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. 

Advertisements

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”:

USQX91000321_640x480_1

 

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.

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. 

17115917_BG1

(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. 

0003400047020_500X500

Scum.

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? 

da01a_1325_general

My God…. they’re joining forces.

I fear for us all.