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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Apple Pie Sucks

I didn’t realize I was allergic to apples until I was twenty years old. It wasn’t that I had never had an apple in my first two decades on planet earth; it was just that I had always thought a scratchy throat was part of the apple-eating experience.

Kind of ironic, since an apple-a-day keeps the doctor away, especially when you throw said apple at said doctor every morning when he leaves for work.

There’s a whole lot of history associated with apples, and not enough (in my opinion) history that has to do with the watermelon. Super-sized fruits, such as the watermelon, have always fascinated me- how big could one really be, and why was the watermelon’s distant cousin, the pumpkin, chosen for Halloween carvings?

There’s the story of Johnny Appleseed, which may or may not have been some sort of metaphor for the dangers of “spreading your seed” all over the country. Of course, that begs the question of who would allow this buffoon to plant his seeds in their land to begin with.

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A pothead, obviously.

There’s the downfall of Adam and Eve, which is, shall we say, a little depressing. You disobeyed a direct order from God Himself for a taste of some big, hard berry in a tree that a grass-tube (snake) told you to eat?  I hope it was worth it. You got all of us kicked out of Eden, and for what? For the sake of eating “the forbidden fruit” after Dad told you not to?

Speaking of “downfall”, I’m fairly certain my high school physics teacher didn’t tell us the story of how Sir Isaac Newton discovered gravity after a fucking cantaloupe him in the head.

 

Apples are also the only fruit with a specific flavor named after old people: Granny Smith.

“Would you care for a bite of Granny Smith? It may be a little moldy and have one or two worms still crawlin’ around in there, but you can slather some peanut butter on there and go to town.”

Any fruit that needs some sort of sauce or spread to be made enjoyable is a shit fruit, period. Baking them into a pie isn’t doing apples any favors, either. I’m a huge fan of pie crust – I’ve always been a real crusty guy -but keep the inside of an apple pie the fuck out of my face. It looks like a bunch of regurgitated baby food that you sprinkled some sugar on. I’ll stick to crust and some milk, thank you very much.

Apples have also taken over private schools’ classrooms and our pockets. The company has a wide range of available “flavors”, most of which are not that tasty and go bad by the end of the season, when you can go to Farmer Joe over in the mall and buy a new one, with a sharp new stem and a slightly different hue of red for $800.

And finally, an incredibly dark, Apple-related joke that will get me bumped from Economy to the pilot’s chair on my flight to hell:

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Day Three: Thanksgiving? More like “SHANKS”giving! Hahaha

The joke is that we shanked a bunch of Native Americans after accepting their generous gifts of wampum and other shiny shit.

What a bunch of assholes who stepped off the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, huh?

I have to admit, heading back to Spain and telling everyone you conquered the shit out of an entire continent’s worth of people would be pretty badass.

What kind of trash talk went on during the battles with the Native Americans? That’s the part of history that I want to know.

It must have been hard to talk shit about other people if you can’t understand their language. Of course, the classic, “WUAAHHHHHLALALALALALALAAAAAAAAA” coming from a screaming, naked  native perched atop a trained buffalo is pretty much universal for, “I’m going to fuck you up.”

I actually used that same method to get myself out of a sticky situation once:

I was on my way back from a party at around 3 am one night in college, alone (haha, classic!). I was shuffling along, minding my own business, when I hear a couple boisterous (i.e. drunk) voices coming up behind me. I didn’t think much of it until one of them shouted,

“Hey! Faggot!”

Now, I’m all for taking someone down a few pegs via verbal assault, but I was tired, I was drunk, and I wanted to go home.

So, I turned around to face the two behind me, who were now about ten feet away.

The second I made eye contact with Fuckboy #1, I let loose.

I screamed louder than a fucking bison in a swamp, directly into this kid’s face. Spit flew out, my vocal chords almost snapped in half, and both of the kids almost had heart attacks.

I must have seemed like a lunatic on the loose in Gettysburg (some would say I absolutely was) because both of them sprinted away immediately. I almost pissed myself laughing as they scampered down the sidewalk. Then i pissed on the sidewalk.

I never thought screaming at someone would work better than punching that someone directly in the mouth, but it did.

It’s too bad the same didn’t work for the Native Americans.

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A Stranger Offered Me Drugs Today

I am white. Like, really, really white. Some people say I look Asian, which is like being the white people of white people. I own several Polo shirts, tell everyone I know about the two weeks I spent one summer doing Crossfit, and get excited every year when October rolls around because Columbus Day is my favorite holiday.

I appreciate a nice, hot mocha and reading steamy romance novels while watching the 11 o’clock news just before hopping into bed with a heated blanket for extra comfort.

I also really enjoy using the phrase, “okie dokie” at least twice a day while texting my stockbroker.

My point is, I’m about as white as vanilla ice cream in a kid-sized sugar cone. Look at what I wore today:

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I fucking told you I was white.

White khakis, black Polo, gelled hair. I was going into New York City for an interview, but I just as easily could have been heading to Lowes to pick up a nice coffee bean-brown finish for the birdhouse I’ve been making in my spare time.

That’s a joke. I fucking hate birds.

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Haha!

I love stereotypes. They exist for a reason, and I think making fun of them, tastefully or not, is usually very funny. I obviously fit the “cracker stereotype” while strolling through the city today, and I’m fine with playing into that and any other stereotype.

So is the giant black guy who offered me drugs as I walked by the park bench he was sitting on.

“Sup big guy, want some drugs?”

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Kind of looked like this guy, but black!

“Uhhhhh, hahaha” was what went through my mind as I walked by, but I didn’t laugh out loud. Instead, I continued to play into the “cracker” role I was obviously doing a great job in already:

“No thank you sir, I’m good.”

I kid you not, that is exactly what I said, out loud, to a drug dealer in broad daylight in the middle of Bryant Park. It was surreal, to say the least.

As I continued on my way, I started pondering where the situation could have gone if I had, at the very least, perused this kindly man’s selection!

“Why, my good sir, yes! Yes, I would love some drugs! Let’s see what you have available for purchase.”

What kind of drugs did he think I was interested in? Was it heroin? Meth? Pot?

Or was he one of those hipster drug dealers I’ve been hearing about lately who are adamant about alcohol being a drug? Was I to be offered some black-market Budweiser?

I knew instantly that I’d be writing this piece later on the train, because I had never been offered drugs before—especially from a total stranger on a park bench.

I’d love to say that my years of elementary school experience in D.A.R.E. class came rushing back to me, but I don’t remember anything at all from those sessions.

Maybe it was all the drugs (haha, just kidding, Grandma!!!!)

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"Oh Adam, you so sirry!"

The one thing I do remember from those hours in the media center with Mrs. Weinshell, who was best known for hiking her pants up to the middle of her ribcage everyday, was the lesson about online predators:

“When you’re making your first email address, make sure you don’t put any personal information in it! You don’t want strangers to know anything about you that could be used to hurt you or lure you in.”

So, my first email address was AdamJacobsOctober12th1992at13WintergreenDrive@gmail.com. I still use it for business to this very day, and have yet to receive a single message from an online predator! It’s pretty upsetting, to be honest.

Maybe I should start carving it into park benches.

A Few of My “Weird Job” Ideas

I am thigh-deep in the job search at the moment, so I’d like to take a moment to write down a few of the weirdest ideas I’ve had as to how to make money doing the least or the most interesting work possible.

Presidential Entertainer: everyone gets a little bored during the workday, and I’m sure the President of the U.S. is no different. So, I propose Mr. Obama hire me to keep things light and refreshing in the War Room. “Mr. President, you’re going to want to have a look at this,” and it’s a video of a cat eating a broccoli calzone and making a gross face. This will make drone strikes way more fun.

Scooby Doo: okay, bear with me on this one. I want to create a GoFundMe to deck out a van like the Mystery Machine and go around solving everyday mysteries. Like, if someone’s cat has gone missing: “Zoinks! I bet it was eaten alive by a wild coyote! This area is known for having a lot of coyotes.”

Refresher: for this professional role, I would basically just chew minty gum all day and breathe on people rich enough to pay me to have a minty breeze around them at all times.

Girl Scout Cookie Salesman: there is nothing I would love more than to prove the merits of capitalism by cornering the girl scout cookie market with slightly discounted prices, thereby ripping the rug out from under the Girl Scouts’ organization and assuming the monopoly. Plus, free Thin Mints.

The Pizza Man: I propose being paid $8 by whomever wants to pay me to put a piece of pizza in their enemy’s slipper and/or dress shoe. This accomplishes a few things: it ruins just one half of an enemy’s footwear, which is extremely frustrating; it ruins a perfectly good piece of pizza that the enemy probably wants to eat but now can’t because it is now foot-flavored; and it comes with a free slice of pizza which you can either eat or put in the other shoe on your own.

Pretzel Time Employee: okay, so this is an actual job that I could totally get, but I don’t think they would let me scream at all the people walking by in the mall that, “IT’S PRETZEL TIME!” and then peg them with cinnamon pretzel bites.

Professional Insulter: I would love to stand on the street and make fun of your friends for $2 a piece. I could make it performance-based too, as in you keep putting dollars into my jar as I continue ripping on your friends and the fact that nobody loves them.

Date Ruiner: are you in the middle of a God-awful date with a wet blanket? Then call me up and order the “Wet-Blanket Special” for just $29.99, where I come over to your table in the restaurant and wring out a wet blanket all over your date. Better yet, order the “Shit Special” for $45 and I will literally shit my pants right next to your date and never leave a two-foot radius next to them until they give up and go home. For the wealthier customers, I offer the “Mastur-dater” package for $79.99. This VIP-level package includes me getting a table where your date will be able to see me staring intently at them, and very obviously masturbating underneath the table while maintaining VERY uncomfortable eye contact. If this isn’t enough, I can pretend to “finish” for an additional $10, and if you guys switch tables, I will do the same for an additional $15 and a basket of bread (in stick form, prefereably) from your table.

The Other Pizza Man: did you really just order a large bacon-pepperoni-and-no-vegetable pizza from Domino’s all for yourself? Do you want to save some face in front of the delivery guy who would otherwise know exactly how much of that pizza is going right into your mouth in front of a TV as soon as he shuts the door? Hire me for just $5.99 to stand behind you when you answer the door to make it look like you’re going to share the pizza. For a slice of the pizza, I will also wear stained sweatpants and a scraggly beard to make you look like royalty.

The Dancer: are we human, or are we dancer? Who the fuck cares when you have a guy like me busting atrocious moves out on the dance floor for you to point out and make fun of to your date? For just $19.99, I’ll even get dressed up like Michael Jackson with the one shiny glove and wear blackface for extra controversy.

Your White Friend: are you an African American man or woman in need of someone to keep the police from harassing/tazing you for no reason? Well, look no further for the whitest friend you could possibly imagine. Trying to impress your boys with your mad rap skills? I’ll wear a bunch of white shit like horn-rimmed glasses and beige turtleneck sweaters for you to rip apart in a rap battle.

Graduating Suma Cum Loudly

HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA gotcha!!

I am not graduating with Honors, but I am graduating with all four of my limbs, so I have that going for me.

Confused yet? I am. I’ve been awake for about 34 hours at this point, and I feel so good I’m almost convinced that this is a dream. The only definitive proof I have that this isn’t a dream is the rancid odor of coffee breath making its way up into my nostrils. It’s a pretty good way to wake yourself up via a nice deep gag every few minutes.

I’ve been up so long because I had to write the last two papers of my undergraduate career at Gettysburg College, and time management is probably my 56th best skill. My top three skills? Sure.

1. My “old Jewish woman” accent will knock your matzah balls off

2. Hitting my face on things. Seriously. I ran into a volleyball pole in fifth grade and this one kid in our gym class passed out from the sight of all the blood. I heard later that I basically ruined the class for everyone because they had to listen to the teacher talk about why running around before class starts is a bad idea.

3. Falling asleep in any sort of transportation.

This seems like a good place to start listing weird shit that has happened to me over my last four years in college.

This was our mascot until a few years ago. It’s a bullet, and definitely not a dildo.

Freshman year, I ran down my hallway at 3 AM jumping and punching the styrofoam ceiling tiles the way Mario does in the video game. I also made the “Ding!” noise every time.

Also during freshman year, I caused a scene in our hall (during the day this time). To put it bluntly, I took a massive crap that got stuck on the bowl and simply would not flush. I tried a couple times, and then gave up and left. About an hour later, I stepped outside my dorm room to see every guy in our hall talking excitedly about “It”. Someone blamed it on this kid Gerry who vehemently denied it, but I just acted surprised and let him take the blame.

Sophomore year, I somehow got into a local bar with a fake ID that said I was 26 years old. My roommate ended up bringing home a 37 year old woman with 3 kids, a C-section scar, and a husband in jail. I slept on the Yogibo in our living room.

Ah, I forgot one from freshman year. I went to this fraternity rush event one Thursday night, and got absolutely plastered. I managed to wake up in time for my 8:30 Econ class, and dragged myself across campus with nothing other than a giant-ass water bottle. About fifteen minutes into class, I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided to just go pass out in my room, and made it as far as the wooden bench just outside the Econ building before passing out on said bench and sleeping in the rain for about a half hour before I mustered up the strength to get back to my room.

A bunch of times throughout college I had a cold and sometimes wouldn’t catch the sneeze in time and a huge snot rocket would land on the floor in the middle of class. I have no idea if anyone noticed or not. It was pretty gross.

Once during junior year, my roommate and I went to McDonald’s to try to “cone” the lady working the drive-thru window. “Coning” is when you order just a cone of vanilla ice cream, and then when they hand you your cone, you just grab a fistful of the ice cream – leaving the cone in their hand – and drive off. As soon as I ordered a cone at the drive-thru speaker, I could hear the skepticism in her voice. When we pulled up to the window, this middle-aged lady peers out, looking utterly pissed off, and goes, “You aren’t going to try to ‘cone’ me, are you?”

“NoooOOOooooo,” I replied. “I don’t even know what ‘coning’ is. What is that?”

When she handed me the cone, I tried to swipe the ice cream right off, but MAN, this lady had some reflexes in those forearms. She yanked it away before I could cone her, and told me, “If you try to do that again, I will throw this ice cream in your car.”

I was like, “…..naaaah. There’s no way you would do that. You’d get in trouble.”

“Oh, really?” She said, cocking her arm back just enough to make me wonder just how much of my car’s interior she could splatter with one cone’s worth of vanilla ice cream.

It was too much. I caved, and accepted my vanilla cone like a little bitch. I don’t even like vanilla ice cream.

Here’s how it should have gone down, if that lady wasn’t such a stickler for serving vanilla cones the way Ronald McDonald told her to.

Gettysburg College’s President Riggs “Sick and Tired of the Liberal Pansies”

President Riggs putting on a smile for the liberal pansies.

Running a prestigious liberal arts college isn’t for the faint of heart. President Janet Morgan Riggs, who graduated from Gettysburg College in ’77, now runs the show here, and was kind enough to buy me a Mocha (with whipped) from the Commons and sat down for an interview.

“Having the same work title as BrObama is pretty sweet, to say the least,” Riggs began, “but it’s far from being all fun and games. As Presidents, we have to deal with a lot of stupid people on a daily basis.”

President Riggs, while sipping on a Venti-Chai Latte with eighteen shots of espresso, described what her average day looks like.

“I wake up around five each morning to steal my neighbor’s copy of the Gettysburg Times and throw a roll of that awful single-ply toilet paper all over Phi Delt’s house. Then I head over to Servo for one of those fantastic omelets, and force the manager to fire up the ice cream machine for me. Afterwards, I whip one of those scooters-for-rent up and down North Washington, flipping off DPS and blasting some N.W.A. I like to keep in touch with my inner student.”

(DISCLAIMER: This interview was particularly revealing of President Riggs’ questionable habits on campus, and may shock some readers.)

President Riggs recently escaped a rather brutal board meeting, where an anonymous source claims the board members grilled Riggs for hours on what’s been going on here at the college.

“Yeah, of course I remember the meeting with those liberal pansies,” Riggs started, “coming into my house clamoring for “student rights” and other stupid stuff. I remember thinking to myself, ‘Is this all worth it?’ Like, is it really worth sacrificing my remaining time on earth to helps secure the futures of these salmon-pant wearing toolbags strutting around campus?”

This reporter, as the owner of a pair of salmon pants, is more than a little dismayed at the Kool-Aid Riggs is selling.

“I’ve got liberal pansies like you up my ass seven days a week asking me, ‘Janet, where’s the money going, Janet?’ I don’t have time to deal with that B.S. Do you have any idea how tough it is being all Presidential and shit 24/7 while trying to get the grounds crew to install my new 12-man jacuzzi the right way? I swear, this is why I drink.”

At this point, we had to take a break from the interview to give President Riggs a chance to answer some texts and, “Downvote some weak-ass Yaks to oblivion.”

When asked about the recent allegations accusing the school of lacing the fingers of signature Chicken-Finger Friday with laxatives, Riggs laughed.

“Of course we put laxatives in the fingers. The only one who could stomach them otherwise is a goat- we did a lot of illegal goat testing over the summer, which was fun. Off the record? They’re not even really chicken fingers- the B-Hole staff just fries up whatever animals DPS manages to taze during the week. It’s usually squirrel, but they’ve been wizening up to DPS’s tazering techniques, so occasionally we sub in some raccoons that are usually rooting around in the trash behind Servo.”

**** In reality, I did not interview President Riggs and do not know anything about the **** installation of a 12-man jacuzzi at her house

Dad Bods

Listening to several overweight college bros discussing with pride the sorry state of their beer guts over a couple of Natties (because Natty Light implies one does not seek the dadliest of bods) has become a staple of the college experience.

We are the sarcastic generation, which I greatly appreciate because of my own scathingly sarcastic tendencies, but the number of dudes actively trying to look like a middle-aged dad that has given up has gone beyond the point of being a funny joke, and become an epidemic.

This could easily be a blog post about the obesity epidemic combined with body image and why we should accept all body types, but that topic is more geared towards the serious writer, who isn’t quite as interested as I am in ridiculing the absurdity of spending more time trying to look like a fat f**k than doing any other activity this wide world of ours has to offer.

Here’s a tip for attaining the ideal dad-bod: go get out that list of future goals you’ve been updating constantly over the last few years, and Sharpie a gigantic beer gut over all of them. Goals are overrated when you’ve got a gut that could pass for a hairy, white beach ball.

What’s even crazier is that it seems to work. Guys in half-buttoned Hawaiian shirts, sporting what appears to be roughly sixteen liters of beer trying to bust through the remaining buttons, are somehow almost always surrounded by the best-looking females.

At first, I thought it was because the dad-bod Todds of the world had figured out the surefire way of convincing college girls that they were already much more mature than the “boy-bods” around campus, but that would be too simple. Then I thought it could be the girls’ fault- maybe they thought a secure future was hidden inside the massive gut bumping into them?

No, I had to go deeper for this one. I had to be the dad-bod to understand the dad-bod. So, I threw on the only Hawaiian shirt I own, a pair of khakis to round off the look, tuned the TV to ESPN, and drank four thousand beers.

What I learned from this experience has actually changed my entire world. I used to make fun of my peers who chose to pursue the dad-bod, but now, I get it. I understand completely now that actively working on making one’s bod look like that of a dad’s is the only option left to a man who has decided that the rest of the world, with their non-dad-bods and their self-respect, is just not frat enough.

So, I pity the fools who try to get dad-bods. Sure, you may get all the smokeshows now, what with your pasty white stomach and matching tube socks, but rest assured, the fun will come to an end once those smokeshows find themselves a dadlier bod. And then where are you? Alone on a couch, with nothing but a twelve-pack of Yuengling and memories of the glorious days when society’s standards for bods were not so dadly.

We must take a moment here to consider the group of people most affected by this widespread movement: the dads. Their bods’ good name, once revered as something for young men to aspire to rock at barbecues someday, has been sullied by these drunken pretenders.

One dad I ran into at Home Depot did me the honor of getting down off of the riding mowers on display to share some of the infinite wisdom that is apparently granted to all dads by the dad-bod-God:

“These kids, they don’t have what it takes,” he began, “they see a guy like me, and they go, ‘Hey, I could have a dad-bod like that in no time,’ but they don’t understand the hours I didn’t put in to get and maintain the bod you see before you.”

“They have no sense of responsibility. Of course you’re able to get a nice beer gut going in college, when you don’t have anyone else depending on your bod. But when you get to be my age, with three kids to constantly ignore and a wife to disappoint on the reg, dad-bod maintenance becomes more difficult than ever. You have to make time for it.”

The dad, who requested to remain anonymous, wishes that all of the young men setting off down the path to dad-boddom would take some time to consider the dangers in doing so:

“It’s good to have goals, but dad-bodding isn’t for everyone. Sure, you could go out and buy yourself the shirt, the golf clubs, and buckled sandals, but perfecting the dead look in your eyes takes years of resentment and remaining seated.”

I Cut My Nails Too Short Again

Well, I did it again. Laugh all you want, I don’t give a shit. Every stroke of my keyboard is now completely silent thanks to my aggressiveness with a pair of nail clippers. That way, I can hear your stifled laughter even while furiously typing about it.

Cutting my nails too short has been a severe problem of mine for years. I was never formally educated in the proper use of said nail clippers, which is proof enough that this child WAS left behind.

I always start off so positive, too. I see my fingernails, perhaps a little dirty and just a hair too long, and think to myself, “Wow, what a great opportunity to improve my hygiene and make picking my nose a lot less painful.”

Then I clip those nails with a passion. Protein is flying, bystanders are crying, and nails are dying. I get caught up in the heat of the moment- which may or may not have something to do with screaming Queen’s “We Will Rock You” at my hands while I slice those bastards to shreds.

I never end up clipping them too close in the moment, but there’s always one that ends up bleeding and hurting like a post-Chris Brown Rhianna after stubbing it against something. Then it’s all about the waiting game. Waiting for a nail to grow back so your fingertip doesn’t feel like it just went through a wood chipper is probably one of the sentences down in the Fields of Punishment.

I cannot figure out for the life of me why anyone would come to the conclusion that the best course of action for themselves is to dedicate their life to making sure their fingernails are the longest in the world.

This is Lee Redmond, a U.S. citizen and current holder of the Guinness World Record for longest fingernails on a woman. They were just over 28 feet long when they reported the record, which makes me a little jealous of her ability to tap people on the shoulder and pretend it wasn’t her from almost THIRTY FEET AWAY.

Worst handjob, EVER.

Worst handjob, EVER.

Congratulations, lady, you are now the page in the Guinness Book of World records that people turn to to try to gross other people out. You lost your job, your friends, and all self-respect, but at least you have enough protein on your hands (ha! Literally) to sustain you for a few months.

Honestly, what do her job prospects look like? I suppose if she went so far as to steam-clean those bad boys, she might find work as a shredder of meats or a landscaper, but pretty much everything else is out. You can’t work a desk job with those nails- you’d be fired inside a week for constantly shredding the fabric of everyone’s cubicles and stabbing holes in the company water cooler.

Unfortunately, according to the Guinness site, Ms. Redmond “lost her nails in an automobile accident in early 2009.”

Here’s the link if you want to read it for yourself: http://www.guinnessworldrecords.com/world-records/longest-fingernails-%28female%29-ever

Could you imagine being the guy that rear-ended this chick? You shake off the impact, unbuckle your seatbelt and step out of the car only to see THAT step out of the car in front?! Not only that, but being the one who broke the nails she spent THIRTY YEARS growing her fingernails to disgusting perfection basically seals your fate as the first man to be stabbed to death via fingernail. It’s like getting stabbed with an icicle, if the icicle grew out of a human finger and was covered in enough bacteria to kill your entire family upon penetration.

Something makes me think she has used her fingernails as a protective cage of some sort- honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re bulletproof. I also get the idea that bowling is really hard for this chick, but then I imagine her rolling the ball down the curve of her nails to achieve maximum accuracy. Her middle finger must be noticeable from a half-mile away or so.

If anyone has Edward Scissorhands’s number, you should probably have Ms. Redmond give him a call.

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New Nukes because the Old Ones Didn’t Come in Blue

It’s all fun and games until someone pushes the Big Red Button.

I wonder if there is a designated button that is rather large and red for the President to press, or if I’ve just convinced myself that it’s just one of those stupid Snapple facts which may or may not be made up (although I’m sure there’s a Snapple fact with the answer).

In case you missed it, President Obama recently announced his plan to spend one TRILLION dollars updating our nuclear arsenal over the next thirty years. If you want to read about all the details, Google it. If you want to read all about how stupid an idea it is, click this:

http://www.nti.org/gsn/article/analysts-1-trillion-us-nuclear-weapons-plan-too-costly-implement/

First of all, let’s start with the absurdity of updating a NUCLEAR ARSENAL. What do the new ones get? A few different color choices and maybe some heated mirrors? I could understand why you’d want to update some nukes if they’d lost their ability to wipe humanity off the face of the earth, but this just makes us look like we’re trying to have the best fireworks display of the Milky Way.

One of the main goals of the “update” is to arm a whole bunch of shit with nuclear weapons: boats, submarines, and planes. I guess it’s no longer convenient or fast enough to obliterate humanity from the plain old ground.

Fortunately, there is a solution, not only for the nuke problem, but for widespread violence as a whole:

FaceFlags.

Simply put, everyone in the world should buy a completely custom flag designed any way the individual wants it, with one catch: each flag has to carry emblazoned upon it the owner’s face, smack in the middle of the flag.

Think about it. No more will we take so much pride in the Olympics; in the fact that people born in our area are way better at pole vaulting than all the people in a different area.

Instead, nobody will ever lose their friends in a crowd again. Forgot that girl’s name at the bar you’re at? Good thing her name is in block letters right on her FaceFlag above her head.

I should mention here the method I propose of handling these FaceFlags, because expecting all of humanity to carry their FaceFlags with them at all times would be absurd. Instead, I propose the FlagPoel: spelled that way because that’s just the revolutionary mindset we have here at FaceFlags.

The FlagPoel, put quite simply, will be the exact same thing as the flag ATV riders use when riding in the desert, but with an attachment to clip onto a belt.

az_atv_dunes

I’ve already received six hundred thousand orders for FaceFlags, so get yours today by sending me $40 and never doing any sort of independent research to determine whether FaceFlags are real or not.

Do your part, because once everyone has a fully-customized FaceFlag of their own, nobody is going to want to get nuked and risk some idiot in a submarine vaporizing the best $40 they ever spent.