Brinksmanship Of Fools

Three things:

1. Sam Walker, you lack tact, diplomacy, and a sense of proportion. You have needlesly escalated this conflict from some friendly (at least from Kubas' end) screwing around to a full-scale anti-mustache barrage. To couch this in terms of Cold War nuclear strategy (an EXTREMELY appropriate metaphor), you've gone from fighting a proxy war in the Middle East to carpeting the globe in mushroom clouds. Rather than healing your divide (or at least continuing your small feud) privately, you have pissed off and alienated the entire mustache nation. This is no way to make friends.

2. After seeing X-Men 3 twice in 9 hours (midnight thursday, 9 pm friday), I have the following Tip of the Hat/Wag of the Finger (Note: Tip of the Hat/Wag of the Finger, or TOTH/WOTF, is a convenient tool with which to dispense your opinion, in a faux-assholesque, this-is-how-it-is manner, of the good and bad points of anything. It is a regular feature on Stephen Colbert's Colbert Report, and was converted to blog form by my cousin Amelia.).

TOTH to Wolverine, for delivering. Delivering what, you ask? Everything, I answer; Hack n' slash action, plenty of one-liners, and a passable rallying speech. Also, TOTH for the very nice ending scene, and the TOP SECRET BONUS scene after the credits. I don't want to ruin anything...

WOTF to Wolverine, for crying...twice!

3. A word on my workplace, the Lost Lake Lodge restaurant. I write here not to disparage it in any way (who knows who might be reading this...), but to point out how nice my job transition has been so far. I moved from dishwasher to host, and I'm already loving my new place in the "front of the house" (the dining room) far more than I ever enjoyed the "back of the house" (the kitchen). The dining room is cool, quiet, and pleasant. The kitchen is about 15 degrees warmer and way more damp, with the Power Loon blaring in the background. It's like everyone in the kitchen is engaging in mortal combat for the length of their shift. The cooks fight the stream of orders and the dishwashers battle the mounting piles of dishes. I would end each shift with new cuts and burns on my hands, a sweat soaked shirt, and a thick layer of grease on my glasses. If a knife fight were to break out in the kitchen, no one would bat an eye. Everyone would just heave a sigh of exhaustion, grab a towel and join the fray. Now, if a knife fight started in the dining room it would be a different story. I would have to walk up to the combatants and say "Excuse me, gentlemen, but would it be possible for you to continue your altercation in another location? We do have a combat arena, fully stocked with a wide array of destructive implements. Right this way, please."