You know who you are. You don’t even need an introduction. You’re the giant elephant in the room, Buddy…

Those with whom you come in contact seek immediate reprieve. “I don’t know how much longer I can take this,” they think to themselves. Yet, you continue on–ignorantly disregarding everyone around you. You’re the one with your head in the clouds, most likely found socializing at elitist fundraisers expounding the theories of Kant and Hume. You’re dehydrated and you need a glass of water. You’re walking around the party with the stale ass red wine breath and you’re definitely Done Here, Buddy.

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.

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

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

To all my avid readers out there, sorry for the delay, but Halloween hit pretty hard this year. Personally, I went as a Tibetan Buddhist Monk, and, needless to say, I think that it was my best halloween costume since third grade when I went as Robin of Locksley.

That said, today’s topic will bring us back into the full swing of things and is completely unrelated to Halloween.  How Done Here, Buddy is it when friends use packing as an excuse for not being able to hang out? A typical interaction might sound something like this. “Hey, bro. What are you up to tonight? Some friends from work are having a house party and there’s gonna be hella dope girls there.” A Done Here, Buddy’s response probably goes, “Sorry, dude. I’d love to hang out, but I have to pack.”

Give me a break, guys. Lets ask ourselves a couple of questions here:  1) how long does it actually take to pack a bag? 2) Am I Done Here, Buddy if I answered more than 20 minutes? If, in fact, it takes you more than 20 minutes to pack your bag, then it’s a no-doubter on to Waveland. You’re Done Here, Buddy.

A recent glance through an undisclosed friend’s Facebook page got me thinking about sushi and why it is always the default meal choice for birthday dinners. Let me preface by saying that I have twice been to Tokyo, am an avid lover of “the sush,” and nothing excites me more  than a fresh landing strip of Uni straight to the facehole.  That said, it seems like every time someone’s birthday rolls around, sushi becomes the go-to dinner of choice. Let’s analyze this from a couple of perspectives: 1) Sushi, while amazingly buttery and always spot-hitting, isn’t necessarily the best eating style for large groups. As much as I love my girlfriend’s best friend, do I really want to drop 50 bones so that all I get is a meager piece of a California Roll? 2) Let’s think about all the other amazing options that are out there: Chinese food, bowling, having a house party where you get black-out drunk and make a pass at one of your best friends. Now, that’s a party.

All I’m saying, guys, is that we can do better. Let’s start to think out of the Bento Box on this one.  The Gods of Edo have spoken and their claim is pure and true: the sushi birthday dinner is Done Here, Buddy.

There are two kinds of people in this world: the first, is the person who has refined their gum chewing skills so that all chewing remains confined within the sanctum of their own mouth. The second, who is obviously Done Here, Buddy,  is the demonstrator of excessive hubris–who shows no regard for other people’s space–making public their aptitude for this lip smacking, bubble popping activity. This past monday, I boarded the BART to make my way from my home in Oakland to San Francisco, where I am a Mandarin Chinese Instructor at the ABC Language School in Union Square. During the ride, I was quietly glancing over and making last second changes to my lesson plan, when I heard a noise that resembled the igniting of an atomic missile. Little did I realize, the sound that I mistook for an atomic missile was actually a woman engaged in some of the loudest gum chewing that I have ever witnessed.  Blasphemed, I couldn’t help but think how inappropriate this kind of behavior is. Is nothing sacred? The BART is a public vessel designed to transport passengers from one station to another in what ought to be a civilized environment. It is not, however, a symposium to practice your little leaguer impersonation.

This woman clearly did not get the memo: if you don't have anything nice to chew, you probably shouldn't chew anything at all. YDHB.

Last night, I had the distinct opportunity to volunteer at a fundraising event thrown by Conservacion Patogonica at the David Brower Center in Berkeley, California. The event was truly inspiring, as those who attended watched two films, one produced independently by CP’s Founder and President, Kristine Tompkins, and the other by her husband, Doug Tompkins, founder of the Conservation Land Trust. The purpose of last night’s fundraiser was two-fold: to raise funds (obviously) and to create awareness for the more than 2 million acres of land these industry pioneers have worked to protect in Argentina and Chile.  Following the films and a short Q & A session, the attendees returned to the lobby to indulge in deserts and coffee. It was at this exact juncture that I noticed a gentleman sporting an article that has no place whatsoever in an urban setting or on a person aged more than 13 years: The Cargo Pant.  How Done Here, Buddy is the cargo pant? “So Done Here, Buddy,” exclaimed one of my friends. “I can’t believe those things were even started here,” he continued. Sadly, it’s true. Let’s ask ourselves some fundamental questions:

1) How many pockets does a guy actually need? 2) What is the aesthetic value of having zippers dangling all over the place? If pockets needed on a pair of gentleman’s trousers is 4, and, if  the aesthetic value of superfluously dangling zippers is 0, we can use a simple mathematical equation to deduce the the final answer for todays post: 4 pockets + 0 aesthetic value = You’re Done Here, Buddy

I apologize for the not so Ansel Adams(esque) photo quality. But, if you look close enough, you will see something truly horrifying: a pair of cargo pants.