“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.


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.


“Fratstar: A Lifestyle”

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

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

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

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

Copy and paste this link for a taste:

How Not To Be A Dick



This is a particularly happy dick, but a dick nonetheless.

If you drive a Mercedes, the chances of you being a rude, disrespectful phallus increase exponentially. I was cut off by several of the aforementioned vehicles today, which is not surprising. They seem to have been the vehicle of choice for dicks, trophy wives and spoiled teenage girls airing their sweet sixteen on MTV since the ’90s or so.

I just made that up. Why? Because everything sounds cooler and more ‘hip’ when you say “That’s so ’90s!” 

This brings me to my first point. If you use the phrase, “That’s so…” and make a sentence out of it, you are a dick. Period.

I didn’t spell out “Period” to place emphasis on the severity of my sentence. I spelled it out to show you how big of a dick spelling out the word “period” makes me seem. Don’t do this. If you do this on a regular basis, you are either a teenage girl telling her friend how she’ll “smack that bitch 4 hitting on ur man. Periud,” or a teenage girl explaining to her boyfriend why she’s in a bad mood in one word.

It’s safe to say that every male in existence is or was a dick in middle school and/or high school. This is the time when being a dick is the best route to making friends, impressing girls, and getting back at your parents for giving you such a loving, caring environment. “God dammit, Ma, I told you I don’t like American cheese on my grilled cheeses! Fuck!” Because this is such a widespread occurrence, it is somewhat socially acceptable during this time period to be a dick.

However, if you are no longer in high school and still blast Biggie Smalls out of your shitty Honda Civic’s blown speakers with the windows down, wind blowing over your tattooed arms highlighted by a ridiculously large wife beater, you may want to take a seat. You’re not going to like what I am about to say.

You’re a dick. I know, I know, the tribal tats are really meaningful and your Civic “has a lot of potential” to be fast, but you should probably drive it into a ravine somewhere and spare the world of one more dick.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, we have your average hipster. In my life, I have encountered several people who would fall under the American classification of “hipster” who aren’t dicks, and every single one of them live in Australia. None of them identify as hipsters because the people who do identify themselves as a member of the hipster community are massive dicks.

When you spend hundreds of dollars on a “totally vintage, bro,” Polaroid camera to take shitty photos of your friends smoking American Spirits and call them “art,” guess what, “bro”? Those eyeglasses with no lenses you’re wearing suck a massive bag of balls and no one wants to hear about your shitty indie-rock-pop-funk-rap-indigenous-fusion band.

Oh yeah, and you’re a dick. 

If the number of Facebook pictures you’ve posted of your cat numbers anything greater than zero, you’re a dick. If you have captioned any of the photos of your cat, trying to make your cat an Internet-famous meme, chances are good you are a bigger dick than any of us could have previously imagined.

And now we come to the biggest dick of all. A dick so dickish, no ultra-tight, shredded hipster pants could contain it. A dick so dickish, they deserve to get stuck at every toll booth in America with no quarters and a series of cars stuffed with angry MMA fighters and Hitler clones behind them. A dick so very dickish, the word “dick” would no longer come to represent both “penis” and “one of my buddies” and would be solely reserved for this person.

I am talking, of course, about the dude that went out one day, found himself one particularly attractive monkey, fucked it in the butt, and then went and spread AIDS all over Africa and the rest of the world. You, sir (or ma’am, I don’t discriminate), are the King (or Queen) dick. Congratulations.

Or, should I say, condickulations.


The Tale of Little Butters Willoughby: Chapter One

Little Butters Willoughby was as much of a celebrity in Shartlesville as one could be in a town of just two thousand people. Butters was not exactly a common name in Shartlesville, or anywhere else in the world for that matter. His namesake resulted in dozens of schoolyard beatings from elementary school through graduate school, oftentimes with the long wooden sticks used to churn his namesake. Little Butters Willoughby did not let these beatings get to him, even when they left him battered and bruised like a stick of stale butter.

Butters’ parents did not for one second consider the life full of humiliation they were dooming their son to when they decided upon his name. Mrs. Margarine Willoughby and Mr. Creamer Willoughby conceived their son while messing around in the bucket they used to churn their own butter, as they so often did after watching the newest episode of Wheel of Fortune.

Exactly eight months, seventeen days, and four hours after Mr. Willoughby “buttered” too soon, their son was delivered by Shartlesville’s only doctor, a man by the name of Dr. Fists. Not a single citizen of Shartlesville knew Dr. Fists’ first name, nor did they enquire. Dr. Fists had a German accent, and as the people of Shartlesville (as well as the rest of the world) know, people with German accents are frightening.

Dr. Fists’ medical practices were just as frightening and foreign to the people of Shartlesville as his accent. When Harry Plums, the town’s smith, cut his thigh open on a rusty nail, Dr. Fists placed several snails over the cut, and told Plums that, “Ze snails’ slime vill seal ze cut right up.” Harry Plums died four days later. Nobody asked any questions, because Harry Plums was a dick, and Dr. Fists’ German accent was scary.

When little Butters Willoughby was ready to bust his way out of Margarine, Dr. Fists made the house-call to the Willoughby residence. Creamer Willoughby opened the front door to see Dr. Fists carrying nothing but an industrial-sized stick of butter and a blender. Due to the fact that Creamer Willoughby was a simple man, he placed his faith in Dr. Fists’ fists and showed him the way upstairs.

Having never given birth before, Margarine Willoughby was not having the best time of her life. Little Butters did not feel so little, and her screams of pain were concerning to the group of Shartlesville citizens milling about in their backyard, anxious for a show. Shartlesville never had a great deal happening, so the birth of a new resident was the most exciting thing since the bearded lady from the circus moved into town several months prior. The town’s cotton-candy salesman, Luther Leith, had set up shop next to the Donnolly outhouse and was making a small fortune.

“I vill need your best pail or bucket,” Dr. Fists told Creamer as they walked upstairs. “Bring it to ze room where your vife is laying, and place it on ze floor.” Creamer Willoughby nodded in agreement and rushed right back down the stairs to the basement, where he searched for their best pail or bucket. The closest bucket was the one he had recently painted the new baby crib with, so Creamer dumped the month-old, lead paint out on the floor and sprinted back upstairs.

“This is the best I could do,” he panted as he burst into the delivery room. “I didn’t have time to wash the rest of the lead paint out, but I hope this is alright.”

“It is perfect,” Dr. Fists stated, “the lead in the paint is proven to be very healthy for a newborn baby and will ensure its good health for many years to come.”

Creamer Willoughby smiled at his wife as she sweat bullets and breathed heavily. Next to the bed on which she lay, Dr. Fists was unwrapping the enormous stick of butter and shoving fistfuls of it into the blender.

“A buttery birth is ze best birth,” Dr. Fists shouted as the blender churned the chunks and spew globs of butter all over the room. “Ze butterier, ze better!” The process of blending, pouring it into the bucket, and repeating the process was interjected with bouts of Dr. Fists ramming fistfuls of butter down Margarine Willoughby’s throat, screaming, “Eat ze butter! It vill help lubricate your insides!” and eating chunks of it himself. Creamer Willoughby began vomiting uncontrollably until his stomach had nothing left to give.

Dr. Fists took note of Margarine’s now constant contractions and guided her over to the bucket, having her squat over it like a bodybuilder at the Olympics, getting ready to squat a great deal of weight. Her screams of agony amplified, leaving her husband Creamer curled up in the fetal position in a pool of his own vomit, with his hands over his ears.

With a sound like a wet suction cup being pulled off of a window, the child fell out of Margarine and plopped into the bucket of butter. “Wait!” Dr. Fists exclaimed, shoving Creamer Willoughby to the side when he leapt to his feet and tried to grab his baby out of the bucket. “Ze child must prove to us it has ze will to live!”

The three adults stood with bated breath and tense muscles as the butter bubbled and seconds turned to hours. Just as Creamer was about to cave and rescue his son, little Butters Willoughby breached the butter with all the majestic grace of an orca whale, and his cries began to fill the room. From his open mouth spewed an endless stream of butter and turquoise lead paint, but he was alive.

Little Butters Willoughby was born.