Fun Facts! about me

I believe people who post anything about Leg Day should have their legs mummified with a dozen rolls of duct tape. Try putting pants on like that. Terrible experience. The best/worst part is it’s always the people with legs like Spongebob posting those stupid mirror selfies that should have died in 2004.

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Backpacks are my favorite human add-on. Backpacks with extra straps are my favorite backpacks. Sometimes I worry my girlfriend thinks I’m checking out another girl, but it’s really all about me and the backpacks. I own three at the moment, but am always keeping an eye open for strays that could use a good home.

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Exhibit fuckin’ A

Sometimes I try to communicate telepathically with my dogs and convince them to wink at me. I only succeeded once out of a few hundred attempts, on the very first try. I almost fainted when our yellow lab Natchez slowly, deliberately, winked at me and then looked away like nothing happened. It makes me even more convinced that dogs are human souls stuffed inside furry, four-legged bodies.

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When those bitches at the park were fiending for the bone but they don’t know you nutless

I used to really want an afro as a kid. Everyone I ever saw who had an afro just looked so cool to me. Of course, I eventually grew up and realized that an afro may very well not be the best look for me.

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Why yes, I did use the same outline of an afro to give myself more beautiful eyebrows and facial hair than I could ever hope to grow.

I love memes. I spend hours poring over the Internet’s finest (or, as it’s called by the street youths of today, “dankest”) memes and have developed what has to be the keenest meme-sniffing nose this side of the Atlantic. I once sniffed out a dank meme from eight Instagram accounts away.

I peed in the corner of a busy nightclub one time. I was super sneaky about it: I faced the corner with my phone up to one ear and my pinky in the other (like that would somehow help me hear the person on the phone over the unce unce unce unce)and kept shaking my head periodically to mimic an avid conversation. I felt like the Daredevil.

Well, that’s about it. The only other Fun Facts! I really have are that I’ve owned eight different color combinations of a single Adidas shoe and that I’ve always wondered if growing my butt hair to sasquatch-length would be a turn-off (a good thing) in prison.

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Not as big of a turn-off as I thought…

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The Cheesecake Factory: A Tale of Magic and Munching

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If the “official restaurant of the NFL” existed, Pizza Hut wouldn’t stand a chance. The Cheesecake Factory is Goliath, and all other restaurants are David, but this time, David’s only weapon to launch with his slingshot is inferior food that isn’t cheesecake. The Cheesecake Factory combines two major aspects of the American Dream: working in a factory, and cheesecake. If you don’t like cheesecake, you can get your lava-cake-loving ass out of America North and South.

Once you step through the gigantic glass doors of The Cheesecake Factory, all your wildest dreams seem so real; so within your grasp. The high ceilings are there to remind you that the painted-styrofoam ceiling is the limit, and the hundreds of fancy glasses for all sorts of exotic drinks allude to how much better life at The Cheesecake Factory is.

All of a sudden, though, you find yourself staring at your empty glass, wondering how you could have possibly justified spending $8.99 on a raspberry lemonade at any point in your life- and in this economy!

Stepping outside after paying the bill just makes things worse. After such a magical time in the Factory, coming outside and realizing you’re still right next door to a Ruby Tuesdays (where all the peasants eat) and you still have work in the morning.

The Cheesecake Factory is great for just about any major event or serious “talk” you will ever have. Not really into your relationship with Suzie anymore? Request a round of Asian-style pot stickers for the appetizer and show her you’re a classy guy before dump(l)ing her.

If I ever adopt a child from a different part of the world, I think I’ll wait until his/her sixteenth birthday to tell them about it over dinner at The Cheesecake Factory. I’ll wait until after we order the main dish, and then tell him he’s from whatever part of the world the food he just ordered is from.

Americana cheeseburger: “You are a full-blown American. Let’s go get you the biggest flag we can find.”

Hibachi steak: “‘Domo arigato,’ Mr. Ro-not-my-biological-offspring.”***

*** I actually ordered the Hibachi steak. It was quite good.

The Italian: Too easy.

Khalua Cocoa Coffee Cheesecake: “Your parents are from the tiny Indonesian island of Khalua. Also, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your drinking problem.”

You can’t really get mad at anyone for anything when you’re in The Cheesecake Factory. The dulling of the senses from the scent of so many dozens of cheesecakes renders everyone unable to fight about anything other than the last slice of pumpernickel bread.

By the way, this is my one qualm with The Cheesecake Factory: cool it with the pumpernickel. I’m already very impressed with your fancy waiters in their all-white outfits and your tremendous selection of desserts- I don’t need the fancy bread that I will never be eating, ever. Uncharacteristically, I didn’t even need to find out whether the Factory has an unlimited bread policy in place (shout out to Olive Garden for their unlimited bread served in stick form. Keep doing you).

Just like Las Vegas, The Cheesecake Factory is a great place to go if you’re looking to lose a great deal of money while ogling over some very strange people. Immediately after walking through the door, I spied a bearded male, probably somewhere in his mid-40s, sporting a mohawk, cargo shorts, and a calf tattoo of what appeared to be the Sobe lizard. A walking advertisement for 2004, this man had both functionality in the cargo shorts and a can-do fuck-you attitude in the mohawk. The Sobe tattoo, however, was either the result of a lost bet, or just that guy’s way of showing everyone that his love for Sobe and the extreme sports Sobe prepares one for isn’t just skin-deep.

Actually, I suppose a tattoo really is just kind of skin-deep.

Salad.

Speaking of salad, The Cheesecake Factory makes a mean one. I do have a bit of a bone to pick with the salad people, though. Keep doing what you’re doing, but stop filling my salad bowl up to the brim. When you do that, boy, do I feel as though my money is buying me a great deal of salad, but I can’t enjoy it because it’s impossible to mix the dressing in. Instead, it pools on top, which makes the first few bites soppy and not very delicious, and then the bites below it dryer than a sorority girl at Comic Con.

The End (for people that can’t take a joke).

I like my salads the way I like my women: lightly drenched in a creamy balsamic, accompanied by just the right number of cucumber slices and reasonably priced.

Vote ‘No’ on Salt Bagels

This is the sort of question I ask myself while standing in the line for a bacon, egg, and cheese the morning after a long night. The racks of various kinds of bagels astounds me every time, although the cinnamon-raisin bagel is what really keeps me up at night.

If “Bagel Roulette” were a real game show, the raisin bagel would be the bullet. This metaphor makes sense, because raisins are really just shriveled-up, discolored bullets. It also makes sense because raisins can kill you just as quickly as a bullet can, if you were to consume a large quantity of raisins and began choking with no one around to save you.

If you’re not over the age of sixty, you have absolutely no business buying anything with raisins in it. This is the first law I will enact as Emperor of the entire world.

While raisin bagels certainly raise a few eyebrows, the consumer I really want to strap to a water-boarding table in Guantanamo is the buyer of the salt bagel. The thought process of someone who buys a salt bagel at ANY point in their life is worthy of an extremely unnecessary level of analysis, and might provide us with some answers to questions we’ve been asking since the beginning of time, such as:

“Why do we exist?”

“Do these pants make me look fat?”

“Why did Breaking Bad have to end?” And,

“Why should I vote against Salt Y. Bagels in the upcoming election?”

Let me tell you something, consumer of salt bagels: I’m onto you. You may be fooling the rest of the people in line at Einstein’s Bagels, but I’m the revolutionary off to the side, shaking my head at your ludicrous purchase.

You see, while the other bagel aficionados are lulled into oblivion by the warmth seeping out of the bagel ovens, I am over in the freezer, crouched behind the strawberry lemonades that nobody ever buys, watching your every move. While the others have been fooled into thinking you’re just a fellow bagel-lover with a penchant for salt, I observe you with absolute clarity from my vantage point among the various flavored cream cheese spreads.

After years of observation in the field and getting kicked out of various bagel-selling establishments, I have come to the conclusion that has rocked my bagel-shaped world, and will rock yours too. If you see someone buying a salt bagel, know this (you may want to sit down):

They’re really just buying a pretzel.

I know what you’re thinking: “But Adam, won’t this declaration and ousting of the salt bagel people make you a target for retribution?”

Well, concerned reader of my blog, yes, it will. Fortunately for you and the rest of the world, I am not afraid to do this kind of investigative journalism for the sake of mankind and bagels everywhere. I know this has angered a great many buyers of salt bagels, but people like me and Edward Snowden have to take this kind of risk to keep you sheeple informed of what’s really going on.

As a side-note, if any readers are currently living in Russia and can offer me some sort of asylum, that would be greatly appreciated. There are hundreds of protestors outside my window, shaking salt-shakers and demanding my head on a salted stick. It looks as though they’re running out of salt bagels to keep them relatively calm.

God save the plain bagel.

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Let Me Name Your Children

I’ve been thinking a great deal about names lately, and frankly, I am not too happy. As someone with a few ounces of creativity still available for sale to The Man (take notes, employers), I find white people’s tendency to use the same names generation after generation terribly boring.

I cannot tell you how many Will’s or Ben’s I’ve met in my lifetime, but I can tell you that it is over fifty. Let’s make things easy and call it sixty-four Ben’s. Sixty-four Ben’s is a lot of Ben’s. Sure, there are definitely some stand-out Ben’s in the group, but it’s nearly impossible to differentiate between all of them.

That’s why I propose a new naming convention for white people: I call it, the S.E.M.E.N. system. Super Easy Manually Entered Names. This is sure to become a smash hit in America sometime soon, so send me your money immediately to get in on the ground floor of this amazing opportunity! Investing in S.E.M.E.N. is a safe, fun way to diversify your portfolio, make a sackful of cash (pun intended) and name your child at the SAME TIME.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “But Adam, why is S.E.M.E.N. only for white people?”

An excellent question. The reasoning behind this choice is that white people are the only ones who actually need help naming their children. Black people have it completely figured out, and continue to churn out names that I not only do not understand, but have no idea how to spell or pronounce. The Asians don’t need S.E.M.E.N. because there are simply too many of them to creatively name each and every one of them. You can only have so many General Tso’s before a war breaks out.

The Native Americans need S.E.M.E.N. the least because they’ve had the whole naming thing down to a science for centuries. What better way to give your child a head-start in life than to name him “Runs With Buffalo.” Please, enlighten me, and tell me when some shitty, bullying white kid named Bill is going to fuck with Runs With Buffalo?

I tell you what, if someone named Runs With Buffalo walks into my office and asks for a job, they’re going to get it- on one condition, of course. For all you Runs With Buffalo’s out there, I promise that you will get the job, but only when you show me a video of you living up to your name.

The S.E.M.E.N. system is comprised of a few very important and distinct sections: the first is the name your cracker-ass child will receive at birth. This initial name will last for the first year of the child’s life, and will be whatever sort of high-pitched scream the baby makes when first exiting the womb. This will make introducing your baby to people who don’t give a single fuck about your baby much more interesting for all parties involved.

At the time of your pasty-white child’s second birthday, you will rename it whatever that child’s favorite food is at the time. This will make spankings much more fun (for you) and will ensure the child will inexplicably have chills run down their spine every time someone offers them Bagel Bites or Carpet Fuzz in the future.

Once the Terrible Two’s have come to an end, your child will once again be renamed under the S.E.M.E.N. system to whatever color you like until they finish high school. This will make it far easier to organize children into groups in the classroom: “Okay, let’s have the Fuchsias over here drawing caterpillars, and the Turquoises over there brainstorming how I can convince my wife to start working out without her realizing that I think she’s fat.”

Once your child has made it through high school, they will enter the most exciting aspect of the S.E.M.E.N. system: the Peer Review. You see, after having gone through the most transformational period in any person’s life together, these kids are very familiar with each other and will have the presence of mind to properly name each other within the confines of the S.E.M.E.N. system.

The beauty of S.E.M.E.N. is that it takes all of the stickiness out of naming someone for life, and grants that power to the child’s peers; a much more reasonable, exciting process. Every system must have its limitations, though, and S.E.M.E.N. is no exception.

To put it in the simplest of terms, white kids will name each other based on their most distinct or most -discussed personality trait. This does create a finite number of name possibilities, but you would be surprised how creative these kids can get!

For instance, a recent study that put the S.E.M.E.N. system to the test asked one hundred students that are in the same grade in high school to name each other. The S.E.M.E.N. team’s initial analysis showed only two matches in the entire study, but it was soon discovered that it had been a missed typo- the names were Fat Ass and Phat Ass, which clearly offer very different, creative descriptions of these students. While these names may not seem to be personality traits, I can assure you as non-certified professional that Phat Asses are personalities of their own.

Other extremely creative names included Great Head (open to interpretation, but definitely still creative!), Crusty Lips, Small Pinkies, and Weird Nipples. As you can see, giving these kids the freedom to name each other results in complete freedom of expression, and also provides ample incentive to not be fat and/or ugly.

I know this explanation of the S.E.M.E.N. system has proven to be quite the mouthful (and nobody knows how to dish out a mouthful of S.E.M.E.N. like I do), and I will gladly answer any questions you have or take any money you would like to give to me for whatever reason. Together, we can do away with the boring, conventional white-people naming method and prove to the younger generations that we are hip and creative.

Don’t Touch the Volume

The automobile is my favorite invention of all time. I would give up airplanes, microwaves, and comfortable seat cushions before I would give up cars. Trying to describe the emotions any gear-head feels tearing up an S-curve is a dangerous walk amongst innumerable clichés.

When you throw other people in the car, however, the automobile atmosphere spawns awkward moments like a Christmas dinner with your grandmother’s new boyfriend.

The music is always a source of conflict in the car, as it is pretty much everywhere else. My car unfortunately does not have an auxiliary input, which limits my musical choices to subpar radio stations or CDs.

Making a CD for the car is far more difficult than you may think. What if Michael Vick ran up to me in full pads one day and asks for a ride? He wouldn’t be very amused if “Who Let the Dogs Out” started playing.

Volume control is a power I grant to only a select few, carefully-chosen passengers every year. If you realize “Born in the USA” is playing and crank the dial to maximum volume, you can kiss that dial goodbye. I will turn the dial back to a very reasonable level immediately. Your little party will be over before it can even begin.

Even worse than the volume extremist is the Concerned Walker. The Concerned Walker takes countless forms, but is most often encountered as parents with a stroller or an elderly couple. When I am driving my car down the street at a very conservative twenty-six miles per hour, the Concerned Walker will often stop in his/her tracks to assault me with a gaze of pure, unadulterated hatred.

Oh, I’m sorry, is the fifteen-foot grass barrier and full lane separating us not adequate for you? I know for a fact that you don’t have a radar gun installed in your head, so cool your Terminator-wannabe stare and keep strolling.

Are the beams of hatred pouring forth from your eyes directed at the “stormy sea blue” color of my Volvo? If so, I’m sorry, but I can’t go get it resprayed a less offensive color and call myself financially responsible.

One last reoccurring moment in the car I would like to bring up is the whole, “Let’s leave Adam on the side of the road and drive off because he’s being too loud.” Thanks very much, mom, but I’m twenty years old now and still do not appreciate it one bit. I dry my tears well, but they were spilled… they were spilled.

A Day in the Life of a Fratstar

Well, I’ve been going on a video-making spree over the last week, and here is the latest in my wildly successful homework-avoidance program.

This one is all about my alter ego’s daily routine. Enjoy!

How to Pick the Perfect Pineapple

“If you were a fruit, you’d be a fineapple.”

These next few words are going to change your life.

Not in any sort of meaningful way, of course, but you will be able to pick the perfect pineapple for yourself and/or a sexual partner to enjoy in a nonsexual or sexual way. Your choice. 

Learning how to pick the perfect pineapple is not a task for the weak of heart. It will be a proud moment indeed when you can peruse the pineapples at your local grocer’s, but as of right now, to me, you know absolutely nothing at all. 

After all, you obviously don’t have what it takes to correctly pick, pluck and prepare the perfect pineapple. But you will. Your pineapple palate will be so refined, all of your friends will plead for you to pick out their pineapples, too. 

Are you getting sick of all the words starting with ‘p’ yet? Well isn’t that just

Splendid.

See what I did there? I set that up so you thought you were going to pull one over on me.

“The next word will be ‘perfect’! I guarantee you it’s ‘perfect’! I know the joke that is coming and I am so smart for doing so!”

Enough about you. Let’s talk apples. Primarily, pineapples.

Do you peruse for plump pineapples? Is there such a thing as a Peruvian pineapple?* Is it any more delicious than a Pineapple from, say, Paraguay?**

*Yes

** Maybe?

Well, according to wikiHow, there is a certain scent one’s nostrils encounter when in close proximity to a ripe pineapple. A ripe one will smell particularly sweet; if it’s not ripe, it will have no scent at all.

PRO-TIP: I like to take the ripeness test to a whole other level- we’re talking Scratch-n-sniff, here. Scratching your pineapple first will scare the pineapple into releasing its scent out of pure, primal fear.

Apparently, an overly-ripe pineapple will smell of alcohol, which makes me think overly-ripe pineapple isn’t such a bad thing. If I’m going to be juicing this pineapple in order to make several dozen margaritas, it wouldn’t be horrible for the pineapple to be thrown into the blender with some booze that smells kind of the same.

Here is another bit of advice from wikiHow: “Avoid pineapples with wrinkled skin, reddish-brown skin, cracks or leaks, mold, or brown withering leaves.”

Well, that’s fairly easy. I already avoid people of the same description, so adding certain pineapples to my list of things/people/homes under the sea to avoid is not an issue. 

Step Four on this list is where it starts to get way more sexual than I thought a discussion on picking the perfect pineapple could possibly be:

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Okay, so I’m not the only one thinking about how the person who wrote this must have had the hots for a pineapple-shaped woman, right? That green, fern-like hair, a really rough, a kind of sharp and pointy face- who wouldn’t fall for that?

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BOOBS. BOOBS. BOOOOOBS. THIS PERSON IS TALKING ABOUT BOOBS, NOT PINEAPPLES. But I’m okay with it. They know what they’re talking about, and talking about it very casually. “Pretty firm, but soft enough.” Okay, buddy, keep the pineapple in your pants.

The rest of the wikiHow-to was rather boring and bland (unlike the pineapple they used in their pictures- that looks prime) so here’s a few fun pineapple facts:

1. “If you cut up that pineapple, you have to eat it in a few days.” Otherwise, the starving kids in Africa will hear about it and will watch your house burn to the ground as they consume your pineapple.

2. “A whole refrigerated pineapple can last about two weeks.” I always wonder who tests this out. I picture a bunch of scientists bringing in plates of pineapple to one guy sitting at a table. Each plate of pineapple has been sliced and stored for a different number of days, and they just keep increasing the age of the sliced pineapple they’re feeding this guy until he keels over and dies.

“Well, it seems as though two weeks is about the limit, Scientist Steve.”

“I do declare, Scientist Smith, that I concur. Let’s grab another subject and try out some mangoes.”

“An excellent suggestion. But first, let’s manGO to to lunch.”

“Delightful.”

Stay ripe.

All of the above pictures and quotes are from the actual wikiHow article, How to Tell if a Pineapple is Ripe, found here: http://www.wikihow.com/Tell-if-a-Pineapple-Is-Ripe

My Anaconda Don’t Want None

Call me old fashioned, but I am a firm believer in the success of any first date being centered around the classic introduction to parents, followed by a solid thirty-minute session of watching Eminem music videos. “Shake That” should always be the first and last song played, just to acknowledge the fact that both datees (the male shall henceforth be referred to as the Manatee) have butts on the mind.

“But Adam, what about after the Eminem sesh? What will we do then?”

This is usually the moment when I present the date’s extended family with a wide selection of fine cheeses. This serves to prove to both my date and her family that not only do I furnish the dining room tables of other peoples’ home with cheese platters, but that I know my f***ing cheeses.

It amazes me how much the dating game has changed over time. In Romeo and Juliet’s time, it was, “Oh, he has a lovely castle and a pleasant personality. I should talk to him for a few hours, get married and live out the rest of my life regretting this rash decision.”

Nowadays, it’s, “Well, he does have a strong wifi connection in his bathroom, and he only checked his phone fifteen times at dinner. I suppose there will be an exchange of genitalia placed into mouths, followed by awkward goodbyes and sporadic texting over the next few weeks.”

This new Nicki Minaj song, “Anaconda,” is one of the many signs of how the dating has been simplified to the point where it’s only a “game” if you’re the sort of person who believes playing Jenga with three blind people is a game.

Littered with both phat beats (‘phat’ being the technical term for ‘ghetto-fabulous’) and lyrics from Sir Mix-a-lot’s 1992 hit, “Baby Got Back,” Nicki Minaj’s latest piece of musical trash focuses on male genitalia quite a bit. More so, I daresay, than most anatomical textbooks available for sale.

“My anaconda don’t- my anaconda don’t- my anaconda don’t want none, unless you got buns, hun.”

I think the moment I “grew up” was when I realized Sir Mix-a-lot was not, surprisingly enough, talking about his pet anaconda’s predisposition towards hun’s buns. While a snake addicted to buns seems hilarious, the reality of the matter is not. 

I also realized how much older I had become when I watched the music video and realized that Sir Mix-a-lot is not standing on a series of oddly-shaped, giant peaches like our boy James from “James and the Giant Peach”:

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That is a butt.

Do you have an absolutely fantastic personality? Do you run your own business and don’t own sixty-four cats? Well, bravo, you’re doing pretty well for yourself, but don’t get your hopes up, because Sir Mix-a-lot’s penis wants absolutely nothing to do with you if you don’t have buns.

I hate to break it to you, Sir Mix-a-lot, but not every girl out there is a pastry chef (or has access to a convection oven.) You’re just going to have to lower your standards like the rest of us and hope that your soulmate has a plate of miniature lava cakes waiting at home just for you. If you’re really unlucky, you’ll have to cope with a plate of oatmeal cookies, but that’s what consuming mass quantities of hard liquor is for, right?

Also, Sir Mix-a-lot, I sincerely hope you’re reading this, because I have something to tell you: there should not be an anaconda residing inside of your boxer briefs. Ideally, there should be a penis there (not a vagina, because it’s SIR Mix-a-lot, not MADAME Mix-a-lot, which happens to be an awesome name for either a female rapper or baker).

Another song that amazes me in its lack of talent is “Ocho Cinqo” by French Montana. Here’s a little snippet of this gem (and by ‘gem’ I mean ‘a piece of stale cat poop’):

“Tell that bitch, ‘Gimme head,’ Ochocinqo!” Are you fucking kidding me? This is the kind of lyrical genius I need to make millions off of the brain-dead people consuming this garbage? You’re telling me all my lyrics need are absurd demands and the names of unrelated famous people?

Well, sign me right the fuck up, because I have some lyrics I’ve been waiting to drop on these fools:

“Tell that intern, ‘Gimme head,’ Bill Clinton!”

“Tell that waiter, ‘Bring me bread,’ Mahatma Gandhi!”

“Tell that metalworker, ‘Melt some lead,’ Stephen Colbert!”

While this may seem funny to you, I assure you, it is not. It is a sad day indeed when someone like Nicki Minaj is in the spotlight- that is, when her gigantic ass isn’t blocking the light. Heyyoooooo!!!!

Peace OUT.

Area Teen’s First Hibachi Experience: “F****n’ Sweet”

Whether he’s knocking over elderly citizens’ recycling bins or tearing up the local 7-11’s parking lot, Kleindale’s favorite amateur Razor scooter rider, Richard Leopard, has a knack for drawing a crowd. Last month, it was that sweet bunny hop over the curb at Kohl’s, but not it appears as though Leopard is getting a taste for fine dining.

scooter-douche-2A recent picture of R. Leopard and his scooter

An anonymous tip from a Kleindale citizen led our reporters to Fud Throhn Atchu, Kleindale’s only hibachi restaurant, where Richard was leaving after his first encounter with the dining novelty. In search of what makes people pay to have their food thrown at them, we asked Leopard what he thought of his experience:

“Yeah, that Tamagotchi s**t was pretty good,” Leopard told reporters at the scene. “Flipping chicken and some fried noodles into peoples’ mouths? That ish was TIGHT. I was a little thrown off by all the Asian dudes, though. They all knew karate with those big-ass knives and that was not chill.”

When asked which main course he ordered, Richard told us he asked for the vegetable dinner, but then took a large portion of his friend’s filet mignon.

“No way I’m paying for the good stuff,” Leopard stated. His friend, a Mr. Stanley Lilbitch, had this to say:

“I don’t usually have a problem with Dick here taking my food,” Stanley explained, “I usually get the leftovers from the girls he gets at the scooter competitions, so I will gladly sacrifice what was an excellent piece of filet mignon.”

When asked what his favorite part of the hibachi experience was, Leopard replied, “Ooh, dude! That flaming onion volcano bull***t fo’ shizzle.”

Our reporters state that the distinct smell of sake lingered in the air for several minutes after Dick Leopard rode the latest Razor scooter into the sunset.

“Honor Roll Student” Bumper Stickers: Hitler Had One, Do You?

The automobile is a wonderful creation. Not only is it (usually) a much faster mode of transportation than a horse/goat/large dog, it gets to where we need to go in style.

Cars come in all shapes and sizes, from the Smart car for two- the perfect vehicle for someone who either didn’t have enough money to buy a regular-sized car, or for someone who has been made fun of their entire life and wishes to continue being ridiculed from the comfort of their own car.

There’s the Honda Civic, which was launched into stardom when The Fast and Furious first came out. Every poor car enthusiast with enough money jacked from the nearest 7-11 had one with a muffler big enough to shove a large melon inside, and elderly neighbors all across the country “had it up to here!”

Then you have the Toyota Prius, which I am fully convinced was created for the sole purpose of making it easy for the rest of us non-Prius-driving folks to participate in a little game the Internet likes to call, “Spot the Vegan.”

Now, I’m not saying veganism is something worth pointing out to everyone else and making fun of, but vegans most certainly do.

They usually do through a combination of bumper stickers displaying their love for animals and their refusal to eat them. I have absolutely NO problem with this, because it means there’s more for me and the rest of my healthy, protein-fueled, meat eating friends. You can have your “holier-than-thou” attitude and contemplate the taste of that shitty kale you’ve been pushing on your friends for months.

As annoying as a large portion (the vegetable portion; no meat) of vegans can be with their “Coexist” bumper stickers, they are nowhere NEAR as bad as the soccer moms and douchey dads that think telling the cars behind them that their child is on the honor roll.

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This is exactly what they’re really trying to say.

What an absolutely horrible idea this is. Let’s put thousands of frustrated adults in giant metal death machines stuck in traffic on the way to work until they die, and make them painfully aware of your somewhat intelligent child. I am shocked these stickers haven’t resulted in millions of vehicular homicides each year.

If you child was the valedictorian of his/her class, then good for them, that deserves a $2.00 sticker to be displayed with pride. But if your kid was on the honor roll at Helen Keller middle school, then you need to sit down and have a long chat with yourself about what constitutes an “accomplishment.”

Being on the honor roll in middle school is the equivalent of receiving a participation trophy in soccer. You showed up almost everyday, maybe scored some goals, and didn’t burn everything to the ground, so good for you.

That is not something I want to be informed of on my way to pick up Chinese food. If you actually have something important to say to other drivers on the road, then make your own bumper stickers. To get the ball rolling, I have listed a few bumper stickers that are not only realistic, but can connect drivers.

“My daughter is a whore at Millers High School”

“My son tells me and my wife that he’s going to a Modest Mouse concert, but really he’s going to a rave and rolling face”

“Not-so-proud parent of an avid masturbator”

“I once saw my son huffing Elmer’s glue”

“My daughters are both tremendous disappointments”

“My son forces the family dalmatian to lick peanut butter off of his nuts”

Let me know if you would like to order any of the *truthful* bumper stickers above. I can also have them made into t-shirts so that you can be honest with even more people in the food court at your local mall.