A Carpet “Trip”

Well, you don’t know what we can find

Why don’t you come with me little girl

On a magic carpet ride?

-Steppenwolf

I almost bought a carpet the other day. I’m not really sure why. It’s not like I have room where I live. Maybe I’ve just seen Aladdin too many times. Anyways, I was wandering through town this past Saturday, when I passed by an “Oriental” street market, full of gaudy paper lanterns, tacky plastic teacups, and enough incense to make my eyes water and my throat itch. The kind of place that I usually try to avoid at all costs.

But some carpets caught my eye; I have always admired their intricate designs. An old Persian (or maybe Azerbaijani?) man asked me if I wanted to try one of them out. I nodded, not really understanding. Then he laid out this fabulous red carpet with golden intertwined branches and purple flowers, and he bid me sit.

So I did, closing my eyes and taking in the wafting smells of “frankincense” and “myrrh”. It actually seemed like the carpet was taking off, slowly at first but soon picking up a frightening pace. Suddenly, I was passing the Great Pyramids on my left, the Taj Mahal on my right, and more sand and camels than I had ever seen in my lifetime.

I landed in this small, bleached-white city surrounded by water. Some locals greeted me in English with a vaguely Arabic accent. One of them placed a beautifully embroidered blue turban on my head. They must have thought I was the Sultan or Pharaoh or something. They brought me out a giant couch. Then they started fanning and hand feeding me olives, catching the pits that I spit out.

They had just begun to lead me to my harem when I finally woke up. All of the vendors and their products were gone, as was the carpet on which I had been “traveling”. What’s more, when I checked my pockets, I couldn’t find my wallet or my cell phone.

I knew I should have gone to a yard sale.

- Carlos de la Gringa

The Subtle Manly Art of Making a Sandwich

I want to apologize for taking so long to write this article but I’ve been preoccupied lately with saving the world. I’m kind of a big deal. The Navy SEALS say they’ve never seen someone so adept in the arts of Kung Fu, Jiu Jitsu, and Capy Bara. Anyways, I can’t go into detail but let’s just say a certain famous Pakistani dude (or was he Assyrian?) won’t be making anymore homemade videos. I should be getting the Congressional Medal of Honor any day now. Boo Rah!*

This week, instead of giving tips about getting the ladies, I thought I would talk about my other great passion: cooking. Now, I know what you’re thinking: “the Tiger” cooks? Can’t he just get a lay-day friend to do it for him? Yes, I can! But there are certain dishes that only a man has that certain je ne sais quoi to make. Top of the list is the sandwich.

Now some may tell you that making a sandwich is easy, but they are wrong, my friend, they are dead wrong. Sandwichry, as I like to call it, is a long intensive process that requires skill, practice and patience. It is the craft of real men. You can’t just slap any old piece of meat together with some processed cheese and call it a sandwich, you have to be conscientious of just how all those different juicy morsels of pure unadulterated goodness are going to melt in your mouth. So choose wisely. But the true mark of the man’s sandwich, a “manwich” if you will, is measured with a yard stick. If your sandwich is stacked so high with assorted meats, cheeses, sauces and vegetables that you can’t pick it up without something falling out, if it’s so massive that you can’t bite into all of it at once, that’s when you know you’ve made a proper sandwich.  Congratulations, compadre! Just remember, no knives or forks allowed!

- Mike “the Tiger” MacNamara

*Ed. TES does not know why Mr. MacNamara disappeared for so long (perhaps gambling debts got too high or an ex- tracked him down?) but we can promise our readers that he had nothing to do with the recent death of terrorist mastermind Osama bin Laden. Fortunately, that task was left to actual professionals.

The Diet Column – Cigarette

And now for our beloved Diet Column, this week TES is going to propose a real diet! I’m sure you’ve already appreciated the miracles of the Cheeseburger Diet and that your night-outs started to be your main source of hilarious anecdotes thanks to the Gin & Tonic Diet. But this week we are going to present the ultimate diet, a diet where you won’t go looking for something to eat ever again. Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present to  you: the Cigarette Diet!

What’s so wonderful about this diet? First of all, you can abuse it: smoke as much as you want; your body will to tell you when to stop. Every cigarette is a little piece of satisfaction. It’s the perfect reward for a hard day of work, or a good companion after a quarrel with your spouse.

Plus: smoking helps you save money, because the more you smoke, the less you want to eat. And don’t forget, smoking is the best way to cover up that terrible halitosis that you have had ever since you started the Gin & Tonic Diet.

Plus: smoking exposes you to an almost infinite number of awful diseases that help you to get thinner. There is nothing that gets you slimmer than lung cancer and digestive disorders. And you won’t worry about getting a tan ever again. Your skin will always be yellow thanks to the nicotine. Do you want pale skin? Then smoke even more! The more you inhale, the more blue your blood gets – like Prince William!

We appreciate your concerns. You don’t want to die. But think about it this way, would the government really allow the legal trade of a lethal poison?

So trust us, your favorite magazine! And nowadays, it’s easier to smoke than ever. You can find cigarettes in every gas station at the lowest prices. And with the taxes on your cigarettes, you will be supporting our boys on the front that are fighting for our freedom.

So, do the right thing: start smoking!

- Simone la Cuercha

My Precious Caffeine

Today, I thought that I would give you an update on my strike. I don’t know if you remember but it’s been almost three weeks now since I declared war on sleep, disgusted with the cruel corrupt grip it has over all of us. And the fight has been going surprisingly well. It’s been over a week since I last blinked. I’ve been very loyal to the cause in all aspects.

But, the greatest thing about this strike is that through it, I’ve met the love of my life: Caffeine. She’s absolutely wonderful. She is always there for me when I need her. Whether I’m in the mood for an Irish Breakfast or I just want it black, she always knows exactly how to please me. And did I mention she’s hot?

I remember when I was opposed to doing something like this. I said that real men didn’t need help to get themselves out of bed in the morning. But ever since I got involved in this strike, I’ve been slurping her down like crazy. Yesterday she even introduced me to some Argentinean stuff called yerba mate. Man, that $#!% gets you so wired. I’ve never felt so alive in my life. It was like I was flying. My house was so tiny from way up in the sky and everybody looked like ants  ….like talking flesh-covered ants.

But my comrades just don’t understand her the way I do. They’ve even accused me of cheating on the cause because of her. They say that I should just end things before it’s too late. But that’s nonsense. We’re in love. We’re supposed to be together forever. Nobody can keep us apart, not Old Man Sleep, not my friends, not my family, not Santa Claus, not even almighty Zeus himself!  Do you hear that f^&%*($, she’s mine, ALL MINE!!!…..

….do you wanna do some jumping jacks with me??….

- Carlos de la Gringa

Quack, Quack!

“Quack, quack!” I wake up, look down and there is a duck with her little ducklings swimming around my bed.

I know what you are thinking. “Simone, you have to stop this, we are tired of your stories about hallucinations. Seriously, dude, we don’t know what you’ve been smoking but you gotta stop. Go and tell them to some stranger in a pub or your favorite crack house, but stop pulling this shit with us and write something real.”

And you know what? “You’re right, I have to stop writing this stuff all the time. Because the good Lord – the Master of Extraordinary, that is – wants the next Diet Column. But I’m sorry, I just can’t today. I need to talk about yet another incredible morning.

So, there are ducklings in my bedroom. I put my feet on the floor, and it’s wet. Is this a hallucination? It’s real water! Then I go to the bathroom. I look outside. Apparently my house is surrounded by what an English speaker would call a lake… My garden is an ocean and the tree in my backyard is a giant tropical plant. I go to the front door and open it, still in my flip-flops and pajamas. “Fuck…”

There are cars stuck on the street. Water is everywhere. There is no chance of survival. People run through the water and break into abandoned houses to rob the few things that the flood spared. Police cars try to patrol, but they are all stuck in the mud. It’s total anarchy! And then there are all these blondes dressed up to go jogging in the water with iPods attached to their arms as if nothing had happened.

And maybe I’m exaggerating a bit. And I am kinda pissed off. Why, you might ask? Because when I woke up, all of my stuff was ruined; apparently, people here have never heard of a little thing called rain. And since they didn’t build the houses the right way sooner or later there was bound to be a flood. But this isn’t a third world country I’m writing about or some nation plagued by the monsoons. I am writing from upstate New York!!! But it could be worse, at least it’s not Alabama…

- Simone la Cuercha