Last Thursday, in the spirit of the day intended to honor our favorite planet (also known as _____ Day, a title I'm reluctant to utter, as explained here), I posted the following sign on our apartment door:
It took just a few days before the following response was carefully pushed between the door and its frame by some mysterious never-seen messenger from the other side:
Allow me to explain:
Yup, 7 Star II made it an even 24 Chinese menus today, our posted assurances be damned. This represents only about three months of unsolicited menus. I had a feeling the sign would go unheeded, and I probably should have written it in four or five different languages, just to be safe, but I will admit to getting a kick, like any connoisseur of spoons, shot glasses, or Hard Rock Cafe t-shirts can relate, to my growing collection, useless though it may be. And useless is right: we have never ordered from or visited a single one of these establishments. Off the top of my head, I don't even know where any of them are, although I suspect any of you blog-stalkers could triangulate the exact location of our apartment, Krumholtz-style, by plotting the restaurants on a map and applying (along with a complex algorithm) a dash of common sense. After Judd Hirsch inspires you with some folksy Jewish wisdom, that is.
That's a reference to the hit Friday night television program Numb3rs, by the way. And if you got it, you should probably have a serious talk with yourself about why you're watching crappy police procedurals on a Friday night. And then you should have another serious talk with yourself about why you have serious talks with yourself, because seriously: You're talking to yourself.
I have both of those talks frequently. And then I buy myself a drink, just to show that there are no hard feelings.
I'm only trying to help, after all.