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.



New Nukes because the Old Ones Didn’t Come in Blue

It’s all fun and games until someone pushes the Big Red Button.

I wonder if there is a designated button that is rather large and red for the President to press, or if I’ve just convinced myself that it’s just one of those stupid Snapple facts which may or may not be made up (although I’m sure there’s a Snapple fact with the answer).

In case you missed it, President Obama recently announced his plan to spend one TRILLION dollars updating our nuclear arsenal over the next thirty years. If you want to read about all the details, Google it. If you want to read all about how stupid an idea it is, click this:


First of all, let’s start with the absurdity of updating a NUCLEAR ARSENAL. What do the new ones get? A few different color choices and maybe some heated mirrors? I could understand why you’d want to update some nukes if they’d lost their ability to wipe humanity off the face of the earth, but this just makes us look like we’re trying to have the best fireworks display of the Milky Way.

One of the main goals of the “update” is to arm a whole bunch of shit with nuclear weapons: boats, submarines, and planes. I guess it’s no longer convenient or fast enough to obliterate humanity from the plain old ground.

Fortunately, there is a solution, not only for the nuke problem, but for widespread violence as a whole:


Simply put, everyone in the world should buy a completely custom flag designed any way the individual wants it, with one catch: each flag has to carry emblazoned upon it the owner’s face, smack in the middle of the flag.

Think about it. No more will we take so much pride in the Olympics; in the fact that people born in our area are way better at pole vaulting than all the people in a different area.

Instead, nobody will ever lose their friends in a crowd again. Forgot that girl’s name at the bar you’re at? Good thing her name is in block letters right on her FaceFlag above her head.

I should mention here the method I propose of handling these FaceFlags, because expecting all of humanity to carry their FaceFlags with them at all times would be absurd. Instead, I propose the FlagPoel: spelled that way because that’s just the revolutionary mindset we have here at FaceFlags.

The FlagPoel, put quite simply, will be the exact same thing as the flag ATV riders use when riding in the desert, but with an attachment to clip onto a belt.


I’ve already received six hundred thousand orders for FaceFlags, so get yours today by sending me $40 and never doing any sort of independent research to determine whether FaceFlags are real or not.

Do your part, because once everyone has a fully-customized FaceFlag of their own, nobody is going to want to get nuked and risk some idiot in a submarine vaporizing the best $40 they ever spent.

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.

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.


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.

Area Teen’s First Hibachi Experience: “F****n’ Sweet”

Whether he’s knocking over elderly citizens’ recycling bins or tearing up the local 7-11’s parking lot, Kleindale’s favorite amateur Razor scooter rider, Richard Leopard, has a knack for drawing a crowd. Last month, it was that sweet bunny hop over the curb at Kohl’s, but not it appears as though Leopard is getting a taste for fine dining.

scooter-douche-2A recent picture of R. Leopard and his scooter

An anonymous tip from a Kleindale citizen led our reporters to Fud Throhn Atchu, Kleindale’s only hibachi restaurant, where Richard was leaving after his first encounter with the dining novelty. In search of what makes people pay to have their food thrown at them, we asked Leopard what he thought of his experience:

“Yeah, that Tamagotchi s**t was pretty good,” Leopard told reporters at the scene. “Flipping chicken and some fried noodles into peoples’ mouths? That ish was TIGHT. I was a little thrown off by all the Asian dudes, though. They all knew karate with those big-ass knives and that was not chill.”

When asked which main course he ordered, Richard told us he asked for the vegetable dinner, but then took a large portion of his friend’s filet mignon.

“No way I’m paying for the good stuff,” Leopard stated. His friend, a Mr. Stanley Lilbitch, had this to say:

“I don’t usually have a problem with Dick here taking my food,” Stanley explained, “I usually get the leftovers from the girls he gets at the scooter competitions, so I will gladly sacrifice what was an excellent piece of filet mignon.”

When asked what his favorite part of the hibachi experience was, Leopard replied, “Ooh, dude! That flaming onion volcano bull***t fo’ shizzle.”

Our reporters state that the distinct smell of sake lingered in the air for several minutes after Dick Leopard rode the latest Razor scooter into the sunset.

Excessive Squirrel Fornication Wreaks Havoc on Campus

Gregory Campbell, a sophomore communications major at Gettysburg College, has suffered a great deal of anxiety over this past semester at school. While midterm exams and what he describes as a, “Pretty tough schedule; I have a 9 A.M. on Wednesdays,” bring to Gregory the same stress as most college students, he says there’s a different terror on campus that stresses him out to the max:

Squirrels. That’s right folks, those furry rodents you’ve been watching dig for forgotten nuts in piles of snow for the last few months have turned to a new hobby: fornicating. They say springtime is the best time, but Gregory Campbell is not having the best time.

“I’m really tired of seeing these squirrels make passionate love on the grounds of Gettysburg. I pay $50,000 a year to go to this school, and I think that should buy some sort of mass squirrel genocide,” Campbell stated angrily. After some fact-checking, this reporter discovered that Gregory, does not, in fact, pay $50,000 a year to go to Gettysburg College. His parents do.

To Gregory Campbell’s credit, however, he has taken action, forming a club that meets every Tuesday to discuss the issue and try to come up with a concrete solution. One of their solutions, in fact, involved pouring concrete over every inch of the college campus to take away any potential hiding places for a particularly tasty nut. When this idea was rejected by the president of the college, the club went out, bought a club for every member, and began chasing and trying to bash every squirrel in sight.

All but one squirrel declined to comment on the situation and their recent fornications. Many, in fact, were too busy fornicating. The one that did choose to add to the discussion, one Mr. Nut Tea, had this to say:

“I think we squirrels are getting a bad rap,” he began, “I mean, everyone’s doing it. I saw two humans doing it in the fountain the other night. Good thing I had my Go-Pro strapped on. Caught the whole thing. I’m saving it for when Maureen gets back from visiting her aunt and wants to take things in the grass to a new level,” Mr. Nut Tea told reporters.



69 Reasons to Stop Looking at These Types of Articles

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

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

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

*I have a blog!!!! 

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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


Bowling with Barack

Bowling. It’s a sport. It makes for an excellent birthday party, and serves as the stage for some very embarrassing moments. We’ve all seen the fourteen-year old girl two-hand the ball, swing back, and make sure it got enough air for the crash to frighten absolutely everyone in the alley.

I’m not completely certain, but I would say this is one of the lowest points of my life. I am sitting in the dark, typing away, while bowling plays on the television.

The manager of one team just substituted a lefty in for himself. Norm simply didn’t have what it takes to thrive in such a high-pressure, testosterone-fueled competition.

Did I mention the replacement’s name is Rhino Paige? No? Well, listen up: the replacement’s name is Rhino Paige. Rhino. I wonder if his parents conceived him on the back of said animal, or inside a rhino habitat at a zoo. Those are really the only two reasonable explanations for naming your offspring Rhino that I can even begin to fathom.

Of course, Rhino may have been born with the kind of mid-forehead, massive f*****g horn so characteristic of his namesake. If so, the doctor that took care of it should be given some sort of medal, because it looks like a completely normal human forehead.

I wonder what the procedure for the removal of a horn in the middle of the forehead would consist of. Does the doctor receive the prep sheet from a nurse, take a quick look, and go, “S**t. I knew I should have gone to law school”? I imagine him going into a special cabinet labelled, “Weird s**t” and pulling out a massive handsaw. That’s the only thing he keeps in the cabinet. A handsaw. The solver of all strange medical problems.

I would love to talk to Obama about Obamacare and the pitiful failure of a website we all love to make fun of on a regular basis. I bet he gets a lot of strange questions about it everyday.

 “Damn, Michelle, you know I want to watch Keeping Up With the Kardashians with you, but four to five is designated ‘Deal with stupid requests’ time. Smooches.”

He strolls into the oval office with a dejected look on his face. “Alright, let’s get this over with,” he sighs. “Gerard, what do you have for me? Please tell me Hillary isn’t still asking for orange Crush to be served in the cafeteria. She better recognize that there’s no way I’m bumping grape out of the soda lineup. I am the mother******* President of the United States. Let her step to that.”

“Well, sir, she hasn’t asked in a few days, but there is something that came through yesterday that I think you should look at.”

“Give it here.” Gerard hands Barry a piece of old parchment that looks surprisingly like human skin. Hmm. Intriguing.

He scans the page, eyebrows narrowing as his eyes read on. He stops about halfway in, carefully placing the parchment on his desk as he leans back in that badass chair from House of Cards. 

“You’re telling me,” he begins slowly, “that a child was born yesterday, with a F***ING HORN in the middle of its forehead? Gerard, if this is another one of your repugnant jokes, I’ll have you sent to Guantanamo. I’ll reopen that s**t just for you.”

 “N-n-no sir,” Gerard stammers, “It’s not a joke. The child, his- his name is… Rhino sir.”

I imagine this is what his face would look like:


“So…. what do these idiots want from me?” El Presidente asks. “Do they want me to fly out and sign it? I don’t want to touch that mutant.”

Gerard is little calmer now that Guantanamo seems to be off the table of possible “vacations” in the near future. “They don’t want your signature, sir. They simply want to know if the horn’s removal is going to be covered under Obamacare.”

“No,” he proclaims. “I will not be the laughing-stock of Congress again. Those Republicans hurt my feelings every chance they get. That unlucky Rhino kid will just have to live with it. He should be able to make a career out of fetish porn. Hell, I’d watch it. Michelle and the girls would love it too. It’d make a great family movie night.”

Little did they know Rhino would grow up to become a professional bowler, making absolutely no one in his family proud.

I bid you ado as I sit here typing Obama-self.  

ImageAt least Barack thinks I’m funny. 

Dental Dam(nation)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Dental dams!” She cries.

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

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

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

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

White male, over and out.