A Stranger Offered Me Drugs Today

I am white. Like, really, really white. Some people say I look Asian, which is like being the white people of white people. I own several Polo shirts, tell everyone I know about the two weeks I spent one summer doing Crossfit, and get excited every year when October rolls around because Columbus Day is my favorite holiday.

I appreciate a nice, hot mocha and reading steamy romance novels while watching the 11 o’clock news just before hopping into bed with a heated blanket for extra comfort.

I also really enjoy using the phrase, “okie dokie” at least twice a day while texting my stockbroker.

My point is, I’m about as white as vanilla ice cream in a kid-sized sugar cone. Look at what I wore today:


I fucking told you I was white.

White khakis, black Polo, gelled hair. I was going into New York City for an interview, but I just as easily could have been heading to Lowes to pick up a nice coffee bean-brown finish for the birdhouse I’ve been making in my spare time.

That’s a joke. I fucking hate birds.



I love stereotypes. They exist for a reason, and I think making fun of them, tastefully or not, is usually very funny. I obviously fit the “cracker stereotype” while strolling through the city today, and I’m fine with playing into that and any other stereotype.

So is the giant black guy who offered me drugs as I walked by the park bench he was sitting on.

“Sup big guy, want some drugs?”


Kind of looked like this guy, but black!

“Uhhhhh, hahaha” was what went through my mind as I walked by, but I didn’t laugh out loud. Instead, I continued to play into the “cracker” role I was obviously doing a great job in already:

“No thank you sir, I’m good.”

I kid you not, that is exactly what I said, out loud, to a drug dealer in broad daylight in the middle of Bryant Park. It was surreal, to say the least.

As I continued on my way, I started pondering where the situation could have gone if I had, at the very least, perused this kindly man’s selection!

“Why, my good sir, yes! Yes, I would love some drugs! Let’s see what you have available for purchase.”

What kind of drugs did he think I was interested in? Was it heroin? Meth? Pot?

Or was he one of those hipster drug dealers I’ve been hearing about lately who are adamant about alcohol being a drug? Was I to be offered some black-market Budweiser?

I knew instantly that I’d be writing this piece later on the train, because I had never been offered drugs before—especially from a total stranger on a park bench.

I’d love to say that my years of elementary school experience in D.A.R.E. class came rushing back to me, but I don’t remember anything at all from those sessions.

Maybe it was all the drugs (haha, just kidding, Grandma!!!!)


"Oh Adam, you so sirry!"

The one thing I do remember from those hours in the media center with Mrs. Weinshell, who was best known for hiking her pants up to the middle of her ribcage everyday, was the lesson about online predators:

“When you’re making your first email address, make sure you don’t put any personal information in it! You don’t want strangers to know anything about you that could be used to hurt you or lure you in.”

So, my first email address was AdamJacobsOctober12th1992at13WintergreenDrive@gmail.com. I still use it for business to this very day, and have yet to receive a single message from an online predator! It’s pretty upsetting, to be honest.

Maybe I should start carving it into park benches.


My Dead Friend, Alex.

Ten points if you can guess what this post is about.

Shall I start this off the way I’m sure most blog posts dedicated to a dead friend begin? Okay then, here it goes:

I had absolutely no idea how shitty my day was going to be when I woke up this morning, but it only took about thirty seconds on my phone for me to understand fully just how shitty it would be. I had a pretty good idea of how much of the day I would waste before finally getting to all of my work, but I had no idea that some of that time would be dedicated to writing about a dead friend.

Alex and I were friends, all right. Pretty good friends, too. The kind that would dip out of high school study hall everyday to go pick up some Burger King to make up for the pathetic excuse of a school lunch.

The kind of friends that didn’t talk to each other all that often after high school, but were able to pick up exactly where we left off whenever one of us had a new, twisted joke to tell the other.

The kind of friends that would roll down the windows of his bright red Prius and scream like banshees at elderly pedestrians for no reason at all.

The kind of friends that made fun of sappy shit like this.

Today sucks. Suddenly, ordering a coffee from a Starbucks worker in an elf hat with the Peanuts theme song playing in the background seemed like a gigantic fucking joke- one that you would have pointed out in line, in a voice loud enough for the elf-hat-clad Starbucks servant to hear, I’m sure.

Listening to people talk about how stressed they are about finals makes me want to puke.

It also makes me wonder about whether it would be appropriate to make a joke about just how far you were willing to go to avoid finals. I think you would have laughed- and would have laughed even harder when other people took it way too seriously.

It doesn’t seem all that funny to me anymore, though.

What IS funny to me is remembering the THA-THUNK I felt in my tailbone whenever we sailed over the high school’s speed bumps at speeds much greater than any Toyota Prius technician ever planned for.

What IS funny to me is remembering that I still have the CD you made me in high school to introduce me to the world of trap/hardcore trance/whatever the fuck else you put on there.

What IS funny to me is remembering the many discussions we had about building an extremely satirical news site to attempt to piss off as many people off as we possibly could.

What ISN’T funny to me is the fact that I will no longer see any new pictures of you in some ridiculous new fur coat- even better, in that priest outfit you wore to a festival one time:


You were the kid who wore a goddamn horse mask to school one day, for Christ’s sake. It wasn’t even Halloween! It just a regular fucking Tuesday, and everyone was just trying to get through it, when you show up in a horse mask?! How could that spontaneity and fantastic sense of horse humor possibly be gone?


I’m not sure if you wanted to be buried or cremated or tossed into a volcano, but as someone who shared a number of morbid jokes with you, I think it’s safe to say you would not have wanted us to enroll you in the “turn-your-dead-friend-into-a-piece-of-sea-coral” program.

I was debating whether or not to go back and rewrite all of this to be in either entirely first-person or entirely third-person, but I figured you wouldn’t really give a shit, so neither do I.

Peace out, brutha. I would say I’ll miss you, but those words do not accurately convey how shitty I feel about “this”.

Plus, you’d probably just call me a pussy. Just for that, I’m posting these photos of you on the Internet.




“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.

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.

How To Tinder With Confidence (Part One)

So you’ve decided to check out Tinder, eh? Good for you. Way to put yourself out there, on the internet, for the world to see. You’re going to need some baller advice, though, right? Well, luckily for you, I happen to be a self-proclaimed Tinder professional.

First of all, you need to understand Tinder. You need to be Tinder. Tinder is not a toy- it’s a force to be reckoned with. It is a world of possibilities, and all you have to do is play by the rules to unlock those endless possibilities. Take a look at the symbol Tinder uses on smartphones:


It’s a little ball of flame, saying to you, “Hey, look at me! Click on me and try to match up with people who also click on me! I’ll set you both up with a nice empty text box for you both to fret over for days at a time, until one of you says something that you think is funny/creative/somewhat intelligent. Then maybe you’ll both agree to meet up for drinks or a movie, at which point both of your genitals will burst into balls (pun very much intended) of flame closely resembling me!”

Does this sound like something you might be interested in? Good, because it interests the hell out of me. So let’s get down to the basics:

You’re going to need a great first picture. Other people are going to be making a split-second decision on the toilet, train, or toilet on a train whether or not they want to get with you, so that first picture is absolutely crucial. Whether you’re a male or female, you should have a member of the opposite sex in your picture. This will instantly make the other person feel just the tiniest bit jealous, and will let them know that other males/females can stand to be around you. This is a good thing.

If they decide they like your first picture, they’ll probably tap it to see your Info line and any other pictures you may have. The Info line is ABSOLUTELY CRITICAL in all things Tinder. This is where you have the chance to say something witty that will drop the panties/boxers/briefs/boxer-briefs of the person examining you on their phone.

Do not, I repeat, DO NOT make your info line, “It’s going down, I’m yelling Tindeerrrrr!!!!” Or any variation of it. The first person to come up with this is a very creative person that deserves a swipe to the right; the other forty thousand girls who stole it are stupid and cannot think for themselves. If this is your thing, by all means, swipe to the right. Also included in this group are girls that think a John Lennon quote is, “just, like, really representative of who I really, like, am!”

Instead, make your info line something that is going to surprise the person reading it. Take for instance, this fascinating parental disappointment:


Now, I can’t say for certain what “DPs” stands for, but I don’t think it stands for “Drummer People(s).” I’ll allow you to come to your own conclusions.

My personal preference in terms of the Info line is something shocking, such as, “I can eat five pounds of grass in one sitting,” or, “Sometimes I just feel like a big pile of Hamburger Helper.” These informational lines will intrigue the other person and make them wonder what life would be like with a big pile of Hamburger Helper. If you’re lucky, they’ll swipe you to the right as well, which brings me to my next point:


Stay tuned for the next installment of this informational series, but don’t tell your friends about it. This is powerful information, and as Uncle Ben once told Spiderman, “With great (Tinder) power, comes great responsibility.”

Speaking of Spiderman, here’s a quick joke:



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.



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.  

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.  

The Chests Have Eyes

Can someone tell me why my nipples are always staring at me in the mirror? It’s like they know my darkest secrets. The worst part is that they never blink. I’ve never lost a staring contest until I decided to challenge my own man-mounds (trademark pending). I’ve written a short description of a screenplay trying to explain the mystery behind them:

The family the film is about starts off as very happy and go-lucky, with thousands of miles of open road to cruise on their coast-to-coast trip. Of course, one of the children is a complete d**k and keeps complaining. The audience can’t help but wish that he dies first.

Disaster strikes! Could it be the classic overheated engine, spewing smoke when the hood is lifted? No, too easy. Let’s have a brontosaurus charge and flip the oh-so-cozy family RV over several times. Slow motion shots of pots and pans flipping in the air will be cool.

The dinosaur charges off, never to be seen again. Hopefully the audience is as confused and shaken up as the family is right now. Rule number one of filming an RV crash: shake it up like it’s Tropicana.

The family is slow to climb out of the mangled wreckage that was their ticket to the West coast. One of the characters (it doesn’t matter which one) has broken their leg in the crash. Oh dear. Clearly this one is going to be a problem later down the line.

The family huddles up and tries to hash out their game plan. The d**k kid is now whining about how he/she was right, and how they just should have stayed home. This child is given the choice of a spanking “In front of every single tumbleweed in this desert” or utter silence by his father. You like the father. He seems like a pretty chill guy. A little too “chill” perhaps.

The father decides that because they are a “progressive” family all about “equality”,the mother should be the one to climb up the nearby precarious ridge to try to find a town or gas station nearby. On her way up, we hear her muttering about how “totally bogus” this trip is.

She makes it to the top of the ridge, looks around, and lo and behold- there’s a town not too far from where they’re stranded! Oh, happy day! It looks like this movie will be shorter and happier than the trailer led us to believe! 

The mom makes it back down to the crushed RV. “Alright, gang, (the family loves using the word “gang”) we’re going to have to walk a ways but we should get there by tomor-“

The camera freezes on her face as she rounds one corner of the RV. Her eyes are peeled wide open, mouth agape, instantly as pale as the clouds floating above the desert. Why is she in such a state of shock? Why do we have a very bad feeling about this?

Because as the camera pans out, we see her youngest child BEING HELD BY A GIANT NIPPLE. I’m not talking about your run-of-the-mill, simply a little bit too large nipple here. I’m talking about one of these:


 But way more intimidating. The one in the movie will have a lot of hair. An uncomfortable amount of hair. This nipple is totally jacked, and has six arms. I’m essentially talking about Planet of the Apes, but with more hair and more nipples. 

The gargantuan nipple has its arms clamped around the kid. Oh, wait- it’s the kid that no one likes anyway. All is right in this strange world.

The kid is screaming. Everyone’s freaking out. The dad sprints into the RV’s wreckage and reappears with a section of broken pipe. He cocks his arm back, slow-motion facial expression of angry determination on his face, and chucks the pipe like a Drain-O bomb. It soars end-over-end in the desert air, before clocking the captive kid straight in the eyeball.

Damn. We thought the dad would be super-cool! Instead, he has failed; fallen to his knees in disappointment, while the giant nipple chuckles.

The camera pans out, centering on the nipple ready to rip the child right in half. We don’t know what to feel. Should we feel bad that this kid is about to be torn like the Hulk’s t-shirts? Should we feel good because this kid is not likable in the least? So many questions!



It charges in, IMAX speakers blaring artificial brontosaurus cries. The majestic beast thrusts its massive dome-piece (head) into the nipple’s areola. The child soars through the air like a well-spun discus, tumbling into the arms of his father. What a save.

This is the climax of the movie. The remaining 10-15 minutes will show the family approaching their savior, realizing it respects them and simply didn’t like the look of their RV, and give them all a ride to L.A. where Tom Cruise greets them with open arms and a fat check for their new brontosaurus friend, whose name is now Jerry.

 The End.

Sequel idea: the same exact thing happens, but now it’s the brontosaurus’s SON.

Pizza Makes Me Moist

The title of this post is absolutely, 100% true. Pizza makes me incredibly moist. In the mouth. Because that’s where my taste buds are located. And they’re the ones enjoying the pizza.

I was going to order Domino’s online the other day while watching Survivor Man. Nothing gets me hungrier than some dude eating bugs and living in squalor for minutes at a time. A commercial for Domino’s came on, and I drooled over their delectable, cheesy, flavorful, virtual pizzas for a good twenty five seconds.

I knew I was going to order one a solid eight seconds into the commercial. In addition to the “specials” information, my good friend Domino offered 50% any sized pizza for a week- and this was the last day this incredible deal was offered. Brilliant advertising, Domino’s. Your ad department and my brain hooked right up. Get me that giant cheesy grease pie and shove it into my stomach right this instant.

Away to Dominos.com I went. They make it quite easy to choose “Order Online” and bring you directly to their entire menu. I required one pizza, so the button selection was much easier than anything on the Obamacare website (Hello, NSA!).

Then it was on to what is quite possibly the most crucial selection made on Domino’s online order page. No, it is not the toppings: choosing between pepperoni, extra cheese, or even Raymundo from Rocket Power’s favorite (Hawaiian, obviously) pales in comparison to this life-changing decision.

I am talking, of course, about the crust. 

The pizza crust: Can make or break a pizza. A hard-on-the-outside-soft-on-the-inside crust can turn an average 5/10 pizza into a seven or eight. If someone served me a pizza made entirely of crust, I would praise them.

Domino’s offers Brooklyn style crust, but only for large and extra large pizzas. Because I am not a family of four or a sumo wrestler, I opted for the medium sized pizza. Just the right amount to keep my feast socially acceptable, as well as eat a vulgar amount of pizza

So, my options have been cut down to a crunchy thin crust, a homemade pan crust, and hand tossed. I personally believe that anyone who chooses a crunchy thin crust has serious personal issues and should seek help, so I was left with homemade pan crust. Easy decision, right? “Homemade pan crust is excellent, Adam!” You might tell me, and I would agree.

But we would both be wrong.

Gluten free 10″. Two words and a number have never made me feel such a chill. Except for maybe, “I hate 69.” I would have a serious problem with that madness.

Don’t get me wrong; I love the words “gluten” and especially “free”, but the two together just sucks. I understand that you are allergic to gluten, but it’s bad for everyone. Not just you. Don’t ruin everyone’s lunch break by insisting you must go somewhere that offers, “at least a gluten free salad!”

Anyway, I completed the order. But wait! Two lava cakes for just $2.99 extra?! Those magic words will get me any time. Boom. Lava cakes on the way.

The lava cake was as fantastic as such a natural, amazing event made into a small cake can be. And only added that much more to the intense heartburn I felt from the pizza from 11 P.M. to about 2 A.M. But you know what?

I would do it again. Over and over again. And I most certainly will.