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.

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.

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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.

I am not saying she digs for gold, but…

… it is a little odd that she would want to “hang out” and “watch movies or something” with me, a guy who has zero gold.

Courtesy of Pinterest.

Courtesy of Pinterest.

Kanye’s hit Gold Digger turned my bus rides to school in eighth grade into an incredibly focused, intense self-examination of the depths of my psyche. While the other kids on the bus were either firing rubber bands into the masses or talking smack to the fifth graders, I was contemplating the existence of the “gold digger” and the role she plays not only in Kanye’s world, but down here on Earth.

By the way, I think people typing out “earth” in all lowercase letters aren’t showing enough respect to- pause for emphasis- MOTHER Earth. That title is indicating that a proper name is coming after it. We capitalize our dogs’ names- and even pay for engraved name tags! Does Earth have an engraved name tag? Unless there’s a formation of nuclear waste dumps that spell out ‘Earth’ on Google Earth, the answer is no.

Sorry, I just get a little amped up about these things sometimes. Okay, now back to the gold diggers. I thought about the daily life of a gold digger, and honestly, it didn’t sound that bad! A bunch of free stuff in exchange for sex? I was still trying to figure out exactly which parts went where and what boobs looked like, but if that deal was offered to me? I’d be stripped down before even I could say “yes.”

Now, to you folks who are particularly anal (heh) about the technicalities of my previous statements, who might be thinking, “What if it was to have sex with a man?? Then you wouldn’t be so excited!” I have two things to say:

1. I beat you to the punch because I am the annoying kind of person who tries to come up with technicalities all the time in order to piss off the people around me. Count yourself among them.

2. I can’t remember the second thing because I’m just too consumed by how BADLY you just got burned, son!

Once again, back to the gold diggers. Free stuff is always good, right? Think about all the things gold diggers get: a sweet crib, maybe a car, some fresh clothes, and probably a hot tub.

By the time my bus pulled in to the loading zone at school, I was a little perplexed by the absurdity of the gold digger’s situation:

“Here are some flowers, my little gold scooper (doesn’t have the same ring to it, I think). Some flowers that I ripped out of the ground for you to display their decaying bodies- by the way, the decaying process is slowed by submerging them in water. What a crazy world we live in.”

Fur coats are an even more insane gift:

“Happy half-birthday, babe, I paid a very shady someone a large sum of money to wipe out an entire county’s worth of mongooses and sew their bodies into this coat just for you!”

In fact, most clothing has a bit of a dark background that nobody really takes into account:

“Dear, I told you I was sorry about the lasagna comment. You know I don’t really mind the crustiness; I was just tired from work and it slipped out. Here, this’ll cheer you up. That’s a ridiculously soft blouse you have now, huh? I bet you can’t guess the number of tiny Vietnamese children that sacrificed their childhood and early adulthood to get those cuffs just right- fourteen!”

On second thought, maybe being a gold digger isn’t all that great after all. Even being the “other” gold digger doesn’t sound too pleasant. From the few commercials I’ve seen about “Hunting for Gold in the Middle of the Fucking Ocean”, it doesn’t sound like an occupation that I would even want to shadow for a day, just to get the feel for the day-to-day operations and maybe make some great networking connections.

Oh, and LinkedIn does not have a section under ‘Occupations’ for ‘Gold Digger.’ Kind of discriminating, right? Oh, hang on, I think I’ve found it- yes, here it is. They’ve just labelled it as ‘politician.’

gold-digger

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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Horrible Common Phrases

Common phrases are misused all the time, and I am absolutely sick of it. Here’s a list of them, and why they are idiotic:

“Drive it like you stole it” No thank you, I think I’ll continue driving my car like I put down a large down payment and have a terrifying number of monthly payments to make in the future. Plus, I have no idea what driving a stolen car is like. I imagine the first thing I would do in a stolen car is go get a Slurpee.

“Your shoe’s untied” Sorry to disappoint you, but my shoes are never untied. This is because I refuse to wear anything other than flip-flops and Crocs in the spring, summer, and fall, and velcro strap-equipped snow boots in the winter.

“That guy has a chip on his shoulder” This is a flagrant lie, and will not be tolerated for its stupidity. First of all, you need to clarify what kind of chip the subject is balancing on his shoulder. Is it a potato chip? A poker chip? Or has this person somehow lured a talking chipmunk onto his person?

“That costs an arm and a leg” Cool your jets, Hannibal Lector. I’m in Banana Republic looking for a fashionable fall jacket, not some black market for body parts. Also, if that jacket really does cost an arm and a leg, how the hell am I going to pull it off missing fifty percent of my limbs? Perhaps we can meet in the elbow and I’ll give you a forearm and a leg.

“Beating around the bush” This one is particularly offensive to a man as environmentally-conscious as myself. What kind of sick, twisted individual goes around laying the beat-down on defenseless vegetation? If that bush owes you money, don’t beat up his neighbors- rip it straight out of the ground and give it a pair of cement shoes, Mafia-style.

“Close, but no cigar” Get the f**k away from my younger brother and stop offering cigars as prizes for knocking down the milk bottles, you filthy carnie. He’s only eight, and wouldn’t even know what to do with a cigar. Idiot.

“Cut the mustard” I’d love to know the origins behind this one. Try cutting up some mustard. All you’ll end up with is a very mustardy knife and mustard smears all over your kitchen table.

“Don’t cry over spilt milk” Don’t tell me what to do. You don’t know my life, or what sort of morning I’m having! I’ll have you know, that was the last of the milk, and now I have to eat my Fruity Pebbles like some sort of sick f**k who’s addicted to cereal dust.

“Put a sock in it” I must admit, I’m actually a huge fan of this fairly common phrase. It makes me laugh when I think about a society where it is perfectly acceptable to stuff a sock in someone’s mouth to prevent them from saying whatever it was they were saying. Making this act legal would not only dramatically decrease the number of stupid people talking, but would also result in a booming sock industry.

“I hate to rain on your parade, but…” Oh, put a sock in it. You’re not upset about raining on someone’s proverbial parade- in fact, I think we love raining on parades more than we love the parade itself. This might be in part due to the fact that we didn’t get invited to the parade and do not want others to enjoy themselves. This instinct is called, “being a dick.”

“You got the short end of the stick” Stop being so ungrateful and be thankful for the fact that you got an end of the stick at all. It could be way worse- you could have gotten the long end of the stick- to the face.

“There’s no ‘I’ in ‘Team'” Nobody likes a smartass, and everyone who has more than twelve brain cells knows how to spell ‘team’. Dick. For the record, I wouldn’t even be talking about the team if I wasn’t a part of it, so why don’t you take your “holier-than-thou” attitude and get the f**k out of my face so that I can complain about how awful my teammates are in peace.

“You can’t teach an old dog new tricks” Bulls**t. My dog is sixteen years old and just learned how to play dead. He hasn’t moved in over two weeks! Now that’s a well-trained dog.

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.

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