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.




My Anaconda Don’t Want None

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



That is a butt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace OUT.

“Honor Roll Student” Bumper Stickers: Hitler Had One, Do You?

The automobile is a wonderful creation. Not only is it (usually) a much faster mode of transportation than a horse/goat/large dog, it gets to where we need to go in style.

Cars come in all shapes and sizes, from the Smart car for two- the perfect vehicle for someone who either didn’t have enough money to buy a regular-sized car, or for someone who has been made fun of their entire life and wishes to continue being ridiculed from the comfort of their own car.

There’s the Honda Civic, which was launched into stardom when The Fast and Furious first came out. Every poor car enthusiast with enough money jacked from the nearest 7-11 had one with a muffler big enough to shove a large melon inside, and elderly neighbors all across the country “had it up to here!”

Then you have the Toyota Prius, which I am fully convinced was created for the sole purpose of making it easy for the rest of us non-Prius-driving folks to participate in a little game the Internet likes to call, “Spot the Vegan.”

Now, I’m not saying veganism is something worth pointing out to everyone else and making fun of, but vegans most certainly do.

They usually do through a combination of bumper stickers displaying their love for animals and their refusal to eat them. I have absolutely NO problem with this, because it means there’s more for me and the rest of my healthy, protein-fueled, meat eating friends. You can have your “holier-than-thou” attitude and contemplate the taste of that shitty kale you’ve been pushing on your friends for months.

As annoying as a large portion (the vegetable portion; no meat) of vegans can be with their “Coexist” bumper stickers, they are nowhere NEAR as bad as the soccer moms and douchey dads that think telling the cars behind them that their child is on the honor roll.


This is exactly what they’re really trying to say.

What an absolutely horrible idea this is. Let’s put thousands of frustrated adults in giant metal death machines stuck in traffic on the way to work until they die, and make them painfully aware of your somewhat intelligent child. I am shocked these stickers haven’t resulted in millions of vehicular homicides each year.

If you child was the valedictorian of his/her class, then good for them, that deserves a $2.00 sticker to be displayed with pride. But if your kid was on the honor roll at Helen Keller middle school, then you need to sit down and have a long chat with yourself about what constitutes an “accomplishment.”

Being on the honor roll in middle school is the equivalent of receiving a participation trophy in soccer. You showed up almost everyday, maybe scored some goals, and didn’t burn everything to the ground, so good for you.

That is not something I want to be informed of on my way to pick up Chinese food. If you actually have something important to say to other drivers on the road, then make your own bumper stickers. To get the ball rolling, I have listed a few bumper stickers that are not only realistic, but can connect drivers.

“My daughter is a whore at Millers High School”

“My son tells me and my wife that he’s going to a Modest Mouse concert, but really he’s going to a rave and rolling face”

“Not-so-proud parent of an avid masturbator”

“I once saw my son huffing Elmer’s glue”

“My daughters are both tremendous disappointments”

“My son forces the family dalmatian to lick peanut butter off of his nuts”

Let me know if you would like to order any of the *truthful* bumper stickers above. I can also have them made into t-shirts so that you can be honest with even more people in the food court at your local mall.