Maximizing Exercise.

So, like: exercise. Cardio, more specifically. The goal here is to raise your heart level up and get that sucker pumping, right? Strengthen it up, burn those calories? To accomplish this, it's often recommended that you strap ankle and wrist weights to yourself and then go walk up some stairs or gad about town. Wouldn't it create the same effect if you were just fat? Because then you're hauling around extra weight all the time and, hey, no Olivia Newton-John accoutrement needed!

Along the same lines, smoking is also proven to raise one's heart rate. If you lit up while running, you could get twice the workout in half the time! How about installing some ashtrays on the elliptical machines at the gym? I saw a guy out jogging once: sweatbands, shortie shorts, tank top, the whole nine, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth as he chugged down the sidewalk. Some would call him an idiot. I dub him a Master of Optimization.

Buffet-Impaired.

Look, not everyone can handle a buffet-type situation. Frankly, it's all a bit overwhelming, especially to those of us with few talents in the culinary arena. During a buffet changeover between say, breakfast and lunch, at a buffet that offers "twenty stations from around the world", how can one be expected to construct a cohesive plate from the bevy of options available?! Shellfish, Chinese, bacon, macaroons, BBQ... It's all too much. Everything must be sampled with as few trips around the room as possible. Can one be blamed for hooking up some French toast with sushi roll?

Well, can I?

Trash Can-Do!

How hard is it to put trash out just prior to trash day? If you live in my building, it's almost impossible.

I'm pretty sure the place must be zoned as independent living for the cognitively impaired. How else to explain that without fail, all of the trash cans outside on the side of the building are nearly full two days after trash pick-up? Garbage pick-up is one day and week and guess what? It's the same day every week. How about putting your stinkin' trash out on that day so I don't have to walk past it for a week and smell your stank mess?

Better yet, how about actually putting it into the trash cans? You've taken it all the way downstairs, outside and in the general vicinity of covered containers constructed specifically for the purpose of holding refuse. Go that extra mile and place your bag inside the can instead of leaning the bag (which will be ripped apart by rats and pigeons) against said can. Go ahead, challenge yourself! You can do it!

Kitchen Capers.

Here's what's nice: having a kitchen at work so you can refrigerate your tuna sandwich instead of keeling over, dead from whatever malady befalls one who dares eat room temperature mayo (I personally refuse to believe that mayo would ever beget harm on anyone - it is manna).

Here's what's less nice - the slobs you work with who are hell bent on sullying every surface in the place. You know the types: those who treat the kitchen as a TOY and not a PRIVILEGE. A magical wonderland featuring a never-ending supply of artificial sweetener, coffee stirrers and microbes. Spilled your coffee? Just leave it on the counter! Dropped some paper towels? They'll pick themselves up! Be sure to lube up your hand with barbecue sauce before you open the refrigerator door to give it a nice veneer of "disgusting." On the inside of the fridge, leave unwrapped, half-eaten Italian hoagies for a minimum of 5 days. This will help the meat properly age to the appropriate level of putridity.

Don't be a chump when using the microwave: covering your food is for suckers! Don't be selfish: be sure to heat up your stank leftover flounder so everyone can take a voyage to the bottom of the sea with you. Avast, ye mateys!

With the proper level of care and attention to detail, the workplace kitchen can be just like Disneyland. With botulism.

Door Drama.

Let's be real: part of the reason we're polite is to: a) avoid getting shot (Philadelphia only) and then b) get some recognition for being such a swell person. Am I right?

Like today: I go to the library and on the way in, some lady is coming out with a bunch of books (insert your own "Raspberry Beret" in-through-the-Out-door joke here). So naturally, I hold the door open for her. Not like, half-assedly propping it open after I went through, but intentionally opening it for her. What do I get in return? A thank you? A nod? A smile? Eye contact? Nothing! Who am I - Fonzworth Bentley? I'm not your personal valet, here to roll out the red carpet for you. I'm not running up to Queens to get you a sugar cookie, either. (Incidentally, how excited are you that "From G's to Gents" comes back for Season 2 in a mere two weeks? Here's hoping for at least a cameo appearance by Pretty Ricky.) I'm just asking for some acknowledgement. Come on, give me SOMETHING.

Along the same lines recently was a shrimpy woman in a puffy coat who gave me a dirty look because she decided to enter the revolving door and just stand there, instead of, you know, helping it to revolve by pushing it (as I was doing). WORK WITH ME, PEOPLE.