a-goose-egg

[a-goose-egg]

Chicken wings

It was a fine fall friday evening in Massachusetts. I had been there for just a couple of months, a skinny, sweet-faced Indian kid, already missing everything he had left back in India. A fellow American grad student with whom I shared the occupancy of my university lab approached me in earnest. Ever since I had made his acquaintance, he had been the recipient of daily complaints about how American food was so flavorless compared to spicy Indian food. Today, he had decided to expose me to something called “Buffalo chicken wings”. You want spicy, I’ll show you spicy, said my labmate whom I’ll call Burt because that was his name.

“Buffalo chicken wings, huh”, I said. It was the first time I was hearing about this zoological oddity. We took the campus bus to our local mall housing the Ground Round brewing company that was our destination for these wings.

The menu in the Ground Round rated wings from 1 to 5 fire alarms in increasing severity of heat. Since Instagram did not exist at the time, Burt was ready with pad and pencil to sketch my reaction to the heat explosion. The waiter arrived to take our order.

“I’ll do a dozen of the 3-alarm wings”, I said, just to be on the safe side.

Burt was shocked. “Are you sure, these things kick ass”, he said. His concern for my well-being touched me to the very core of my core.

“Okay wait”, I said to the waiter, “I’ll go with the 2-alarm wings instead”. Burt looked relieved.

The wings arrived in due course. I took a tentative bite. Burt was scanning my face for my reaction. My face was blank. The wings were bland. Not spicy at all.

“Burt”, I said, “This is not hitting the spot. They are not even in the same zip code as the spot.”

Burt was confused. “Okay let’s try the 3-alarm wings”, he suggested.

We ordered the 3-alarm wings.

They were less bland but still pretty bland.

We ordered the 4-alarm wings. Nothing. I was getting impatient now. The spice clock in my body was ticking.

We ordered the 5-alarm wings.

When the wings arrived, Burt’s eyes started to water. He was holding the menu between himself and the wings to shield his face from the fumes.

I took a bite. The vinegar fumes were blinding me but I still couldn’t taste the spice. What. The. Fuck.

“This is IT”, I yelled, “I’m done with this”. I jumped out of the booth so hard the wings fell to the floor. “Let’s go, Burt”, I demanded.

“He’s holding a 5-alarm”, whimpered a guy cowering underneath the table next to us.

I pointed a wing at him. “Don’t do anything stupid and no one gets hurt”, I said.

We slowly backed out of the bar and fled to the bus stop to wait for the next bus back to campus.

Chicken wings are America’s “guilty pleasure”, ”finger food”, “watch sports and drink copious amounts of alcohol while eating crap” crap. But chicken wings are also something much better than all these things. Chicken wings are where American cuisine leaves its boring roots, spreads its wings and flirts with the gods of world cuisine watching over us as we try to live out our life on this doomed planet. Chicken wings can be cooked and spiced in a thousand different ways; fried, roasted, mild, hot, buffalo, garlic, parmesan ranch, honey barbecue, tandoori, Sichuan, teriyaki, I could go on forever. Chicken wings are adaptable enough to accommodate every single palate and lifestyle in the world except vegetarian, pescaterian and cannibal.

Every American has their favorite wing joint, a place they will swear by and scamper off to during the zombie apocalypse to spend the remaining few hours of their life in wingful bliss. As part of my ongoing quest to find such a place for myself I visited the Pizza time saloon, a bar near my house. Word on the street was, their wings were the absolute bomb. I hailed the bartender and requested the wings, with the caveat that they be the hottest he could possibly make them.

The bartender stared at my face and said, “Are you Indian”?

“Yes”, I replied, “why?”

He leaned in conspiratorially and whispered into my ear, “Would you like to try…The Indian Special?”

“The Indian Special?”, I said, confused but also mildly aroused.

He gave me the scoop. Apparently quite a few regular patrons of this bar were Indian, employed in the pharmaceutical company next door. One day, frustrated with the blandness of the 40 cent buffalo wings they were being fed during happy hour, they had conducted a peaceful civil disobedience movement in the kitchen until the chef concocted a wing recipe that was spicy and flavorful enough for their tastes.

“So, how about it?” said the bartender.

“Yes please, I’ll have a dozen Indian Specials”, I replied.

When the wings arrived they looked nothing like a typical buffalo wing. The disobedience had certainly paid off. The wings were covered in a chunky dark sauce replete with an ominous amount of red pepper flakes dotting every millimeter of the wing. The scent of garam masala and chilli powder wafted up into the atmosphere. If you closed your eyes you could still hear the buffalo sauce screaming silently in the background but that was all that remained of it. They were garnished with cilantro and it was clear that the blue cheese accompaniment had no idea what the hell was going on.

The flavor was terrific. The spice was just hot enough to make me tear up but not weep profusely like I had done back in college during a theatrical screening of Kabhi Haan Kabhi Naa when the girl I had a crush on presented a rose to someone else on Valentine’s day.

I had found my go-to zombie apocalypse wing place.

A few years later, I was birding with my friend Duck on the grounds of an abandoned psychiatric facility. I apologize for the hard segue but there is a context, wait for it. After a fair bit of peeking into partially broken windows of abandoned buildings hoping to see disenchanted spirits and staring into trees trying to spot yellow warblers and orioles, we realized that we were both ghoulishly hungry and thirsty. Quickly I google mapped the nearest bar. As it so happened, there was one right within these desolate grounds. We drove there and found ourselves standing outside the Shanahan bar and grill. It appeared that once upon a time this establishment used to be a single family home, now converted into a bar with a cozy interior and more importantly, a nice patio area in the back facing the woods. Google had advised me that this place was famous for its hot wings. Confident in our ability to tackle the hottest the Buffalo world had to offer, we ordered the “complete total insanity” wings. The waitress looked us dead in the eyes and said, “Are. you. sure?”

Look, in my defense, I’ve experienced this question in bars and restaurants all across the US. As a person of Indian descent I am offended whenever someone questions my ability to consume the spiciest foods, meats and soups their establishment has to offer. And therefore, staring sternly back at her, I replied, “Yes, ma’am, I am very sure. Please. Bring them on.”

We sat in that scenic patio with a view of the decrepit asylum buildings, drinking our Sam Adams Boston Lager in the early spring sunshine, watching red-bellied woodpeckers tapping on the forest wall and waiting for our wings. When the wings arrived they looked innocuous, even benign. I would even go so far as to call them congenial. When I bent down for a light sniff I did not detect toxic fumes upon my face or nostrils. So Duck and I, we each picked up a wing and took a bite.

Oh, how pernicious, you wing. The sauce was not vinegar-based and that’s why there was a lack of facial assault. But the spice was pure powdered habanero. The wing was fierce. I chewed on gamely and took another bite. Duck coughed gently and excused himself to go to the bathroom. In his absence I began to weep freely. I took another bite. At this point my goal in life was simply to finish this one goddamn wing without dying. What had hell wrought upon us? I finally finished it but my mouth was acres of wildfire, not to mention my fingers and everything they had touched on my face. I went to wash my hands and face in the bathroom. Duck was there, completely drenched, slapping water all over his entire body. Duck was crying. Duck and I, we lay on the floor for a while hugging each other and wishing for death that never came.

I boxed the rest of those wings and took them home. I had a goddamn biological weapon in my possession that I had paid good money for and I fully intended to use it.

Monday, when I got to work, I dispatched the following missive to the company email list:

Gentlemen,

In the fridge, there are 8 chicken wings. These are no ordinary wings. These are wings of death. As you know, I am Indian and we eat, drink and breathe spicy. When we get hurt, we stop the bleeding by sprinkling red pepper flakes on the wound.

But these wings defeated me. I was unable to make it past 1 and it was a near death experience.

Here are the challenges, should you choose to accept them:

Eat 4 of these wings and I will pay you $20.

Consume all 8 and I will pay your surviving next of kin $50.

Who among you is up for this?

Note: You will sign a waiver absolving me of all liability before you embark upon this feat. Also, please make sure you notify your next of kin.

Only serious challengers need apply.

A few minutes after lunch Brian and Tony approached me. Brian is a fresh faced sales guy and Tony was in tech support, a hefty former college football player. They had perused my email, had a quick conference and decided that they would take on my wing challenge as a team. I told them that I would pay them $20 each if they managed to stuff four wings each down their bellies. They agreed to these terms.

The moment the clock struck 5 the entire company began to trickle into the kitchen area. Word had spread all afternoon about Brian and Tony accepting my challenge. The contestants walked in and it was on.

I microwaved the wings for 30 seconds, just to loosen up the sauces and the hurt. They each picked up a wing.

Five years later, the one thing I remember vividly from this day is Brian’s face. Brian is a very attractive dude with a shapely round white face. As I watched his face get redder and redder and eyes start to bulge from their sockets, I remember wondering if his face was going to literally explode. Tony, on the other hand, is a big swarthy Italian guy so his agony was manifest more through choking sounds and tears. I have to give it up to both of them, they plodded through the wings gamely. I cannot begin to imagine what was happening to their body on the inside and on the outside. The moment they were done they ran to the fridge and emptied an entire carton of heavy cream between themselves.

The next day we received an update on what had transpired after they left work. Driving home, Brian had experienced severe acid reflux as never before and had to stop at a pharmacy to purchase antacids that cost more than 20 bucks, thus effectively putting him at a monetary loss. Furthermore, after he reached home he was severely chastised by his wife for his decision to even accept such a death defying challenge in the first place as a married man with familial responsibilities.

On his way home, Tony had to stop multiple times to vomit by the side of the road. He was reticent to describe what had happened after he reached home but I suspect it’s because the college football player within him was loathe to reveal such delicate details to a largely mirthful audience.

So seeing as we have reached the end of my autobiographical chicken wing ruminations, allow me to let you in on my personal recipe for hot wings. Roast the wings in an oven until they’re crispy. The base for your sauce should be vinegar, Frank’s hot sauce, Worcestershire sauce, chopped fresh garlic and most importantly, butter. Heat this stuff together then go wild improvising the spice aspect. A few suggestions: freshly chopped peppers (jalapenos / habaneros / Indian green chillies / literally any hot chilli pepper in the world), powdered heat (cayenne / chipotle / chilli powder / smoked or Hungarian hot paprika / garam masala). Mix it all together with the base sauce and toss the wings in it.

And welcome to wing heaven.

[a-goose-egg]

I am angry

I am angry. I am angry at you, America. This election was an important moment in your life. A moment of immense gravitas, a moment of historic significance, a moment of existential import. And you went and screwed it up.

I was in shock the first day, in bottomless despair the next. Now I am just livid.

I am angry at the decision you made. It was not that hard of a choice. Donald Trump. A racist, sexist, xenophobic, serial sexual assaulting, narcissistic buffoon with zero ideas and the temperamental stability of a Yellowstone geyser. As opposed to Hillary Clinton. A thoroughly qualified woman who, though flawed in many ways, brimming with ideas and a genuine desire for public service and the betterment of our society.

Honestly, the choice wasn’t even remotely close.

I am angry at the media who pretended he was a genuine candidate and presented his vision as if it had any clarity or moral validity in the real world in which we all live and breathe. I am angry at the fact that every night one of his surrogates was given adequate time to shovel whatever shit he had been spewing all day and sculpt it into a beautiful Japanese turd garden for the witless masses to admire.

I am angry at every white American who voted for him. Especially if you have any minority friends or even acquaintances. You saw him demonize the most vulnerable communities all throughout his campaign. You saw the rancor of his die-hard supporters towards members of those communities during his rallies. You knew if he won, his supporters would feel vindicated for their racism and xenophobia. You knew they would burst out of their shell and go on a rampage. Middle and elementary schools are seeing students bully their immigrant friends, safe in the knowledge that the President endorses this behavior. Gays are being assaulted with bottles. Blacks have seen their cars vandalized. Women are being sexually harassed through pussy grabbing. All these horrendous acts are being perpetrated, accompanied by an explicit reference to his victory. And this was just Day 1.

I am furious.

I am furious at all the women who voted for him. Here’s an admitted sexual predator, on record, boasting about his conquests, followed by 12 different women bravely standing up to the scrutiny of society and testifying that he did exactly the kinds of things he had been boasting about. Literally verbatim. You saw him try to refute those allegations by saying those women were too ugly for him. That they were doing it for fame. That they were planted by the Hillary campaign. You saw him denigrate ordinary women and relegate them to the stereotypical role of a male plaything. You saw him say extraordinarily inappropriate things about his own daughter. You saw him look at a ten year old child as a future girlfriend. You went and voted for him anyways. I am goddamn furious.

I am furious at Latinos who supported him, despite his demonizing of your community, by saying well he’s not talking about me, he’s talking about “them”. Well, when his supporters gang up against you and your kids, they won’t care if you are you or you are “them”.

I am angry at Hindus who supported this man, thinking he was their savior. But then we Hindus have always looked at every single issue of the day through our prism of the Hindu-Muslim conflict. Did you really think this man was going to do anything about Islamic terrorism? His entire plan for ISIS consists of not telling them what plan he has for them. He has repeatedly said he will not rely on American intelligence agencies for any data. He’s claimed to know more about ISIS than the generals. But fuck all that. More importantly, you’ve seen his supporters. You saw his supporters ask you to go back to India AT THE VERY GALA YOU THREW FOR HIM IN NEW JERSEY.

You should be angry. At yourself.

You should have known, when the nativists come for the brown people they are not going to cherry pick. His supporters call us brown people “muds”. Did you know that? Did you also know that yesterday an Indian child in a Boston school was asked to go back home to her country by her white friends? This is in Boston. A bastion of liberalism. You should be angry at yourself. What the hell were you thinking?

I’m angry at all the black folks who voted for this clown. You saw him, someone who’s probably never even ventured north of Manhattan’s 59th Street, talk shit about you to his white base, demonize you at every rally, badmouth your neighborhoods. You heard him claim that you couldn’t even set foot outside your house without getting killed. This is his opinion of you. That you’re all a bunch of violent thugs. Not to mention, the fucking KKK endorsed him. And you still voted for him. Shame on you.

If you’re a feminist who voted for him, I’m sorry but you’re not really a feminist. He and his butt buddy Mike Pence will be taking back female reproductive rights tens if not hundreds of years. He will be filling at least one Supreme Court slot with a conservative justice. This means Roe V Wade has a good chance of being overturned. He believes women shouldn’t be in the military. And Mike Pence once co-sponsored a bill trying to redefine rape, distinguishing between forcible and….consensual? What in the actual fuck?

If you’re gay and you voted for him, what the hell were you thinking? Have you seen Mike Pence’s record on LGBTQ issues? He supports gay conversion therapy. He thinks homosexuality is a mental illness. When asked if he thought employers should be able to fire gays, he remained silent. Seriously, I am disappointed in you.

If you care even a little bit about your kids but still voted for Trump, you suck. He’s appointing a climate change denier as head of the EPA and an evolution denying creationist as head of education. Your kids will be stupid. Really stupid. And they’ll be living underwater. And this will be on you. I should be angrier but honestly I don’t care about your kids all that much.

I’m angry at the fact that Hillary Clinton had to share podium space with this sexual predator, someone who’s sexually assaulted several women. I’m angry at the fact that Obama had to shake his hand today in the Oval office, the hand of someone who tried to delegitimize his presidency in an overtly racist endeavor over the course of several years.

I’m angry that this arrogant man seeks to redefine everything that America stands for just for his own sense of self-validation. I am angry that he played upon Americans’ innate fear and mistrust towards those different from them in order to get himself elected. I am angry that Americans were conned into believing that this person, who is clearly suffering from debilitating narcissistic personality disorder that’s fueling his every move towards a self-indulgent goal, has any interest in public service.

And I am really fucking furious at everybody who was eligible but didn’t vote out of apathy or whatever the fuck. This is your goddamn country. Take better care of it.

[a-goose-egg]

5 reasons why Hillary Clinton will win the White House in November

I have to admit, when five thirty eight first published their forecast predicting that if the American Presidential election were to be held today Donald Trump would win it quite handily, I panicked. I panicked profusely. I lost a lot of sleep and some appetite. I could not believe this. What the fuck was happening? Would Donald Trump really be the next President of the USA? Would the future of this country and the world be dependent upon the personal insecurities of a narcissistic racist-misogynist-bigot-prick?

However, since that initial panic attack I have had the opportunity to spend a few days in quiet repose and rumination. I am now happy to inform you that my contemplations have convinced me that I may have been too hasty in purchasing tickets to both Canada and Mexico. Here are the reasons why I now believe that Hillary Clinton will win it all in November, forcing the citrus-hued monkey man to return to his day job of fucking over working class people. 1. Bernie youths will stop being fucking dimwits and crybabies

When I saw young Bernie followers at the Democratic convention weeping all over the floor of the Wells Fargo Center, pledging never to support Hillary, some even claiming to not know anything about her or what she stood for, my heart sank. Were these sorry low-information voters the next generation of the Liberal Left that we were relying upon to propel us through the twenty first century? Fuck that shit. Fuck it real good. But more importantly, I wondered, how would Hillary Clinton ever earn the support of these scallywags?

The answer, I believe now, is simply by not being Donald Trump. Most Bernie followers, having married themselves to the idea of President Sanders, never once entertained the possibility of anyone else becoming President, such as Hillary Clinton. But with time, Bernie followers will go through all the prescribed stages of grief. And after the final interpretive dance of despair has been performed around a flickering campfire and the last lotus flower of sadness has fallen off an attractive unwashed head, Bernie youths will come back down to earth and realize that this election is too important to America and the world to sulk and be a fucking crybaby. Bernie followers might be spoilt-ass privileged kids but every spoilt-ass privileged kid ultimately has to grow up, learn some shit about the universe and make the right life decision for himself and for others.

2. Americans will get to know Donald Trump better and be fucking horrified

The propagation of opinion shows on 24 hour news networks and humongous right wing AM radio listenerships might instill the belief that Americans are extremely politically savvy and aware. You might further believe that everybody in America already knows everything about both candidates and their positions on the issues and nothing they see or listen to at this point will make them change their minds. Well, if you believe all that then you’re just a fucking dumbass and know nothing about Americans or their politics.

The average American at this point in the election cycle has as much awareness of anything to do with the election as a tomato still on the vine has about its eventual life as a disgusting bottle of ketchup. Most Americans, including quite possibly even Donald Trump’s most ardent supporters, know very little about the actual poopturd of a man behind the fuckshit persona. All they know about this guy is that he’s a “successful” anti-establishment businessman who talks a big game and gets unfairly demonized by the evil media. Who wouldn’t love such a guy? Even I would vote for this renegade motherfucker. If I didn’t know better, that is. And trust me, most people do not. Because they haven’t yet ventured beyond this point in their investigations. This information gap, however, will soon be bridged by the deluge of upcoming Hillary Clinton campaign commercials which will blast Americans in their faces non-stop for the next few months. Which brings me to,

3. Hillary will fucking blast Americans’ faces with a deluge of campaign commercials

This election has to be a campaign commercial creator’s wet dream. Does this position even exist? Does it even need to at this point? Donald Trump himself is a fucking Hillary Clinton campaign commercial. Hillary doesn’t have to produce campaign commercials, all she has to do is turn on the news, start recording whenever Donald Trump appears and play that shit back on the TV channels that Americans are actually watching.

Look, average Americans do not watch CNN or Fox News 24 hours a day. They don’t have time for that nonsense. Americans receive their daily dose of news from the chatty receptionist or the fucking cumbucket of a co-worker who bounds into their office at 8:00 AM even before they’ve had their coffee or the bits and pieces of news headlines they see in a newspaper on the subway or on the TV just before they switch to a different channel. What Americans do watch, however, are prime time sitcoms. And daytime talk shows. and late night sleepytime shows. Once Hillary Clinton starts inserting herself into Americans’ TVs when they are actually watching TV, simply showing them videos of Donald Trump saying really grotesque things is when they will get to know the Donald Trump that the rest of us already know about. And there’s enough material there to aggravate and infuriate right-thinking people of every gender, race and religion. But the best part about criticizing Donald Trump is that he does not take that shit well. Which brings me to,

4. Hillary will Hillary and Trump will get fucking trumper

If there is anything we’ve learnt about Donald Trump during his run for President, it is that when you present him with anything that isn’t pure glowing adulation, you release the demons from his soul onto your sorry ass. His opponents during the Republican primaries will attest to this. As will every Republican leader who failed to support him after he won the nomination. And every single Democrat in the world who’s ever existed or will exist.

The Republicans who faced Trump had no strategy to deal with this kind of batshit crazy, this complete dismantling of the protocol for normal human behavior that Trump unleashed upon everybody during the primaries. But Hillary Clinton is a totally different kettle of fish. I have absolutely no doubt that Mrs Clinton has carefully studied Donald Trump’s psychological profile including hours of video from the Republican primary debates, noted what pushes Trump’s buttons and crafted a strategy that will play on this man-child’s insecurities and personality disorders like a finely tuned instrument. And once you really “know” him, Trump is predictable, oh so predictable. Even his seemingly bizarre behavior can be easily explained once you put some thought into how his mind works and apply it to that particular situation. With Hillary in control of Trump’s behavior, Donald Trump will be her best weapon against Donald Trump. If she can get Trump agitated and insecure enough to say really insane shit, she wins. And the best time for her to do it would be during the debates.

5. Hillary will debate the fuck out of Donald Trump

Donald Trump sucks ass at debates. Well, for one, he doesn’t know shit about shit. The other reason is, he cannot hold his own attention when he’s talking about anything that is not him. When was the last time Donald Trump actually finished a sentence and remained on the same topic that it started out with? His debating technique of not actually answering any question that was asked worked really well during the primaries because everybody including his opponents and the debate moderators had no fucking clue as to what the hell had just happened. And by the time everybody could adjust to the ridiculousness of the situation, it was all over and he had won.

But we’re all older and wiser now. Trump will have a harder time pulling off the same shit again. Hillary will be ready and hopefully, so will debate moderators.

So there it is. This is why I believe Hillary Clinton will be the next President of the United States of America.

Bear in mind, none of this applies if any of the following occurs: North Korea nukes us and we all die a horrible painful death. Bernie Sanders decides to run for president. Turns out Hillary Clinton murdered Prince. Literally any scenario that would make Americans shit their pants in terror and vote unwisely.

[a-goose-egg]

60

This guy, he will turn 60 next month. I called him up 11:30 PM my time. I needed my birth certificate for filing my green card I-485 application. I was worried because I believed that I had lost my birth certificate at birth. I was wondering if, by any chance, he had a copy. I don't have it here with me in Bangalore, he said, where he currently lives with my mom, helping to take care of my baby nephew while my sister tries to make the world a better place for smartphone users. But I am sure there's a copy lying around somewhere back in the old homestead in Pune, he said. Okay, I replied, do you know someone who would be willing to break into the old homestead, steal the damn thing and mail it to me? Do any of our neighbors back in Pune have a history of criminal behavior? We don't need any criminals, son, said the old man, I will go get your birth certificate for you, when do you need it? I have a month to file the I-485, I said. Anything within that time frame would be fine. By the way, Pune is about 12 hours from Bangalore by road, I believe. It could be more, depending upon how many farmers decide to thresh their crops by leaving them on the highway and waiting for vehicles to run over them. You will have it within the next couple of weeks, said the old man. Don't worry. Do you want me to send you some money along with the birth certificate? Dad, I don't need money, I am working now and have been working for the past seven years. (By the way, thanks for sending me the 1500 dollars five years ago when I was laid off, they saved my life.) Are you sure? Yes, I was sure. This time. Fast forward 18 hours. I got a call from my dad. "Do you want the birth certificate, school leaving certificate, nationality certificate or domicile certificate or all of the above? I have them all in front of me." What? How? Where are you? I caught the next bus to Pune, said the old man. Do you want me to mail them to you, scan and email them to you or both? Wait, don't bother, I will do both. Now bear in mind, it is 4:30 AM dad time and dad has just stepped off the Bangalore-Pune bus. At 4:30 AM dad time, dad is on the phone, describing to me the scannability of various 20 and 30 year old documents, based upon their relative raggedness. Fast forward one hour. I have my birth certificate in my inbox. And it's not even been a day since the last hair was torn off my scalp in a fit of panicked frenzy. When I am 60, I hope to have at least half the energy and vitality as does my dad. Also dad, I love you. You are the man.

[a-goose-egg]

Welcome to the world of giant phones, here are a few things you should know

So! You finally decided to go for the iPhone 6 Plus :o). Welcome to the giant phone club my friend, even if you are an Apple owner. In here we are first and foremost giant phone owners, then mactards fandroids and winwtfdidibuyers. First of all allow me to commend you on your successful transition into the giant phone mentality that consists of three stages, stage 1: denial that a giant phone has any purpose in life, stage 2: anger at everyone who manufactures, owns or tolerates the company of anyone who owns a giant phone and finally stage 3: acceptance that all your arguments against giant phones are really the product of your inability to buy one.

But anyways, that is all water under the bridge. Here you are now with a giant phone in your hand, a giant smile on your face and ready to start a new life with a clean slate. And make no mistake, it will be a new life. Some of you have already noticed this undeniable fact. Reports are emerging that giant iphone owners have started to complain about, misuse and mutilate their new giant phones. It is becoming quite clear to us, veteran giant phone owners, that most of you were not truly prepared for what owning a giant phone would entail. For with a giant phone comes giant responsibility.

I have owned the Samsung Note 2 for two years now and never regretted that decision. Well, maybe once or twice, most notably when I had the following conversation with the cashier of a Primo Hoagies. It went like this:

Cashier: Wow that is a big phone.

Me: Yes indeed.

Cashier: Is that the Samsung S4?

Me: No, it's the Samsung Note 2.

Cashier: I love big phones. I have really big hands (shows me his hands).

Me: Yes those are big hands.

Cashier: Bigger the screen, the better, I say.

Me: Yes, I say that too sometimes.

Cashier: I have a Nexus 7 but it can't make calls.

Me: I'm hungry.

After about twenty more minutes of pleasant chit chat I was allowed to depart. A week later, I was back in the exact same shop having the exact same conversation with the exact same guy.

This will be a common theme throughout your life now. Your giant phone will be a great ice breaker and conversation starter. Strangers, enamored with your giant phone will initiate discourse with you whether you are in a bar, a hoagie shop or a public latrine. Be aware that you might have to clear all your appointments at a moment's notice.

During these discussions always refer to your giant phone as a phablet. Be prepared to vigorously refute all allegations that you just invented this word under the influence of a controlled substance. If anybody persists in their disbelief, please direct them to the phablet article on wikipedia that you should bookmark if you haven't already.

Here is a fact about giant phones. You will drop them frequently. Let's be honest, mother nature did not design human hands to hold giant phones. Not that this should be construed as an argument against buying one. Mother nature did not intend us to do several other things such as drinking, smoking, watching a lady stroke a horse to orgasm, but we still do them because they add to the quality of our life. Perhaps future generations of humans might evolve an extra supportive digit for latching onto a giant device but for now we have to make sure we protect our investment through other means. Clothe your giant phone in hefty armor, the best that money can buy. You will thank me later. Several times.

Now I will not lie, transporting giant phones is kind of a problem. I tried a number of different things. The front jeans pocket was an obvious first option. But as I soon realized, it meant that I would have to spend the rest of my life standing up. Turns out, I am a big fan of sitting, so that did not work out so well. So then I resorted to carrying my phone around in my hand.

When you carry a giant phone in your hand it is never more than a few inches away from the rest of the world. My phone has bumped into a lot of things that I was not even aware I was in the vicinity of such as lamp poles, doors, walls, pretty women, other giant phones. That is when I started carrying it in my back pocket. It is better than bumping into stuff and less stressful than having to constantly retrieve it from your front pocket. Just make sure you either remember to take it out before you sit down or wear those low hanging jeans that only reach up to your knees.

Buy your phone a screen guard. The risk of your screen getting scratched just went up severalfold. I found this the hard way when I was in a restaurant. The waiter brought me my silverware and when he had left there were a number of scratches on my phone screen. I do not know what happened. My theory is that movement in air molecules due to the clinking of the silverware caused them. I spent the rest of the day googling how to remove scratches from a phone screen. Turns out the most popular way of removing scratches from a screen is by installing a screen guard before it gets scratched (Brought to you by the producers of Fixing Windows issues by buying a Mac instead) I purchased a screen guard the very same day.

If you are planning to use your phone as a navigation device by affixing it to your car windshield, be aware that the right side of your windshield will no longer be available to you. Luckily, nowhere in the Pennsylvania drivers rule book does it state that it is mandatory to change lanes while driving. I haven't changed lanes in two years and while it is true that I have yet to reach the destination I started driving to two years ago, I am still alive and well and that is what really matters.

Well, that is about it. I hope I haven't scared you too much. Look at it this way. Buying a giant phone is like every other big change in life such as marriage, having a kid and naming it Blue Ivy.

But your life will be better for it.