Inspirational Black Pepper

(fig.1) This, is the best representation of an evening with friends I've ever seen. 

You want an inspirational story?

Well here's one. Read on.

There's this new couple where I'm working. Ryno and Cecil. They are the cutest item I've ever seen since witnessing that pair of semi-angora kitties having an intercourse in the missionary position (call me a liar, the cats won't care)(no that's not gross that's cute)(three sets of parentheses, hah!).

A couple of weeks ago, I was diligently working on my very own version of an elaborate prank, hiding in the shadows of the utility closet, hoping to take a running jump at some clueless airhead- beloved colleague of mine when my T-Rex eyes noticed movement.

I leaped on a terrorized Cecil.
Leaping on people prior to knowing their name is to ice breaking what nuclear fission is to pest control and frankly, you feel pretty awkward after leveling a couple of cities just to reduce the giant moth population.

When my black eye finally resorbed, we became friends.

As all friends always do to seal a budding relationship, I offered them the unique opportunity to learn French bread baking at my home without having them crowd-fund the workshop via kickstarter.

The three of us logically ended up in my kitchen, our hands white with flour and chins wet with expecting drool.
All was going well when a curtain of gloom suddenly fell on our happy party. O rage, O despair, thy storm bearing clouds, the bite of thy frozen gale of disappointment… I was out of yeast!

For those who don't know, not including yeast in your bread is perfectly fine if you intend to bake a freezbee. Else, you still can swallow your enthusiasm along with a handful of raw flour and call it a day.

I could have done just that, but I'm not the kind of person easily brought down by the whim of my usually merciless fate.

"Do you guys want to know how to turn instant hot chocolate into an unforgettable event?"

[Cheers from the crowd, the Dalai Lama drops from a hovering helicopter, snatches the mic out of my hands while doing a backflip and says "Who gives a fuck, really?"]

Alright, no chocolate for you, Dalai Lama. Rino and Cecil did say yes. We proceeded.

Later, remembering that we were all video game addicts in a way or another, we spent the rest of the evening enjoying vintage titles, ending the night with Puyo Puyo (advertised as a puzzle game but, in reality, the ultimate tool to put any friendship to the test).

Out of all that, came one of the most amazing infographics I've been tagged in so far. Made specially as a keepsake for such a nice evening (fig.1).

Why is this inspiring?

- The Dalai Lama doing a backflip HAS to inspire you, somehow.
- A succession of mistakes turned into a succession of good moments is pretty awesome.
- You learned you can eat raw flour (although you can also eat rocks, what happens later is your problem).
- You can turn every occasion into a chance to feed a newly wed couple a highly potent aphrodisiac beverage. You're welcome.

You now MUST visit Cecil's illustrations blog and Ryno's creative portfolio. I will personally whip your buttocks with an angry bobcat if you don't.



More info, more cake and still no lemon at Without a Lemon's Facebook Page


Inspirational Black Pepper by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.


Hot Chocolate Without A Lemon by Cecillia Hidayat is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

The Bald Paradigm (Why I fucking hate comb-overs).

Baldness allows righteous
smugness, even to styrofoam.
(credits)

Yes, I am now 30 years old, and I have been bald for a year already. Not balding on the top, not thinning on the forehead. Ground zero bald, cue-bald, scalp-feels-like-a-new-handbag bald.

And, this is a good thing.

When I was 17, I was harboring a curly mane so rebounding and silk-smooth that Shirley Temple could have sued me over it, and won. Mind you, not poodle curly -which is good, since the only good way to dry up a poodle is in a microwave, and I don't really fit - not affro either, but springy curls reflecting lights in all shades from deep brown to dark copper.

I could push a pen inside of that head jungle of mine; it would stay there, warm and safe, for the next half hour I would spend untangling it. Now the only way to make anything stick there involves either a lot of alcohol, a lot of pain, or both.

My Teflon head is the result of a promise I made to myself -and kept: Thou shall not compromise with male pattern baldness.

Let me explain.
Have you ever seen someone with missing teeth brush the remaining ones aside so they fill the gaping holes in-between?
Now, put aside the disturbing mental image I have intentionally put in your head, and ask yourself: "If people don't do that with their teeth, why the coiting hell would they do it with their hair?"

Yes yes, people don't usually pull out their remaining teeth either, but that's because, contrarily to toupees, the majority of available dentures aren't made entirely of seaweed and hobbit butt-hairs (another interesting picture for our readers with a good visual imagination, you're welcome).

All of this to say: I fucking hate comb-overs.

Comb-overs, though, are Andre-Fulbert's best friend.

Andre-Fulbert is a French accountant. He works half time in the windowless basement of a round-the-clock sex shop. He often deliberately inputs numbers with typos in it to delete digits he imagines alive and screaming for mercy. On his way back home, he usually takes a 15 minute breaks at the terrace of a bistro where he withstands verbal abuse from a old prostitute while drinking rancid coffee. Back home, he gets mauled by his goldfish and ignored by his dog, a hemiplegic terrier born before the first republic. He goes to the bathroom hoping to soothe his bowels, corroded by years of 15 minutes coffee and old whore talks, and after his fruitless effort drowned in a storm of weapon grade gases, he washes the greasy sweat off his face while staring in the mirror.
What he sees is the pride of his crown, atop his round head and his double chin. The reported, brushed aside crown of low self esteem. He sees the compensation for years of frustrated routine and an overly shy set of genitals.

Had Andre-Fulbert taken the right decision, wearing his balls on his shiny head in the fashion of all real men, turning the disaster of aging into a silvery chance of looking like a confident, masculine alter ego, ready to kick Bruce Willis in the shins and gobble Sean Connery like a raw egg, he would have come home to the moans of Thalia, Calliope and Erato welcoming him in a rapture while his pet liger diligently deposed at his feet the bleeding body of Cernunnos. He would have ignored it all to go shave and perfect the patina of his cranium, and then have a steak, because that's what real men do.

Kneel before Cernunnos, the Celtic Deer Deity.
Also, don't let him find me again. I'm begging you.
(Source)

Alas, as proven by a fortnight spent running in fear, naked in the woods, and three fractured ribs, that bitch Cernunnos is still very well alive. Andre-Fulbert is long dead, though, choked by his own tears while crying himself to sleep.
Godspeed, Fulb', godspeed.

Bald on the forehead, bald between the ears, polka dot bald all around the world, take action and sandpaper, time has come for our testosterone filled pride to flood the world with sebum powered incandescence!

More info, more cake and still no lemon at Without a Lemon's Facebook Page


The Bald Paradigm (Why I fucking hate comb-overs) by Danny hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.