Challenging the Universe and other wasteful moments

I was eager to get home from work last night. My lunchtime fuel had expired, the day turned out to be one of those long endurance fests, and I had a tasty menu planned for dinner. When I got home, I went to the fridge, pulled out my salad, my mozzarella cheese, my tomatoes and my...chicken? Wait, where is my chicken? Three possibilities came to mind:

1. I had forgotten to buy chicken on Sunday - I knew this to not be a possibility. Not only do I remember purchasing the chicken, not only did I remark to myself after I got home that it was the most expensive thing I purchased (which was funny since it was only £2), but also, I remember placing it on the shelf under my Tuna. I definitely purchased the damn chicken.

2. I had already eaten the chicken - Again, zero chance of that. I bought it on Sunday, ate the Tuna on Sunday/Monday, and specifically remember removing the tupperware container with the leftover tuna from on top of the chicken packet on Monday night. Unless I had a late night feast that involved cooking and eating without my knowledge, I didn't eat that chicken.

3. Some fucker stole, cooked, and ate my chicken - And I've hit the nail on the head. I've heard rumor of the food thief in the house. It's been a rumor that I've discounted mostly because it seemed unlikely that people would pinch items like uncooked chicken due to the labor involved and the risks of getting caught. But it appears that karma nipped me in the bud. Apparently, the food thief is real and has no compunction about stealing anything that strikes his fancy. I have half a mind to buy one of those mini spy cameras and catch that fucker in the act.

(*Once again, the perils of living in a student house with 30 strangers.)

At any rate, instead of bitching about it, I immediately departed for Tesco, purchased another £2 packet of chicken, and came home and ate my dinner. I'd prefer that little fucker just steal the £2 out of my pocket instead of my chicken. That way I wouldn't have to race off to the store and delay my repast in such fashion.

Yet another downfall of living in this house is that there is one TV. Normally, not a problem because I don't watch much TV here. But last night was supposed to be an exception. The BBC has a documentary series on Auschwitz ongoing and Tuesday at 9 is the spot. Unfortunately, the Tenor was already present, ass in seat, watching CSI also on at that time slot. So instead of watching something interesting and cultured, I was subjected to contrived melo-drama that merely sought to glamorize that which is ultimately unglamorous (and did a damn good job, as absurd as it seems).

After two disagreeable occurrences on top of an already disagreeable day of work, I was in a foul mood. But, I agreed to a game of Truco because it's enjoyable and I wanted to inform the Tenor that I now knew the proper rules to the game. My partner and I trounced the opposition; it was a rousing defeat. I was stirred up, however, and victory to me was merely an opportunity to castigate said Tenor on his unscrupulous description of the rules. Yes, there was really no point, but at the same time, I was irritable and frankly, it offends my sense of propriety that he would not give a full and accurate description of the rules and then use that to his advantage in the field of play.

Apparently, along with (1) Never start a ground war in Asia and (2) Never come between this guy and lunch, there is also (3) never impugn the credibility of an Argentine Tenor. He was mortified that I would accuse him of "having a rule in his back pocket" to use at his leisure. His description, not mine, but one that I readily agreed with. Not only did he feel affronted, he also blamed the confusion on me.

"Maybe, my English, it not so good, you misunderstand."

I'm like, uh, Tenor Guy, these were OMISSIONS, not things that were unclearly spoken. Plus, I'm indignantly offended by that statement. His English is as good as necessary when required. Yes, he has trouble understanding when I speak quickly, but using "poor English" as an excuse is a huge cop out. At any rate, after going back and forth (with him at several occasions suggesting that he didn't know what I was saying - something totally untrue, especially since a Spanish guy translated when necessary and then the Tenor claimed he didn't understand that), he finally stated that he "would no longer play with [me]".

Maximus said, "the time for honoring yourself is almost over" and that's how I feel about the Tenor. I think I was so irritated with the barbecue because he's a prideful SOB - it's part Latino machismo, part (aspiring) opera singer. And this is just another example. The Tenor told me once about how Pavarotti requires 4 whole chickens to be at his disposal during his performances. On one such occasion, someone ate a small portion of one of the chickens and Pavarotti refused to go back on stage until they found a replacement chicken. This is the ego that you deal with when you confront an opera singer.

The Tenor is no different. He may have only performed in Argentina, but he's well schooled in the art of the ego, and frankly, that pisses me off. Ego is why he cares little about his physique. Ego is why he *must* win at cards no matter the cost. Ego is why Argentine barbecue *must* be the world's best. Ultimately, ego is why I don't respect the guy and why I take special delight in beating him in cards.

Anyway, now that I've dissected this particular situation, he's something truly disturbing. I have no comment whatsoever.