You Can Wipe My Taint, Too.

I don't consider myself a cussy little funt, but I require some taking care of in my needier moments.

All people with low self-esteem are like this, I suppose.

Were my wife a weaker woman, she would have assuredly buckled under the pressure of my near-constant need for reassurance, maintenance, and hugs. Though it might not come across on this here blog, I'm a hugger. I'll hug your tits off, bastard.

Anyway, while I don't consider myself especially demanding, I have certain expectations that need to be met or else I get a little fucked up. There are times in life where I keep my expectations low. Like at a valet-operated parking garage in Philadelphia. I don't expect the African immigrant taking temporary custody and control of my vehicle and objects contained therein to speak English. I do expect that he will not steal any of the quarters contained in the old, orange, plastic prescription medication container in my glovebox. I do not expect him to be overjoyed and give me a bear hug after receiving the typical Jewish tip of $1.00. I do expect him to not masturbate in the backseat of my car while I am enjoying a play at the Arden or a sophisticated cultural event at the Academy of Music.

I have learned to lower expectations when visiting my parents' house, or just interacting with my family members in general. Yesterday, my father and my eldest sister met me at a park near work to have lunch with me on my hour away from clinically inappropriate people. What could have been a crushingly disappointing experience, had I clung to youthful ideals of enjoyable family experiences was instead only a typically disappointing experience, with my father peppering me with annoying questions I didn't want to answer, my sister being depressive and quiet, and the fucking sun in my eyes.

One of the few times where I feel justified in wanting to be taken care of, coddled even, is when I am dining out. It doesn't happen very often and, when it does, I like it to count for something. This is why I do not eat at Old Country Buffet, because that only counts for something if your stomach serves as a heating pad for your genitals and your name is "Dale."

When I go to a restaurant, I appreciate a semi-attractive waitress. If she is too attractive, there are problems. See, I'm married, and I love being married, but my vision, though wonky, is corrected within a reasonable proximity to 20/20. I like being taken care of by my semi-attractive waitress wearing black ass pants and a tight shirt. It pleases me to be taken care of in this manner. These waitresses probably think that their pertness and deliciosity of their leftness and their rightness are the reasons for their inordinately large tip. It's not the case. I'm just shit for math.

(And I like tits.)

I also like being taken care of by the chefs, and I don't care what they look like. I have precious few requirements for restaurant-prepared cuisine.

* Don't kill me.

Undercook my meat, and I will be on the phone to have you arrested for attempted murder. All animal products served to me should be essentially blackened.

* I'm a sucker for pretty.

Gussy up my plate, if you please. Carve a flower out of a carrot, and I'm basically warm butter in your saucepan. I know it all turns into dookie in about six hours, but I absolutely love a beautifully-crafted dish. Cooking is an art, and even a guy who uses the word "dookie" knows that.

* When in doubt: add more animals.

If we're at a restaurant with several other folks (rarely ever happens) and someone asks my wife what I'm eating, or what I've ordered, she'll invariably say, "Animal Party." My favorite Chinese food dish is Sub-Gum Lo Mein which basically means, "Lots of different dead animal pieces with lo mein." Shrimp, pork, beef, chicken. To me, it's not a meal unless there's at least three differet dead things laying around getting cozy with noodles or rice or sauce. If you're my chef, throw in some scallops or a lion's thigh and we'll be in business.

* Prep. My. Shrimp.

This is the big one.

When I go to a restaurant, invariably I will order something that has something to do with shrimp. I love shrimp. Prawns. Whatever the hell you call them wherever you are. I love them-- those curly little fuckers just make me happy is all.

HOWEVER...

I am always, ALWAYS filled with the greatest trepidation when ordering shrimp (even from a semi-attractive waitress brimming with pertness) because I never know whether the shrimp are going to arrive to the table with their tails still attached or not.

Invariably, I would say 8.9 times out of 10, they're still on there, and it just kills me. Every time, it kills me.

Because, really, how much of a douchelips do you look like, trying to pull those sonsofbitches off your shrimp whilst trying to have polite conversation and/or not look like a hungry caveman? You've been sitting there for over an hour, waiting on your meal, and then it comes. Fifteen shrimp that you now have to spend at least that many minutes on, performing a goddamned necropsy at your candlelit table.

There is no sophisticated way, that I know of, to de-tail a shrimp that has been lovingly coated in a white wine garlic sauce. Let's face it: that's some slippery shrimpery shit, motherfuckers, and there's no doubt that one of those bastards is going to go flying into some old biddie's saggy cleave three tables to the left if you're not careful.

So, chefs of the word: take note. Pull those goddamned shrimp tails off yourselves. 'Cause I might not expect much out of life but sometimes, just sometimes, I'm an uppity little shrimpfucker.

Phew! That was rough. I think I need a hug. C'mere, you bastard.