Fun Facts! about me

I believe people who post anything about Leg Day should have their legs mummified with a dozen rolls of duct tape. Try putting pants on like that. Terrible experience. The best/worst part is it’s always the people with legs like Spongebob posting those stupid mirror selfies that should have died in 2004.

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Backpacks are my favorite human add-on. Backpacks with extra straps are my favorite backpacks. Sometimes I worry my girlfriend thinks I’m checking out another girl, but it’s really all about me and the backpacks. I own three at the moment, but am always keeping an eye open for strays that could use a good home.


Exhibit fuckin’ A

Sometimes I try to communicate telepathically with my dogs and convince them to wink at me. I only succeeded once out of a few hundred attempts, on the very first try. I almost fainted when our yellow lab Natchez slowly, deliberately, winked at me and then looked away like nothing happened. It makes me even more convinced that dogs are human souls stuffed inside furry, four-legged bodies.

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When those bitches at the park were fiending for the bone but they don’t know you nutless

I used to really want an afro as a kid. Everyone I ever saw who had an afro just looked so cool to me. Of course, I eventually grew up and realized that an afro may very well not be the best look for me.

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Why yes, I did use the same outline of an afro to give myself more beautiful eyebrows and facial hair than I could ever hope to grow.

I love memes. I spend hours poring over the Internet’s finest (or, as it’s called by the street youths of today, “dankest”) memes and have developed what has to be the keenest meme-sniffing nose this side of the Atlantic. I once sniffed out a dank meme from eight Instagram accounts away.

I peed in the corner of a busy nightclub one time. I was super sneaky about it: I faced the corner with my phone up to one ear and my pinky in the other (like that would somehow help me hear the person on the phone over the unce unce unce unce)and kept shaking my head periodically to mimic an avid conversation. I felt like the Daredevil.

Well, that’s about it. The only other Fun Facts! I really have are that I’ve owned eight different color combinations of a single Adidas shoe and that I’ve always wondered if growing my butt hair to sasquatch-length would be a turn-off (a good thing) in prison.


Not as big of a turn-off as I thought…


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:








“100 Days”: Day One (It’s not a fucking diary, alright?)

I’ve seen a bunch of people doing that “100 Days of Happiness” on Instagram over the past few months. I hate it.

I really fucking hate it.

There has to be some value in being able to find at least one thing to be happy about every single day, but it seems too much to me like the sort of thing OBAMA would want you to do.


A half-man, half-sheep hybrid I am not, so I will now begin a 100 day-long documentary of what I think about and experience on a daily basis, regardless of how un-happy or shitty it is.

It’s not a fucking diary.

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Let’s begin.


At work, they set up a smoothie bar for breakfast. I took a bowl, put a bunch of shit in it, handed it to a guy in an apron, and watched as he blended that shit up with some almond milk.

(How in the fuck does one milk an almond?)

I “forgot” I’m allergic to most fruit, so my throat was all scratchy for a couple of hours. Should have disregarded the smoothie bar and ordered a bacon egg and cheese.

Do Syrians eat bacon?

Some friends and I took an Uber to the bar last Saturday, and our driver had a pretty thick accent, and drove a Honda Pilot, so I asked the only natural question one asks in moments like these:

“So, where are you from?”


Utter. Silence.

Seriously, you could have heard a pin from a grenade drop in there.

Too soon?


“Fratstar: A Lifestyle”

So, here I am, shamelessly selling myself online. This is a video I made in roughly an hour today, and I’m beginning to really like the idea of getting into video.

It explains what it takes to be a “Fratstar” in a VERY sarcastic way. For the record, I am in a fraternity, and this is not how I act every day of my life.

Please let me know what you think in the comments! I could really use the feedback to see what “works” and what doesn’t. Also, if you have any requests, let me know!

Here’s a dancing Kirby for your troubles: (>’ u ‘)> <( ‘ _ ‘ )> <(‘ u'<)

Copy and paste this link for a taste:

Grab Me a Cola, I Have Ebola!

Actually, I don’t. And according to most films and television shows, having made this joke almost guarantees that I will get the Ebola virus. If this does happen, keep an eye out for my next blog post, titled, “Yeah, It Happened.”

So, what’s the deal with Ebola and what other words rhyme with it? Well, off the top of my head, Lola from the song “American Pie”, ‘Hola!’ from the Spanish dialect, NOLA (New Orleans, LA) and rolla’, which is the second word in one of my favorite phrases: “High rolla’.”

Ebola is no joke, so stop laughing. Have some respect for Ebola, otherwise Ebola will find you, and Ebola will kill you (probably). At the very least, Ebola will call you up several weeks after your birthday every year, and wish you a (very) belated happy birthday, making you depressed that no one ever remembers your birthday until you just decide to give up and go get a nice dose of Ebola to hurry death along.

Oprah is blessed to have enough Ebola to share with your sorry ass.

Oprah is blessed to have enough Ebola to share with your sorry ass.

Ebola is an infectious disease characterized by fever and internal bleeding, which sounds a whole lot like the what happens to me when I talk to women.

Can you imagine if Ebola was caused by nervousness in men trying to talk to women? The entire world’s straight male population would be infected in a matter of hours. The only survivors would be gays and all the women, which would result in a fantastically-decorated, well-dressed world for a few decades before the entire human race died out due to lack of sexual intercourse between the survivors, or femi-Nazis murdering everyone else. Now THERE’S a movie pitch I can get behind.

What an odd phrase, “to get behind something.” How exactly are you “getting behind” whatever it is you say you’re getting behind? Sure, you can “get behind” a friendly game of Find the Vegan, but are you actually putting in any sort of effort to find the vegan??

Here’s something I can get behind: “Premature Ecatulation.”

No, I did not spell ‘ejaculation’ wrong. I meant to replace ‘jac’ with ‘cat’ because what I’m talking about here is not the embarrassing launching of bodily fluids at an inopportune time, but rather, the mistaken insertion (ha! Sex jokes are easy. Whoa, there’s another one! I need to stop. Damn, there’s another one) of a picture, video, or gif of a cat doing something cool.


I Googled the definition of ‘ejaculate’ to see if I could make some sort of crude joke, and Google did not disappoint. So, here’s your fun, informational fact definition for the day:

Ejaculate: To say something quickly and suddenly.

If that isn’t the perfect alternative definition of a sexual term I’ve ever read, I will lose all faith in the humor of the people that decide what words mean. Take this sentence, for example:

“Ohmyword,” Gerald ejaculated, “I’m afraid I’ve ejaculated!”

The above sentence makes perfect sense, and is also hilarious, which is why I love the English language.

But enough about ejaculate and its many uses in the English language, let’s get back to the cats- more specifically, premature ecatulation.

Hitler was afraid of cats and probably hopefully had Ebola. 

Homeless People are Just Permanent Protestors

Now, I like to think that I help people. I give my change to those on the streets with Sharpied cups asking for it. Do I give money to every homeless person I come across in my travels? No, because then I would be the one asking nice people like me for money.

In fact, now that I think of it, my “batting average” when it comes to giving homeless people money is WELL below one out of one hundred. This is, of course, referring to my handing over of money as the “hit.”

Now that it’s all I can think about, my homeless batting average (I do NOT hit homeless people with bats. Let’s be CRYSTAL clear about that) is truly miserable. I only started throwing my loose change into the styrofoam cups of men, women and what quite possibly might be just bundles of clothes on the sidewalk a few years ago.

I’m twenty years old now, which means I’ve passed about sixteen YEARS worth of homeless people that had as much of a chance of getting my money as I had of getting my parents’ money. Good thing, too, because that’s the money that is currently going towards the beer I buy in college.

Huh. I guess I do have more in common with some homeless people than I thought! Except the homeless people who buy beer with their change aren’t at college, living in what I would say is a (take note, ladies) FULLY tricked-out crib with four Biggie posters and a half-empty rack of Natural Light.

No, the homeless man is much more likely to be living some sort of endless childhood fantasy in a cardboard box that his imagination has turned into a condo in Boca.

I like to think about the conversations homeless people have. I try to put myself in their shoes, and wonder what I would complain about, because I do a lot of that already.

“Boy, it sure is hot.”

“Yeeeeep, got so hot last night I soaked through a week’s worth of the Daily Journal.”

“I’m sick and tired of not having a house and a bed to sleep on.”

“Me too! Why don’t we ever get any help from anybody? This one white kid, looked to be about twenty years old, passed by my spot on the corner this afternoon. Asked him for some change, and you know what he said?”

“No, what did he say?”

“He said, ‘Not today, buddy. Thursdays are half-off racks of Natty down at Beermart.'”

“What a piece of shit!”


“Let’s take to the streets!”

“We’re already on the streets.”

“Oh… yeah.”

This is what makes homeless people permanent protestors. They’re the most dedicated of the entire world’s population of protestors. Most of the ones you see on TV are just temporary protestors. These temporary protestors are nowhere close to being on the same level as the permanent protestors.

You see, these temporary protestors get to go to the protest, hopefully find cheap parking at or near the protest, snapchat the protest, protest some more, and then then talk about the protest on their way home.

Here is the critical difference between temporary and permanent protestors: the temporary protestors do not look at an empty box for a 50″ LCD TV from BestBuy and say to themselves, “Ooooh, a new living room!”

They’re the ones with the actual TV in their living room, and their living room is made of materials typically much stronger than what is freely available on the streets. They’re also the ones who have a nice time making posters and signs and little lapel pins for the friends they convinced to go to the protest with them:

“Yeah, come on, it’ll be a great time! Bring Charlene and the kids, we’ll make it a picnic. What’s that? Oh, of course! I already packed the wine coolers. You don’t think I would go to one of these sober, do you? That’s the best part about these protes- huh? Oh, it’s against the NSA or equal rights or something.”

Homeless people, on the other hand, do not have a home to go back to after the protest. In fact, all those inconsiderate temporary protestors just had a protest smack in the middle of their “homes”!

Maybe that’s why the homeless stay on the streets- they’re protesting the fact that other people keep coming into their spot and protesting.

In the honor of the joy we get from protesting things we don’t like, here are ten things homeless people and college students share in common:

1. A large number of both populations abuse alcohol.

2. Passing out outside is normal behavior.

3. “Man, I wish my parents would send me money.”

4. Some members of both communities have dogs.

5. Everyone else in the world likes the dog the most.

6. Peeing on everything outside is encouraged by other community members.

7. The police ruin all the fun.

8. Late nights and always searching for a snack.

9. “Who needs vitamins? Not me!”

10. “I wish I had air conditioning.”

If you identified with at least eight of the conditions above, chances are very good you are a homeless person. Then again, you’re a college student looking at the screen of your Macbook, which makes me wonder whether you are truly homeless or not.

I’ll leave you with this: would having unlimited internet access make homelessness more bearable for you? Keep in mind the following:

You cannot eat your iPhone.

Your internet-enabled device will most likely be stolen quickly by another homeless person.

Starbucks does not appreciate homeless people charging their internet-enabled devices in their cafes.

My First Karaoke Left Me Very Confused

I played the real guitar for a couple of years, but when I realized how much effort I had put in and how few screaming female fans I had, I gave up.

Enter Rock Band. A brilliant way to dumb down even the hardest of songs into a far less complicated series of notes to bang on the drums, press on the plastic guitar, or even to sing into the microphone. As someone who has grown up as a big classic rock fan, I usually play classic rock songs, but sometimes I throw in some other genres.

Enter my cousin, Eric. This dashing young gentleman you see below is the one who so kindly introduced me to the instantly classic “Rick-roll.” For those of you who do not know, a Rick-roll occurs when you sit down to watch the latest hilarious cat video or something of the sort, and partway through the video, your viewing pleasure is interrupted by the one and only Rick Astley singing “Never Gonna Give You Up.” While I do apologize for getting this tune stuck in your heads for the next few weeks, I think you will forgive me in just a few paragraphs.


The original Rick-roller.

It is Wednesday night at around 9:45 PM, and I am absolutely exhausted from working, and the thought of waking up early again the next day to go have another piece of my soul sucked out my body by corporate America. I have my mom make me a nice bowl of angel-hair pasta, with some red sauce and a salad. A tall glass of pretty good water rounds off this delectable meal.

My phone lights up. Ahhhh! Perhaps one of my highly-underrated Tweets or Facebook comments has received a Like, I think to myself. Alas, it is just a few of my friends inviting me out to go to a sushi bar that does karaoke. Ugh, people and activities. Just a few of my least favorite things.

I make this abundantly clear in my text messages back, but nobody cares about my life/happiness/lack of sleep, so, as usual, I am peer-pressured into going. Isn’t it funny how the nights when you don’t want to do anything at all and end up doing stuff anyway usually make the best stories?

So I’m cruising in my Volvo with no one but a few dead bees for company. I spend the car ride thinking about how badly I need to vacuum my car and what song I could possibly sing at this karaoke bar. I immediately decide against going with something gangster because I am very much aware of just how white I am. I consider singing a little classic rock, but realize that no one would enjoy listening to me fail to replicate the glory of Eddie Van Halen’s voice.

I enter the restaurant and head to the back room where the bar is. I say hello to my friends, sit down, and am told that no one from our group has gone up to sing in the past hour they have been sitting there. Wonderful. Just fucking magnificent. Now, the pressure’s on me, the “new guy” to get up there and entertain all of these drunken fools like some sort of gladiator with a way-too-bright-green t-shirt instead of armor and a microphone instead of a trident and that cool net gladiators used.

I grab the song book and begin to peruse the bar’s selection. I wish I was 21, because there’s nothing like a little liquid confidence to make yourself oblivious to the fact that you’re embarrassing yourself and your entire family lineage.

After dozens of pages, and hundreds of songs, I find it. The perfect song. The ideal blend of humor and straight-up sexiness. A smile spreads across my face as I realize what a unicorn of a karaoke song I have found.

The song, of course, is by our good friend, Rick Astley. “Never Gonna Give You Up” has foiled so many of my YouTube video-watching sprees, I have the entire song memorized. On a side-note, I was also required to serenade a particular young woman with this song as part of a particular process that I will say nothing more about.

I write down the song’s name and my own on a little slip of paper, and place it in front of the DJ’s. He looks down, reads it, and smiles.This man has obviously either been Rick-rolled several times before, or was just reminded of a romantic evening with a lady friend, a few wine coolers, low standards, and Rick Astley on the radio. This is a good sign.

After a few minutes of waiting, I hear my name called. “Yaaaayyyyy, Adam!” A few of my friends cry as we all stand up to move to the front. I feel like some sort of celebrity. Maybe the requisite sex scandal and ridiculously large contract would follow immediately after my Rick Astley impersonation in a sushi bar with eighteen people in it.

I usually don’t brag unless I want to feel good about making someone feel awful about themselves, but I need to say that I fucking murdered that song. I was on an Olympic team from the country of Adam, and I won every single goddamn medal there was to win in exactly three minutes and thirty-three seconds.

As I lowered my voice to match that of Rick’s, I couldn’t help but notice two ladies who appeared to be in their mid-thirties miming dance moves for me while they laughed. Being the good-natured, fun-loving person I am, I obliged their incessant requests to “Grab [my] crotch!” among other things that I do not remember as well as the crotch-grab. They ate that shit right up.

My friends congratulated me on a job well done, but I was saddened by the fact that this was the best thing to happen to me since I found a heads-up penny weeks before. As I was headed back to our table, I felt someone kind of tap my back, and saw a woman turn around right as I did the same. I thought nothing of it.

Later on in the night, one of our other friends got up to go sing some Miley Cyrus with some of her friends. I was in the back of the group, and as I was walking, a friend of the “Tapper” as I will call the previously-mentioned girl said something to me.

“What?” I asked, unsure of what she had just said. She had kind of a mean face, and I thought she might have been making fun of me. I quickly prepared a verbal assault in retaliation.

“You were really good up there,” She said. Oh. Guess I better save that soul-crushing retort, then.

“Thanks,” I replied, “I appreciate it!” A very normal, very nice compliment for one Rick Astley enthusiast to hand out to another, right? That’s what I thought too. Until she said this:

“Yeah, you made me absolutely sopping wet with that performance.”


I couldn’t believe my now bright-red ears. “Um, haha, thanks,” I stammered, looking for an exit. I can honestly say that I have never been left more confused in my entire life. She was not my type- especially now that I knew that she was apparently SOPPING WET. I turned to go tell all of my friends exactly what just happened, when I was blocked by Ms. Sopping’s friend, the Tapper.

“HEY, YEAH,” Tapper screamed over the music. “I HAD TO HOLD A BUCKET AND COLLECT IT ALL.”

Then, and I shit you not, the Tapper proceeded to mime holding a bucket under her friend’s vagina and collecting all of the sopping. She even pretended like it was splashing up out of the bucket and into her face.

If you are very queasy right now, I know exactly how you feel. I almost puked all over the two sopping creatures in front of me, but was too shocked for my stomach to properly transform my angel-hair pasta into a vomit projectile.

I looked around for Ashton Kutcher to pop out from behind the bar and tell me I had just been Punk!d, but this was apparently real life, and not a fucked-up dream or show on MTV.

I said absolutely nothing to the Tapper and Ms. Sopping, and rejoined my friends, utterly speechless. I felt as though I had witnessed a brutal triple homicide involving a family of raccoons and a rage-fueled moose. If someone had asked me what my name was, I honestly don’t think I would have been able to answer them.

In any case, I spent the rest of the night with my friends, trying to forget all about how I was almost just drowned in a sushi bar by some sopping girl with no shame.

At one point, I went up to the bartender and told him to put down one of those “CAUTION: WET FLOOR” signs next to her, but he didn’t get my joke. Nobody ever does.

God bless you all, and have yourselves a sopping-wet day.  

The Time I Got My School Bus Pulled Over By the Police

One of the saddest nights of my life occurred on Halloween when I was in the third grade. I was a sassy individual at the time, clad in some sweet running pants from Old Navy that made the uber-cool “skkrrrscchhh skkrrrscchhh” sound when I rubbed my legs together while I walked. This was to alert all of the third-grade girls to both my presence as well as my commanding ability to get whatever pants I wanted when shopping with my mom.*

*I had absolutely no say in the remainder of my wardrobe for the next fourteen years or so. In fact, I still don’t

All throughout elementary and middle school, I was what we cultured, mature adults call a, “little fucker.” I had absolutely zero respect for authority, and caused disruption after disruption during class time. I also had a very short fuse, and would freak out at the lunch table on a regular basis as I obliterated Go-Gurt after Go-Gurt all over the clothes my mom bought me.

On this Halloween in third grade, I was particularly pissed off on the bus home from school because my old, crabby teacher had confiscated my digital Connect Four game. Mrs. Linker, I promise your old, flabby ass that the only reason I was playing it during English was because I already knew how to spell “apartment.” There’s a reason I won that in-class spelling bee, and I probably would have gone on to be a professional Connect Four player had my career not been cut so short.

Sitting at the back of the bus (because all of the fifth graders had already gotten off) fuming at my inability to play Connect Four, I expressed my anger to my fellow third-grade bus buddies in the form of a long series of incoherent swear words and seat punches.

“That blows, man,” were the comforting words of one friend. “Hey, check it out! There’s a cop behind us!”

As a third-grader, I had (luckily) not had a great deal of exposure to the police. My past experiences up until that point had been an early-morning phone call to 9-1-1 just for the fun of it, and a D.A.R.E. officer passing one of his armor-piercing rounds to each kid in the class. How this moment holding a bullet was supposed to convince me not to do drugs, I still cannot comprehend. It did, however, make me want to get a gun and find some armor to pierce.

“Yo, you should totally flip off the cop, dude!” One of my brilliant cohorts exclaimed.

An interesting prospect to be sure, I thought to myself. Perhaps the police officer at the tail-end of a long shift will enjoy the sight of a small middle finger pressed up against a dirty bus window. Maybe he’ll think it’s funny and will let me shoot something with those armor-piercing rounds I know he has.

This is the thought process of an eight year-old whose thought process does not extend to the possible negatives resulting from a certain action.

In any case, I know extended that finger so goddamn well, I thought some sort of medal was going to instantly appear around it. I also know that I have never run to the front of a bus so goddamn quickly in my life as I did the second I saw him light up his cruiser.

Our poor bus driver, Ed, probably thought he was speeding and was about to get his license/job taken away. Nope. Instead, the officer came onto the bus and talked to the entire bus for roughly ten minutes about respecting officers of the law and not being “little fuckers” in general. I, of course, was too busy wondering whether I had gotten away with my badassery or not. When the police officer finally bid our driver a good day and stepped off the bus, I thought I had gotten away with the greatest heist the world had ever seen.

I had no idea at the time that I was wearing my New York Giants bright (and I mean fucking BRIGHT) red and blue jacket on the bus. This had most certainly identified myself to the cop as the little fucker with the finger of steel, but to his credit, he didn’t single me out. If he had, I absolutely would have shit my pants in that bus seat, which probably wouldn’t have made the bus smell any worse.

Getting away without a direct confrontation had me on a serious high. If I could flip off a policeman, what else could I get away with in plain sight? Could I start pantsing people left and right in the cafeteria? Would I dare waltzing straight into the principal’s office (with whom I was on a first-name basis) and giving her a taste of the ol’ “middle diddle*” as I like to call it?

The answer to both of these ridiculous questions is, of course, a resounding “no.” While I could not go around like some sort of Genghis “Middle Finger/Name” Khan, I was still pretty excited that I had gotten away with the third-grade equivalent of murder, or at least vehicular homicide.

That all changed the second I stepped off the bus to say hi to my mom. Of course, I was not stupid enough to brag of my after-school activities (i.e. flipping off a police officer) to my mom, but my little brother didn’t even have two feet on the pavement before spilling the beans.

Oh, balls. I had completely forgotten about the one tiny whistleblower who could bring my evil, successful plan crashing down in an instant. If I had been as forward-thinking as I am today, I would have bought him off while still on the bus with a couple of quarters or let him use my Xbox for an hour. If I was as forward-thinking as I was today, I also would not have been such a fucking idiot as to flip off a police officer.

In addition to a stern scolding and possibly a few spankings (I’m not 100% sure, I kind of blacked out for the whole disciplining process; a recurring childhood theme of mine), I was also not allowed to go trick-or-treating that night. What’s that? You forgot that this story occurred on Halloween? Well, apparently Obi-Wan Kenobi did, too, because instead of roaming the streets of Connecticut hunting down candy, he was at home playing Pokemon monopoly.

In the words of every bad guy brought down by Scooby Doo and his gang, “I would have gotten away with it, too, if it wasn’t for you damn kids and your dog.”

In this case, I was brought down by a single child two years my junior. And he didn’t even have a dog.

My Very First Tinder Date

Many of you faithful followers of this blahg have probably read the two-part series I wrote about Tinder and the mysteries it contains, as well as how to master the art of Tindering (still waiting on Webster’s to add ‘Tindering’ to the dictionary. I’m getting real tired of seeing my computer put the red line underneath it when I type it. Back off, bitch, I can shut you off whenever I want.)

The next few minutes of your time will be consumed by yet another sad, sad story in the joke that is my life. Will it make you laugh? Seeing as how hilarious other peoples’ misfortune is to us, I’m going to go ahead and say that yes, you will laugh very much at my HUGELY unfortunate experience (foreshadowing.)

We shall begin this story with the subject of my very salty (but still delicious) tears: the Tinderee. Her name on Tinder was listed as ‘Bee’ and her pictures displayed a pretty good-looking girl with glasses, which immediately makes pretty much every girl hotter in my eyes (HA! Eyesight pun inserted.)

Almost immediately after we began Tindering together, ‘Bee’ revealed that her parents did not have a buzzing sense of humor and had not, in fact, named her Bee. This was the first clue that revealed the likely miserable future I was to have with this girl in real life, but I was smitten by discussions of quesadillas and dogs.

“OMG you have five dogs?? That’s soooo cute, I love doggies!” This was one of the messages I sent her. Confused? You should be. I like to keep ’em guessing, and messaging like an eighth grade girl is one of my signature moves in the confusion cha-cha I run.

Anyway, she told me her name was actually Rebecca, but she prefers Becky. Okay, I thought to myself, this might actually work. I have this t-shirt:


So I figured I had a shot. We traded Snapchat names, which always surprises me. The fact that any girl would be perfectly willing to open herself up to receiving Snapchats from me makes me question how desperate girls really are. For instance:


We decided to meet up at the Danbury movie theater, which is one hell of a drive for me, but you have to remember something: I am a guy that lives in a town in the middle of nowhere, so I wasn’t going to pass this up. Becky’s snapchats (all from the torso up, which should have set off the warning lights in my head, but hey, boobs are distracting. ( . Y . ) See? Very distracting.)

So off I go to Danbury on a Wednesday night, clad in my Becky shirt and feeling more hopeful than when I was convince Obama wasn’t getting a second term. I don’t know why I bother getting hopeful about anything anymore.

Bumping a lil’ Lil Wayne on the way there (see what I did there?) in my Volvo on the way there got me amped up.

“Real G’s move in silence, like lasagna” – Lyrical genius, Lil Wayne

I have to say, I got progressively more nervous the closer I got to the theater. Was I really going through with this? I’d never been on a blind date before, do the dates blind each other with sharp objects if the date goes sour? I don’t know the procedures for this sort of thing.

So I pull into the parking lot exactly four minutes after we had agreed to meet there. Perfect. Pretty fashionably late, but not too much so. As I shut my car off, I looked out the windshield and saw a girl in a long dress looking down at her phone. I squinted a little bit, trying to get a better look, because there was a good chance it was Becky.

I quickly wrote her off as a a potential Becky because she was way larger than the Becky I had been Snapchatting with. Then I saw the glasses, and oh god, she has the same hair as Tinder Becky!

Nooooooooo! I screamed inside my head as the ball dropped, as did my stomach. This was definitely Becky. I was more depressed than I was after my dad told me I couldn’t drive the car at age five. I had been lied to over the Internet! I had heard of this kind of thing happening before, but how could it happen to me? Here I was, a white boy living in suburbia, occasionally doing nice things for other people and always handing out belly rubs to dogs, as well as willing humans.

I considered turning my car back on and getting the hell out, but that would be rude, and also bad karma which probably would have resulted in a lifetime supply of disappointing blind dates. I still hold a sliver of hope.

“I’ve been here for twenty minutes.” This was the first thing out of this girl’s mouth. Twenty fucking minutes?? What the hell happened to meeting here at the agreed-upon time? Do all the rules fly out the window when online dating is involved? I had gotten myself into a dangerous world. I should have listened to my mom and stayed home to write more blog posts and eat only red and green M&Ms left over from Christmas. We were off to a great start.

I put on a brave face and bought this girl her ticket to ‘Neighbors’. For the record, it was a fantastically funny movie, and would have been better if I had gone by myself and just kept my phone on with Becky’s online pictures onscreen. I have nothing against obese people, because I understand the temptation of bacon and chocolate everything, but if you have clearly been eating four bags of jumbo marshmallows a day since you were six, don’t pretend you look like someone you’re not.

“You have really veiny hands.” Alright, b-word, way to win my heart in a dark theater. I couldn’t believe my luck. Here was someone who wan’t afraid to immediately point out weird things about me. Who could ask for more?

Really, though, you think I don’t know this? Do you want me to start pointing out your oddities? Is this how the whole online dating thing works? Should I start guessing your weight in terms of number of fully-grown baboons? If I had to, I would say approximately one and a half fully-grown baboons. Luckily, she was marginally less hairy. The abundant arm hair kept me warm throughout the movie.

Finally, ‘Neighbors’ ended and I was free to go destroy everything I owned that connected me to the Internet and lying Tinder users.

“That was kind of short,” Becky pointed out (talking about the movie, of course. At no point during this debacle was my penis outside of the confines of my pants or aroused in any way.) “Do you want to go see another movie?”

Oh boy, I thought, here we go. I’m going to do the right thing and be honest with her, tell her I have no desire to do that, and get squashed. The theater’s janitors will have to peel me off the seat with a large spatula.

“Uhh, nah, I have work tomorrow and I am very tired,” I explained, using a series of unnecessary and irrelevant hand gestures to portray a sense of being apologetic. Plus, if she mentioned ‘Godzilla’ as a possibility, I might have pissed my pants because she would be a worthy opponent of the Asian-intimidating monster. Also, I had a lot of soda, so that too.

Leaving that theater and gorging myself on a Taco Bell quesadilla and soft-shell taco on the way home was one of the most relieving experiences of my life. The melted cheese was like a warm blanket keeping away all of the bad thoughts, and even the extreme heartburn was welcome as I cruised home.

Here ends the tale of my first Tinder date. If you read the whole thing, props to you (I don’t have any real props to hand out, sorry) and keep an eye out for the story of my second Tinder date coming soon. Here’s a little taste of it:

It was way worse than the first one.

That’s all, folks.