A Few of My “Weird Job” Ideas

I am thigh-deep in the job search at the moment, so I’d like to take a moment to write down a few of the weirdest ideas I’ve had as to how to make money doing the least or the most interesting work possible.

Presidential Entertainer: everyone gets a little bored during the workday, and I’m sure the President of the U.S. is no different. So, I propose Mr. Obama hire me to keep things light and refreshing in the War Room. “Mr. President, you’re going to want to have a look at this,” and it’s a video of a cat eating a broccoli calzone and making a gross face. This will make drone strikes way more fun.

Scooby Doo: okay, bear with me on this one. I want to create a GoFundMe to deck out a van like the Mystery Machine and go around solving everyday mysteries. Like, if someone’s cat has gone missing: “Zoinks! I bet it was eaten alive by a wild coyote! This area is known for having a lot of coyotes.”

Refresher: for this professional role, I would basically just chew minty gum all day and breathe on people rich enough to pay me to have a minty breeze around them at all times.

Girl Scout Cookie Salesman: there is nothing I would love more than to prove the merits of capitalism by cornering the girl scout cookie market with slightly discounted prices, thereby ripping the rug out from under the Girl Scouts’ organization and assuming the monopoly. Plus, free Thin Mints.

The Pizza Man: I propose being paid $8 by whomever wants to pay me to put a piece of pizza in their enemy’s slipper and/or dress shoe. This accomplishes a few things: it ruins just one half of an enemy’s footwear, which is extremely frustrating; it ruins a perfectly good piece of pizza that the enemy probably wants to eat but now can’t because it is now foot-flavored; and it comes with a free slice of pizza which you can either eat or put in the other shoe on your own.

Pretzel Time Employee: okay, so this is an actual job that I could totally get, but I don’t think they would let me scream at all the people walking by in the mall that, “IT’S PRETZEL TIME!” and then peg them with cinnamon pretzel bites.

Professional Insulter: I would love to stand on the street and make fun of your friends for $2 a piece. I could make it performance-based too, as in you keep putting dollars into my jar as I continue ripping on your friends and the fact that nobody loves them.

Date Ruiner: are you in the middle of a God-awful date with a wet blanket? Then call me up and order the “Wet-Blanket Special” for just $29.99, where I come over to your table in the restaurant and wring out a wet blanket all over your date. Better yet, order the “Shit Special” for $45 and I will literally shit my pants right next to your date and never leave a two-foot radius next to them until they give up and go home. For the wealthier customers, I offer the “Mastur-dater” package for $79.99. This VIP-level package includes me getting a table where your date will be able to see me staring intently at them, and very obviously masturbating underneath the table while maintaining VERY uncomfortable eye contact. If this isn’t enough, I can pretend to “finish” for an additional $10, and if you guys switch tables, I will do the same for an additional $15 and a basket of bread (in stick form, prefereably) from your table.

The Other Pizza Man: did you really just order a large bacon-pepperoni-and-no-vegetable pizza from Domino’s all for yourself? Do you want to save some face in front of the delivery guy who would otherwise know exactly how much of that pizza is going right into your mouth in front of a TV as soon as he shuts the door? Hire me for just $5.99 to stand behind you when you answer the door to make it look like you’re going to share the pizza. For a slice of the pizza, I will also wear stained sweatpants and a scraggly beard to make you look like royalty.

The Dancer: are we human, or are we dancer? Who the fuck cares when you have a guy like me busting atrocious moves out on the dance floor for you to point out and make fun of to your date? For just $19.99, I’ll even get dressed up like Michael Jackson with the one shiny glove and wear blackface for extra controversy.

Your White Friend: are you an African American man or woman in need of someone to keep the police from harassing/tazing you for no reason? Well, look no further for the whitest friend you could possibly imagine. Trying to impress your boys with your mad rap skills? I’ll wear a bunch of white shit like horn-rimmed glasses and beige turtleneck sweaters for you to rip apart in a rap battle.

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

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.’

gold-digger

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.

food-fight

The Cheesecake Factory: A Tale of Magic and Munching

image

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.

Don’t Touch the Volume

The automobile is my favorite invention of all time. I would give up airplanes, microwaves, and comfortable seat cushions before I would give up cars. Trying to describe the emotions any gear-head feels tearing up an S-curve is a dangerous walk amongst innumerable clichés.

When you throw other people in the car, however, the automobile atmosphere spawns awkward moments like a Christmas dinner with your grandmother’s new boyfriend.

The music is always a source of conflict in the car, as it is pretty much everywhere else. My car unfortunately does not have an auxiliary input, which limits my musical choices to subpar radio stations or CDs.

Making a CD for the car is far more difficult than you may think. What if Michael Vick ran up to me in full pads one day and asks for a ride? He wouldn’t be very amused if “Who Let the Dogs Out” started playing.

Volume control is a power I grant to only a select few, carefully-chosen passengers every year. If you realize “Born in the USA” is playing and crank the dial to maximum volume, you can kiss that dial goodbye. I will turn the dial back to a very reasonable level immediately. Your little party will be over before it can even begin.

Even worse than the volume extremist is the Concerned Walker. The Concerned Walker takes countless forms, but is most often encountered as parents with a stroller or an elderly couple. When I am driving my car down the street at a very conservative twenty-six miles per hour, the Concerned Walker will often stop in his/her tracks to assault me with a gaze of pure, unadulterated hatred.

Oh, I’m sorry, is the fifteen-foot grass barrier and full lane separating us not adequate for you? I know for a fact that you don’t have a radar gun installed in your head, so cool your Terminator-wannabe stare and keep strolling.

Are the beams of hatred pouring forth from your eyes directed at the “stormy sea blue” color of my Volvo? If so, I’m sorry, but I can’t go get it resprayed a less offensive color and call myself financially responsible.

One last reoccurring moment in the car I would like to bring up is the whole, “Let’s leave Adam on the side of the road and drive off because he’s being too loud.” Thanks very much, mom, but I’m twenty years old now and still do not appreciate it one bit. I dry my tears well, but they were spilled… they were spilled.

“Fratstar: A Lifestyle”

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

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

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

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

Copy and paste this link for a taste:

Grab Me a Cola, I Have Ebola!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

INTERJECTION!

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.