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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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.”

Grandfather-Turned-Entrpreneur Opens “Manscaping” Business in Rural Missouri

Edward Shears has wanted to be a successful entrepreneur since he was a little boy growing up in a small town in rural Missouri. Now, at age 78, Mr. Shears is the creator, owner, and sole employee of Ed’s Pubic Dreads Removal, the country’s (and possibly, the world’s) first “manscaping” business.

Image courtesy of Tinychan.org

Image courtesy of Tinychan.org

On the sign above his business, located in a metal trailer down the street from the local Arby’s, is written, “You Grow ‘Em, We Hoe ‘Em!” With such a positive attitude, Shears says he is destined for greatness. “You’d be surprised how many guys are looking for someone to take care of the shambles they call their nether-regions. We have a pretty small town here in the boonies of Missouri, but a few of my repeat-customers are bringing me a lot of dough!”

Mr. Shears went on to explain how a few of his customers go so far as to apply Rogaine to their penis-beards on a daily basis to have a reason to come in for another appointment with “The Pube Dude”- the name his customers affectionately refer to him as.

“I’ve tried really hard to foster a friendly atmosphere for guys to come sit down in one of our signature Adirondack chairs, relax, and talk to their buddies while they get a trim. It’s kind of like a salon, but for dudes and way cooler.”

Mr. Shears, when he’s not busy taming the unseen manes of the men around town, dedicates a significant portion of his time to the underprivileged children in the area- which, if you ever get the chance to visit rural Missouri, is almost every single one of them.

“I offer an after-school program for the eighth graders here in town- you can never get them started too young! We meet for an hour after school every Tuesday and discuss proper scissor handling and the safest ways to use a razor blade.”

When asked about the controversy surrounding his program for kids, titled, “Trimmings for Tots”, Mr. Shears appeared to become rather agitated.

“Listen here, you rapscallion, you city-boys just don’t understand us Southerners. I’ve collected over two thousand pounds of pubic hair and have made enough pillows to provide several great nights’ sleep for a few hundred Zimbabweans. How is that something to criticize? I’m a godd**n visionary. I don’t allow the parents into our Tots program because they’re not Tots! How hard is it to understand that?”

Shears claims he first recognized the demand for such a business when he discovered a small family of chipmunks nesting in his own pubic hair.

“Yup, there were about seven of ’em in there, nesting for the winter. At first, I was pissed, but then I realized that it was a great opportunity to really help out a family in need- even though they’re not real people!”

Ed’s Pubic Dreads Removal offers a number of different styling options, including the self-explanatory “checkerboard”, the classic “landing strip”, the “soul patch” and even something called the “80’s Sasquatch”- all available at very reasonable prices.

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Ebola Sucks! We Want Devastation!

We need a new plague. Not that weak-ass Ebola that’s been cruising around- I’m talking the Black Plague. Actually, I’m talking the BLACKER plague. We need it to wipe out the staggering number of incompetent and useless people on this planet. People often refer to other people as, “God’s gift to the world.” If that’s true, then God clearly has a bone to pick with the world, because a large number of His “gifts” are shitty people. That’s why we need a plague, or even some sort of gigantic gerbil infestation to wipe out a majority of us.

Now, is this a “nice” or “thoughtful” idea? No, it’s not, but this is my blog and this is AMERICA so you can take your anti-plague B.S. (that means bullshit) elsewhere.

It never ceases to amaze me how many genuinely stupid people exist. Not like, eating glue at age nineteen stupid, but not far off. Films such as Idiocracy have already explored the seemingly inevitable possibility of human society devolving into one comprised of brain-dead simpletons- but to me, it seems as though we’re already a good part of the way there.

What sparked in me the burning desire for a good plague to roll around is a moment I had in line for food yesterday at the Bullet Hole, a restaurant on campus that is lovingly referred to by students as the “B-Hole”. Haha!

While standing in line for my chicken sandwich (seeded bun, lettuce, onion, and some Southwest Ranch sauce. Mmmmmmm), a pair of girls walked into the B-Hole and started heading my way.

I should point out that if I can hear you coming from more than twenty feet away, I automatically assume you are a) completely absorbed in your own dull life and b) at the top of the list for plague victim candidates. Also at the top of the list are the entire Aryan Brotherhood and Rosie O’Donnell for no reason at all.

This girl and her friend seemed to me to be afflicted with what I consider to be a plague: the annoying trait of raising the pitch of their voice at the end of every sentence. If you do this, please think about how stupid you sound when everything you say sounds like a question, even if it’s not. If you don’t do this, then sit down and make sure you don’t do it, because people like me may or may not be (but probably are) making fun of you. It’s like a stutter for the stupid.

Back to the B-Hole. This girl goes up to the guy working the counter and asks for the special (orange chicken and rice). She then proceeds to go over to the salad refrigerator and examined the various salads.

For those of you unfamiliar with the dining options available to the students of Gettysburg College, allow me to walk you through the B-Hole and how it works. Students get a number of meals a week- these meals can be “spent” at the B-Hole. A “meal” is defined as a main dish (for example, this girl’s orange chicken), a side, and a drink. The sides are where this story gets interesting.

Available to students who are either health-conscious or guilty about eating pizza for the eighth time in a week is the Side Salad. It’s a pretty decent-sized salad, and is clearly labelled as a Side Salad. There is absolutely no way any literate human being with halfway decent eyesight can mistake the Side Salad for something other than a Side Salad.

I guess that makes the B-Hole girl non-human, because in the midst of her annoyingly high-pitched rant on something irrelevant, she turned to the guy standing behind the B-Hole counter and said, “Uhhhhmmmmm, yeah, can I get the side salad as my side, ooorrrrr…?”

Courtesy of Tim & Eric

Courtesy of Tim & Eric

I was very, VERY tempted to do one of two things at that moment:

1.) Explain to this girl in the meanest tone I could possibly muster that the Side Salad was named the Side Salad for a fucking reason

2.) Start ripping Side Salads off the shelves and throw them all over the B-Hole in a fit of rage.

Unfortunately, tossing salads in the B-Hole is frowned upon at this fine institution of learning, so I didn’t do anything quite so rash.

I did, however, proceed to make eye contact with the guy working behind the counter. I don’t know what it is about something as minor as eye contact, but I had to pull one of the ol’ smile-but-not-too-hard-because-I’m-trying-not-to-laugh’s. As soon as this guy saw my face straining not to laugh out loud, he chuckled. He chuckled real hard, and it made my day.

So go on out in the world and make yourself a new friend today. Nothing brings people closer together than having a good laugh at the expense of others- it’s been going on since the dawn of man. Cavemen used to rip on each other for either getting eaten by sabertooth tigers or being turned down by what were surely incredibly hairy cavewomen.

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

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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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.

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!