You don't know the first thing about my apartment.

Here's a secret for you, then, the next time you're in NYC. Go down to Canal Street at 2am on Weekday nights. There's a little storefront between two camera stores that only opens its doors after midnight, and the grill isn't really warmed up until it's been open, slinging hash for a couple of hours. You'll recognize…

Time is a flat round circle with a hole in the middle.

It's just a different food experience. Like the difference between a nice loaf of fresh dense bread, and a nice loaf of sweet pound cake. One of them you can cut in half and put some cream cheese and smoked salmon on, and the other is a bagel.

Wahlbagelurgers.

Time for that Indiegogo campaign!!

Lox. It's spelled "lox".

I guess you failed the saving throw against irrefutable logic there.

Agreed. Even when you buy them from "bagel stores" in bags with the term "bagels" on them, those aren't bagels you're eating.

Ah, the rare Sports Night reference! I salute you, sir!

I once heard a commentator describe bagels west of the Amtrak corridor as "corn-starch-dusted neck pillows." That summed it up quite nicely.

Using "a cultural touchstone" as an argument against the New York City bagel is like trying to say "Toronto's position in the film industry towers over that of Hollywood."

Your ironic tone wasn't lost on me, friend!

Can't you get inoculated to prevent HTC these days?

I wanted to take a ride on the bone train.

Roy III: Dave's Not Here, Man.

Oh, that's called "sugar" around here.

Oh?…oh. *slowly puts phone away*

Ooh! Thanks for the instant affirmation of my weirdness!

For the longest time, I would work out very elaborate storylines in my head that would involve me sneaking into houses while the owners were out so I could stay hidden, and when they returned, watch them while they masturbated. Not have sex with someone, just masturbate. Usually a woman, but not always. Usually while…