  (Dont forget Asia – they did a lot of fucked up shit there too). They’re good people, if you except all that stuff.  While we are forgiving them, let’s forgive how the Catholic church’s stance on condom use contributes to illnesses like AIDS and such.  And how they try to reprogram homosexuals to hate what they are.  That’s not just Catholics, that’s Christians across the board for the most part.

BUT IT’S OKAY CHRISTIANS!!!  WE SARCASTICALLY FORGIVE YOU.

Wow.  Tangent.  Sorry.

We braised the Lamb of God in Guinness beer with mixed veggies.  Jonathan brought over fresh herbs for us to chop into the filling too.  Thyme and Oregano, I think.  I took the juices and made a gravy to thicken the filling.

Yeah.  I braise now.  It’s kind of how I roll.

Here’s some interesting things about Jonathan:

I’m 24 years old, a resident of Crown Heights and moved to NY from GA in July. I grew up mostly in Georgia and Tennessee, where I attended an all boys Presbyterian high school. I’m now pursuing my masters, work part time for a nonprofit and part time as an urban design consultant, and I also do illustration/sculpture as a hobby and occasional income source. I run far more than would typically be considered healthy, but I can’t help it. I cook 5 or 6 days a week and splurge on baking whenever I can. I love music and performed for years with a chamber choir and an ensemble whose repertoire consisted largely of gospel and spirituals.

Jonathan.  You forgot to tell them that you’re incredibly hot.

Jesus!

Maybe hotter than Jesus, now that I think about it.

He is risen indeed.

What?  Don’t roll your eyes!

I had to show him how to roll the dough out.

It’s all perfectly innocent.

Perfectly.

We did a shitload of cocaine.

I’m kidding.  That’s flour, dummy.

Jonathan didn’t believe that I’m a total idiot.  So I got out the old uke and proved it.

I mean.  We had to do something while the pie was in the oven…

Holy moly!  I spiked the crust with Smoked Hungarian Paprika that I bought at the Brooklyn Meat Hook.

Good call?  Yes.

Great call.

We put an egg white wash on the pie, then sprinkled it with coarse sea salt.

It made a savory coating on top.  Crunchy, on top of my flaky recipe.  NOICE!!!

We ate the Lamb of God pie.

We didn’t share any with our Christian neighbors.  Mostly because I don’t think my neighbors are Christian, either.

Look.  I changed my mind.  If you’re Christian, or Jewish, or Muslim or part of any major religion that causes war and suffering and judgmental self hatred in the world, I forgive you.  NOT sarcastically.  I forgive you, just because I love you.  And if you don’t believe in religion?

Well, then, I love you even more.

You’re all perfect, wonderful creatures.  You have God inside you.  You don’t need religion to know that.  You are loved.  You are loved.  God is love, as they say.

Can I have a kiss?

Enjoy the love and forgiveness.

Jerks.

Tuesdate:

Him:  So here he is. 

Me:  So here HE is.  Look at you, small drink of water.

Him:  STOP IT.

Me:  I mean it.  You’re gorgeous. Better than your pics online.

Him:  Isn’t Grindr weird?

Me:  I kind of think it’s amazing.  It’s like Chat Roulette, but in person.  You never know what you’re going to get.

Him:  Believe me.  I know.

Me:  That sounded ominous.

Him:  I’ve met some real creeps.

Me:  I’ve met jerks and nice people.  No real creeps.

Him: Maybe that’s because you’re the creep?

Me:  Nice.  I tell you you’re pretty, twice, and you imply that I’m a creep.  You should write a book on dating.

Him:  Uh oh.  Am I one of your online Jerks?

Me:  Are you?

(pause)

Him:  No.

Me:  Well there it is.

(pause)

Him:  Anyway, who keeps score?

Me: Of what?

Him:  Of that sort of stupid stuff?  Compliments and whatnot. 

Me:  Obviously I do.  I just demonstrated that I do.

(pause)

Me:  Relax.  I might be joking, you know…  I might just still think you’re an attractive little wonder, at 5’6”.

Him:  Stop saying little.  I don’t like to feel little.

(i’m feeling brave, and so i take a step toward him.  i put my face next to his.  i can feel the breath come out of my nose against his cheek.  he smells spicy.  like cinnamon or ginger, but not quite those things. )

Me:  What about now?  Do you feel little now?

Him:  Yes.

(i put my hands on his ribcage and squeeze gently.  the hair stands up on my arms.  i have goosebumps)

Me: But don’t you kind of feel really powerful?

Him:  Yes.

Me:  You’re pretty.

Him:  Ugh.

(he moves away)

Me:  Haha…  okay.  So, no saying you’re little, and I’m guessing – no ‘pretty’ either?

Him:  Why not handsome?  Why can’t I be handsome?

Me:  You can.  You are.  You’re very handsome.  You’re also pretty.

Him:  Ugh.

Me:  Well the good news is: I like pretty.  So dry your eyes on that.

Him:  You’re cute. 

Me: Compliment number one.

Him:  What?

Me:  That’s the first compliment you ever gave me, in person.

Him:  Oh great.  How far behind am I?

Me:  Only a few, but I’d rather stay ahead in the compliment game, if you don’t mind?

Him:  Why? 

Me:  I’d rather you owed me.

Him:  What??

Me:  It’s a thing that my grandfather says.  I used to borrow money from him, sometimes, at the store to get comic books.  I would ask to borrow five dollars.  He would give it to me.  When I got my allowance I’d try to pay it back, and he would say ‘No, I’d rather you owed me.’  Then he would smirk, as if he’d just told the funniest joke in the world.

Him:  That’s cute.

Me:  It’s infuriating.  He’d smirk at me, here and there, for the next few weeks, and I knew he was thinking ‘You owe me five bucks and it really bothers you, and I love that.’  He was right, too.  It was exactly what I was thinking.

Him: That’s cute.  He sounds pretty awesome. 

Me:  He’s a good man.  For sure.

Him:  Can I ask you a question?

Me:  No.

Him:  What?

Me:  Sorry.  That was supposed to be funny.  I said no, when the only appropriate answer was yes.  I thought it would be funny.

Him:  Was it?

Me:  Yes, but you’ll just have to trust me.  You didn’t see your face when I said it.  It was funny.

Him:  I guess I’ll have to believe you.

Me:  Good.  Because I’m lying.

Him:  What??

Me:  Sorry.  That was another joke.  That one wasn’t funny.  I get nervous and act like an idiot.

Him:  You make it charming, somehow. 

Me:  You didn’t know me in college.

Him:  Were you different?

Me:  I was nearly insufferable.

Him:  You’re pretty too.

Me:  Shucks.  Okay.  That’s two for you.  Fuck.

(long pause)

Him:  You’re not some sort of creepy Rice Queen, are you?

Me:  Uh…  I mean..  I thought that was obvious?  You’ve been to my website, right?

Him:  Yeah.  There’s lots of Asians. 

Me:  But not ALL Asians, right?  I like a lot of things.  A lot of people.  I like kind people.  Asians are kind, frequently, if you’re kind to them.

Him:  I guess that’s not so creepy.  I guess that’s okay for Asians.

Me:  Yeah.  Well I forgot to say:  I feed on their tears.  Keeps me young.  I’m like a succubus, or a psychic vampire of some sort.  I’m 183 years old.  I make them cry and then drink their salty tears.  But it only works with Asians.

Him:  Really? 

Me:  Yes.  And did you also know that Black people can levitate?  They’re hiding it from you.

(long pause.  he starts laughing a lot)

Him:  You’re joking! 

Me:  Yes.  And you’re laughing.  That means…..

Him:  What does that mean? 

Me:  It means, you get a kiss, if you want one, later.

Him:  I’ll decide later if I do.

Me: Oh.  I. Like. That.

Him:  Really?

Me:  No.  It’s infuriating.   I’d rather you owed me one.

(we kept talking and walking.  later, he gave me a quick kiss.  it was a good kiss.)

He’s not a jerk…

But you are.  Come on.  You know you are.

SaturDATE

It’s Saturday, and I’m asking you on a date.

Come see my show?  My comedy band is doing a show at UCB Theater this Thursday April 28th at 6:30 pm.

The show is directed by the hilarious and talented Pamela Murphy.

Here’s a video where I ridicule a straight guy and make him think he’s contracted Hep C.  It explains everything:

If you come to the show, we’ll all go out for drinks afterwards.  Maybe I’ll drink to much and make out with you.  Let’s be honest.  I’ll probably do that even if I don’t drink too much.

Won’t that be fun?

The show co-stars Marcos Sanchez, Ari Scott (who took this photo)  and Daniel K. Isaac.  They are beautiful and much more charming/likable than me.

Thank God.

Just kidding.  There’s no God.

Prove me wrong, Easter.  Prove me wrong.

Just kidding.  That would be weird to have zombie Jesus walking around Williamsburg.  Actually.  Would anyone  even  notice?  Doesn’t a zombie Jesus just resemble a hungover hipster?

I love you guys.  You’re beautiful and perfect.  Come to the show and call me a Jerk.

Jerks.

Mysterious Stranger

I was visited by a Mysterious Stranger.  A few weeks ago.  It was surreal.

He had a secret agenda that he revealed to me.

He wanted to bake a pie.

What?  You look disappointed.  Did you expect the sort of ominous, post-apocalyptic cloak and dagger that I was hinting around at?

C’mon…  Don’t be naive. I bake pies, give advice, and talk about my cringe-worthy dating life.

So as I was saying, the Mysterious Stranger wanted to make a Lemon Custard Pie.

(Ominous Film Noir Sound Cue)

That’s right.  He held me hostage.  I was his prisoner, and he wouldn’t leave until his hunger for Lemon Custard Pie had been sated.

What?  What’s your problem?  Why are you rolling your eyes?

Well, knock it off.  I’m just writing in a genre.  In this case the genre is new-future post apocalypse film-noir.  Get into it.  Everyone is doing it these days.

Sometimes people want to come bake with me, but they don’t want to show their face on my blog.  For whatever reason.  In this case the guy who wanted to bake with me is a prominent politician who affects real change in the State Government of New York.  Also, I’m lying.

Anyhow.  What makes you think I’m going to drop a dime on my baking partner?  We got a good thing going on here, see?  I ain’t about to jeopardize that for some skinny pipsqueak who’s rolling his eyes at me.  So wipe that look off your mug and listen up…

I never tried this custard type before, capiche?  It was a squirrely kind of recipe – kind that bakes in the oven, instead of the stove top.  You follow my gist?  Good.   It’s more difficult this way, because the custard tends to separate.  I’m not sure lemon was  great choice either, owing to the high acidity rate of lemons.  Then again, I ain’t no science egghead, so maybe the acidity and the custard separating ain’t got much to do with one another.   I can’t say.

Man.  Writing in this genre is difficult.  I should have watched His Girl Friday a few more times.

What am I talking about?  I got a whole life to live.  I’m supposed to watch iconic old movies more than ONCE?

Oh stop it.  Stop with the silent treatment.

I’m not going to tell you who it was who came over.  He’s famous.

He’s a wealthy Persian.  His family pretty much own half of Iran.  It’s ridiculous.

Also.  Again – lying.

Anyway.  I decided to try piping the whipped cream onto the pie with a pastry bag I improvised out of a Ziplock.

I need practice.  After a couple of  ugly whipped cream towers I decided to just smash them all together and do my normal, rustic whipped cream look.

Rugged.

We had a good time, even though the custard separated, and I really need practice piping on whipped cream.

What?  No.  I’m not going to tell you.

Because.

It spoils the fun.

Okay fine.  He’s a high powered lawyer.  Isn’t.

He’s a professional assassin.  No.

Retired Yakuza, now runs a bingo hall in Canarsie.  Nope.

He’s a middle school teacher with a heart of gold that isn’t yet embittered by the New York public school system.  He really wants to help those kids.  Not at all.

He’s a cowboy.  He’s a hunter.  He’s a sailor.  He owns a cannery.   He provides  home health care to the elderly.  He’s a boatswain.  A tailor.  He is Cheryl Crow.  He’s left handed.  He’s right handed.  He doesn’t have any hands due to a freak accident that occurred on an Artic expedition.  He’s a wedding photographer.  He’s a jerk.  I’m a Jerk.  He wanted me to tell you that we all are Jerks.  He wants you to love him, but he’s a total Jerk and he wants you to eat all the pie.  He wants us all to be Jerks together.  He thinks the iPad should run Flash.  He’s a cruise director for Carnival Cruise lines.  He’s a big ol’ softie.

This has devolved into madness.

Enjoy the Mysterious Stranger.

Jerks.

ThursDATE: Flash Back

Place: Inverness Florida, a Rural Town

Time:  My Senior Year of High School

Him:  Thanks for coming over.

Me:  It’s just so weird.  It was a weird phone call to get, in the middle of the day.  Just some guy asking if I’m gay.

Him:  Was that the first thing I asked?

Me:  You asked if I was Michael Martin, and then you asked if I was gay…

Him:  And you said yes.  I can’t believe you said yes.  Just like that.

Me:  Yeah.  Well.  I don’t lie about my sexuality.  It makes me feel uncomfortable.  I stopped lying about it a few years ago.

Him:  How many people know about you?

Me:  Whoever cares to ask, plus all of the people that my friends just mention it to.

Him:  Do you think your friends are telling people a lot?

Me: Well, yeah.  I’m friends with all the actorly types.  They love to talk.

Him:  Yeah.  I hate that about actors.  They’re always talking about other people.

Me:  It’s kind of our job.  To find out about people, what they’re like.  We’re not usually judging.  Just perceiving.  We’re interested.  But yeah – my actor friends like to talk.  How did you know to call me?

Him:  One of your actor friends told me about you, and gave me your phone number.

Me:  Weird.  So weird.

Him:  So I looked you up in the yearbook to see if you were cute.  Then I called you.

Me:  Such a strange way to meet somebody.

Him:  So what do you think of my place?

Me:  I like it.

Him:  I kind of live here alone.  It’s a long story.  My mom got a good job in Orlando.  So I’m here by myself about 5 days a week.

Me:  Sounds like a bunch of trouble.

Him:  I keep busy.  My friends are here a lot.

Me: I’ll bet.

Him:  Hey can I kiss you?

Me: You’d better.  How else am I going to prove that I’m as gay as my friends said I was?

(He kisses me.  It’s good.)

Him:  I couldn’t do that.  I can’t tell people I’m bi. 

Me:  You’re bi?

Him:  Don’t laugh.  It’s a real thing.

Me:  I know it is.  I just always thought a kiss from a bi guy would only feel half-interested.  But as I say that out loud I realize how ridiculous it sounds.

Him: But you tell people when they ask you.  Inverness is small.  It’s a small town.  People must hate you.

Me:  You know I’m class president, right?

Him:  Yeah.  But still.  I asked around.  Some people don’t like you much.

Me:  I suppose some people never will.  This is a redneck town.  There’s only what?  400 people in our High School?   In the only High School in town?  I think I’m doing okay, being openly gay here.  I think things are going  better than I expected them to when I started telling people.  Lots of people like me a lot.  Some people really can’t stand me.

Him:  You’re controversial. 

Me:  You’re hot.  I’m not controversial.  That makes me sound important, or something.  I’m just getting by, and trying to play by my own rules.

Him:  Maybe that’s what pisses people off. 

Me:  It might be.  Any chance I can get another one of those bisexual kisses?

Him:  Every chance.

(More smooching.  It’s good)

(There is a sound of a car pulling into the driveway.)

Him:  Oh shit.  That’s my friends.  Shit.  My friends are here.  Will you hide in the closet?  I’ll get rid of them.

Me:  Will I what?

Him:  Hide.  In here?  Please.  PLEASE.

Me:  Yeah.  Fine.

(A long time goes by as I hide in his closet.  I lay down on a pile of his dirty clothes.  I can smell him in his closet.  I feel comfortable and angry at the same time.  Eventually I hear the car noise again.  He comes back.  I debate whether or not to fake having slipped into a coma while he fucked around with his friends in the living room.  I decide I’m classier than that.)

Him:  Sorry about that.

Me:  You should be.  You made me feel ashamed.  I don’t like being made to feel ashamed of myself.

Him: I’m sorry.  They know you’re gay.  People kind of know that you’re gay.  It wouldn’t look good.

Me:  This isn’t going to work out.  I’m going to leave.  You can’t be wanting to date me, properly, if you’re going to shove me into a closet when your friends come over.

Him:  Come on.  Stick around.  I really am sorry.

Me:  I know, but now I don’t feel comfortable here anymore.  It’s not you.  I’m kidding.  It is.  It’s you.  But I’m not angry.  I’m just not interested in starting a relationship like this.  On these terms.  I have too much self respect.  It really gets in the way.  I’m not being sarcastic, or joking.  It really gets in the way of things, my pride.

Him:  That sucks.

Me: You’re cute.

Him:  You are.

Me:  Can I get one more of those kisses before I leave?

(We do.  It’s great again.)

Him:  (Under his breath) Fuck…

Me:  Yes.  We should probably do that.  Just so you know what you’re missing.

(We do.  Now he knows what he’s missing.  We lie there for about 20 min.)

Me:  Okay.  I’m going.  This was not the best date in the world.  You need to work on your dating skills, okay?

Him:  Okay.  I’m sorry.  I don’t know what else to say…

Me: It’s okay.  You’re nice.  It’s fine, really.  You’re good at sex.

Him: Thanks.  Will you come over again?

Me:  Probably not.  You’re cute, but I don’t let anyone make me feel ashamed.

Him:  Well.  Thanks for coming over.  You’re a great guy.

Me:  You’re not so bad yourself.  Just get over that shame business, and you’re kind of a catch.

Him:  Well thanks again for coming.

Me:  Well thanks for having me.  It was a wonderful time.  Except for that one part.  Thanks for the make outs.

Jerk.

People Send Me Stuff

Okay.  So, I never claimed I wasn’t strange.

I’m pretty weird.

That’s a given.  You’ve been to my site.  You’ve poked around.  You get it.  Weirdo city, right?

Still.  The things people send me…

Sometimes it’s pretty straightforward.

Like this:

So no pies this morning. But I did make muffins. Banana yogurt walnut. Pic
attached.

If I’d known there was a pie lifestyle (piestyle?), I’d have signed up
sooner.

5’8″ 150 45 neg vers smart creative prof type. Also pics attached.

Matt

Matt,

I’d love to have you over to bake.  You seem like a nice guy and your letter mentioned baked goods, and you included a face (omitted) pic and a torso shot.  What a gentleman.  I love that you are not afraid of using a floral speedo as underwear for your internet torso photo shoot.  Shows you have a real sense of humor, and you don’t take yourself too seriously.

Now, when you say you’re a ‘smart, creative, prof type’ do you mean what I hope you mean???

‘Prof’ means Professor, right? Not Professional?  Please say you’re a ‘Professor.’  Like Charles Xavier or Emma Frost? Someone who trains young mutants to cope with their staggeringly overwhelming super powers? Just say that you run a school for gifted youngsters, please?   If that’s true, you can plan to have me as your husband and baby daddy for the rest of your life, or until a Legacy Virus makes us make hard choices and really examine who we are…

If ‘Prof’ means professional:  I will still bake with you.  I am just less excited.

Know what?  I just realized something.  You, more likely than not, meant ‘Professional’.

Hm.  Well… I look forward to baking with you at least.  Just, uh….

Stay out of my THOUGHTS Professor!!

On to the next internet weirdo!!!  He didn’t sign his letter, so I’ll just call him Klaus.

wow – PIEFOLK looks like an amazing project,
I´m really curious to see what you are doing in your kitchen,

(You don’t have to be, Klaus – I’m pretty open about what I’m doing in my kitchen.  I photograph it and broadcast it)

I have no experience with making pies and meeting guys
but like the way you present yourself on your blog
and I´m willing to learn more about it

Here’s the drawing that Klaus sent me.


Obviously this old man should NOT stop smoking opium.   He’s simply been accosted by a young boy with a pail full of clear gelatin….  Uh…  Right?  I think that’s pretty clear.  In any case-

Thanks again for writing in, Klaus…

Next internet weirdo, please?

so you handle cock and the handle food, thats gross

bloe me

Thanks for your feedback, Bloe Me.  I can see you’ve taken the time to cultivate the image of who you are, when you enter the internet world.  Your internet identity is Bloe Me.  Wow.  That’s so important. I can tell you want to really be the change you want to see in the world.  I love you for that. I really do.

Here’s my comeback.  Ready?

I bake in my own home.  I wash my hands, stupid.

But there’s really nothing stopping me from working in any of New York’s commercial kitchens, or restaurants…  I mean – I’m certified…

AREN’T YOU EXCITED???  You’ll never know if it was secretly ME who made your food!!!  Yay!!!  We both win!!  But really just me.

You’re welcome.

Next. Internet. Weirdo.  Please?

Strength Training.  Chapter one:  Involve yourself in a horrible accident.

Thanks for your letter!!!  It makes total sense!

Guys.

As much as I make fun of you for sending me weird shit? I’m pretty grateful.  It’s pretty cool to be communicating with you weirdos, even if I don’t always understand it…

Like I said at the top of this post – I’m a weirdo myself.  I live by the weirdo code.  I have respect for you weirdlings, even if it seems like i don’t.

So, thanks, weirdos, for writing in.

And please.  Have a good week.

Jerks.