这张图片和中国一点关系都没有！

Few things in this world are more Done Here, Buddy than the Asian Chicken Salad. The points of discussion on this topic are, no doubt, endless. Yet, I thought it worthwhile to bring the primary issues of concern to the forefront. For starters, the title of this Americanized creation is as culturally ambiguous as its ingredients are indigenous to its “so called” Asian heritage. Take a moment to contemplate the absurdity of generalizing a dish intended to represent the flavors, spices, ingredients and cultures of Asia’s 53 nations. You heard it right the first time, folks: one salad for 53 nations. Further complicating the issue is that the salad is often referred to as the Chinese Chicken Salad. News flash, people: Chinese Chicken Salad is about as Chinese as Gary “the rat” Gaetti. Still not convinced? You’re Done Here, Buddy will offer a reward of five Chinese Chicken Salads to the reader who is able to find one on the menu of an Asian or Chinese restaurant. You’re probably thinking to yourself how improbable such a feat is, as everyone knows that these salads are predominately ordered by female graduates of Big Ten colleges at generic sports bars. Alright, guys. Remember this: don’t make the mistake and order the California Roll of salads.

Last night, I made my way to Cesar in Berkeley, CA’s “Gourmet Ghetto.” After surveying the critically acclaimed menu known for its Spanish tapas, I decided on a bocadillo of “Manchego and greens” to which I fortuitously  added Jamon Serrano. Now, I’m the kind of guy that loves Manchego and Jamon Serrano as much as Hernan Cortes enjoys pillaging an indigenous population, so you could imagine my excitement when the server complimented my request. Accompanied by a Grey Goose Martini, I waited in anticipation for the entree as my mouth began to salivate. Several minutes passed and the waiter returned with my sandwich. Once placed before me, I noticed something horribly odd about the bocadillo. The so-called “greens” were, in fact, a Popeye sized lump of sauteed spinach. I took one bite and promptly placed the stringy pound-and-a-half of vegetation on the sidelines. After all, I anticipated a sandwich full of Spanish goodness. What I got instead was a mound of Done Here, Buddy.

With flavors as delicate as Manchego and Jamon Serrano, one might expect a simple salad of mixed greens gently tossed with a balsamic vinaigrette ... Not a pile of poopy Done Here.

Welcome back, campers. I hope everyone had as jam-packed of a Thanksgiving as I did. While it is customary to spend ”dia de gracias” reveling in all that we are thankful for, the management team at YDHB has decided to bring attention to the one thing for which we are least grateful. Anybody who has experienced this dubious act can attest to how Done Here, Buddy it is when a newly acquainted sexual partner not only lingers at your apartment the next morning, but actually spends the whole day at your place, desperately awaiting the possibility of a repeat sexual encounter. Wanting to  take the higher road and be hospitable, we hope that subtle hints dropped at the lingerer will force him/her to reconsider extending their stay. Yet, blinded by their own hedonistic impulses (and/or unwillingness to return to their crappy apartment located in the nexus of some generic hipsterville), the extended stay seals the lingerer’s doomed fate. By day’s end, the lingerer has not only squashed any hope of the repeat encounter, he has also earned himself a place in the hallowed rafters of Done Here, Buddy Stadium.

Something needs to be said about the buddy who deposits debris, which clearly resembles fecal matter, in a water fountain. Something needs to be said, my friends, because I witnessed said transgression last week while attempting to quench my thirst at Chicago’s O’hare International Airport. The object, which I promptly deduced to be chewing tobacco, got me thinking which act is more Done Here, Buddy: leaving chewing tobacco or ACTUALLY dropping a deuce in a public water fountain.

After several days of deep analysis, I have concluded that leaving chewing tobacco is far worse. Here’s why. If a person drops fat in a public water fountain, we can surmise that the individual is either a mentally-challenged thrill seeker who doesn’t know any better, or, even, a rebellious  artist protesting air travel. The individual would also need to be commended for their ability to stay hoisted atop the water fountain for the commensurate duration to perform such a bodily function. On the other hand, the individual who leaves the chewing tobacco is making no statement whatsoever, except for the fact that he or she is totally Done Here, Buddy.

I'll let you decide who is more Done Here, Buddy - the transgressor or O'hare Airport's custodial staff.

Previously beloved by Chicagoans and baseball fans around the globe for blowing kisses and his perpetual crushing of Dong, Sammy Sosa once again finds himself embittered in turmoil. It’s no doubt that, once a pro athlete’s career comes to an end, he or she longs to reclaim their place in the limelight. Once regarded as infallible demagogues, retired athletes often wither away as forgotten memories of the past.   Yet, not even this die-hard sports fan could have imagined that Sosa’s cry for help would become this desperate, this Done Here, Buddy:

Dear, God. Say it ain't so, Sammy. Sosa as photographed during a November 4th event in Las Vegas.

When questioned if he was trying to impersonate the late Michael Jackson, Sosa quickly shot down the notion, suggesting that it’s “a bleaching cream that I apply before going to bed and whitens my skin some.” Whoa, Sammy. It looks like the cream has whitened your skin more than “some.” Time to put the cream back in the cupboard, Sammy…deep in the cupboard.

What Sosa used to look like. Enough said.

Why is the word "speed" here?

What, exactly, is Monsanto?

Is it a multinational corporation headquartered  in Creve Coeur, Missouri that dominates the world’s food market? Is it a company that aims to exploit innocent farmers and the mind & bodies of consumers everywhere? Is it a company that is officially and utterly Done Here, Buddy?

Or, as states its website, is Monsanto an agricultural company that applies innovation and technoloblah to blah around the blah while producing blah blah blah blah?

Michael Pollan and Eric Schlosser’s newest film, Food Inc., would have you believe that  these “so called” industrial food pioneers, and receivers of repetitious Liberal D, are definitely faking the funk on a nasty dunk. You might be asking yourself, which dunk is Monsanto faking? Well, one thing’s for sure, it’s definitely not the windmill. But, contend the movies co-directors, it may have something to do with Monsanto being the world’s leading producer of genetically engineered seeds. Then again, Monsanto’s doneness is also rooted in its regularly screwing over of small, independently owned farms. Perhaps the real answer to this question has nothing to do with the proceeding hypotheses and has everything to do with the fact that Monsanto’s current CEO shares a name with famed British Actor, Hugh Grant.

If you’re still not convinced that Monsanto is Done Here, Buddy, remember this. The cream cheese Shaq spreads on his bagel is definitely pure organic.

–Sweater Guy

Dear Readers:

In effort to promote meaningful and honest dialogue, the Sweater Guy management team thought best to publish a female reaction to No Title Necessary, posted October 27th.

The following video will shock you. If it doesn’t, You’re Done Here, Buddy.

Sincerely,

Sweater Guy

How Done Here, Buddy is it when a conversation between new acquaintances reaches that awkward moment when the only remaining question is, “what do you do for a living?” Perhaps my current employment predicament leaves me feeling slightly more sensitive to such a topic, but I can’t help but cringe every time this inquiry is made. When asked, it comes in the form of terrible desperation. The feeling one gets when asked this question is analogous to the impending doom Odysseus must have felt when Calypso forbid him to leave her island. Wanting to control our own fate, this question reminds us that there is something greater holding us back, disabling us from pursuing our true dream. In this case, that dream is a genuine conversation.  As Harvey Dent so eloquently states, “the night is always darkest before the dawn.” Be strong, fellow life friends. There are brighter  days ahead. We’re all in this together, buddy.

To learn what inspired today’s post, please click here.