Apple Pie Sucks

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

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

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

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


A pothead, obviously.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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




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


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?**


** 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:

Screen Shot 2014-09-01 at 12.18.12 AM


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?

Screen Shot 2014-09-01 at 12.22.44 AM

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.”


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:

My Anaconda Don’t Want None

Call me old fashioned, but I am a firm believer in the success of any first date being centered around the classic introduction to parents, followed by a solid thirty-minute session of watching Eminem music videos. “Shake That” should always be the first and last song played, just to acknowledge the fact that both datees (the male shall henceforth be referred to as the Manatee) have butts on the mind.

“But Adam, what about after the Eminem sesh? What will we do then?”

This is usually the moment when I present the date’s extended family with a wide selection of fine cheeses. This serves to prove to both my date and her family that not only do I furnish the dining room tables of other peoples’ home with cheese platters, but that I know my f***ing cheeses.

It amazes me how much the dating game has changed over time. In Romeo and Juliet’s time, it was, “Oh, he has a lovely castle and a pleasant personality. I should talk to him for a few hours, get married and live out the rest of my life regretting this rash decision.”

Nowadays, it’s, “Well, he does have a strong wifi connection in his bathroom, and he only checked his phone fifteen times at dinner. I suppose there will be an exchange of genitalia placed into mouths, followed by awkward goodbyes and sporadic texting over the next few weeks.”

This new Nicki Minaj song, “Anaconda,” is one of the many signs of how the dating has been simplified to the point where it’s only a “game” if you’re the sort of person who believes playing Jenga with three blind people is a game.

Littered with both phat beats (‘phat’ being the technical term for ‘ghetto-fabulous’) and lyrics from Sir Mix-a-lot’s 1992 hit, “Baby Got Back,” Nicki Minaj’s latest piece of musical trash focuses on male genitalia quite a bit. More so, I daresay, than most anatomical textbooks available for sale.

“My anaconda don’t- my anaconda don’t- my anaconda don’t want none, unless you got buns, hun.”

I think the moment I “grew up” was when I realized Sir Mix-a-lot was not, surprisingly enough, talking about his pet anaconda’s predisposition towards hun’s buns. While a snake addicted to buns seems hilarious, the reality of the matter is not. 

I also realized how much older I had become when I watched the music video and realized that Sir Mix-a-lot is not standing on a series of oddly-shaped, giant peaches like our boy James from “James and the Giant Peach”:



That is a butt.

Do you have an absolutely fantastic personality? Do you run your own business and don’t own sixty-four cats? Well, bravo, you’re doing pretty well for yourself, but don’t get your hopes up, because Sir Mix-a-lot’s penis wants absolutely nothing to do with you if you don’t have buns.

I hate to break it to you, Sir Mix-a-lot, but not every girl out there is a pastry chef (or has access to a convection oven.) You’re just going to have to lower your standards like the rest of us and hope that your soulmate has a plate of miniature lava cakes waiting at home just for you. If you’re really unlucky, you’ll have to cope with a plate of oatmeal cookies, but that’s what consuming mass quantities of hard liquor is for, right?

Also, Sir Mix-a-lot, I sincerely hope you’re reading this, because I have something to tell you: there should not be an anaconda residing inside of your boxer briefs. Ideally, there should be a penis there (not a vagina, because it’s SIR Mix-a-lot, not MADAME Mix-a-lot, which happens to be an awesome name for either a female rapper or baker).

Another song that amazes me in its lack of talent is “Ocho Cinqo” by French Montana. Here’s a little snippet of this gem (and by ‘gem’ I mean ‘a piece of stale cat poop’):

“Tell that bitch, ‘Gimme head,’ Ochocinqo!” Are you fucking kidding me? This is the kind of lyrical genius I need to make millions off of the brain-dead people consuming this garbage? You’re telling me all my lyrics need are absurd demands and the names of unrelated famous people?

Well, sign me right the fuck up, because I have some lyrics I’ve been waiting to drop on these fools:

“Tell that intern, ‘Gimme head,’ Bill Clinton!”

“Tell that waiter, ‘Bring me bread,’ Mahatma Gandhi!”

“Tell that metalworker, ‘Melt some lead,’ Stephen Colbert!”

While this may seem funny to you, I assure you, it is not. It is a sad day indeed when someone like Nicki Minaj is in the spotlight- that is, when her gigantic ass isn’t blocking the light. Heyyoooooo!!!!

Peace OUT.

Area Teen’s First Hibachi Experience: “F****n’ Sweet”

Whether he’s knocking over elderly citizens’ recycling bins or tearing up the local 7-11’s parking lot, Kleindale’s favorite amateur Razor scooter rider, Richard Leopard, has a knack for drawing a crowd. Last month, it was that sweet bunny hop over the curb at Kohl’s, but not it appears as though Leopard is getting a taste for fine dining.

scooter-douche-2A recent picture of R. Leopard and his scooter

An anonymous tip from a Kleindale citizen led our reporters to Fud Throhn Atchu, Kleindale’s only hibachi restaurant, where Richard was leaving after his first encounter with the dining novelty. In search of what makes people pay to have their food thrown at them, we asked Leopard what he thought of his experience:

“Yeah, that Tamagotchi s**t was pretty good,” Leopard told reporters at the scene. “Flipping chicken and some fried noodles into peoples’ mouths? That ish was TIGHT. I was a little thrown off by all the Asian dudes, though. They all knew karate with those big-ass knives and that was not chill.”

When asked which main course he ordered, Richard told us he asked for the vegetable dinner, but then took a large portion of his friend’s filet mignon.

“No way I’m paying for the good stuff,” Leopard stated. His friend, a Mr. Stanley Lilbitch, had this to say:

“I don’t usually have a problem with Dick here taking my food,” Stanley explained, “I usually get the leftovers from the girls he gets at the scooter competitions, so I will gladly sacrifice what was an excellent piece of filet mignon.”

When asked what his favorite part of the hibachi experience was, Leopard replied, “Ooh, dude! That flaming onion volcano bull***t fo’ shizzle.”

Our reporters state that the distinct smell of sake lingered in the air for several minutes after Dick Leopard rode the latest Razor scooter into the sunset.

“Honor Roll Student” Bumper Stickers: Hitler Had One, Do You?

The automobile is a wonderful creation. Not only is it (usually) a much faster mode of transportation than a horse/goat/large dog, it gets to where we need to go in style.

Cars come in all shapes and sizes, from the Smart car for two- the perfect vehicle for someone who either didn’t have enough money to buy a regular-sized car, or for someone who has been made fun of their entire life and wishes to continue being ridiculed from the comfort of their own car.

There’s the Honda Civic, which was launched into stardom when The Fast and Furious first came out. Every poor car enthusiast with enough money jacked from the nearest 7-11 had one with a muffler big enough to shove a large melon inside, and elderly neighbors all across the country “had it up to here!”

Then you have the Toyota Prius, which I am fully convinced was created for the sole purpose of making it easy for the rest of us non-Prius-driving folks to participate in a little game the Internet likes to call, “Spot the Vegan.”

Now, I’m not saying veganism is something worth pointing out to everyone else and making fun of, but vegans most certainly do.

They usually do through a combination of bumper stickers displaying their love for animals and their refusal to eat them. I have absolutely NO problem with this, because it means there’s more for me and the rest of my healthy, protein-fueled, meat eating friends. You can have your “holier-than-thou” attitude and contemplate the taste of that shitty kale you’ve been pushing on your friends for months.

As annoying as a large portion (the vegetable portion; no meat) of vegans can be with their “Coexist” bumper stickers, they are nowhere NEAR as bad as the soccer moms and douchey dads that think telling the cars behind them that their child is on the honor roll.


This is exactly what they’re really trying to say.

What an absolutely horrible idea this is. Let’s put thousands of frustrated adults in giant metal death machines stuck in traffic on the way to work until they die, and make them painfully aware of your somewhat intelligent child. I am shocked these stickers haven’t resulted in millions of vehicular homicides each year.

If you child was the valedictorian of his/her class, then good for them, that deserves a $2.00 sticker to be displayed with pride. But if your kid was on the honor roll at Helen Keller middle school, then you need to sit down and have a long chat with yourself about what constitutes an “accomplishment.”

Being on the honor roll in middle school is the equivalent of receiving a participation trophy in soccer. You showed up almost everyday, maybe scored some goals, and didn’t burn everything to the ground, so good for you.

That is not something I want to be informed of on my way to pick up Chinese food. If you actually have something important to say to other drivers on the road, then make your own bumper stickers. To get the ball rolling, I have listed a few bumper stickers that are not only realistic, but can connect drivers.

“My daughter is a whore at Millers High School”

“My son tells me and my wife that he’s going to a Modest Mouse concert, but really he’s going to a rave and rolling face”

“Not-so-proud parent of an avid masturbator”

“I once saw my son huffing Elmer’s glue”

“My daughters are both tremendous disappointments”

“My son forces the family dalmatian to lick peanut butter off of his nuts”

Let me know if you would like to order any of the *truthful* bumper stickers above. I can also have them made into t-shirts so that you can be honest with even more people in the food court at your local mall.

Black Licorice and Hillary Clinton: Menaces to Society

If you’ve been living under a rock for the last three years, listen up and listen good: 

Black licorice is threatening the existence of the American Dream. When was the last time black licorice held the door open for you and your small children? Riddle me that, why don’t you. 

Did you know that black licorice is Hillary Clinton’s candy of choice? Reliable (nonexistent) sources confirm that the 2016 presidential candidate not only wants to bring down America and “make other stuff really bad,” but also seeks to put black licorice in schools across America. 

WAKE UP, AMERICA. Black licorice in our childrens’ schools? I assume they’ll be putting it right next to the red licorice, which is UNFORGIVABLE. Log on to your various social media accounts right this instant and get all of your friends talking about it for a few weeks, and then just let it slip out of your mind just like that Kony 2012 guy. 


(An excellent question, indeed. Possibly Definitely a supporter of black licorice and its agenda)

As both a patriot and a blog owner, I feel as though I must stand up and say something. What that ‘something’ is has become clear to me over the past few minutes:

Kick black licorice out. Red licorice is something that has been around ever since Jesus invented it (unconfirmed, but most likely true.) Genetically modifying perfectly good red licorice to give it that awful black color is far from the answer to our problems- it IS the problem. 

When was the last time you had a piece of black licorice? Ten years ago? A few months ago? YESTERDAY? If you’ve consumed black licorice since Hillary dusted herself off (this is an ‘old’ joke. She’s old, and is quite dusty. Mostly because Bill hasn’t used her. WHOOOOOAAAAAAA did you see that?! That was political correctness going right out the window.)

Did you notice that I didn’t even finish the last sentence before that terribly cruel/hilarious Hillary pun in parentheses? Neither did I.

On a far more important note, black licorice is not only really bad for Americans who love America( you do love America, don’t you?), it’s stealing jobs from the red licorice who not only didn’t work hard at all to get to the shelves they’re on today, but complain about the lavish lifestyle they live on the air-conditioned shelves at CVS’s around the country. 

Think of the poor red licorice. They have a comfortable life up until they are eaten or tossed on the filthy floor of a movie theater, until some new black licorice comes along, Hillary in tow, promising, “better healthcare” and “a wider selection of magazines in waiting rooms.” Essentially the same garbage we heard from the mini Reese’s a few years ago. 



Enough is enough, I say. Stand up for the right to keep black licorice and Hillary out of our childrens’ schools and preserve the American dream for hundreds of generations to come. If you refuse to stand up today and do something about this incredible injustice, what’s next? Brown licorice? 


My God…. they’re joining forces.

I fear for us all.