Top 5 Things Vikki Said…

My Top 5 Things Vikki Says, aka, Vikki-isms

My friend Vikki is moving to Nashville. I have known her for more than ten years and she and her husband Dan have become two of our closest friends, I will miss her more than she realizes. (I’ll miss Dan too but this is about Vikki.) Vikki mentored me when I started working in her department a decade ago. She didn’t have to, but she took the time to teach me everything she knew about our chosen field of work. I will never forget that nor will I ever be able to repay her.

Vikki is from the Philippines and these one-liners will seem a lot funnier, if you don’t know Vikki, said with a nasally Pilipino accent . She has lived in the United States for well over twenty years and has an amazing grasp of the English language for someone who didn’t grow up here but she struggles with similes. In her defense, as if it isn’t hard enough to learn a foreign language, how does one pick up on and understand the connotation of things like, “built like a brick shit house,” when you’re just trying to remember how to count to ten? Obviously a person isn’t put together like an outhouse built from bricks but how the hell is a newbie to English supposed to know that? For that matter, where did this phrase come from anyway? “She’s built like a brick shit house?” I blame the Commodores for this one (their popular song, She’s a Brick House) though someone added the shit house part later on and that kind of ruined it for me. I personally, don’t like to think of women having to expel waste. I choose to think that they exude a flower scented air thru the pores of their skin.

Or how about, “Colder than a witches tit?” What the hell does that mean anyway? I don’t know any witches and therefor have no inner knowledge of what their breasts feel like but I don’t fathom them being any colder than any other women’s. When I was a kid people thought it funny to start reeling off this stupid poem that started with, “There once was a man from Nantucket…” They always stopped there. I don’t know anything else about this Nantucket guy but I always assumed that they stopped there because of the implication of Nantucket rhyming with “fuck it.” Stupid. Old humor is stupid.

My point here is that learning a new language is hard enough without having to figure the “behind the scenes” meanings of our American colloquialisms. Vikki is no worse than anyone else, her downfall is that she had the distinct misfortune of sitting next to me for the last ten years and I have kept a detailed Word document detailing her more hilarious attempts at using these phrases to her advantage. Not one of these on the list was ever intended to sound filthy or sexual, it just came out that way when mixed with my dirty mind.

So as an homage to my friend, who I will miss very much, I present the Top 5 Things Vikki Said:

Top 5 Things Vikki Said

“This bonus money is really burning in my hole…”

“I can’t cram anymore in my box, it’s pretty full…”

“I like the smell of Ryan’s taco…”

“It’s so long and thick, all the way to the tip…”

Anything that has to do with her calling somebody named Dick or Peter

“This bonus money is really burning in my hole…”

Back when we first started working together, Vikki and I would get a quarterly bonus check based on how well we performed. That perk has since been phased out probably because we were making too much money. Can’t have that kind of bullshit going on. Anyway, after receiving a particularly large check, the kind of check that goes beyond paying bills with and requires the purchase of something rather extravagant, Vikki blurts out at the top of her lungs, “this bonus money is really burning in my hole.” To this day, I have no idea exactly where Vikki was storing that check.

“I can’t cram anymore in my box, it’s pretty full…”

I realize that this isn’t really an attempt at a simile but, seriously, how can this not be on the list? I think that my adding commentary to this can only lessen the effect so I will just leave it at that.

“I like the smell of Ryan’s taco…”

Vikki and I, with our friend and co-worker Ryan were sitting in the Tequileria in the Cleveland airport waiting for a flight to take us to a trade show in Vegas. I feel compelled to reiterate that The Tequileria is a Mexican restaurant and it’s in an airport. It’s gross but they make a strong taco.

Ryan, having arrived early, ordered a big plate of airport Mexican and was elbow deep when Vikki and I got there. Vikki fought the urge at first but finally succumbed to the enticing aroma of re-heated swill and said, “I like the smell of Ryan’s taco!!” For those unfamiliar with the slang definition of the word “taco” let me quote directly from the Urban Dictionary:


I especially like how Urban Dictionary tells us how to use the word in a sentence, how handy, right? How was poor Vikki to know that saying that she liked the smell of Ryan’s taco would be taken to mean that she delighted in the smell of his supposed privates? I mean, if, in fact, Ryan happened to be a chick.

“It’s so long and thick, all the way to the tip…”

I would also include here, “My God! It’s so black!” Not necessarily because they just seem to go together but also because they were spoken within minutes of each other. Frankly, I have waited my whole life to have a women speak these words to me, I guess not the black part as I’m as white as a sheet, but alas it isn’t to be. Getting back on track, years ago Vikki and I went out for a rushed smoke ahead of a pending late winter storm. These two comments stemmed from a giant icicle hanging from the building and the approaching dark clouds. Totally inert until thrown into the mind of a pervert.

Anything that has to do with her calling and asking for somebody named Dick or Peter

When one has the sense of humor of a 12 year old there is nothing funnier than fart and dick jokes and Vikki has always offered up a never ending supply of them although always inadvertently.

“No, no, no, I want Dick,” an instant classic. I never really understood why a grown man would choose to be referred to as “Dick” when there are other less hilarious options like Rich or Richard. I realize that “dick” may have been just a guy’s name fifty years ago but it’s a whole new ballgame now.

Others in the same vein, “Harry, I’m looking for Dick” or “Hi, is Peter in?” I will always hold this one in high regard, “Hang in there Dick!” “Good afternoon, is Peter in?” I’m not really sure how you’re supposed to get Peter to the phone without asking for him but it’s still hilarious.

“I work well with Peter”

“I work with Rod a lot”

“Hey is Dick around today?” If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard a women say this, I would have – nothing

There are literally 6 pages in Word form, amassed over the years, of these classic one-liners, way too many to go into here but maybe someday I will just list them all out.

I will miss collecting your gold, kid, but I will miss you way more.

Clothes Shopping Where I’m Not Wanted

Even as a “soon-to-be 50 year old”, I still like to think of myself as a snappy dresser. It’s really all I have left. The hair on my head is falling out and miraculously reappearing in my ear and my body is morphing into some uncontrollable blob, so anything I can do to cover up with nice clothing is not only sparing me indignity, it also is, I’m certain, appreciated by those who have to look at me.

I have become, in my eyes at least, a fat, bloated hog. I sweat when it’s 55 degrees and my only exercise comes from walking outside to smoke and bending over to try and touch my toes to stretch out my hamstrings.

There are a couple of pieces of wisdom I have garnered over the years though that I feel compelled to share with those who share my affliction. Always wear nice shoes. They will draws the viewer’s eyes downward and away from your whistling nose or your sun-damaged scalp. It’s much better to be complimented on a nice new pair of Allen Edmonds wingtips that you’re sporting, than to have someone staring at your disproportionate head size compared to your giant burgeoning gut. Also, I’ve been wearing a lot of plaid lately. Really, gingham shirts are a Godsend to me. I find it throws off the eye of the viewer and makes me appear thinner. The multi-colored squares confuses their rods and cones making it difficult  to get a feel for just how oddly shaped I’ve become. With these shirts, I have become a walking eye-bending optical illusion. A human Mobius strip, if you will.

Why do I need these fishing line like hairs in my nose? It wasn’t thick like this when I was a kid. Is there some pollutant that hovers around the five foot mark that causes this? Is it now protecting me from something? Why didn’t I need them when I was younger?

There aren’t a lot of men’s clothing stores at the mall anymore, if there ever were. Let’s face it, most men my age have their shopping done by their wives but women have stores for every make and model that they come in. There are stores for skinny women, stores for your larger class of women and short women have something called Petite. Mix all those stores together with all of the sizes and lifestyles that go with the aforementioned classifications and you have the definition of disparity. We men have five sizes to pick from. Five. And really, we have only three. There’s Small, Medium, Large, XL and XXL. Men don’t wear small or medium. I call those sizes extra-large boy. You may call it Asian XL or Slim-Fit.

Sure you have your fitted shirts with sizes like 18 ½ – 34 but you have to be measured for that and few men are going to slow down enough to allow for fitting. I’ve been fitted for dress shirts before and I know my size but knowing my size isn’t the dilemma. The problem is finding a shirt that particular size. I have short arms that rival someone genetically damaged by Thalidomide exposure. Picture Cee-Lo Green or if you’re not familiar with him, a T-Rex. Mix that together with that fact that I have eaten myself into looking like one of those Russian onion dolls and voila! I can’t reach the bottom of my pockets anymore.

Anyway, I’m at the mall with my wife recently and she’s popping in and out of one store after another, treating them rather frivolously, as far as I was concerned, but when you have the volume of material available, why not? I, on the other hand, am stuck with the department stores who begrudgingly throw out a smattering of men’s clothes, mostly, I think, just to draw in more women. One store, a major retailor, has a whole level dedicated to women’s wares. The entire second floor is booming with hip music and even has a lighting scheme. Where is the men’s department? In the basement in a tiny little corner surrounded by bedding and kitchen appliances. They had more options of coffee grinders than they did men’s shirts. I’m 49 years old and I do not want to wear team jerseys with some crack head’s name on the back of it! However, according to this store’s demographic research, I do, as that was all they had for sale.

I gathered myself and headed back out into the mall determined to find a store that shared my appreciation for looking good at my age. First stop, Express. I was greeted by Ian and by greeted I mean to say that he looked me up and down and said out of the corner of his mouth, “let me know if you need any help.” Ian was a prissy, glorified bagboy and was not the slightest bit interested in trying to make a sales commission off of me and clearly did not greet me in the style afforded the young, thin and hip. I had the feeling that what he was really saying to me was, “let me know if you need any help with that mess you call a body and please get out of here and by the way, the first step to making a better you is to admit that have a problem and do, indeed, need help.” He looked at me like I was the Elephant Man and the only way I was going to be allowed to buy anything would be to first promise to rip out any tags that connected me with their fine store. Ian was clearly more interested in having my not ruin the “street-cred” of his product than a commission.

Fortunately for Ian, nothing in this store fit me as, apparently, they cater to “men” who wear the aforementioned extra-large boy size. Having told Ian to go fuck himself, I walked out with as much of my self-esteem as I could muster and headed to the next store this one doing business as H&M.

This was not a better experience. The girl who worked in this establishment simply nodded at me upon entry as if to say, “Yeah, right, you fat old fuck.” Much like the department store, the “men’s” apparel was shoved into a corner and most of it sized for a boy. I would need to develop a nasty cocaine habit and start clubbing on Ecstasy before I could fit into any of this gear. In addition, the music in this place is programmed, I think, to drive people like me away. It was some irreverent, hippity-bippity club banging scat played intentionally loud so that if I stayed in there longer than the time it takes to buy a gift card for my daughter or my would-be effeminate son I would be lying on the ground writhing in pain like I was experiencing a full-body neural seizure.

What’s with the smell in Abercrombie? Why is it so dark?

I did not end up buying anything that day. What I did do was stop for Italian on the way home and ate a gigantic meal with a meatball the size of my fist but this kind of behavior is what got me into this predicament in the first place.

Looking good, Billy Ray! Feeling good, Louis!