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

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“Homefries”

*Scene opens with a very average looking man in a small deli, buying a bacon and egg sandwich with homefries on it*

Cashier: “Whoa, Jarvis, that’s a good move, putting those fries on the sandy! Better watch out for anyone who tries to steal it!”

Jarvis: “I will protect this sandwich with my life.”

*Jarvis is climbing aboard the crowded train, finds a seat next to someone in a row of three*

Jarvis (thinking): “I hope this guy doesn’t try to steal my sandwich… better get a weapon ready.”

*Jarvis pulls out car keys, flips open the switchblade-like Volvo car key*

*A beautiful girl sits down on the other side of Jarvis. Jarvis is dumbfounded and starts babbling incoherently while she politely smiles. When Jarvis pulls out the sandwich, she notices*

Beautiful stranger: “Oooohhh, are those homefries on top of your sandwich? Those are my absolute favorite! I know this is a little weird, but can I have a bite? I promise I don’t have polio or whatever.”

Jarvis (thinking): “MAJOR FUCKING DILEMMA. Sure, I’d love to give her a bite and maybe get her phone number out of the deal, but what if I need that extra energy today to be able to chase down a mugger? Oh well, I’ll hook it up.”

*Beautiful stranger takes a bite of the sandwich in slo-mo, obviously making it as sexual as possible. Cut to shot of Jarvis licking his lips. She goes to take another bite*

Jarvis: “Um, excuse me, I kind of need the rest of that. It’s my breakfast.”

Beautiful stranger: “OH MY GOD, you sick freak! You’re trying to steal my sandwich?! AND you want to use it to ‘plug my tight little ass?’ What the HELL is wrong with you?”

*Jarvis is a deer in headlights as other people on the train start to yell and throw various breakfast foods at him*

 

The Time I Got My School Bus Pulled Over By the Police

One of the saddest nights of my life occurred on Halloween when I was in the third grade. I was a sassy individual at the time, clad in some sweet running pants from Old Navy that made the uber-cool “skkrrrscchhh skkrrrscchhh” sound when I rubbed my legs together while I walked. This was to alert all of the third-grade girls to both my presence as well as my commanding ability to get whatever pants I wanted when shopping with my mom.*

*I had absolutely no say in the remainder of my wardrobe for the next fourteen years or so. In fact, I still don’t

All throughout elementary and middle school, I was what we cultured, mature adults call a, “little fucker.” I had absolutely zero respect for authority, and caused disruption after disruption during class time. I also had a very short fuse, and would freak out at the lunch table on a regular basis as I obliterated Go-Gurt after Go-Gurt all over the clothes my mom bought me.

On this Halloween in third grade, I was particularly pissed off on the bus home from school because my old, crabby teacher had confiscated my digital Connect Four game. Mrs. Linker, I promise your old, flabby ass that the only reason I was playing it during English was because I already knew how to spell “apartment.” There’s a reason I won that in-class spelling bee, and I probably would have gone on to be a professional Connect Four player had my career not been cut so short.

Sitting at the back of the bus (because all of the fifth graders had already gotten off) fuming at my inability to play Connect Four, I expressed my anger to my fellow third-grade bus buddies in the form of a long series of incoherent swear words and seat punches.

“That blows, man,” were the comforting words of one friend. “Hey, check it out! There’s a cop behind us!”

As a third-grader, I had (luckily) not had a great deal of exposure to the police. My past experiences up until that point had been an early-morning phone call to 9-1-1 just for the fun of it, and a D.A.R.E. officer passing one of his armor-piercing rounds to each kid in the class. How this moment holding a bullet was supposed to convince me not to do drugs, I still cannot comprehend. It did, however, make me want to get a gun and find some armor to pierce.

“Yo, you should totally flip off the cop, dude!” One of my brilliant cohorts exclaimed.

An interesting prospect to be sure, I thought to myself. Perhaps the police officer at the tail-end of a long shift will enjoy the sight of a small middle finger pressed up against a dirty bus window. Maybe he’ll think it’s funny and will let me shoot something with those armor-piercing rounds I know he has.

This is the thought process of an eight year-old whose thought process does not extend to the possible negatives resulting from a certain action.

In any case, I know extended that finger so goddamn well, I thought some sort of medal was going to instantly appear around it. I also know that I have never run to the front of a bus so goddamn quickly in my life as I did the second I saw him light up his cruiser.

Our poor bus driver, Ed, probably thought he was speeding and was about to get his license/job taken away. Nope. Instead, the officer came onto the bus and talked to the entire bus for roughly ten minutes about respecting officers of the law and not being “little fuckers” in general. I, of course, was too busy wondering whether I had gotten away with my badassery or not. When the police officer finally bid our driver a good day and stepped off the bus, I thought I had gotten away with the greatest heist the world had ever seen.

I had no idea at the time that I was wearing my New York Giants bright (and I mean fucking BRIGHT) red and blue jacket on the bus. This had most certainly identified myself to the cop as the little fucker with the finger of steel, but to his credit, he didn’t single me out. If he had, I absolutely would have shit my pants in that bus seat, which probably wouldn’t have made the bus smell any worse.

Getting away without a direct confrontation had me on a serious high. If I could flip off a policeman, what else could I get away with in plain sight? Could I start pantsing people left and right in the cafeteria? Would I dare waltzing straight into the principal’s office (with whom I was on a first-name basis) and giving her a taste of the ol’ “middle diddle*” as I like to call it?

The answer to both of these ridiculous questions is, of course, a resounding “no.” While I could not go around like some sort of Genghis “Middle Finger/Name” Khan, I was still pretty excited that I had gotten away with the third-grade equivalent of murder, or at least vehicular homicide.

That all changed the second I stepped off the bus to say hi to my mom. Of course, I was not stupid enough to brag of my after-school activities (i.e. flipping off a police officer) to my mom, but my little brother didn’t even have two feet on the pavement before spilling the beans.

Oh, balls. I had completely forgotten about the one tiny whistleblower who could bring my evil, successful plan crashing down in an instant. If I had been as forward-thinking as I am today, I would have bought him off while still on the bus with a couple of quarters or let him use my Xbox for an hour. If I was as forward-thinking as I was today, I also would not have been such a fucking idiot as to flip off a police officer.

In addition to a stern scolding and possibly a few spankings (I’m not 100% sure, I kind of blacked out for the whole disciplining process; a recurring childhood theme of mine), I was also not allowed to go trick-or-treating that night. What’s that? You forgot that this story occurred on Halloween? Well, apparently Obi-Wan Kenobi did, too, because instead of roaming the streets of Connecticut hunting down candy, he was at home playing Pokemon monopoly.

In the words of every bad guy brought down by Scooby Doo and his gang, “I would have gotten away with it, too, if it wasn’t for you damn kids and your dog.”

In this case, I was brought down by a single child two years my junior. And he didn’t even have a dog.

I’m a Dirty Little Man

I have hit an all-time low. I’m at the tail end of a couple of hours filled with applications to various writing and editing internships, and I am mentally drained. I am also very, very ashamed. Today’s events will make a pretty good episode of my reality show that people most likely watch in some sort of alternate reality.

I’m not ashamed because of my failure to secure a job I want- no, I actually enjoy the rejections now. They assure me that life is meaningless and I am doing absolutely everything wrong. Now, instead of crying into my pillow at night, I laugh like a clinically insane person living in a shopping cart under a bridge in Cincinnati as I think about how ridiculously hard we have to work to find jobs nowadays. I relish the large portion of the best years of my life I spend looking at a computer screen filled with Tweets and Help Wanted ads. 

Just so you know, I’m still sniggering right now. I find it extremely funny how low I have sunk a self-proclaimed, “writer.” Just how low can I go, you ask? This is how low I can, and have (recently), gone:

I just submitted an application to write dirty, “Adult” short stories for a well-known porn actress to narrate and sell to what must be very, very desperate and/or kinky people with internet access and a Kindle.

Get your scoffs and disappointing exhalations of breath out of the way, you animals. A writer has to do what a writer has to do, and in this case, what this writer has to do is stoop to levels so low, they were previously only achieved by the world champion of limbo.

In case you were wondering, the world champion of limbo is this person:

Image

 

How she gets back up; I do not know

I have to say, though, she comes nowhere close to how low I can go… in terms of MORALS!!!! (Not physical height). In all seriousness, keep me in your prayers or personal diaries, whichever you prefer. I need this job. I also need to rapidly become very good at writing dirty short stories. Here are a few titles I just thought of:

Gulliver’s Travels to the Brothel

Bone-e-o and Juliet

Moby Dick (This one pretty much wrote itself)

Suckleberry Finn

Nineteen Eighty-Whore

Catcher in the Guy

 

The Tale of Little Butters Willoughby: Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Little Butters Willoughby was born.