Graduating Suma Cum Loudly


I am not graduating with Honors, but I am graduating with all four of my limbs, so I have that going for me.

Confused yet? I am. I’ve been awake for about 34 hours at this point, and I feel so good I’m almost convinced that this is a dream. The only definitive proof I have that this isn’t a dream is the rancid odor of coffee breath making its way up into my nostrils. It’s a pretty good way to wake yourself up via a nice deep gag every few minutes.

I’ve been up so long because I had to write the last two papers of my undergraduate career at Gettysburg College, and time management is probably my 56th best skill. My top three skills? Sure.

1. My “old Jewish woman” accent will knock your matzah balls off

2. Hitting my face on things. Seriously. I ran into a volleyball pole in fifth grade and this one kid in our gym class passed out from the sight of all the blood. I heard later that I basically ruined the class for everyone because they had to listen to the teacher talk about why running around before class starts is a bad idea.

3. Falling asleep in any sort of transportation.

This seems like a good place to start listing weird shit that has happened to me over my last four years in college.

This was our mascot until a few years ago. It’s a bullet, and definitely not a dildo.

Freshman year, I ran down my hallway at 3 AM jumping and punching the styrofoam ceiling tiles the way Mario does in the video game. I also made the “Ding!” noise every time.

Also during freshman year, I caused a scene in our hall (during the day this time). To put it bluntly, I took a massive crap that got stuck on the bowl and simply would not flush. I tried a couple times, and then gave up and left. About an hour later, I stepped outside my dorm room to see every guy in our hall talking excitedly about “It”. Someone blamed it on this kid Gerry who vehemently denied it, but I just acted surprised and let him take the blame.

Sophomore year, I somehow got into a local bar with a fake ID that said I was 26 years old. My roommate ended up bringing home a 37 year old woman with 3 kids, a C-section scar, and a husband in jail. I slept on the Yogibo in our living room.

Ah, I forgot one from freshman year. I went to this fraternity rush event one Thursday night, and got absolutely plastered. I managed to wake up in time for my 8:30 Econ class, and dragged myself across campus with nothing other than a giant-ass water bottle. About fifteen minutes into class, I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided to just go pass out in my room, and made it as far as the wooden bench just outside the Econ building before passing out on said bench and sleeping in the rain for about a half hour before I mustered up the strength to get back to my room.

A bunch of times throughout college I had a cold and sometimes wouldn’t catch the sneeze in time and a huge snot rocket would land on the floor in the middle of class. I have no idea if anyone noticed or not. It was pretty gross.

Once during junior year, my roommate and I went to McDonald’s to try to “cone” the lady working the drive-thru window. “Coning” is when you order just a cone of vanilla ice cream, and then when they hand you your cone, you just grab a fistful of the ice cream – leaving the cone in their hand – and drive off. As soon as I ordered a cone at the drive-thru speaker, I could hear the skepticism in her voice. When we pulled up to the window, this middle-aged lady peers out, looking utterly pissed off, and goes, “You aren’t going to try to ‘cone’ me, are you?”

“NoooOOOooooo,” I replied. “I don’t even know what ‘coning’ is. What is that?”

When she handed me the cone, I tried to swipe the ice cream right off, but MAN, this lady had some reflexes in those forearms. She yanked it away before I could cone her, and told me, “If you try to do that again, I will throw this ice cream in your car.”

I was like, “…..naaaah. There’s no way you would do that. You’d get in trouble.”

“Oh, really?” She said, cocking her arm back just enough to make me wonder just how much of my car’s interior she could splatter with one cone’s worth of vanilla ice cream.

It was too much. I caved, and accepted my vanilla cone like a little bitch. I don’t even like vanilla ice cream.

Here’s how it should have gone down, if that lady wasn’t such a stickler for serving vanilla cones the way Ronald McDonald told her to.


“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.

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.’


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.


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.

Homeless People are Just Permanent Protestors

Now, I like to think that I help people. I give my change to those on the streets with Sharpied cups asking for it. Do I give money to every homeless person I come across in my travels? No, because then I would be the one asking nice people like me for money.

In fact, now that I think of it, my “batting average” when it comes to giving homeless people money is WELL below one out of one hundred. This is, of course, referring to my handing over of money as the “hit.”

Now that it’s all I can think about, my homeless batting average (I do NOT hit homeless people with bats. Let’s be CRYSTAL clear about that) is truly miserable. I only started throwing my loose change into the styrofoam cups of men, women and what quite possibly might be just bundles of clothes on the sidewalk a few years ago.

I’m twenty years old now, which means I’ve passed about sixteen YEARS worth of homeless people that had as much of a chance of getting my money as I had of getting my parents’ money. Good thing, too, because that’s the money that is currently going towards the beer I buy in college.

Huh. I guess I do have more in common with some homeless people than I thought! Except the homeless people who buy beer with their change aren’t at college, living in what I would say is a (take note, ladies) FULLY tricked-out crib with four Biggie posters and a half-empty rack of Natural Light.

No, the homeless man is much more likely to be living some sort of endless childhood fantasy in a cardboard box that his imagination has turned into a condo in Boca.

I like to think about the conversations homeless people have. I try to put myself in their shoes, and wonder what I would complain about, because I do a lot of that already.

“Boy, it sure is hot.”

“Yeeeeep, got so hot last night I soaked through a week’s worth of the Daily Journal.”

“I’m sick and tired of not having a house and a bed to sleep on.”

“Me too! Why don’t we ever get any help from anybody? This one white kid, looked to be about twenty years old, passed by my spot on the corner this afternoon. Asked him for some change, and you know what he said?”

“No, what did he say?”

“He said, ‘Not today, buddy. Thursdays are half-off racks of Natty down at Beermart.'”

“What a piece of shit!”


“Let’s take to the streets!”

“We’re already on the streets.”

“Oh… yeah.”

This is what makes homeless people permanent protestors. They’re the most dedicated of the entire world’s population of protestors. Most of the ones you see on TV are just temporary protestors. These temporary protestors are nowhere close to being on the same level as the permanent protestors.

You see, these temporary protestors get to go to the protest, hopefully find cheap parking at or near the protest, snapchat the protest, protest some more, and then then talk about the protest on their way home.

Here is the critical difference between temporary and permanent protestors: the temporary protestors do not look at an empty box for a 50″ LCD TV from BestBuy and say to themselves, “Ooooh, a new living room!”

They’re the ones with the actual TV in their living room, and their living room is made of materials typically much stronger than what is freely available on the streets. They’re also the ones who have a nice time making posters and signs and little lapel pins for the friends they convinced to go to the protest with them:

“Yeah, come on, it’ll be a great time! Bring Charlene and the kids, we’ll make it a picnic. What’s that? Oh, of course! I already packed the wine coolers. You don’t think I would go to one of these sober, do you? That’s the best part about these protes- huh? Oh, it’s against the NSA or equal rights or something.”

Homeless people, on the other hand, do not have a home to go back to after the protest. In fact, all those inconsiderate temporary protestors just had a protest smack in the middle of their “homes”!

Maybe that’s why the homeless stay on the streets- they’re protesting the fact that other people keep coming into their spot and protesting.

In the honor of the joy we get from protesting things we don’t like, here are ten things homeless people and college students share in common:

1. A large number of both populations abuse alcohol.

2. Passing out outside is normal behavior.

3. “Man, I wish my parents would send me money.”

4. Some members of both communities have dogs.

5. Everyone else in the world likes the dog the most.

6. Peeing on everything outside is encouraged by other community members.

7. The police ruin all the fun.

8. Late nights and always searching for a snack.

9. “Who needs vitamins? Not me!”

10. “I wish I had air conditioning.”

If you identified with at least eight of the conditions above, chances are very good you are a homeless person. Then again, you’re a college student looking at the screen of your Macbook, which makes me wonder whether you are truly homeless or not.

I’ll leave you with this: would having unlimited internet access make homelessness more bearable for you? Keep in mind the following:

You cannot eat your iPhone.

Your internet-enabled device will most likely be stolen quickly by another homeless person.

Starbucks does not appreciate homeless people charging their internet-enabled devices in their cafes.

How to Pick the Perfect Pineapple

“If you were a fruit, you’d be a fineapple.”

These next few words are going to change your life.

Not in any sort of meaningful way, of course, but you will be able to pick the perfect pineapple for yourself and/or a sexual partner to enjoy in a nonsexual or sexual way. Your choice. 

Learning how to pick the perfect pineapple is not a task for the weak of heart. It will be a proud moment indeed when you can peruse the pineapples at your local grocer’s, but as of right now, to me, you know absolutely nothing at all. 

After all, you obviously don’t have what it takes to correctly pick, pluck and prepare the perfect pineapple. But you will. Your pineapple palate will be so refined, all of your friends will plead for you to pick out their pineapples, too. 

Are you getting sick of all the words starting with ‘p’ yet? Well isn’t that just


See what I did there? I set that up so you thought you were going to pull one over on me.

“The next word will be ‘perfect’! I guarantee you it’s ‘perfect’! I know the joke that is coming and I am so smart for doing so!”

Enough about you. Let’s talk apples. Primarily, pineapples.

Do you peruse for plump pineapples? Is there such a thing as a Peruvian pineapple?* Is it any more delicious than a Pineapple from, say, Paraguay?**


** Maybe?

Well, according to wikiHow, there is a certain scent one’s nostrils encounter when in close proximity to a ripe pineapple. A ripe one will smell particularly sweet; if it’s not ripe, it will have no scent at all.

PRO-TIP: I like to take the ripeness test to a whole other level- we’re talking Scratch-n-sniff, here. Scratching your pineapple first will scare the pineapple into releasing its scent out of pure, primal fear.

Apparently, an overly-ripe pineapple will smell of alcohol, which makes me think overly-ripe pineapple isn’t such a bad thing. If I’m going to be juicing this pineapple in order to make several dozen margaritas, it wouldn’t be horrible for the pineapple to be thrown into the blender with some booze that smells kind of the same.

Here is another bit of advice from wikiHow: “Avoid pineapples with wrinkled skin, reddish-brown skin, cracks or leaks, mold, or brown withering leaves.”

Well, that’s fairly easy. I already avoid people of the same description, so adding certain pineapples to my list of things/people/homes under the sea to avoid is not an issue. 

Step Four on this list is where it starts to get way more sexual than I thought a discussion on picking the perfect pineapple could possibly be:

Screen Shot 2014-09-01 at 12.18.12 AM


Okay, so I’m not the only one thinking about how the person who wrote this must have had the hots for a pineapple-shaped woman, right? That green, fern-like hair, a really rough, a kind of sharp and pointy face- who wouldn’t fall for that?

Screen Shot 2014-09-01 at 12.22.44 AM

BOOBS. BOOBS. BOOOOOBS. THIS PERSON IS TALKING ABOUT BOOBS, NOT PINEAPPLES. But I’m okay with it. They know what they’re talking about, and talking about it very casually. “Pretty firm, but soft enough.” Okay, buddy, keep the pineapple in your pants.

The rest of the wikiHow-to was rather boring and bland (unlike the pineapple they used in their pictures- that looks prime) so here’s a few fun pineapple facts:

1. “If you cut up that pineapple, you have to eat it in a few days.” Otherwise, the starving kids in Africa will hear about it and will watch your house burn to the ground as they consume your pineapple.

2. “A whole refrigerated pineapple can last about two weeks.” I always wonder who tests this out. I picture a bunch of scientists bringing in plates of pineapple to one guy sitting at a table. Each plate of pineapple has been sliced and stored for a different number of days, and they just keep increasing the age of the sliced pineapple they’re feeding this guy until he keels over and dies.

“Well, it seems as though two weeks is about the limit, Scientist Steve.”

“I do declare, Scientist Smith, that I concur. Let’s grab another subject and try out some mangoes.”

“An excellent suggestion. But first, let’s manGO to to lunch.”


Stay ripe.

All of the above pictures and quotes are from the actual wikiHow article, How to Tell if a Pineapple is Ripe, found here:

My Anaconda Don’t Want None

Call me old fashioned, but I am a firm believer in the success of any first date being centered around the classic introduction to parents, followed by a solid thirty-minute session of watching Eminem music videos. “Shake That” should always be the first and last song played, just to acknowledge the fact that both datees (the male shall henceforth be referred to as the Manatee) have butts on the mind.

“But Adam, what about after the Eminem sesh? What will we do then?”

This is usually the moment when I present the date’s extended family with a wide selection of fine cheeses. This serves to prove to both my date and her family that not only do I furnish the dining room tables of other peoples’ home with cheese platters, but that I know my f***ing cheeses.

It amazes me how much the dating game has changed over time. In Romeo and Juliet’s time, it was, “Oh, he has a lovely castle and a pleasant personality. I should talk to him for a few hours, get married and live out the rest of my life regretting this rash decision.”

Nowadays, it’s, “Well, he does have a strong wifi connection in his bathroom, and he only checked his phone fifteen times at dinner. I suppose there will be an exchange of genitalia placed into mouths, followed by awkward goodbyes and sporadic texting over the next few weeks.”

This new Nicki Minaj song, “Anaconda,” is one of the many signs of how the dating has been simplified to the point where it’s only a “game” if you’re the sort of person who believes playing Jenga with three blind people is a game.

Littered with both phat beats (‘phat’ being the technical term for ‘ghetto-fabulous’) and lyrics from Sir Mix-a-lot’s 1992 hit, “Baby Got Back,” Nicki Minaj’s latest piece of musical trash focuses on male genitalia quite a bit. More so, I daresay, than most anatomical textbooks available for sale.

“My anaconda don’t- my anaconda don’t- my anaconda don’t want none, unless you got buns, hun.”

I think the moment I “grew up” was when I realized Sir Mix-a-lot was not, surprisingly enough, talking about his pet anaconda’s predisposition towards hun’s buns. While a snake addicted to buns seems hilarious, the reality of the matter is not. 

I also realized how much older I had become when I watched the music video and realized that Sir Mix-a-lot is not standing on a series of oddly-shaped, giant peaches like our boy James from “James and the Giant Peach”:



That is a butt.

Do you have an absolutely fantastic personality? Do you run your own business and don’t own sixty-four cats? Well, bravo, you’re doing pretty well for yourself, but don’t get your hopes up, because Sir Mix-a-lot’s penis wants absolutely nothing to do with you if you don’t have buns.

I hate to break it to you, Sir Mix-a-lot, but not every girl out there is a pastry chef (or has access to a convection oven.) You’re just going to have to lower your standards like the rest of us and hope that your soulmate has a plate of miniature lava cakes waiting at home just for you. If you’re really unlucky, you’ll have to cope with a plate of oatmeal cookies, but that’s what consuming mass quantities of hard liquor is for, right?

Also, Sir Mix-a-lot, I sincerely hope you’re reading this, because I have something to tell you: there should not be an anaconda residing inside of your boxer briefs. Ideally, there should be a penis there (not a vagina, because it’s SIR Mix-a-lot, not MADAME Mix-a-lot, which happens to be an awesome name for either a female rapper or baker).

Another song that amazes me in its lack of talent is “Ocho Cinqo” by French Montana. Here’s a little snippet of this gem (and by ‘gem’ I mean ‘a piece of stale cat poop’):

“Tell that bitch, ‘Gimme head,’ Ochocinqo!” Are you fucking kidding me? This is the kind of lyrical genius I need to make millions off of the brain-dead people consuming this garbage? You’re telling me all my lyrics need are absurd demands and the names of unrelated famous people?

Well, sign me right the fuck up, because I have some lyrics I’ve been waiting to drop on these fools:

“Tell that intern, ‘Gimme head,’ Bill Clinton!”

“Tell that waiter, ‘Bring me bread,’ Mahatma Gandhi!”

“Tell that metalworker, ‘Melt some lead,’ Stephen Colbert!”

While this may seem funny to you, I assure you, it is not. It is a sad day indeed when someone like Nicki Minaj is in the spotlight- that is, when her gigantic ass isn’t blocking the light. Heyyoooooo!!!!

Peace OUT.

Black Licorice and Hillary Clinton: Menaces to Society

If you’ve been living under a rock for the last three years, listen up and listen good: 

Black licorice is threatening the existence of the American Dream. When was the last time black licorice held the door open for you and your small children? Riddle me that, why don’t you. 

Did you know that black licorice is Hillary Clinton’s candy of choice? Reliable (nonexistent) sources confirm that the 2016 presidential candidate not only wants to bring down America and “make other stuff really bad,” but also seeks to put black licorice in schools across America. 

WAKE UP, AMERICA. Black licorice in our childrens’ schools? I assume they’ll be putting it right next to the red licorice, which is UNFORGIVABLE. Log on to your various social media accounts right this instant and get all of your friends talking about it for a few weeks, and then just let it slip out of your mind just like that Kony 2012 guy. 


(An excellent question, indeed. Possibly Definitely a supporter of black licorice and its agenda)

As both a patriot and a blog owner, I feel as though I must stand up and say something. What that ‘something’ is has become clear to me over the past few minutes:

Kick black licorice out. Red licorice is something that has been around ever since Jesus invented it (unconfirmed, but most likely true.) Genetically modifying perfectly good red licorice to give it that awful black color is far from the answer to our problems- it IS the problem. 

When was the last time you had a piece of black licorice? Ten years ago? A few months ago? YESTERDAY? If you’ve consumed black licorice since Hillary dusted herself off (this is an ‘old’ joke. She’s old, and is quite dusty. Mostly because Bill hasn’t used her. WHOOOOOAAAAAAA did you see that?! That was political correctness going right out the window.)

Did you notice that I didn’t even finish the last sentence before that terribly cruel/hilarious Hillary pun in parentheses? Neither did I.

On a far more important note, black licorice is not only really bad for Americans who love America( you do love America, don’t you?), it’s stealing jobs from the red licorice who not only didn’t work hard at all to get to the shelves they’re on today, but complain about the lavish lifestyle they live on the air-conditioned shelves at CVS’s around the country. 

Think of the poor red licorice. They have a comfortable life up until they are eaten or tossed on the filthy floor of a movie theater, until some new black licorice comes along, Hillary in tow, promising, “better healthcare” and “a wider selection of magazines in waiting rooms.” Essentially the same garbage we heard from the mini Reese’s a few years ago. 



Enough is enough, I say. Stand up for the right to keep black licorice and Hillary out of our childrens’ schools and preserve the American dream for hundreds of generations to come. If you refuse to stand up today and do something about this incredible injustice, what’s next? Brown licorice? 


My God…. they’re joining forces.

I fear for us all. 


My First Karaoke Left Me Very Confused

I played the real guitar for a couple of years, but when I realized how much effort I had put in and how few screaming female fans I had, I gave up.

Enter Rock Band. A brilliant way to dumb down even the hardest of songs into a far less complicated series of notes to bang on the drums, press on the plastic guitar, or even to sing into the microphone. As someone who has grown up as a big classic rock fan, I usually play classic rock songs, but sometimes I throw in some other genres.

Enter my cousin, Eric. This dashing young gentleman you see below is the one who so kindly introduced me to the instantly classic “Rick-roll.” For those of you who do not know, a Rick-roll occurs when you sit down to watch the latest hilarious cat video or something of the sort, and partway through the video, your viewing pleasure is interrupted by the one and only Rick Astley singing “Never Gonna Give You Up.” While I do apologize for getting this tune stuck in your heads for the next few weeks, I think you will forgive me in just a few paragraphs.


The original Rick-roller.

It is Wednesday night at around 9:45 PM, and I am absolutely exhausted from working, and the thought of waking up early again the next day to go have another piece of my soul sucked out my body by corporate America. I have my mom make me a nice bowl of angel-hair pasta, with some red sauce and a salad. A tall glass of pretty good water rounds off this delectable meal.

My phone lights up. Ahhhh! Perhaps one of my highly-underrated Tweets or Facebook comments has received a Like, I think to myself. Alas, it is just a few of my friends inviting me out to go to a sushi bar that does karaoke. Ugh, people and activities. Just a few of my least favorite things.

I make this abundantly clear in my text messages back, but nobody cares about my life/happiness/lack of sleep, so, as usual, I am peer-pressured into going. Isn’t it funny how the nights when you don’t want to do anything at all and end up doing stuff anyway usually make the best stories?

So I’m cruising in my Volvo with no one but a few dead bees for company. I spend the car ride thinking about how badly I need to vacuum my car and what song I could possibly sing at this karaoke bar. I immediately decide against going with something gangster because I am very much aware of just how white I am. I consider singing a little classic rock, but realize that no one would enjoy listening to me fail to replicate the glory of Eddie Van Halen’s voice.

I enter the restaurant and head to the back room where the bar is. I say hello to my friends, sit down, and am told that no one from our group has gone up to sing in the past hour they have been sitting there. Wonderful. Just fucking magnificent. Now, the pressure’s on me, the “new guy” to get up there and entertain all of these drunken fools like some sort of gladiator with a way-too-bright-green t-shirt instead of armor and a microphone instead of a trident and that cool net gladiators used.

I grab the song book and begin to peruse the bar’s selection. I wish I was 21, because there’s nothing like a little liquid confidence to make yourself oblivious to the fact that you’re embarrassing yourself and your entire family lineage.

After dozens of pages, and hundreds of songs, I find it. The perfect song. The ideal blend of humor and straight-up sexiness. A smile spreads across my face as I realize what a unicorn of a karaoke song I have found.

The song, of course, is by our good friend, Rick Astley. “Never Gonna Give You Up” has foiled so many of my YouTube video-watching sprees, I have the entire song memorized. On a side-note, I was also required to serenade a particular young woman with this song as part of a particular process that I will say nothing more about.

I write down the song’s name and my own on a little slip of paper, and place it in front of the DJ’s. He looks down, reads it, and smiles.This man has obviously either been Rick-rolled several times before, or was just reminded of a romantic evening with a lady friend, a few wine coolers, low standards, and Rick Astley on the radio. This is a good sign.

After a few minutes of waiting, I hear my name called. “Yaaaayyyyy, Adam!” A few of my friends cry as we all stand up to move to the front. I feel like some sort of celebrity. Maybe the requisite sex scandal and ridiculously large contract would follow immediately after my Rick Astley impersonation in a sushi bar with eighteen people in it.

I usually don’t brag unless I want to feel good about making someone feel awful about themselves, but I need to say that I fucking murdered that song. I was on an Olympic team from the country of Adam, and I won every single goddamn medal there was to win in exactly three minutes and thirty-three seconds.

As I lowered my voice to match that of Rick’s, I couldn’t help but notice two ladies who appeared to be in their mid-thirties miming dance moves for me while they laughed. Being the good-natured, fun-loving person I am, I obliged their incessant requests to “Grab [my] crotch!” among other things that I do not remember as well as the crotch-grab. They ate that shit right up.

My friends congratulated me on a job well done, but I was saddened by the fact that this was the best thing to happen to me since I found a heads-up penny weeks before. As I was headed back to our table, I felt someone kind of tap my back, and saw a woman turn around right as I did the same. I thought nothing of it.

Later on in the night, one of our other friends got up to go sing some Miley Cyrus with some of her friends. I was in the back of the group, and as I was walking, a friend of the “Tapper” as I will call the previously-mentioned girl said something to me.

“What?” I asked, unsure of what she had just said. She had kind of a mean face, and I thought she might have been making fun of me. I quickly prepared a verbal assault in retaliation.

“You were really good up there,” She said. Oh. Guess I better save that soul-crushing retort, then.

“Thanks,” I replied, “I appreciate it!” A very normal, very nice compliment for one Rick Astley enthusiast to hand out to another, right? That’s what I thought too. Until she said this:

“Yeah, you made me absolutely sopping wet with that performance.”


I couldn’t believe my now bright-red ears. “Um, haha, thanks,” I stammered, looking for an exit. I can honestly say that I have never been left more confused in my entire life. She was not my type- especially now that I knew that she was apparently SOPPING WET. I turned to go tell all of my friends exactly what just happened, when I was blocked by Ms. Sopping’s friend, the Tapper.

“HEY, YEAH,” Tapper screamed over the music. “I HAD TO HOLD A BUCKET AND COLLECT IT ALL.”

Then, and I shit you not, the Tapper proceeded to mime holding a bucket under her friend’s vagina and collecting all of the sopping. She even pretended like it was splashing up out of the bucket and into her face.

If you are very queasy right now, I know exactly how you feel. I almost puked all over the two sopping creatures in front of me, but was too shocked for my stomach to properly transform my angel-hair pasta into a vomit projectile.

I looked around for Ashton Kutcher to pop out from behind the bar and tell me I had just been Punk!d, but this was apparently real life, and not a fucked-up dream or show on MTV.

I said absolutely nothing to the Tapper and Ms. Sopping, and rejoined my friends, utterly speechless. I felt as though I had witnessed a brutal triple homicide involving a family of raccoons and a rage-fueled moose. If someone had asked me what my name was, I honestly don’t think I would have been able to answer them.

In any case, I spent the rest of the night with my friends, trying to forget all about how I was almost just drowned in a sushi bar by some sopping girl with no shame.

At one point, I went up to the bartender and told him to put down one of those “CAUTION: WET FLOOR” signs next to her, but he didn’t get my joke. Nobody ever does.

God bless you all, and have yourselves a sopping-wet day.