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.

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.

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.”