Nuclear Iran, and other Modern Disappointments

Perhaps the end is near after all. The other day at lunch, my cellmate and our paralegal shared an elevator with a bunch of accountants from a temporary office on our floor. In the time it took to descend 120 feet to the ground floor, I came to understand how exactly the emergence of the Metroplexual will indeed spell the end of Western society, and perhaps all of civilization as we have come to know and despise it.

Young Metro #1: "Gosh, where should we eat. You think we can get into El Guapo now?

Toying with being neighborly to the temporary residents, I almost pointed out that El Guapo is impossible to get into after 12:15, especially with a group as large as theirs. Before this rare display of common courtesy could escape from my grips, the other hairy girls from next door chime in...

Young Metro #2: "Now hold on, silly. Where did you eat last night?"

Playful pause.

Young Metro #1: "Ooooh, that is right. I just don't think I could possibly eat there again today. Where should we eat then?

Young Metro #2: "Hmmm. I don't know. Where do you want to eat?"

Metros #3-6, in satiny unison: "Gosh, dunno...what about you? Isn't there a tea room nearby? I just dunno, where do you want to eat?"

In between the mindless exchanges, there was scattered chatter about television commercials, clothes, Golden Globes, how Aunt Sally got the blood spatter off the wall and the brain material out of the carpet.

Come on girls! Get yer hands out of yer pants, and drop those purses already. Why the hell don't you get right to the nut-cutting, skip lunch, pile into your compact hybrid, and go to the shoe store, or get facials together. Its bad enough that I gotta have a similar conversation with my wife at the end of the day, who, despite being home all day long hasn't had a single brain cell to devote to deciding where I am going to pay money to have a stranger feed me and then do the dishes, thereby releiving her of that duty as well. You boys wanna wear your girlfriend's lace panties, or momma's hairnet, take that shit to American Idol, don't bring it to my elevator.

This close to the Super Bowl, we should be warming up our smacking hand, chilling the beer, and selecting the finest cheese and other half-time snacks. Saunter your dainty asses to the vending machine, get a 40 ounce can of Cajones, or maybe an extra shot of testosterone in your smoothies, and make up your damned mind. Brokeback Mountain my ass... bring them cowboys down off the fence, put khaki's and a goatee on 'em, put em in an office and call them accountants... Brokedown Metroplexuals is more like it.

Last week, of all the countries in the world, France said they would nuke Iran if they had to in order to keep those towel-wrapped little devils in their place. France didn't immediately retract the statement and surrender, so I was a little worried.

Monday, Credit Suisse and UBS Warburg said they were sending the Iranians packing, and telling Iran to take their uranium soaked lucre else where. Both institutions claimed their relative holdings were small, just over a billion dollars in one instance. Beloved, I don't care if it is ten cents or ten billion, when banks walk away from money, THAT scares me. Gold is undervalued until it hits $685. If the Israelis hit Iran this calendar year, gold is undervalued at $850. If the Israelis don't hit Iran's nuke facilities this calendar year, gold is a bargain at a grand.

Both children from wife #1 have now committed themselves to having a relationship with my checkbook, but not me; without much planning or forethought and an abundance of willful, wanton and malicious intent, have now apparently alienated all of my siblings; sitting at office right now working on this sub-par post while the wife is at home by herself with two infant boys that have some rare, deadly form of flu/bubonic plague... The tri-fecta is in play.

Took up a collection from co-workers, about to go purchase the winning lottery ticket and abscond with the winnings. If I can't get paid in gold specie, I will just get a cashier's check made payable to the order of... Formerly Living.