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.

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.”

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.