Fun Facts! about me

I believe people who post anything about Leg Day should have their legs mummified with a dozen rolls of duct tape. Try putting pants on like that. Terrible experience. The best/worst part is it’s always the people with legs like Spongebob posting those stupid mirror selfies that should have died in 2004.

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Backpacks are my favorite human add-on. Backpacks with extra straps are my favorite backpacks. Sometimes I worry my girlfriend thinks I’m checking out another girl, but it’s really all about me and the backpacks. I own three at the moment, but am always keeping an eye open for strays that could use a good home.


Exhibit fuckin’ A

Sometimes I try to communicate telepathically with my dogs and convince them to wink at me. I only succeeded once out of a few hundred attempts, on the very first try. I almost fainted when our yellow lab Natchez slowly, deliberately, winked at me and then looked away like nothing happened. It makes me even more convinced that dogs are human souls stuffed inside furry, four-legged bodies.

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When those bitches at the park were fiending for the bone but they don’t know you nutless

I used to really want an afro as a kid. Everyone I ever saw who had an afro just looked so cool to me. Of course, I eventually grew up and realized that an afro may very well not be the best look for me.

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Why yes, I did use the same outline of an afro to give myself more beautiful eyebrows and facial hair than I could ever hope to grow.

I love memes. I spend hours poring over the Internet’s finest (or, as it’s called by the street youths of today, “dankest”) memes and have developed what has to be the keenest meme-sniffing nose this side of the Atlantic. I once sniffed out a dank meme from eight Instagram accounts away.

I peed in the corner of a busy nightclub one time. I was super sneaky about it: I faced the corner with my phone up to one ear and my pinky in the other (like that would somehow help me hear the person on the phone over the unce unce unce unce)and kept shaking my head periodically to mimic an avid conversation. I felt like the Daredevil.

Well, that’s about it. The only other Fun Facts! I really have are that I’ve owned eight different color combinations of a single Adidas shoe and that I’ve always wondered if growing my butt hair to sasquatch-length would be a turn-off (a good thing) in prison.


Not as big of a turn-off as I thought…


A Few of My “Weird Job” Ideas

I am thigh-deep in the job search at the moment, so I’d like to take a moment to write down a few of the weirdest ideas I’ve had as to how to make money doing the least or the most interesting work possible.

Presidential Entertainer: everyone gets a little bored during the workday, and I’m sure the President of the U.S. is no different. So, I propose Mr. Obama hire me to keep things light and refreshing in the War Room. “Mr. President, you’re going to want to have a look at this,” and it’s a video of a cat eating a broccoli calzone and making a gross face. This will make drone strikes way more fun.

Scooby Doo: okay, bear with me on this one. I want to create a GoFundMe to deck out a van like the Mystery Machine and go around solving everyday mysteries. Like, if someone’s cat has gone missing: “Zoinks! I bet it was eaten alive by a wild coyote! This area is known for having a lot of coyotes.”

Refresher: for this professional role, I would basically just chew minty gum all day and breathe on people rich enough to pay me to have a minty breeze around them at all times.

Girl Scout Cookie Salesman: there is nothing I would love more than to prove the merits of capitalism by cornering the girl scout cookie market with slightly discounted prices, thereby ripping the rug out from under the Girl Scouts’ organization and assuming the monopoly. Plus, free Thin Mints.

The Pizza Man: I propose being paid $8 by whomever wants to pay me to put a piece of pizza in their enemy’s slipper and/or dress shoe. This accomplishes a few things: it ruins just one half of an enemy’s footwear, which is extremely frustrating; it ruins a perfectly good piece of pizza that the enemy probably wants to eat but now can’t because it is now foot-flavored; and it comes with a free slice of pizza which you can either eat or put in the other shoe on your own.

Pretzel Time Employee: okay, so this is an actual job that I could totally get, but I don’t think they would let me scream at all the people walking by in the mall that, “IT’S PRETZEL TIME!” and then peg them with cinnamon pretzel bites.

Professional Insulter: I would love to stand on the street and make fun of your friends for $2 a piece. I could make it performance-based too, as in you keep putting dollars into my jar as I continue ripping on your friends and the fact that nobody loves them.

Date Ruiner: are you in the middle of a God-awful date with a wet blanket? Then call me up and order the “Wet-Blanket Special” for just $29.99, where I come over to your table in the restaurant and wring out a wet blanket all over your date. Better yet, order the “Shit Special” for $45 and I will literally shit my pants right next to your date and never leave a two-foot radius next to them until they give up and go home. For the wealthier customers, I offer the “Mastur-dater” package for $79.99. This VIP-level package includes me getting a table where your date will be able to see me staring intently at them, and very obviously masturbating underneath the table while maintaining VERY uncomfortable eye contact. If this isn’t enough, I can pretend to “finish” for an additional $10, and if you guys switch tables, I will do the same for an additional $15 and a basket of bread (in stick form, prefereably) from your table.

The Other Pizza Man: did you really just order a large bacon-pepperoni-and-no-vegetable pizza from Domino’s all for yourself? Do you want to save some face in front of the delivery guy who would otherwise know exactly how much of that pizza is going right into your mouth in front of a TV as soon as he shuts the door? Hire me for just $5.99 to stand behind you when you answer the door to make it look like you’re going to share the pizza. For a slice of the pizza, I will also wear stained sweatpants and a scraggly beard to make you look like royalty.

The Dancer: are we human, or are we dancer? Who the fuck cares when you have a guy like me busting atrocious moves out on the dance floor for you to point out and make fun of to your date? For just $19.99, I’ll even get dressed up like Michael Jackson with the one shiny glove and wear blackface for extra controversy.

Your White Friend: are you an African American man or woman in need of someone to keep the police from harassing/tazing you for no reason? Well, look no further for the whitest friend you could possibly imagine. Trying to impress your boys with your mad rap skills? I’ll wear a bunch of white shit like horn-rimmed glasses and beige turtleneck sweaters for you to rip apart in a rap battle.

“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 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.