Please Oh Please don't play Tom Brady

The Patriots play on Sunday against Mighty Joe (Vince) Young, and I would like nothing more than for them to rest the peerless Tom Brady, and perhaps even Corey Dillon and half of their defense, to prepare for the playoffs (in which Brady's arm may or may not make a return to its usual form). Of course I can't watch this game on my computer because of a little twist of fate preserving the run of lousy karma I've sustained this calender year. Give me 10 minutes to assemble a hecatomb offering of nubile virgins to appease the gods (drinking age here is 18, shouldn't be too hard).

OK, I'm back, and my knee is feeling stronger than ever, hopefully my new Nike Frees will strengthen it back to health even quicker. This brings me to my next point: I hope my new Nike Frees don't get stolen. I've told you about the guy that lives in the shanty backyard, well he keeps leaving the door unlocked, so I keep locking it. I don't give a damn about you, Lee, as long as you don't seem to give a damn about my stuff. So everyday before locking my bedroom door, I feel obliged to hide my more valuable belongings, such as my ipod and camera. And every day I return home to find my door still locked, possessions safely stowed inside, I let slip a gleeful yelp. And speaking of my Ipod, since it had run out of batteries, I just purchased a charger for it, against the suggestion of the most highly regarded member of my counsel. I'm sorry, Christina, I just couldn't take it anymore. The tinny sounds of hip-hoppers berating my eardrums with threats of bitch-slaps and orders to stop snitchin is the aural equivalent of the feeling of elation that comes with scoring a touchdown, albeit minus the butt patting.
Since I do a fair bit of walking concurrent with Ipod enjoying, I've noticed that Justin Timberlake's "Futuresexlovesound" song is set to a perfect walking tempo. The beat is just so that it matches my every footstep; the podiatric permutations of sound simply hypnotize my stride, accompanied by the falsetto crooning of JT. You should totally try it sometime. Crazy.
Oh, and the annoying trance/techno/satan's laughter music that every retail store is required by law to play (and you overhear a guy too old for this store bopping his head and saying "nawice mewsic") is not only limited to clothing stores - it is actually played in almost every storefront on some streets here, including the walk in mcdonalds and hungry jacks (Burger King equivalent). I don't know about you, but I don't need someone dancing and shaking their sesame seed bun with two all beef patties while I'm trying to eat, least of all if there's special sauce involved.
Not sure if I mentioned this before, but of all the American fast food places to export here, the most prevalent is KFC. I don't know what it is,but I wouldn't have the majority of these people pegged as fried chicken patrons. Mock it, I may, but in all honesty, when drunk and looking for drunk food, most people here may turn to an afghan kabab establishment; for me, KFC seems to appear as if delivered by Hermes himself upon winged sandals. God bless you Colonel Sanders, and your tender, all white [in color] meat strips of genetically altered and mechanically separated fowel.

In keeping with the trend of bird-eating, you'll be happy to know that Chinese restaurants here have crispy pidgeon on the menu. Not sure how I feel about this. Don't get me wrong, I've always assumed they were serving me pidgeon, I just don't think I like the unabashed honesty of it all. It brings to mind a picture of the ancient owner, training young Daniel-san out in back of their establishment, luring the birds closer with fortune cookie crumbs, free hand prepared to pounce and break their delicate necks with a swift stroke of his chopsticks, like his father, and his father before him. Perhaps pidgeons were actually introduced into chinatowns everywhere by the chinese, eventually permeating cities everywhere, a justifiable hoax to fatten them up on scraps of foodstuffs and the seldom eaten crust in the outstretched hand of a bewildered toddler, escaping the watchful eye of the PETA who have effectively banned the force feeding of geese for foie gras. All I can say is I hope to death the pidgeon that shat on me once met a grisly demise on the plate of an unsuspecting tourist sitting down for a pu-pu sampler. How apropos.

Finally, I finally experienced on of the marvels of ancient India that Russel Peters spoke about. For those of you reading in your unawares, Russel Peters is an Indian comedian with a propensity for racial humor, especially that of his ancestors (their race, not their traditional humor). He hilariously recounts tales of cheap (in the spirit of political correctness, I shall call them thrifty) Indian men who will actually try to convince you into giving them a discount. My firsthand agreement with this comes as such: exiting the cab thursday night at our destination (keep in mind you don't tip cabbies here), I (we, I just happended to be sitting up front) paid the guy a 20 for the 15.80 cab ride, and was waiting for change. 3 Dollars (in coins) later, I was waiting with my hand out patiently for the remaining change (ok, "we" didn't pay him, Andrew did, so it was his change I was awaiting). "It's OK, go on" said the Indian cab driver to me. "??" "Nevermind that, don't worry about it," he continued. I left him to his own scheming devices after that, not sure if he had just given me a break or taken a little extra cwon (jerry maguire). Very shrewd business dealing, I just may try that sometime. Instead of paying my landlady the 300 I owe her every two weeks, I'll just say, "here's 200, and I'll tell you what, I'll let the rest slide."