Ad-derall: Dunkin Donuts Tuna Sandwiches

Ad-deral is (Amanda's!) new column in which we rant and riff on the ridiculous ads we're subjected to while trapped on the subway.  From the borderline racist local businesses (1-800-MARGARITA Divorce Attorneys) to the condescending national brands that pretend to know what it's like to ride the goddamned F train every day (Snickers, Delta), we'll tackle them all with the same smug outlook that has made us totally (not) famous.

I think we all can agree that a best-case-scenario normal ride on the subway still finds you crammed up against at least two to four people.  And I'm talking C-L-O-S-E. Like so close you're worried you might be pregnant, because you're pretty sure you just had sex with someone as you were trying to get to the motherfucking Jay Street exit.

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Where My Lesbos At?

I know that we've talked and talked about how Park Slope pretty much blows for singles (ed note: uh, that's why gawd invented the BK Meatup!), but the popular consensus seems to be that PS is a lesbian mecca. 

I get it—the setting is picture perfect for sapphic lifstyles. Lesbians can wear their Birkenstocks, have long talks about misogyny in Prospect Park, and buy organic food to their hearts content (to quote Amy Poehler in Baby Mama, "Organic food is for rich people who hate themselves").  But still, I've got to shout it from the rooftops (figuratively—I'm not allowed to go on my rooftop because my landlord will terminate my lease): WHERE MY LESBOS AT?!

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Count Metromix's Hot Plates Live as another successful tasting event at the Bell House

Featuring small bites (or, if we were in an episode of Top Chef, "amuse bouches") from 11 local restaurants, and four beers (Can I have four beers?) served in dixie cups (though, let's face it: I probably wouldn't be happy unless I was served beer in gallon jugs), alongside a cheese plate, the event space at the Bell House was crowded but not obnoxious at the Metromix Hot Plates Live shindig.

HOW'S THAT FOR A RUN-ON SENTENCE? Suck it, bitchez, I've got some food to write about.

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Park Slope Parents Run The Prospect Park Zoo?

And I don't mean "run the zoo" as in, those obnoxious aholes were all up in my grill when I was just trying to watch the 2pm sea lion feeding, letting their dbag children climb up onto the gates and scream loudly. I don't mean that AT ALL.

No. I mean this kind of shit being posted by the baboon cages: "We encourage our baboons to be themselves" --just like "we encourage our children to be entitled brats."

I mean, it's not much of a stretch, anyway. Baboons, small children...totally the same thing.

Buffalo Soldier: Wing Off #2

Your very own Buffalo Soldier is a product of Buffalo, New York, the home of abandoned factories, national sports teams who seem to have a stranglehold on the “runner up” category, and perhaps most notably, the very place where Buffalo wings were invented: at the fabulously divey Anchor Bar.

My quest for a little slice of home in Park Slope is something I don’t take lightly, so here's the second edition of wing offs as I eat my way through the Slope looking for the best of Buffalo.

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Looking for an Apartment on Craigslist is Like Taking Helen Keller Through an Obstacle Course

Well, my saga with my roommate/apartment hunting has been well documented, as every person reading this site agreed (perhaps for the first time!) that I was getting screwed when my landlord upped my rent.

So, I'm moving out.

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Fuck You, Time Warner. Right In Your Fucking Face

In the scrappy, fuck-the-man spirit of the Atlantic Center Target mission, I decided to use this blog to point yet another self-righteous, angry finger at another gigantic, ucaring corporation: Time motherfucking Warner.

Apparently, my little portion of Seventh Avenue in Park Slope is a black hole of unreliable internet service.

The receptionist at my office offered up the theory that mercury is in retrograde as a possible reason why I’m having consistent technology problems. And I was like really, can I have my mail now?

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Et Tu, Mister Softee?

I know that Spring is officially here because the much hated/loved Mister Softee truck has started staking out the corner of 5th street and 7th ave.

It's hard enough to suppress the urge to drink myself stupid or spend $30 on expensive take out after a hard day of work, let alone force myself to go to the gym...but add a strategically placed Mister Softee truck in the mix and it is fucking doomsville for me.

I had my first cone (chocolate with rainbow sprinkles) yesterday. It was $2.25 and I had $2.20 in my pocket. I was about to dig for the nickel in my bag, but Mister Softee told me not to worry about it.

It's a fucking recession and business is so good for Mister Softee that he can arbitrarily refuse nickels.

You rat bastard.

See you all there tomorrow after work.

Buffalo Soldier: Wing Off #1

Your very own Buffalo Soldier is a product of Buffalo, New York, the home of abandoned factories, national sports teams who seem to have a stranglehold on the “runner up” category, and perhaps most notably, the very place where Buffalo wings were invented at the fabulously divey Anchor Bar.

My quest for a little slice of home in Park Slope is something I don’t take lightly, so I’ll be presenting you with a series of wing offs as I eat my way through the Slope looking for the best of Buffalo.

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Obnoxious Asshole Needs A Roommate

Oh fuck, everyone, I need a roommate starting May 1.

When considering potential roommates, here are my options:

A.) Men—No, too messy.
B.) Gay Men—No, too dramatic.
C.) Women—Yes, but probably crazy.
D.) Gay Women—Maybe, but definitely crazy.
E.) Someone I know—Preferred.

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