mag
Heeb Issue #14 : Urban KvetchUrban Kvetch
Mr. Met
Mets fans aren’t some sushi-rolling, lemonade-sipping pansy-asses. The blue in the team logo is a reflection of the hue around our collars. We may have some sentimentality for team mascot Mr. Met, but mostly he’s just an embarrassing, arcane reminder of the days when patronizing gimmickry was a boon to the spirits of the Ebbets Field faithful. Mr. Met might be adorned with one giant ball, but rest assured, the rest of Shea’s male population is boasting a brazen pair.
KENNY HERZOG
WebMD.com
So, Mr. WebMD, I had a slight rash on my face, which turned out to be a simple allergic reaction to my moisturizer. But according to you, I had incurable facial tumors, sun poisoning, melanoma and childhood obesity. Thanks so much—where did you get your license to practice medicine, St. Augustine Institute for Hypochondria and Irrational Overreacting?
SARAH MAXWELL
Rude Instant Messengers
I told you I’d “brb,” but you get all pissy when I don’t immediately respond to the nine IMs you send while I’m away. I apologize anyway because I’m nice like that, but then after a few minutes of chatting, you disappear with no warning. When you finally reemerge half an hour later and I ask where you went, you act like I’m a crazy stalker and tell me to “chillax.” Fuck you and your little “Dick In a Box” icon, too.
REBECCA WIENER
Your First Day On The Job
You get introduced to the same people five times and you still can’t remember anyone’s name, then you’re seated at a desk and given nothing to do, so you spend the afternoon straightening out your piles of Post-It notes and grinning like an idiot at your busy new colleagues who keep whizzing by your desk, wondering, “Who is this schmuck?” If I wanted to sit around all day surfing the Web and refreshing my e-mail, I would have stayed unemployed.
DAVE ITZKOFF
The Locker Room At The Friar’s Club
To all of those Christian groups dedicated to “curing” homosexuality through “reparative therapy”: just send Ted Haggard to the locker room at the Friars Club and expose him to all of those hairy bellies, veiny legs and tiny wieners, and he’ll come out as straight as John Wayne. The locker room at the Friars Club is more painful than electroshock therapy. I’m not even gay and the hideous imagery makes me want to flush my Kiehl’s Pineapple Papaya Facial Scrub down the toilet.
JOSHUA NEUMAN
Dance Dance Revolution
Quit claiming it’s “just like Guitar Hero.” Dance Dance Revolution is to Guitar Hero what Napoleon Dynamite is to Justin Timberlake. Anyone who attempted their DDR “dance moves” in the real world would look like they were a contestant on Who Wants to Be a Jackass? Yes, GH and DDR have similar concepts, but so too do a blowtorch and rubbing two stick together. Next time I feel like stepping in four different directions at the same time while listening to crappy Japanese techno, remind me to get a life.
ANDREW SCHALL
The Demise Of The Fortune Cookie
Remember fortunes? Something that foretells a new job, love or financial windfall; a prediction that eerily rings true that you’ll superstitiously keep in your wallet; or at least something that sounds funny with the words “in bed” tacked onto the end. I didn’t wrestle with that cellophane packaging for a cookie that tastes like chalk, and I certainly didn’t do it for a pep talk, a platitude, random lottery numbers or a oneword Mandarin vocab lesson. JESSIE BODZIN
Wobbly Tables
This is a flipping four-star restaurant. The sautéed skate we ordered came with cauliflower that you spent a week and a half caramelizing and a caper-raisin emulsion that required a Ph.D. in Chemistry to produce. You could at least seat us at a table with four legs of equal length. We’ve spilled so much coffee, we’ve had to ask for three extra cloth napkins—the third to fold and shove underneath the derelict leg.
LEWIS AND JANET NEUMAN
PARAMUS, NJ
(READER SUBMITTED)
Send your 75-word complaints to us at kvetch@heebmagazine.com and we’ll print the best one in our next issue.
Mets fans aren’t some sushi-rolling, lemonade-sipping pansy-asses. The blue in the team logo is a reflection of the hue around our collars. We may have some sentimentality for team mascot Mr. Met, but mostly he’s just an embarrassing, arcane reminder of the days when patronizing gimmickry was a boon to the spirits of the Ebbets Field faithful. Mr. Met might be adorned with one giant ball, but rest assured, the rest of Shea’s male population is boasting a brazen pair.
KENNY HERZOG
WebMD.com
So, Mr. WebMD, I had a slight rash on my face, which turned out to be a simple allergic reaction to my moisturizer. But according to you, I had incurable facial tumors, sun poisoning, melanoma and childhood obesity. Thanks so much—where did you get your license to practice medicine, St. Augustine Institute for Hypochondria and Irrational Overreacting?
SARAH MAXWELL
Rude Instant Messengers
I told you I’d “brb,” but you get all pissy when I don’t immediately respond to the nine IMs you send while I’m away. I apologize anyway because I’m nice like that, but then after a few minutes of chatting, you disappear with no warning. When you finally reemerge half an hour later and I ask where you went, you act like I’m a crazy stalker and tell me to “chillax.” Fuck you and your little “Dick In a Box” icon, too.
REBECCA WIENER
Your First Day On The Job
You get introduced to the same people five times and you still can’t remember anyone’s name, then you’re seated at a desk and given nothing to do, so you spend the afternoon straightening out your piles of Post-It notes and grinning like an idiot at your busy new colleagues who keep whizzing by your desk, wondering, “Who is this schmuck?” If I wanted to sit around all day surfing the Web and refreshing my e-mail, I would have stayed unemployed.
DAVE ITZKOFF
The Locker Room At The Friar’s Club
To all of those Christian groups dedicated to “curing” homosexuality through “reparative therapy”: just send Ted Haggard to the locker room at the Friars Club and expose him to all of those hairy bellies, veiny legs and tiny wieners, and he’ll come out as straight as John Wayne. The locker room at the Friars Club is more painful than electroshock therapy. I’m not even gay and the hideous imagery makes me want to flush my Kiehl’s Pineapple Papaya Facial Scrub down the toilet.
JOSHUA NEUMAN
Dance Dance Revolution
Quit claiming it’s “just like Guitar Hero.” Dance Dance Revolution is to Guitar Hero what Napoleon Dynamite is to Justin Timberlake. Anyone who attempted their DDR “dance moves” in the real world would look like they were a contestant on Who Wants to Be a Jackass? Yes, GH and DDR have similar concepts, but so too do a blowtorch and rubbing two stick together. Next time I feel like stepping in four different directions at the same time while listening to crappy Japanese techno, remind me to get a life.
ANDREW SCHALL
The Demise Of The Fortune Cookie
Remember fortunes? Something that foretells a new job, love or financial windfall; a prediction that eerily rings true that you’ll superstitiously keep in your wallet; or at least something that sounds funny with the words “in bed” tacked onto the end. I didn’t wrestle with that cellophane packaging for a cookie that tastes like chalk, and I certainly didn’t do it for a pep talk, a platitude, random lottery numbers or a oneword Mandarin vocab lesson. JESSIE BODZIN
Wobbly Tables
This is a flipping four-star restaurant. The sautéed skate we ordered came with cauliflower that you spent a week and a half caramelizing and a caper-raisin emulsion that required a Ph.D. in Chemistry to produce. You could at least seat us at a table with four legs of equal length. We’ve spilled so much coffee, we’ve had to ask for three extra cloth napkins—the third to fold and shove underneath the derelict leg.
LEWIS AND JANET NEUMAN
PARAMUS, NJ
(READER SUBMITTED)
Send your 75-word complaints to us at kvetch@heebmagazine.com and we’ll print the best one in our next issue.
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