This Week, Rob Tells A Lie

One night, many years ago, I was with friends at Pats Rose & Grey, enjoying an evening.  Being introduced to strangers, and being somewhat inebriated, and assuming that the brief introduction would be my complete and total association with these strangers, I decided on a whim that I’d pretend I’m visiting from Scotland.  And so I put on my best (bad) Scottish brogue. 
Of course, the short introduction turned into us all getting a table together, so I was kind of forced to keep up the charade for quite a while.  I can’t imagine I fooled them, but they seemed to take me at my word. If they did take me at my word it was probably only because they (rightly) couldn’t imagine someone being so pathetic as to fake a scottish accent for an entire evening.  Seriously, how sad.

Since then, I’ve often thought of scnearios and lies I could tell people about me if I was in such similar situations (being introduced to strangers) and if the mood struck me.  And I’ve come up with the perfect one (I think).
Saying you’re Scottish (or anything where you have to put on a tough accent or any affectation) is dangerous because it’s tough to keep the charade up.  One needs to choose a lie which is easy to maintain yet fairly difficult to prove on the spot.  The lie also needs to be of a nature that the possibility of the truth is within grasp.  Saying you’re an astronaut is probably not going to be believed, and would be farily easy to disprove.  The lie needs to be within the realm of possibility, yet of appeal uncommon enough to be remembered.
And I have the perfect lie:

If you don’t know me, and you get introduced to me, and if I am of the right level of intoxication and if the mood strikes me, I may tell you my lie:  I am one of the writers of the little show description snippets in the TV Guide.  If pressed, I have a whole backstory ready to prove that fact.

"See that guy over there," you’d say to others.  "He writes those little blurbs about the shows in the TV Guide."

What’s your lie?

The Finger Of Chicken Factor

For the past few months, I’ve been once-a-weeking for lunch at a take-out place, ordering their chicken fingers and fries.  I notice that there are two people who work there, however only one at a time.  The guy who works there gives me five chicken fingers and a heaping helping of crispy fries.  The girl who works there gives me not so many fries that are not so crispy and only four chicken fingers.
The discrepency in the amount of fries, I don’t worry about.
My dilemna is this:  do I mention to the girl that the guy gives me five chicken fingers?  If I do, then there is a possibility that his extravagence of an extra finger will be exposed and may be stopped.  Is there a store policy on the number of chicken fingers one gives out per customer?  If she’s short-changing me, then I’d definitely like that rectified.  My hunch is that the de rigueur is four fingers, though I have no solid proof of it.
I don’t know how many chicken fingers he gives to others.  I’ve never witnessed it.  I’ve thought about lurking around, waiting for a chicken fingers and fries order to come up, but it’s not ordered that often.  It’s not even on their regular menu.  I have concocted a story that this guy somehow appreciates me for some reason and as such is favouring me with an extra chicken finger and heaping fries.  I look for subtle clues like a wink or a nod or him saying "I’m giviing you an extra chicken finger, you know" but I can gather no hard evidence.
At first I thought that perhaps he gives me smaller chicken fingers and she gives bigger, but today’s five chicken fingers from him were huge. 
It sure would be nice to get that fifth chicken finger from that girl.  I think, though, that it’s best that I not tempt it.
One of the factors leading me to think it’s better to leave things as they are is this:  she only works about a fourth of the time he does at lunch.  So, I get his five chicken fingers about every three times to her single serving  of four chicken fingers.

What would you do?

Fee, Fye, Ho Hum

Blockbuster has been annoyingly advertising their "No More Late Fees" policy ad naseum. 
Too bad it’s a lie.  Yes, they’ve changed their policy but they still charge a late fee.  Only now they call it a restocking fee.  Whatever.
You rent a movie or game.  After 8 days of not returning it, Blockbuster charges your credit card the full cost of purchase.  You now own the movie or game.  You still have a 30 day grace period to return the movie for a refund, but they do charge you a nominal (I think it’s $1.50) restocking fee.
Isn’t the restocking fee just another name for late fee?
I have no problem with the new policy, in fact I think it’s smart.  I just don’t the misleading terminology.

But I don’t care.  I don’t rent anymore from Blockbuster anyway.
Here in Charlottetown, it’s That’s Entertainment all the way!

Scared By Stereo – Twice

Today, I had two separate moments when I got scared, both due to the effects of stereo.  The first was this morning, when I was driving my wife to work.  We were listening to music, when on the far right side of the car, came a spooky "oooooh" sound.  It startled me, and I thought my wife had seen something on the road and was "oooh"ing me to avoid it.  Turns out it was Emmylou Harris singing backup harmony on a Ryan Adams song.
The second time was at lunch.  I was walking back to work, with my headphones on, when deep in the back of the sound came a strange sound, which I interpreted as footsteps of someone behind me.  I knew there was nobody behind me, so the thought that all of a sudden someone was behind me was a bit unnerving for about half a second. 

Damn you Stereo and your two-channel spookings!

Thoughts – 1 cent each or 5 for a nickel

The Setting:  The drive-thru at Robin’s Donuts on the Trans Canada Highway in Charlottetown

The Dialogue
Female Server (pleasantly, thru speaker):  Welcome to Robin’s.  Can I take your order.
Rob:  Yeah, I’ll have an extra large double double.
Female Server (thru speaker): Extra large double double.  Is that everything?
Rob:  Yeah.
Female Server (thru speaker):  Dollar Seventy-One.  Drive through please.
Rob:  Thank you.
{Rob drives up to window)
Female Server:  That’s a dollar seventy-one.
{Rob gives Female Server a Toonie.  Server gives Rob 30 cents change – a quarter and a nickel)
Female Server:  That’s enough for a phone call!  (pause)  And five thoughts!
Rob:  You’re right!
{Female Server gives Rob his coffee, says "Have a nice day" adn Rob drives off, smiling}

It takes such little effort for people to amuse others, yet it so rarely occurs.
Thanks Female Server for making my morning a little more pleasant.

One thing, though.  Why is an extra large double double at the Robins in Winsloe $1.69, while at the TCH and Stratford locations it’s $1.71??

Horses or Whores?

This is a public message for anyone who may have recently, um, "come in contact" with a cute N.S. filly named "Hundred Bucks To Win":  She’s got Herpes!!  If you’re looking for some equine action in the Truro area, just say ‘neigh’ until the situation stable-izes.
Horse-screwers, please, for the good of all, get yourselves checked out.

It’s getting almost so that a deviant can’t be a deviant anymore.  It’s like that old World War II quotation about indifference:  When they came to take away the {fill in the blank}…I did nothing.

When the priest gave my best friend a quarter to touch his holy place, I did nothing.
When his girlfriend started fooling around with another chick, I did nothing.
When HIV made it dangerous to screw gays, I did nothing.
When the whores started charging more for blowjobs, I did nothing.
Now that horses have herpes, etc…