Seven 9s and 10s

Showing 29 posts tagged fuiru

An Open Letter to my Tim Hortons Server

fuiru:

Madam, it has been fifteen minutes since you wronged me and the hurt remains so intact that I see no option but to commit to posterity my displeasure with you.

You rang in my order of coffee and a chocolate chip muffin. You took my money. Then, in blatant shirkage of your baseball cap-appointed duties, you instructed me to stand to one side and wait for my order.

Madam, for generations the responsibility of retrieving the baked goods section of a Tim Hortons order has belonged to the person at the cash register. This is the way it is and this is the way it shall be. But you, you in your hubris, you in your immodest pride, you chose to break this covenant between server and servee.

The chain of events that begins with my stepping forward at your behind-the-counter beckoning and ends with my exiting the premises, beverage and treat in hand, was broken. Broken, snapped, destroyed. By you.

My coffee arrived, the beverage preparer on your station still adhering to her duties despite any bad influence from your part. She paused as I asked about my chocolate chip muffin. If I ordered a chocolate chip muffin, she no doubt thought to herself, then I should already have a chocolate chip muffin. That is how things work here.

But I had no muffin. And my order indeed included a muffin.

Do you see her hands, oh Tim Hortons Cash Register Lady? Those are not muffin-retrieving hands. Those are coffee making hands. Those are the hands that pour, that stir, that write ‘DD’ on the lid when you buy a double-double. Those are not hands suited for the delicate removal of bready dessert from a rack and careful placement into paper bag. Do you see how her hands shake? Do you not feel responsible?

Do you see how she pauses in front of the baked goods racks, oh Tim Hortons Cash Register Lady? See her uncertainty? She does not know by heart the locations of all muffins, from Fruit Explosion to limited-time Red Velvet. Nor should she. This is not her domain. This is your domain.

Do you see her now that she has realised there are no chocolate chip muffins? Her confusion? What would you do in this situation? Would you come back and ask if I wanted a different type of muffin? I’m sure you would. She would not, though. She would go into the kitchen, find a chocolate chip muffin just baked, put it in a paper bag and give it to an unsuspecting customer, one who, in his immense desire to eat this muffin, would burn his fucking mouth on it.

But no, this is not her fault. This was not her error. This, oh Tim Hortons Cash Register Lady, was your mistake. And I can assure you, you have made a worthy nemesis this day, mark my words.

This speaks to my soul.

High-res Favorite (Active) Bands That I’ve Never Seen Live (as of 6/12/2013)
Queens of the Stone Age
The Cardigans
Radiohead
Presidents of the USA
The Rentals
Junip
Pinback
AC/DC
Nerf Herder
The Darkness
Tool
Soundgarden
Guns N’ Roses (waiting for the never-gonna-happen reunion tour)

Favorite (Active) Bands That I’ve Never Seen Live (as of 6/12/2013)

  • Queens of the Stone Age
  • The Cardigans
  • Radiohead
  • Presidents of the USA
  • The Rentals
  • Junip
  • Pinback
  • AC/DC
  • Nerf Herder
  • The Darkness
  • Tool
  • Soundgarden
  • Guns N’ Roses (waiting for the never-gonna-happen reunion tour)

Steve Jobs’ Aquarium

Original story by fuiru:

“One of my favourite Steve Jobs stories was the time the engineers working on the iPod brought their finished prototype to him in his office. He said it was too big, they needed to make it smaller. They said it was as small as they could make it, it couldn’t be made any smaller. So he took the prototype over to his aquarium and dropped it in. The iPod sank to the bottom, and as it did, tiny little bubbles came out. ‘See those bubbles,’ he asked. ‘They’re air inside the iPod. Make it smaller.’

“Another story about Steve Jobs was when they brought the prototype for the iPad 2 to his office. The engineers told him it was faster than the first iPad. He took it over to his aquarium and dropped it in. ‘Look how slowly it sank,’ he told them. ‘Make it faster.’

“One time a newly hired intern had been sent out to get Steve a sandwich. When she brought it to him, he looked at it. ‘I thought I ordered the beef on rye,’ he asked. She told him it was indeed beef on rye. He took it over to his fish tank and dropped it in. ‘Does that look like beef on rye?’

“He was always dropping things in that fish tank. We couldn’t stop him. We told him he had to stop, he wouldn’t listen. It was full of stuff that shouldn’t be in an aquarium.

“The fish had all died years ago. One had been crushed under an early generation iMac. The others were all poisoned. He didn’t care.

“It got to the point where there was no room for anything in the fish tank. When we emptied it after he died, we found a body in there. We never found out who it was.”

Grape Pie

fuiru:

Last weekend, when Steve stayed at Casa De Fuiru, he brought a purple box with him.

“This is for you,” he said, presenting it to my wife and I. “It’s a Monica’s grape pie. Monica’s does the best grape pies.” Then, barely audibly, he muttered under his breath: “And lo with this blessing, thee I also do curse.”

Steve then went on to tell us that since he tried these pies for the first time, he has literally thought about them every day.

I watched him as he said this. His eyes looked into the distance, and for a second I no longer saw Steve. Instead, I saw a sailor, clinging to a raft in the middle of the ocean, his eyes scouring the horizon for blessed relief, knowing that with each rise and fall of the sun there may never be an end to his torment.

I saw the man who, as a child, watched Aphrodite bathe, and who lived his life knowing he would never again see this epitome of beauty (unless he drove 45 minutes away, to Naples, NY, and bought one (I was starting to see Steve again at this point)).

Tonight, Mrs Fuiru and I tried the pie. And lo, with that blessing, we are now also cursed.

Monica’s grape pie is like someone melted down a candy store and placed it inside a pastry crust.

It’s like having a party in your mouth that’s fully catered, with none of the premium liquors running out by midnight and the next day someone else cleans and tidies your house.

After tonight, if I were to ever write an erotic novel, it would be about an innocent young man who is seduced by a wanton grape pie that makes him do all sorts of pervy things, most of which involve putting spoonfuls of the pie in his mouth, slowly. The eighth chapter would consist of nothing but groans, while chapter sixteen would be banned in Hungary. The cover would be a black and white photograph of a plate with pastry crumbs on it.

Since eating a piece of this pie, I have become illogically and obsessively jealous of the foil dish it came in, because that goddammed foil dish has been able to cup the joyous grape pie against its bosom for several weeks. If I could be reincarnated as an inanimate object, it would be a foil pie dish with a Monica’s grape pie in it.

After eating her first mouthful of this pie, my wife said, in a halting and disbelieving fashion: “I don’t really understand what’s happening in my mouth right now.” Before either of us could eat any more, we embraced for several seconds.

Steve, if you’re reading this, I wish to thank you. Thank you for sharing your curse with us. Our lives will never be the same again.

Happy pi day, everyone. Especially you, Phil. Especially you.

Grape Pie

fuiru:

Last weekend, when Steve stayed at Casa De Fuiru, he brought a purple box with him.

“This is for you,” he said, presenting it to my wife and I. “It’s a Monica’s grape pie. Monica’s does the best grape pies.” Then, barely audibly, he muttered under his breath: “And lo with this blessing, thee I also do curse.”

Steve then went on to tell us that since he tried these pies for the first time, he has literally thought about them every day.

I watched him as he said this. His eyes looked into the distance, and for a second I no longer saw Steve. Instead, I saw a sailor, clinging to a raft in the middle of the ocean, his eyes scouring the horizon for blessed relief, knowing that with each rise and fall of the sun there may never be an end to his torment.

I saw the man who, as a child, watched Aphrodite bathe, and who lived his life knowing he would never again see this epitome of beauty (unless he drove 45 minutes away, to Naples, NY, and bought one (I was starting to see Steve again at this point)).

Tonight, Mrs Fuiru and I tried the pie. And lo, with that blessing, we are now also cursed.

Monica’s grape pie is like someone melted down a candy store and placed it inside a pastry crust.

It’s like having a party in your mouth that’s fully catered, with none of the premium liquors running out by midnight and the next day someone else cleans and tidies your house.

After tonight, if I were to ever write an erotic novel, it would be about an innocent young man who is seduced by a wanton grape pie that makes him do all sorts of pervy things, most of which involve putting spoonfuls of the pie in his mouth, slowly. The eighth chapter would consist of nothing but groans, while chapter sixteen would be banned in Hungary. The cover would be a black and white photograph of a plate with pastry crumbs on it.

Since eating a piece of this pie, I have become illogically and obsessively jealous of the foil dish it came in, because that goddammed foil dish has been able to cup the joyous grape pie against its bosom for several weeks. If I could be reincarnated as an inanimate object, it would a foil pie dish with a Monica’s grape pie in it.

After eating her first mouthful of this pie, my wife said, in a halting and disbelieving fashion: “I don’t really understand what’s happening in my mouth right now.” Before either of us could eat any more, we embraced for several seconds.

Steve, if you’re reading this, I wish to thank you. Thank you for sharing your curse with us. Our lives will never be the same again.

My salutation to all friends upon their first grape pie experience: “You’re welcome… and I’m sorry.”

High-res atsween:

The Internet is pre-gaming.

I had a great time in Toronto this weekend.
We’re all awkward and quirky and unique and beautiful. Some of us talk too much. Some of us don’t talk at all. Some of us drink too much. Some of us think too much. Some of us are allowed to touch me only below my neck but above my waist. We walk funny. We talk funny. We love good food. We love to complain. We love to talk about ourselves. We love to learn about each other. Ultimately we travel hundreds of miles and spend our hard-earned cash just to share a few brief hours together every now and then - and when we’re together we respect one another’s idiosyncrasies.
I find it somewhat magical that we all ended up in the same little corner of the internet.

atsween:

The Internet is pre-gaming.

I had a great time in Toronto this weekend.

We’re all awkward and quirky and unique and beautiful. Some of us talk too much. Some of us don’t talk at all. Some of us drink too much. Some of us think too much. Some of us are allowed to touch me only below my neck but above my waist. We walk funny. We talk funny. We love good food. We love to complain. We love to talk about ourselves. We love to learn about each other. Ultimately we travel hundreds of miles and spend our hard-earned cash just to share a few brief hours together every now and then - and when we’re together we respect one another’s idiosyncrasies.

I find it somewhat magical that we all ended up in the same little corner of the internet.

High-res Tumblr, can you handle this much handsome?

Thanks to the Fuiru’s for being great hosts! I look forward to seeing them again next weekend at Torontup.

Tumblr, can you handle this much handsome?

Thanks to the Fuiru’s for being great hosts! I look forward to seeing them again next weekend at Torontup.