Thursday, November 15, 2007


You may have heard, by first-hand accounts or by reading this space or otherwise, that I'm a marked man. Marked in terms of having incredibly bizarre misfortune at restaurants, coffee shops, etc. One place neglects to order my meal, another place decides to leave a broken bread tie in my eggs. One place has every beer imaginable on tap, they take our order and bring everybody's beer except mine because they just ran out of the beer I ordered.

These things usually occur when I walk into any establishment. And they happen almost every time, without fail. There's a sign imprinted on my forehead that reads "fuck with this guy" that's visible to everyone but me. I'm convinced. It's happened way too many times for it not to be there.

But this time I didn't even have to venture out into the world, make a phone call or interact in any way whatsoever with a vendor to get fucked with. I enjoyed half my delivered lunch and then discovered what looked like a pubic hair in there. Bon appetit.