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…


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.’


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.


The Cheesecake Factory: A Tale of Magic and Munching


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.


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.

Vote ‘No’ on Salt Bagels

This is the sort of question I ask myself while standing in the line for a bacon, egg, and cheese the morning after a long night. The racks of various kinds of bagels astounds me every time, although the cinnamon-raisin bagel is what really keeps me up at night.

If “Bagel Roulette” were a real game show, the raisin bagel would be the bullet. This metaphor makes sense, because raisins are really just shriveled-up, discolored bullets. It also makes sense because raisins can kill you just as quickly as a bullet can, if you were to consume a large quantity of raisins and began choking with no one around to save you.

If you’re not over the age of sixty, you have absolutely no business buying anything with raisins in it. This is the first law I will enact as Emperor of the entire world.

While raisin bagels certainly raise a few eyebrows, the consumer I really want to strap to a water-boarding table in Guantanamo is the buyer of the salt bagel. The thought process of someone who buys a salt bagel at ANY point in their life is worthy of an extremely unnecessary level of analysis, and might provide us with some answers to questions we’ve been asking since the beginning of time, such as:

“Why do we exist?”

“Do these pants make me look fat?”

“Why did Breaking Bad have to end?” And,

“Why should I vote against Salt Y. Bagels in the upcoming election?”

Let me tell you something, consumer of salt bagels: I’m onto you. You may be fooling the rest of the people in line at Einstein’s Bagels, but I’m the revolutionary off to the side, shaking my head at your ludicrous purchase.

You see, while the other bagel aficionados are lulled into oblivion by the warmth seeping out of the bagel ovens, I am over in the freezer, crouched behind the strawberry lemonades that nobody ever buys, watching your every move. While the others have been fooled into thinking you’re just a fellow bagel-lover with a penchant for salt, I observe you with absolute clarity from my vantage point among the various flavored cream cheese spreads.

After years of observation in the field and getting kicked out of various bagel-selling establishments, I have come to the conclusion that has rocked my bagel-shaped world, and will rock yours too. If you see someone buying a salt bagel, know this (you may want to sit down):

They’re really just buying a pretzel.

I know what you’re thinking: “But Adam, won’t this declaration and ousting of the salt bagel people make you a target for retribution?”

Well, concerned reader of my blog, yes, it will. Fortunately for you and the rest of the world, I am not afraid to do this kind of investigative journalism for the sake of mankind and bagels everywhere. I know this has angered a great many buyers of salt bagels, but people like me and Edward Snowden have to take this kind of risk to keep you sheeple informed of what’s really going on.

As a side-note, if any readers are currently living in Russia and can offer me some sort of asylum, that would be greatly appreciated. There are hundreds of protestors outside my window, shaking salt-shakers and demanding my head on a salted stick. It looks as though they’re running out of salt bagels to keep them relatively calm.

God save the plain bagel.


Let Me Name Your Children

I’ve been thinking a great deal about names lately, and frankly, I am not too happy. As someone with a few ounces of creativity still available for sale to The Man (take notes, employers), I find white people’s tendency to use the same names generation after generation terribly boring.

I cannot tell you how many Will’s or Ben’s I’ve met in my lifetime, but I can tell you that it is over fifty. Let’s make things easy and call it sixty-four Ben’s. Sixty-four Ben’s is a lot of Ben’s. Sure, there are definitely some stand-out Ben’s in the group, but it’s nearly impossible to differentiate between all of them.

That’s why I propose a new naming convention for white people: I call it, the S.E.M.E.N. system. Super Easy Manually Entered Names. This is sure to become a smash hit in America sometime soon, so send me your money immediately to get in on the ground floor of this amazing opportunity! Investing in S.E.M.E.N. is a safe, fun way to diversify your portfolio, make a sackful of cash (pun intended) and name your child at the SAME TIME.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “But Adam, why is S.E.M.E.N. only for white people?”

An excellent question. The reasoning behind this choice is that white people are the only ones who actually need help naming their children. Black people have it completely figured out, and continue to churn out names that I not only do not understand, but have no idea how to spell or pronounce. The Asians don’t need S.E.M.E.N. because there are simply too many of them to creatively name each and every one of them. You can only have so many General Tso’s before a war breaks out.

The Native Americans need S.E.M.E.N. the least because they’ve had the whole naming thing down to a science for centuries. What better way to give your child a head-start in life than to name him “Runs With Buffalo.” Please, enlighten me, and tell me when some shitty, bullying white kid named Bill is going to fuck with Runs With Buffalo?

I tell you what, if someone named Runs With Buffalo walks into my office and asks for a job, they’re going to get it- on one condition, of course. For all you Runs With Buffalo’s out there, I promise that you will get the job, but only when you show me a video of you living up to your name.

The S.E.M.E.N. system is comprised of a few very important and distinct sections: the first is the name your cracker-ass child will receive at birth. This initial name will last for the first year of the child’s life, and will be whatever sort of high-pitched scream the baby makes when first exiting the womb. This will make introducing your baby to people who don’t give a single fuck about your baby much more interesting for all parties involved.

At the time of your pasty-white child’s second birthday, you will rename it whatever that child’s favorite food is at the time. This will make spankings much more fun (for you) and will ensure the child will inexplicably have chills run down their spine every time someone offers them Bagel Bites or Carpet Fuzz in the future.

Once the Terrible Two’s have come to an end, your child will once again be renamed under the S.E.M.E.N. system to whatever color you like until they finish high school. This will make it far easier to organize children into groups in the classroom: “Okay, let’s have the Fuchsias over here drawing caterpillars, and the Turquoises over there brainstorming how I can convince my wife to start working out without her realizing that I think she’s fat.”

Once your child has made it through high school, they will enter the most exciting aspect of the S.E.M.E.N. system: the Peer Review. You see, after having gone through the most transformational period in any person’s life together, these kids are very familiar with each other and will have the presence of mind to properly name each other within the confines of the S.E.M.E.N. system.

The beauty of S.E.M.E.N. is that it takes all of the stickiness out of naming someone for life, and grants that power to the child’s peers; a much more reasonable, exciting process. Every system must have its limitations, though, and S.E.M.E.N. is no exception.

To put it in the simplest of terms, white kids will name each other based on their most distinct or most -discussed personality trait. This does create a finite number of name possibilities, but you would be surprised how creative these kids can get!

For instance, a recent study that put the S.E.M.E.N. system to the test asked one hundred students that are in the same grade in high school to name each other. The S.E.M.E.N. team’s initial analysis showed only two matches in the entire study, but it was soon discovered that it had been a missed typo- the names were Fat Ass and Phat Ass, which clearly offer very different, creative descriptions of these students. While these names may not seem to be personality traits, I can assure you as non-certified professional that Phat Asses are personalities of their own.

Other extremely creative names included Great Head (open to interpretation, but definitely still creative!), Crusty Lips, Small Pinkies, and Weird Nipples. As you can see, giving these kids the freedom to name each other results in complete freedom of expression, and also provides ample incentive to not be fat and/or ugly.

I know this explanation of the S.E.M.E.N. system has proven to be quite the mouthful (and nobody knows how to dish out a mouthful of S.E.M.E.N. like I do), and I will gladly answer any questions you have or take any money you would like to give to me for whatever reason. Together, we can do away with the boring, conventional white-people naming method and prove to the younger generations that we are hip and creative.

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. 

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.

69 Reasons to Stop Looking at These Types of Articles

Okay, okay- I lied. I’m not going to list 69 reasons in this post. Why? Because I have frozen waffles to microwave and a Game of Thrones book to read. I have a number of songs to illegally download and a poster to hang up. What I do not have, however, is the time to take a “quiz” about why pepperoni pizza is better than the war in Iraq or why blue sunglasses are lame.

I simply do not have the time to read all “30 Reasons Why Urinals are Better Than Toilets.” I know in my heart that they are better because you can stand while using them. I don’t need some uppity person that goes around saying “I have a blog!” to tell me what I already know.

By the way, I have a blog, and it’s filled with a lot of good ideas I have and want to share with you. You’re reading it. *

*I have a blog!!!! 

So many of these “quizzes” and “reasons why” articles (if you can call them articles) are more of a waste of space than all those selfies you’ve taken.

So why do we find ourselves entranced with which Harry Potter character we would be, or why single people in their 30’s are so similar to cats? I think it’s because we like to live inside fantasy bubbles for as much of the day as possible. We really appreciate it when the Internet tells us that we would be placed in Gryffindor: “Why, of course I would be placed in Gryffindor,” we tell ourselves, “that’s where all the most famous people are. I could have slayed that Basilisk! I can do anything! 

The reality of the matter is that even if Hogwarts was a reality and you could make your Aunt blow up like a balloon, you still wouldn’t be famous. Statistically speaking, you would be one of the kids in the background of the movies; studying Herbology in the library in the background and sitting in the stands as you watch that oh-so-cool Harry Potter score with the waffle during the quidditch match. Damn him, stealing all of the girls’ hearts and all of those snitches!

A message to (mostly) female population: Stop being envious of the Parvati Patil’s of the world. For those of you who have a slightly less expansive (and quite a bit less obsessive) knowledge of the Harry Potter world, Parvati Patil is the Snooki of the Harry Potter world. Everybody involved with the storyline hates her, but nobody can stop watching her because she dates Draco Malfoy (oooo, what a dreamy piece of ****) and goes to school dances and s**t. Why are we obsessed with people like this? If Parvati Patil made a sex tape with Hermione and Snape, you would watch it and be forever obessed with them.

Why? Because Snape is a fascinating professor that is a d**k to everyone? Is that fun to watch? Clearly, it is, because people like Gordon Ramsey have their own TV shows.

And another thing. Stop posting the “146 Reasons Why Your Dog Is the Best.” You need to understand that nobody gives a single f**k as to what dog you own and why you think it’s the greatest animal since the T-Rex (T-Rex’s have yet to be outdone). I have two dogs, and guess what? I love them a lot. I like to share the occasional picture of them with the world, but I don’t exactly feel the need to log on and proclaim to the digital world why THEY ARE THE BEST AND NOTHING YOU HAVE TO SAY MATTERS BECAUSE THERE’S A GIF OF MY TYPE OF DOG PLAYING WITH A CRAB.


It makes you almost as bad as the kids who log onto Facebook after a good semester at school and update their status to, “3.6 GPA, baby! Big semester for me, and the future’s looking bright!”

Does this “brand” of people have any idea how big of a bunch of jackwagons they are? I never have such contempt for a person as I do when I have the displeasure of scrolling down my newsfeed and reading about their semester at college.

If you are the sort of person that enjoys posting about their GPA, please stop. The chances are good that you got that GPA with a mediocre amount of work compared to people slaving away in mines and sweatshops. You probably “achieved that level of greatness” by going to a small percentage of your classes, then cramming four months of studying into a week of complaint-fueled, study-drug riddled semester of cramming.

Stop bragging about things that you associate with. I associate with the supporters of DoubleStuf Oreos, but do I flaunt it around like George R.R. Martin flaunts around the idea of making the dragons an actual part of the story of Game of Thrones?

No, I don’t, because I try to save myself some level (no matter how miniscule) of dignity on a regular basis.

Bringing back “roflcopter” is a good idea, too.


Dental Dam(nation)

If you clicked on this blog post because you’re looking for a funny story, then let me be the first to congratulate you. You’ve found it. It’s the story of something I actually witnessed. Before we delve in, I have something to say:

I AM NOT AN ANTI-FEMINIST. I respect the fact that men and women are created equal. I do not respect the fact that some women take this a bridge too far and show no respect for men, and vice versa. That’s simply counterproductive and “just plain ig’nant, dawg.” I am also against feminists and pretty much everything else that refuse to shower. You’re gross. Really gross. People don’t dislike you because you have strong opinions: they dislike you because you smell like the inside of a rotting raccoon carcass. 

Before the story begins, a quick message to all the angry, blinded-by-ovarian-rage feminists fuming behind their computer screens: do you have any idea how hard it is to be a white male in America? Of course you don’t, because you are not one. We have to deal with a lot of stuff you aren’t even aware of. Dane Cook is in our “classification” and believe me, it’s not by choice. We are also confronted with dozens of perplexing problems each day, like trying to decipher what women are talking about, or choose between boxers and briefs (this problem has been resolved with the ground-breaking, “boxer-briefs”).

So I’m sitting in my women and gender studies class. I sit behind these two girls. They aren’t your run of the mill college girls. These are full-on “I don’t like men and nothing you can say or do can change that” girls. Perfect. They constantly try to astound the class with random facts that either do not pertain to our discussions, or are clearly just something a total d**k would spout off about in class. 

Naturally, I would love to be able to say incredibly rude things to their faces just for the sake of being a troll, but my desire for an easy A prevents that. So, I keep myself sane by making fun of them in my head. This is what transpired in class the other day:

We got to talking about safe sex and the 1980’s, when safe sex was something that people started to realize is a good idea. “What’s that? You mean I could have prevented these f*****g crabs from running around all over my junk?! Well strike me down with a bolt of lightning, Zeus, I’m in!” This was the general consensus at the time. 

So these two girls have a certain passion for making it seem like they know everything there is to know about the LGBTQ community. This makes it particularly infuriating when they use a ridiculous number of hand gestures to articulate their lack of knowing the right word for their incomplete argument, until our professor comes to the rescue. Then, they look at each other with the kind of smirk that makes me want to light a great deal of things on fire. I pray for their parents’ sanity every night. If someone presented me with the choice between $100,000 and the opportunity to smack these pretentious sacks of atoms with a live telephone wire, I would happily pass on the money.

The professor asked the class for examples of what comes to mind when she says the phrase “safe sex.” The fist answer was “condoms”. This is a good answer; a reasonable answer. Heck, it’s the first thing I thought of. Then, a student went off on a rant about how her school in North Carolina made them sign pledges when they were in THE FIFTH GRADE stating that they wouldn’t have sex until marriage. Which jackass down in the South came up with this game-changing idea? Most likely someone with the brainpower of a mushy banana. 

And then one of the girls thrusts her hand into the sky. I swear, I felt a light breeze from her need to voice her oh-so-very-important opinion.

 “Dental dams!” She cries.

Image It’s like some sort of cross between the Predator’s mouth and a massive, burst bubble-gum bubble. “Mmmm, yeah Predator, that’s the stuff.”

Dental dams?! Have we been transported to some other planet? Who in this world has ever used a dental dam in their life? I would like to meet those (maybe) four people, and smack every one of them in the face. I’ve only encountered one dental dam in my life, and that was courtesy of our high school health teacher. You better believe I laughed when one of my poor friends Kaitlyn got up in front of the class and tried to convince us of the merits of using one. It wasn’t her choice; it was an assigned project. This did not make it any less funny.

I don’t think there could possibly be a bigger boner-killer than hearing the words, “Hang on one sec, let me go and grab a dental dam.” Maybe a close second would be getting a Skype call from your grandparents in the middle of a computer “sesh”. A close second indeed.

From now on, I’m going to stuff my ears with dental dams so I can sit through that class without being verbally assaulted by those two. I’m sure my blood pressure will thank me.

White male, over and out.