I Cut My Nails Too Short Again

Well, I did it again. Laugh all you want, I don’t give a shit. Every stroke of my keyboard is now completely silent thanks to my aggressiveness with a pair of nail clippers. That way, I can hear your stifled laughter even while furiously typing about it.

Cutting my nails too short has been a severe problem of mine for years. I was never formally educated in the proper use of said nail clippers, which is proof enough that this child WAS left behind.

I always start off so positive, too. I see my fingernails, perhaps a little dirty and just a hair too long, and think to myself, “Wow, what a great opportunity to improve my hygiene and make picking my nose a lot less painful.”

Then I clip those nails with a passion. Protein is flying, bystanders are crying, and nails are dying. I get caught up in the heat of the moment- which may or may not have something to do with screaming Queen’s “We Will Rock You” at my hands while I slice those bastards to shreds.

I never end up clipping them too close in the moment, but there’s always one that ends up bleeding and hurting like a post-Chris Brown Rhianna after stubbing it against something. Then it’s all about the waiting game. Waiting for a nail to grow back so your fingertip doesn’t feel like it just went through a wood chipper is probably one of the sentences down in the Fields of Punishment.

I cannot figure out for the life of me why anyone would come to the conclusion that the best course of action for themselves is to dedicate their life to making sure their fingernails are the longest in the world.

This is Lee Redmond, a U.S. citizen and current holder of the Guinness World Record for longest fingernails on a woman. They were just over 28 feet long when they reported the record, which makes me a little jealous of her ability to tap people on the shoulder and pretend it wasn’t her from almost THIRTY FEET AWAY.

Worst handjob, EVER.

Worst handjob, EVER.

Congratulations, lady, you are now the page in the Guinness Book of World records that people turn to to try to gross other people out. You lost your job, your friends, and all self-respect, but at least you have enough protein on your hands (ha! Literally) to sustain you for a few months.

Honestly, what do her job prospects look like? I suppose if she went so far as to steam-clean those bad boys, she might find work as a shredder of meats or a landscaper, but pretty much everything else is out. You can’t work a desk job with those nails- you’d be fired inside a week for constantly shredding the fabric of everyone’s cubicles and stabbing holes in the company water cooler.

Unfortunately, according to the Guinness site, Ms. Redmond “lost her nails in an automobile accident in early 2009.”

Here’s the link if you want to read it for yourself: http://www.guinnessworldrecords.com/world-records/longest-fingernails-%28female%29-ever

Could you imagine being the guy that rear-ended this chick? You shake off the impact, unbuckle your seatbelt and step out of the car only to see THAT step out of the car in front?! Not only that, but being the one who broke the nails she spent THIRTY YEARS growing her fingernails to disgusting perfection basically seals your fate as the first man to be stabbed to death via fingernail. It’s like getting stabbed with an icicle, if the icicle grew out of a human finger and was covered in enough bacteria to kill your entire family upon penetration.

Something makes me think she has used her fingernails as a protective cage of some sort- honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re bulletproof. I also get the idea that bowling is really hard for this chick, but then I imagine her rolling the ball down the curve of her nails to achieve maximum accuracy. Her middle finger must be noticeable from a half-mile away or so.

If anyone has Edward Scissorhands’s number, you should probably have Ms. Redmond give him a call.

edward_scissorhands_arrested

New Nukes because the Old Ones Didn’t Come in Blue

It’s all fun and games until someone pushes the Big Red Button.

I wonder if there is a designated button that is rather large and red for the President to press, or if I’ve just convinced myself that it’s just one of those stupid Snapple facts which may or may not be made up (although I’m sure there’s a Snapple fact with the answer).

In case you missed it, President Obama recently announced his plan to spend one TRILLION dollars updating our nuclear arsenal over the next thirty years. If you want to read about all the details, Google it. If you want to read all about how stupid an idea it is, click this:

http://www.nti.org/gsn/article/analysts-1-trillion-us-nuclear-weapons-plan-too-costly-implement/

First of all, let’s start with the absurdity of updating a NUCLEAR ARSENAL. What do the new ones get? A few different color choices and maybe some heated mirrors? I could understand why you’d want to update some nukes if they’d lost their ability to wipe humanity off the face of the earth, but this just makes us look like we’re trying to have the best fireworks display of the Milky Way.

One of the main goals of the “update” is to arm a whole bunch of shit with nuclear weapons: boats, submarines, and planes. I guess it’s no longer convenient or fast enough to obliterate humanity from the plain old ground.

Fortunately, there is a solution, not only for the nuke problem, but for widespread violence as a whole:

FaceFlags.

Simply put, everyone in the world should buy a completely custom flag designed any way the individual wants it, with one catch: each flag has to carry emblazoned upon it the owner’s face, smack in the middle of the flag.

Think about it. No more will we take so much pride in the Olympics; in the fact that people born in our area are way better at pole vaulting than all the people in a different area.

Instead, nobody will ever lose their friends in a crowd again. Forgot that girl’s name at the bar you’re at? Good thing her name is in block letters right on her FaceFlag above her head.

I should mention here the method I propose of handling these FaceFlags, because expecting all of humanity to carry their FaceFlags with them at all times would be absurd. Instead, I propose the FlagPoel: spelled that way because that’s just the revolutionary mindset we have here at FaceFlags.

The FlagPoel, put quite simply, will be the exact same thing as the flag ATV riders use when riding in the desert, but with an attachment to clip onto a belt.

az_atv_dunes

I’ve already received six hundred thousand orders for FaceFlags, so get yours today by sending me $40 and never doing any sort of independent research to determine whether FaceFlags are real or not.

Do your part, because once everyone has a fully-customized FaceFlag of their own, nobody is going to want to get nuked and risk some idiot in a submarine vaporizing the best $40 they ever spent.

My Dead Friend, Alex.

Ten points if you can guess what this post is about.

Shall I start this off the way I’m sure most blog posts dedicated to a dead friend begin? Okay then, here it goes:

I had absolutely no idea how shitty my day was going to be when I woke up this morning, but it only took about thirty seconds on my phone for me to understand fully just how shitty it would be. I had a pretty good idea of how much of the day I would waste before finally getting to all of my work, but I had no idea that some of that time would be dedicated to writing about a dead friend.

Alex and I were friends, all right. Pretty good friends, too. The kind that would dip out of high school study hall everyday to go pick up some Burger King to make up for the pathetic excuse of a school lunch.

The kind of friends that didn’t talk to each other all that often after high school, but were able to pick up exactly where we left off whenever one of us had a new, twisted joke to tell the other.

The kind of friends that would roll down the windows of his bright red Prius and scream like banshees at elderly pedestrians for no reason at all.

The kind of friends that made fun of sappy shit like this.

Today sucks. Suddenly, ordering a coffee from a Starbucks worker in an elf hat with the Peanuts theme song playing in the background seemed like a gigantic fucking joke- one that you would have pointed out in line, in a voice loud enough for the elf-hat-clad Starbucks servant to hear, I’m sure.

Listening to people talk about how stressed they are about finals makes me want to puke.

It also makes me wonder about whether it would be appropriate to make a joke about just how far you were willing to go to avoid finals. I think you would have laughed- and would have laughed even harder when other people took it way too seriously.

It doesn’t seem all that funny to me anymore, though.

What IS funny to me is remembering the THA-THUNK I felt in my tailbone whenever we sailed over the high school’s speed bumps at speeds much greater than any Toyota Prius technician ever planned for.

What IS funny to me is remembering that I still have the CD you made me in high school to introduce me to the world of trap/hardcore trance/whatever the fuck else you put on there.

What IS funny to me is remembering the many discussions we had about building an extremely satirical news site to attempt to piss off as many people off as we possibly could.

What ISN’T funny to me is the fact that I will no longer see any new pictures of you in some ridiculous new fur coat- even better, in that priest outfit you wore to a festival one time:

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You were the kid who wore a goddamn horse mask to school one day, for Christ’s sake. It wasn’t even Halloween! It just a regular fucking Tuesday, and everyone was just trying to get through it, when you show up in a horse mask?! How could that spontaneity and fantastic sense of horse humor possibly be gone?

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I’m not sure if you wanted to be buried or cremated or tossed into a volcano, but as someone who shared a number of morbid jokes with you, I think it’s safe to say you would not have wanted us to enroll you in the “turn-your-dead-friend-into-a-piece-of-sea-coral” program.

I was debating whether or not to go back and rewrite all of this to be in either entirely first-person or entirely third-person, but I figured you wouldn’t really give a shit, so neither do I.

Peace out, brutha. I would say I’ll miss you, but those words do not accurately convey how shitty I feel about “this”.

Plus, you’d probably just call me a pussy. Just for that, I’m posting these photos of you on the Internet.

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“Triple Nipple”

In the summer after fifth grade, I went to an ice hockey camp hosted at West Point, where cadets were too busy sweating their balls/vaginas off in the sweltering heat of July to even so much as look at our young, stick-wielding crew of about thirty.

One fellow camper stands out in my mind more than any other camper from any camp that I have ever been to, and for good reason. I don’t even remember his real name, but I do remember (and will forever) what everyone at camp called him after the first hour of camp:

“Triple Nipple”

While I’m quite sure his mother and father were not so cruel as to label their son with this nickname themselves, I can’t help but wonder whether his dad silently referred to him as Triple Nipple at home.

As you can imagine, my fellow camper’s torso did not have the “normal” number of nipples. To all those who are now butthurt at the injustice of me dedicating an entire blog post to the weirdness of a child’s third nipple, I beg you to think of a situation that presents the incredibly rare (and awesome) opportunity of rhyming “triple” with “nipple” and using the combination to refer to a human being for an entire week.

I’m sure you’re wondering the location of this mysterious additional nipple. Unfortunately, this mutation was not so OCD as to place itself square in the middle of the usual two nipples, in a sort of nipple tribute to the infamous Cyclops. Instead, Triple Nipple’s third nipple was located right where the uppermost left ab is prominent on those who actually value their health enough to do a few dozen crunches a day.

This third nipple was so out-of-the-blue I couldn’t focus on the drills our counselors had us doing on the ice that entire week. I would also like to be able to attribute my failure of the swimming test requisite for swimming in the lake during the week to the nipple that consumed my every waking thought, but in reality, it was due to the fact that I was just not a very good swimmer. Perhaps a third nipple would have increased my buoyancy

This camp was also the first time I learned about how to deliver pink eye to someone by rubbing one’s bare butthole across the target’s pillow, so it’s safe to say my parents got their moneys’ worth out of sending me to hockey camp.

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.

Pumpkin Spice is the Kim Kardashian of Beverage Flavoring

Winter is my favorite season for a number of reasons. The temporary extinction of all bugs is pretty nice if you, like me, appreciate the end result of millions of creatures dying of frostbite. Christmas is also on the list, because I love hearing how PISSED OFF people are that corporate America DARES to plaster poor Santa’s bearded face all over CVS in order to make a few extra bucks earlier and earlier in the year.

See? They’re pimping out old Saint Nick!

While Christmas and snow and dead bugs are all well and good, I do have an absolute favorite aspect of winter: the disappearance of pumpkin spice.

Ooooo, I can hear the angry protests of white girls reading this across privileged America! I relish in the fact that every basic white girl’s ability to “even” essentially hits zero when their access to pumpkin spice is taken away.

No more can the hordes of Ugg-clad, yoga-pants-wearing basic bitches pumpkin “spice up” their lives in the form of ridiculously overpriced hot beverages. Instead, they’ll have to resort to whatever vanilla-soybean-latte-triple-whip bullshit they used to get.

As someone with a decent amount of spare time on his hands, I recently devoted roughly twenty-eight seconds of my precious time here on Earth to Googling what pumpkin spice is actually made of.*

*But, before I share the results, I need to tell you about the image that just popped into my head: okay, so the scene opens with a shot of a few basic white girls standing around in the bathroom discussing whatever- probably the weirdly crooked penis that Karen saw over the weekend. In the middle of her recounting of the tale (“It had to be like, thirty degrees skewed to the left! It looked like a checkmark!”) one of the girls pulls a bag of some fine brown powder out of her stylish, but comfortable headband.

“OMG, is that heroin??” exclaims Karen. Karen prides herself on being willing to try anything once.

“No, betch, shut up,” Lauren replies. Lauren has been unhappy with Karen ever since she got the nose job. Whispering, Lauren explains, “It’s… pumpkin spice.”

The other girls cannot even. They start acting like a bunch of angry primates; smashing up the bathroom while the others rail lines of pumpkin spice off the soap dispenser. A number of snapchats are sent to relay how awesome their lives are in relation to others’, which ends up coming back to bite Karen in the ass when her husband runs for President.

Phew. Thanks for indulging me in that story. Now, an interesting fact that you may or may not share with someone at a party at some point in your life:

There is no pumpkin in pumpkin spice.

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?!?! No pumpkin in pumpkin spice?? That’s like, if, well, someone told you that something had something in it but really they lied and there is no God. In my mind, I was imagining a number of starving children slaving away in a factory somewhere, shaving the sides of pumpkins with cheese graters or something to harvest the spice of the pumpkin.

Something that I think is worth pointing out is the fact that I have never witnessed or heard about any black women ordering pumpkin spice anything. Perhaps white girls have some sort of genetic predisposition to a pumpkin spice addiction? Kind of like a way less destructive form of diabetes.

Come to think of it, I have never seen a black person order a hot beverage of any kind. Did I just stumble across a new stereotype? Let me know if you have evidence of the contrary. I will say, though, that my Google search for “black people coffee” did not reveal nearly as many pictures of black people drinking coffee as I thought it would. It did, however, show me a bunch of pictures of Bill Cosby making various faces, which kept me entertained for a few minutes. 

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.’

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The 2007 Helen Keller Middle School Food Fight

One of the most exciting moments of my life happened just a few weeks before my classmates and I were set to graduate the eighth grade and head off to high school. What better way to prove our maturity than a full-scale food fight?

I still get tingly all over when I picture throwing that first plate of pasta. Sometimes I even make the arm motion (in slow-motion, of course) and the utterly satisfying “blooorrrgghhhppp” sound that sauce-soaked pasta makes when striking a seventh grader directly in the ‘A’ on the middle of their shirt from the GAP.15407

A kid on my bus once tried to convince me that it stands for, “Gangstas And Pimps.”

So here I am, sitting in the cafeteria at Helen Keller Middle School, and enjoying the plain, unbuttered bagel I bought with quarters I had found on the ground earlier. Out of nowhere, shouting erupts from the other end of the cafeteria.

Naturally, the entire population of the cafeteria immediately shut their mouths and whipped their heads around to see who was about to get reamed out by the “cafeteria police”: a frail, 5’5″ woman in her thirties who was quick on the draw and handed out lunch suspensions like it was her job (it was her job.)

Now, not many people witnessed the “shot heard ’round the world” so to speak. The first casualty came in the form of a ketchup packet slammed into the table by the palm of a student, whom we shall call “A.” His efforts were rewarded when the ketchup launched at terminal velocity and splattered the shirt of a fellow student at the table, who, not surprisingly, did not take kindly to it.

The ketchup victim, who will hence be referred to as, “T” proceeded to, in front of roughly one hundred and twenty silent students and a few entertained faculty, stand up and pour what remained of his chocolate milk directly onto A’s head.

Oooohhh boy, I thought to myself. These kids are really in for it.

As we anxiously awaited the reprimand that was sure to come, a good friend of mine, who was sitting directly across the table from me, stood up, threw his hands in the air, and yelled at the top of his lungs, “FOOOOODDD FIIIIGGHHTTTT!!!!!”

It was something out of a movie- and not some funny coming-of-age movie. This cafeteria went from being dead calm to the D-day beach landing in milliseconds. We were less than ten minutes into our lunch period, which meant everyone had near-maximum ammunition.

And boy, did the ammunition fly.

The number of casualties was at or near 100% of the people in that cafeteria. Pasta day meant that sauce was in play, and let me tell you something: we sauced that cafeteria like bolognese was going out of style.

A side note: One of my good friends had bought a can of Snapple for the first time that day, and had been looking forward to it for months. It was grape-flavored, and still about eighty percent full when I decided that launching this projectile at a friend across the table was my best option.

The juice flew, and EVERYONE was scrambling around for something else to throw, and there was rampant screaming- both screams of joy and primal fear of catching a face-full of pasta or Go-Gurt.

The fight could have gone on for twenty seconds or twenty minutes- I was caught up in the moment and had no sense of time or anything else, really. I was a pasta-throwing windmill. It’s really a shame we don’t have the technology to harness the electricity my skinny arms generated. We could have powered a lightbulb for about two whole seconds.

There are a few moments in particular that stick out in my mind, and most likely will still bring a smile to my face on my deathbed:

– I looked across the cafeteria and saw a fellow student hiding underneath the table, sobbing uncontrollably. I sincerely hope the sheer violence of those saucy strands of spaghetti flying through the air don’t still haunt her dreams

-At one point, I saw one of my good friends in the chokehold of one of the gigantic teacher’s aids. One of my other friends swears he saw Matt lifted completely off the ground, pudding cups clenched tightly in both of his flailing hands

– The kids over at the allergic-to-peanuts table near the front of the cafeteria were cowering underneath their peanut-free table, probably praying they wouldn’t be contacted by their version of kryptonite (peanutite?)

I also remember the aftermath with perfect clarity.

When the entire cafeteria was out of ammunition, and as pasta was sliding down the slacks of dozens of students, silence fell over the battleground. A bolognese-sauce-thick tension could be seen on every face as we students waited for the axe to fall.

When the metal doors that constituted the entrance to the cafeteria opened and the principal walked in, all eyes turned to her. The seething anger radiating through her pants suit heated up the cafeteria quite nicely.

The principal walked up to one of the janitors and asked him a question- I assume inquiring about who was responsible for this debacle. The janitor scanned the room, pointed out Ketchup Boy and Chocolate Milk Man, and then turned towards my lunch table.

My stomach flipped as the janitor pointed at my friend who had actually screamed the fatal words that sent our class into a food-throwing frenzy, and then made eye contact with me. In those few nanoseconds, I put every ounce of effort I had into begging with this janitor telepathically to not rat me out.

It seems as though my pasta-throwing enthusiasm did not rub off on the janitor, because he pointed me out to the principal.

I was resigned to my fate as a criminal, and decided right then and there to face my accusers like the revolutionary I was.

Before heading to the principal’s office to discuss the terms of my punishment, the principal had a nice little chat with our (very) disappointing class.

“You should know better, blah blah blah I’m fairly certain you don’t act this way at home, blah blah blah.”

And then she gave us what I can only describe as the worst ultimatum you could possibly offer a bunch of sauce-soaked eighth graders just a few weeks away from graduation:

“Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to pass around a piece of paper to everyone, and I would like you to write down which one you are going to miss: either walking at graduation, or the annual class trip to Six Flags.”

Hmm, let’s think about this for a second. Miss out on getting dressed up, taking dozens of annoying photos and sitting in a hot gymnasium for hours to receive a piece of paper, or miss out on a glorious day at Six Flags. Sweet roller coasters or not-so-sweet swamp-ass?

Needless to say, we ended up going to Six Flags, and it was indeed glorious. We also ended up walking at graduation, which was a bit of a shocker! It was almost as if the principal didn’t think about all the parents that might have been a little upset about not having any pictures of their kids graduating from middle school

My punishment for my role in the ordeal was missing out on a class field trip in order to clean up the entire school with the other degenerates. We cleaned pretty much nothing and just pissed off the poor teachers that were forced to supervise us.

The Great Helen Keller Food Fight Massacre of 2007 was a resounding success, and I am absolutely honored to forever call my classmates my comrades.

I would also take twenty more in-school detentions for a chance to do it again.

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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.