Yesterday, Zacque and I went down to Knoxville Cigar Company to relax for a few minutes.  No big surprise, I’ve been stressed, and needed a little time to sit down in an air-conditioned place with a big comfy leather chair.  Rather, at least a place like that that wasn’t in the confines of a doctor’s office…

     We decided to go across the street to DaVinci’s Pizza and grab a couple of slices first.

     “Hey, fellas, whatcha need?” asked the rather large, oily man behind the counter.
     “A slice of cheese, please.”
     “Ahhh, man, I’ve got pepperoni coming out of the oven,” he added.
     “No, I’d really like the cheese, thanks.”  No emphasis added.
     “Alright, Well!” he said annoyed.  “II’m just trying to be helpful!”  He seemed agitated.
     Zacque ordered, “Two slices of cheese.”
     “Ahhh, sorry,” I said.  “I’ll take two, too.”
     The fat man huffed.
     “What’s your name?” I asked.
     “Dave,” he replied dryly.  “Want the special?  It’s $1 more and you get a drink.”
     “Sure,” Zacque replied.
     “Six dollars,” the fat man said.
     Zacque handed him six dollars.  I handed him a ten and a one.
     “Oh, man!” the guy started annoyed.  “You are not taking my last five!  This is stupid!  I’ve only got one left!  I can’t go the bank!”
     “Ummm, sorry,” I said.  “It’s all I’ve got.”
     “Well, you can’t have it!  I’ve only got one five!  I told you, we don’t have anyone to go the bank!” he exclaimed.
     Zacque helped.  “Here,” and handed the guy two fives for a ten, leaving him one ten in the register.  Apparently having only one ten wasn’t cause for alarm.
     The fat man grasped for ones, shaking his head and mumbling the whole time.  He now had three fives.
     “So, can I get a five back now?” I asked.
     “No!  I told you there’s no one to go the bank!” he snapped.
     “Jeez, dude,” I mumbled with a grin.
     “Here!” he said sarcastically as he threw six ones in my hand.
     “Mellow, man,” I replied.  “Jeez…”

     Zacque and I sat and ate our pizza silently.

     At the end of the meal, I filled the plate with crushed red pepper and parmessan cheese.  I drank half of my Dr. Pepper down and placed it carefully on the cash register where there was no chance of it spilling — leaned into gap where the receipts come out where it’d be nice and stable, and just a minor annoyance to move, and certainly wouldn’t cause any damage.  I took the plate and placed it upside down on the counter.
     It’s the least I could do given the guy was an asshole from the time we went in.

     We walked out.  A random passerby said, “Hey, did you guys enjoy your pizza today?”
     “Not especially,” I said.  “But that was mostly because of the asshole serving it.”
     “Sorry!” he grinned as he walked on.

     As we stepped into the road, the guy runs out screaming.  ”What the fuck did you fuckin’ do that for you fuckin’ moron?”
     “Sorry, man.  I dropped it,” I replied dryly.  I found it odd he should come out raising such hell for such a minor mess.
     “Fuck you, you fucking retard!  I’ll ring your skinny little neck!”
     I turned around.  “No, I really don’t think so,” I said calmly, smiling.
     He stepped back.
     I turned to cross the street, and fat bastard screamed, “You fuckin’ retard!” and shoved me.
     I turned around again.  “Dude, you really don’t wanna do that.”
     As I turned and walk towards the cigar shop, Mr. Asshat decided to keep on screaming.  One of the other local business owners came out to see what the commotion was.  He crossed the street, and as I turned around, the guy’s pushing Zacque — someone who hasn’t done a damn thing.  So here me and the aforementioned business owner go back across the street…
     “You fuckin’ fucked up my register!  Goddamn fuckin’ retard!  Fucking threw shit all over my counter!”
    “No, I didn’t!  It’s in one spot, easy to clean!”
    “What you did is wllful destruction of property!”
    At that point, I got pissed.  I stepped towards him, finger up.  “And what you did is assault, motherfucker!”
     He turned his attention to the other business owner.  “Dude, come in here and look what he did!”
     Zacque and I turned and crossed the street.
     “That fuckin’ retard is never allowed back in here!” he screamed to my back.
     I gave him a well-deserved one-fingered salute and walked into the cigar shop.

     A few minutes later, the other business owner came into the shop.
     “Dude, what did you do?” he asked.
     “I put the plate of cheese right in the middle of his counter.”
     “Why would you do that?” he asked, half laughing.
     I shrugged.  “I’m stressed, and the guy was an asshole from the time we walked in.  I really don’t need that shit right now.  He pissed me off, and that was the least destructive thing I could think to do.”
     He laughed.  “Did you also put the drink on his register?”
     “Yeah, half full where there was no chance it would spill.  Why he’s going on about me destroying anything is beyond me.  That guy’s gonna have a coronary before the night’s over.”
     “Yeah, especially if you guys go back over there!” he laughed.  “He stepped back!”

     After selecting the cigar of my choice, I sat down at the bar for a Guinness on tap.  I felt so calm and peaceful.  I started laughing.
     “Mark, what are you laughing about over here?” asked the bartender.
     “Ahh, Pizza Dave’s an asshole.”
     “Yeah, that’s news?” he grinned.
     “Apparently I ruined his day.”

     Also apparent is the fact that I’m not the only person who has the opinion that Dave is an asshole.  It’s just that most people seem to tolerate him a little better than I do.
     Of course, there’s at least one other person on the Internet annoyed with him, too… 

     Actually, I’m worried about Dave. 
     Even though he’s an asshat, he’s still a human being.  Well, in theory, anyway.  And with an attitude like that where he thinks he can come out screaming abuse and shoving people when he could just as easily pick up a rag and wipe it off, it’s apparent that he’s got some rather serious health issues.
     There’s plenty of evidence that physical problems can manifest in peoples’ behavior, and this guy, given his size and trouble breathing, seems to be a ticking time-bomb for coronary disease.

     I would urge my fellow Knoxvillians to visit DaVinci’s Pizza in the Old City.  If Dave’s working, I suggest that everyone turn their plates over on the table.  This should give him some much needed aerobic excercise, as it would require him to do something besides scream and shove people, which is largely a stationary act.
     In doing this, it would ensure that Dave actually has to come from behind the counter and move his arms in a circular motion a few times, thus giving him a bit better workout.  This would probably cause him a little more shortness of breath given his slothful condition, but if it’s done multiple times a day, it may actually save the asshat’s life.

     He should thank me.

     I mean, I’m only looking out for his health.

     *snicker*

     As for my sense of calm from the incident, and why I didn’t turn around and kick the living shit out of the guy, there’s an easy explanation.
     it was actually refreshing, given that during the last three months in that tiny little town where I was working for a Healthcare company, everyone is so non-confrontational that they’ll gossip and stab knives in each others’ backs, spreading the most insane and vicious slanders imaginable.  There are never any questions, never any explanations, just filth and over-reaction.
     It’s nice to be back in a place where people will actually attempt to do something about their problems rather than just bitch about them and make up vicious rumors in an attempt to discredit and ruin a person’s livelihood.  It takes small minds and a lack of humanity to do what some of you people have done.
     And so, for those who’ve partaken in recent events can share this Asshat of the Day Award.  Myself, I can walk away with a clear conscience, knowing that I’m a better person, and certainly a better worker, than you people will ever be.
     Talk’s cheap, people.  I have a feeling that very soon, you’re all gonna learn some lessons the hard way.  Karma can be a real bitch. 

A couple of years ago I had a physical and the doctor found that my cholesterol was a bit high (234 I think). So, being the nerd I am, I started reading all I could about this. I read one long article on WebMD and it had an interesting final sentence that said something like “there is no statistical link between high cholesterol and heart attack.” Hmmm.

I got my blood tested again recently and was thinking all would be good. I have been on a low carb diet for months now, lost lots of fat and was thinner and eating much better. Well, my cholesterol was now 269 and all the results were in the “very high” range, except for blood glucose. I have not had any sugar in a long time, so, that should be low. Now the doctor is saying that I may need to get on medication for my cholesterol.

So I did more reading and now I am fairly convinced it is a lot of crap. I read this article which sums up a lot of things. Basically, the cause of heart disease and heart attack and stroke isn’t cholesterol, but stress. The emphasis on cholesterol is perhaps more about selling you a drug you must take every day for the rest of your life.

Study after study shows no link between a low fat diet and lowered risk of heart disease. Study after study shows that lowering cholesterol does not lower the risk of heart disease. But it sells a lot of pills! If cholesterol was bad for you, why does your body make it? New studies are showing serious risks with the extremely low cholestrol levers due to statins. Low cholesterol used to mean under 400.

Stress causes heart disease. That seems simple right? The C Reactive Protien is the better indicator. It also explains the “French Paradox.” This is the fact that although French people eat way more fat and have higher cholesterol, they have a lower incidence of heart disease. The cholesterol obsessed Americans decide this was due to their consumption of red wine. The real truth is that its due to their relaxed lifestyles. Two months of vacation a year. Shorter work weeks. More sick leave and fully insured. Less stress is the answer. The simple and obvious answer.

The other thing that was interesting to discover is that the optimum amount of exercise to strengthen the heart is 8-12 minutes. That’s right 8-12 minutes! Exercising a lot more is stressing your body, which is harmful. But that’s the American way. If 10 minutes is good 3 times a week, 2 hours twice a day is better! Wrong!

I am not going to worry about my high cholesterol. Unfortunately, this myth is so prevalent that my life insurance policy ended up at a much higher rate due to my cholesterol level. I wish I could get a lawyer to sue them over that! Class action!