Amicably Handicapped

In recent years, I have learned that when human beings are exposed to large groups of the same individuals for any extended length of time, they have a tendency to identify certain individuals that they instinctively like, and certain individuals that they instinctively hate. If you look back at experiences from high schools, colleges, or any large office setting, you will undoubtedly recall who these people were. I’m not talking about the people that you had regular interaction with at these places, I’m talking about the people that you saw everyday but never engaged in a conversation with: The person you always passed in the hall on your way to the bathroom, the person who always seemed to eat lunch in the cafeteria at the same time as you, and the guy who sits four cubicles away you that laughs like the Count from Sesame Street. All of these familiar, yet unknown people seem to have a way about them that inexplicably made you either want to give them a hug, or body slam them into a tub of used needles.

What makes our feelings about these people so unique is the fact that we build our opinion about them through observation, much like characters in a movie or television show. We develop our impressions based on the way these people look, the way they carry and conduct themselves, and the way that they interact with others. It’s obviously narrow-minded and unfair to build these kinds of prejudgments about people we have never spoken to, but we all do it, at the very least in our own minds. It’s just human nature.

I share my place of employment with about 300 other people, and as you can probably guess, there are many individuals that I innately despise. Some of my hatred stems solely from the physical appearance of others. For example, there is a woman who walks into the building at the same time as me every morning, and there is nothing wrong with that, except she looks like one of the weasels from Roger Rabbit and I don’t like it.
There is also a woman gets her coffee at the same time I do everyday, and this would be fine too, except she looks like a pale flamingo and I don’t care for that very much either. I like women, and I like animals. When the two are mixed together it creates problems for me.

Some more misery seems to develop from the demeanor of others. People who fit into this category include the rotund woman who laughs incessantly and completes every sentence by saying “You know what I mean?” There is the man who for reasons that have never been explained, speaks with an Italian mobster accent at the beginning of all his conversations, and I have even a vendetta out for a man that I have never even seen before, much less spoken to. I have taken issue with who ever this man is because he leaves his filthily Preparation H wipes in the toilet with the wrappers littered on the floor. That shit is gross. If I ever catch this him in the act, I'll leap over the stall divider, use his head as a toilet brush, and mop the floor with his face.

My strongest animosity however, probably comes from the office cliques. One in particular that truly irks me is a group I like to call “The Corporals.” I call them this because to me, the members of this gang embody every stereotype you could ever imagine about the everyday corporate drone. They are an intolerable group of thirty-somethings who are all about 4 or 5 years into marriage, have a couple of young kids, and absolutely nothing interesting to talk about. Of course, these pricks always seem to find a table next to me in the cafeteria and I am forced to listen to discussions about their uneventful mornings, their 401Ks, and how little Jonathan shit in a pot over the weekend. In all the years of my life, I have never thought that it would be remotely possible to carry on a 45 minute conversation about razor blades, but these clowns middle-managed to do it. I sat through the entire debate, thinking about whether it would be more effective for me to put a Gillette or a Schick to my wrist if I ever became as boring as these morons.

Believe it or not, there are some people at work that I actually enjoy seeing everyday. As I mentioned before, women who look like animals bother me, but for some strange reason, old men that look like animals are heroic in my book. Every once and a while in the hallways, I’ll encounter a man who looks like a Shar Pei, and it will instantly light up my world.
In our cafeteria, there is a black fellow who prepares the majority of my meals, and everyday I ask him how he's doing. I love asking him that because I know as soon as I close my mouth, he will respond like clock-work in the same old tone and with the same head nod, "I’m Blessed.”

Our company also employs a few individuals in our mail room from a group of people that is absolutely impossible to dislike, the mentally handicapped. I think the reason it is impossible to not like these wonderful people is because of the fact that they, themselves do not have capability of hating anyone. Their mindsets are similar to those of a child, in that their innocence blinds them from all of the issues that us “normal” people seem to have, and everyone that comes into their life is considered a good person.

There is one particular sweet, older woman who has been working in the mail room 35 years. Everyone knows and loves her, and she knows and loves everyone right back. I have never really been formally introduced to her, and as far as I know, neither have the 5 other people in my department. Yet whenever we see her roaming the halls, we will all say “Good Morning Sally!” or “Have a Good Night Sally!” Even though she doesn’t know anyone in our group, she will always smile and respond with a “Good Morning!” or a “You Too!”

Except to me.

For the longest time, I have not been able to figure out why this woman, who seems to unconditionally love everyone that comes in contact with her, would for some reason, single me out and not want to associate with me. It’s not like I ever did anything wrong to her. Our conversations have never gone beyond a greeting and a good bye, but I have always been polite whenever I see her. Sometimes when I walk down the hall with one of my colleagues, we'll see her and say hello together. In this situation, I can garner a response but she will only look at the person I am walking with and not me. Thinking she may be hard of hearing, I’ve tried to speak up, but I am still unable to get her acknowledgment.

And now it has dawned on me.
Sally might have actually categorized me as someone that she hates for no legitimate reason. It really might be possible that I come off as such cold, heartless, unfriendly, spiteful, pompous, and intimidating monster, that even a Retard could actually look at me and identify me as someone that they simply have no reason to like.

When alcoholics and drug addicts finally come to realize that they have a problem, they are said to have a “Moment of Clarity.” For pricks like myself, it doesn’t get much clearer than this. When somebody with the mental capacity of a chimpanzee and the lack of motor skills to chew their food properly has actually been able to gather enough brain cells together to come to the conclusion that you are an asshole, it is time to take a look in the mirror and reevaluate your life.

To be honest, I would really love to be a nicer person, but unfortunately they don’t have a Rehab for Assholes, so the world is stuck with me.

The Felt Pig Hat Incident

That wretched holiday of Halloween is coming up this weekend, and I have once again been hoodwinked into participating. Every year the whole process of the event seems to become more and more of a hassle. It’s a waste of my time, a waste of my money, and as someone who hasn’t even bothered to add a new pair of socks to their wardrobe in the past six years, I find it a little impractical that my most expensive outfits seem to come from Party City and are worn for one night. But yet again, I’ve managed to find myself making plans to drink and play dress up with other idiots who probably see it the same way I do.

As far as costumes go this year, my friend came up with the brilliant idea of being the Swine Flu together. We’ll essentially be dressing up as pigs equipped with tissues and bottles of Robitussin, and will be going out to bars with the intention of “infecting” the eligible females. When he brought this idea up to me, I thought it was rather ironic because I already seem to have a tendency of making girls sick on any normal night at the bar. Plus towards the end of those nights, I’m usually all over the ones that have been vomiting a lot.

With our plan in place, the next step was to piece together an outfit that would at least give someone the impression that we meant to resemble pigs. It’s become customary for me to leave this portion of the Halloween experience for the very last minute, and this year was no exception. My procrastination forced me to shop for a pig costume on Wednesday night somewhere in between work, the gym, dinner at my parent’s house, and Game 1 of the World Series. I knew of a good store by my parent’s place, so going there after dinner seemed like the best option. That morning I went through my normal routine of throwing my gym clothes in the car, going to work, heading to the gym straight from there, and then to my parents house for dinner right after that. Usually when I go there for dinner, I just head right back to my place afterward wearing my gym clothes. Unfortunately this time, I had to go out and buy a god damn pig suit, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to change back into my work clothes to do it, so I just went shopping in my sweat laden gym clothes.

I went to a store called Michael’s. If you have never been there before, it’s basically an arts and crafts store that is tailored to young children, old ladies, and no one in between. When a mid-20’s male shows up to Michael’s wearing mesh shorts and a sleeveless John Deer shirt in 40 degree weather, it should undoubtedly be a cause for concern among the customers and employees. As soon as I walked through the door, a haggard, old woman stumbled over herself, and gawked at me as if I had a gun pointed to her head. I perused the store, soaking in every curious glace the 13 year old girls shot me, and made my way to the pipe cleaner and felt section. I figured could fashion together some pig ears using those materials, so I searched the aisle for the color pink. Suddenly, I was approached by a massive, elderly beast of a woman who worked there. I couldn't help taking a glance at this geriatric Shrek, which forced me to interact with her. She asked, “Can I help you with anything?”
“Yes, I seem to have lost my dignity, do you have any here?”
I only thought that of course. I swallowed my pride and told her that I was looking for pink material to make a pig costume. She said, “Why if you want to pretend you’re a pig, I have these wonderful, silly felt pig hats over here!” I followed the Grey-haired Goliath to the back of the store, and found this awful looking thing:

I grabbed the hat and made my way over to the cashier where I found an intolerable line that was abnormally long for that time of night, given the store’s normal consumer demographic. I dragged myself to the end and stood there in disbelief that I was about to wait in a line of about 30 people to purchase a felt pig hat. Keep in mind that I’m a Yankees fan, so I was obviously agitated enough about the possibility of missing the first pitch of the World Series because of this delay. As my usual luck would have it, a demon, imp child jumped in line behind me with her despondent mother, and I endured the following conversation over the next couple of minutes:
“Mommy…Mommy…MOMMY!!”
“What munchkin.”
“Um…um…whyyyyy…Why is there a Halloweeeeeen?”
“So you can get candy, honey.”
“But…but whyyy did it staaaart?
“Well I don’t really know, sweetheart.”
“I don’t like it, it’s too scary…”
The first thought that went through my head was, “I am going to walk out of this store without paying for this right now, because God help anyone who would find it necessary to come after a grown man who stole a felt pig hat from an arts and crafts store.” I stayed in line though. The possibility of getting caught and being labeled the Pig Hat Bandit in tomorrow’s newspaper was not worth the risk.

A few more minutes passed, and boredom led me to take a look at the tag on my purchase. It read “For ages 6+.” The second thought that went through my head was, “Seeing as I am 18 years the senior of the appropriate age for this hat, it may be possible that this piece of shit will not fit on my worthless head.” I was now in the very middle of the line and it really didn’t make sense to jump out, try the hat on in a private area, and go back to the end and wait all over again. I swallowed my pride one more time and among an appalled audience of innocent women and children, a 24 year-old-man in a sleeveless shirt proceeded to place a pink felt pig hat on his head. It seemed to fit me fine, so I quickly took it off. Immediately, I heard that little minion behind me whisper, “Mommy… why is that boy buying a pink hat?”
“Well, maybe he’s going to wear it for Halloween, dear.”
“He looks funny, hehehehehe!”
There was a set a sharp pumpkin carving knives on the clearance rack next me. You can probably guess what the third thought that went through my head was, so I won’t go into any detail.

After ten of the most awkward minutes of my life, I finally made it to the cashier. I said hello and placed my God-forsaken pig hat on the counter. She said, “I’m guessing you’ll be wearing this for Halloween?”
“No, I’m actually one of those furry fetish people, I’m about to head to a barn yard orgy with a sheep, a cow, and a chicken who calls herself 'Henny Penny'.”
That, once again, was only a thought. I explained the swine flu thing to her and she looked at me as if I had a masturbating chimp sitting on my shoulder. The total came to $8.54. Eight dollars and fifty four cents… for a pink felt pig hat. I grabbed my bag and my change, and walked away from the register without saying thank you. I headed towards the door with the cry of “Have a Happy Halloween!” being lobbed at me, and as I walked out of the store, the last thought that went through my head was:
“Um…um…WHYYYYY the FUCK is there a HALLOWEEEEEEEEN!”

Bill Parcells - All That is Man

It’s finally football season again.

It’s finally that time of year when it is considered normal for heterosexual males to become completely enamored with other members of their own gender. It’s the time of year when grown men arrange annual get-togethers to giggle, gossip, and scream emphatically about the boys they like and don’t like in an event called the Fantasy Football Draft. For those of you who have never participated in one of these emasculating bashes, it's honestly a lot like being at a miniature Jonas Brothers concert. In the audience you have a tall, chatty girl who insists she knows more about the band than anyone else, a girl who is dressed head to foot in apparel featuring the band and has completely abandoned her social life in order to attend every concert, a chaperoning mother who organized it all and is having trouble controlling her daughter’s crazed friends, and a heavy-set girl with Cheeto crumbs on her shirt who won’t shut up about how underrated Kevin’s guitar playing is. After the draft is all over, each participant skips away and immediately brags to friends, family, and coworkers about the men they have picked to share the next 4 months with them as if they were prom dates. It’s simply adorable.

With all of this man-love blossoming, I thought it might be a good time to pay tribute to those who truly represent manhood in its very essence. Keeping the football theme in mind, I would like to make my case for a man who has demonstrated throughout his entire life everything it means to have external gonads. In my book, the manliest man alive is none other than Bill Parcells.

Duane Charles Parcells was born and raised in Englewood, New Jersey. At a young age, he earned his nickname “the Big Tuna” because of his propensity to eat tuna fish sandwiches everyday for lunch. One day at school, a bully grabbed Duane’s sandwich and swallowed it whole in front of his face. In a state of shock, Duane did nothing in retaliation. Throughout the afternoon however, the insult of the event ate away at him, and as soon as the bell rang he found the bully in the bathroom, pushed him through a stall, shoved his head into the toilet, and urinated on him. As he flushed, he insulted the bully’s immoral character, his failed potential in life, and his family’s social standing for not being able to provide him with his own lunch. From that moment, Duane realized he owned the power to become the most badass man alive. He went to school the next day and told everyone to call him Bill. He didn’t think "Duane" was manly enough.

With his newly found persona, Bill Parcells could have done pretty much anything he wanted with his life. After deliberating between such pursuits as becoming a real life G.I. Joe, the dictator of a third world nation, and a serial bear rapist, Bill Parcells finally decided he would set out to become the greatest coach in NFL history. He started the pillaging by taking an assistant coaching job with his home town team, the New York Giants. On the morning of his first training camp, Bill Parcells woke the team up at 4:30am and made them run about 600 wind sprints up and down a small mountain. Afterwards he served them liver and raw eggs for breakfast, and sat at the front table eating shards of glass. Management heard the story, and immediately hired him to be the Head Coach of the team. Bill Parcells quickly made sure that their decision would not be a regrettable one. Equipped with his diabolical defensive schemes, he led the Giants to back-to-back playoff appearances for the first time in 20 years. In just his third season, he gave the Giants their first Super Bowl victory, and didn’t even bother to crack a smile.

Following that first championship, coaching simply became too easy for Bill Parcells. In 1990 he led the Giants to a 13-3 record, and just to make things harder in the playoffs, he decided to intentionally break the foot of his star quarterback, Phil Simms, by running it over in a Ford F-150. But even with backup QB Jeff Hostetler, the Giants still ended up winning the Super Bowl that year. Bill Parcells found the monotony of winning on a constant basis to be unfulfilling and decided to retire. When asked why he was leaving coaching, he told the media, “I’m tired of having Gatorade dumped on me. It’s destroyed all of my Christmas sweaters and Member’s Only jackets.”

After 3 years of retirement, Bill Parcells grew bored with his hobby of competitive fire walking and returned to coaching. He took his “Defense wins championships and Offense is for pussies” mentality to the New England Patriots, and became very upset when management selected a wide receiver named Terry Glenn in the first round of the 1996 NFL draft. In protest, he referred to Glenn as a “she” for the entire season, reluctantly led the team to the Super Bowl, and lost the game on purpose. He quit the next day because Bill Parcells doesn’t tolerate bullshit from anyone.

Bill Parcells’ next challenge came in the form of the pathetic New York Jets who had amassed a combined record of 4-28 in the two seasons before he got there. In two seasons under Bill Parcells, the Jets went 21-11 and reached the conference championship in 1998. It was a miraculous turnaround, but after reviewing the incredible progress he made, Bill Parcells remembered that nobody really cares about the Jets and that they’re not supposed to win anything. He retired for a second time and left the team to suffer in eternal mediocrity.

For the next 3 years, Bill Parcells spent his free time trying to dig his way to hell so he could beat the living piss out of Satan. All the while, he was harassed daily by calls from Dallas Cowboys owner Jerry Jones. His team was awful, and he begged Bill Parcells to have mercy on him. Bill Parcells did not know the meaning of the word “mercy” but agreed to coach the team as long as Jerry “didn’t pull any gay shit.” Jerry played it cool at first and left Bill Parcells alone to effortlessly earn a playoff birth in his first year there. The next year however, Jerry made the foolish mistake of crossing Bill Parcells and signed the infamous egomaniac Terrell Owens. Bill Parcells had no interest in associating with this clown, and refused to acknowledge his existence on the team, referring to T.O. as “that player.”



When that miserable season was finally over, Bill Parcells walked into Jerry Jones’ office, took a blow torch to his face, and left his resignation on the desk. The damage done, and the extensive surgery it required, serves as a reminder to all of us that you cannot dick Bill Parcells over and get away with it.

Bill Parcells retired from coaching for a third time and moved to Florida to pursue a career in alligator wrangling. As soon as the Miami Dolphins heard this, they set their sights on bringing the man to their team some how. The Dolphins had just completed one of the worst seasons in NFL history with a record of 1-15, and they knew that Bill Parcells was their only hope for change because everything Bill Parcells touches turns to fucking gold. Bill Parcells told the team he no longer wanted to coach, but would accept the role of Executive Vice President. On his first day in office, Bill Parcells fired the GM, head coach, assistant coaches, ball boys, cheerleaders, and mascot Flipper. He then took a look at the team's players and realized that the only decent one was Jason Taylor. With the frustration of being surrounded by incompetency already boiling over, shit hit the proverbial fan when Taylor decided it would be cool to compete on Dancing with the Stars during the offseason.

When Bill Parcells learned of this, he was not pleased. He called Taylor into the his office and told him to take his tap-dancing ass out of there and go find another team to play for. When asked why he released his team’s only good player, Bill Parcells said, “Fairies don't win football games.”

Minus Taylor, most Dolphin fans believed that the season was doomed. But what those fans were not aware of is that Bill Parcells is oblivious to the concept of failure. After picking up some free agent castoffs and hiring a mob boss as head coach, the Dolphins went 11-5 and won their division. Given the Bill Parcells' track record, it should come as no surprise that my pick to be Super Bowl champion this year is the Miami Dolphins, simply because Bill Parcells is all that is man.

The Death Panel Survey

Sarah Palin recently criticized Barack Obama’s Health Care reform bill, and like any decent, well-respected politician, did so by twittering it on Facebook.

http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=113851103434

She claimed that the government will be developing “Death Panels” to determine whether certain citizens, like her elderly parents or her Down Syndromed child, are worthy of health care based on their level of productivity in society. I was intrigued by this claim and decided to look into its accuracy. I sent an email to Barack asking him if there was any truth to a plan for weeding out such burdensome citizens, and sure enough, a plan is in the works. He even sent me a rough copy of the survey that will measure an individual’s value to society and whether or not they will qualify for government coverage. According to congress, if you answer “yes” to any of the following questions, your contributions to society are not considered adequate enough to receive health care, and your life as an American citizen is expendable:

• Have you ever spent a day in your lifetime playing the Sims for 11 straight hours while consuming only a bowl of Kraft Easy Mac and a 12-pack of Busch Light?
• If you are a male over the age of 22, do you still greet friends and acquaintances with an aggressive interlocking-thumb-to-fingertip snap hand shake?
• Have you ever bought razor blades, Advil PM, and a fifth of Gordon’s Gin by complete coincidence at a convenience store, and did you receive a concerned look from the cashier when making the purchase?
• Do you say “I’m just kidding!” after making an alleged joke/humorous statement or “That’s so funny!” after hearing an alleged joke/humorous statement?
• Has your mother ever looked you with your shirt off and said, “Oh, you seem to have grown a little pouch!”
• When being photographed, do you believe that posing with a sideways peace sign will enhance your public image?
• When out for a casual walk, do you find it necessary ask the out of shape runner, who is obviously struggling to keep last night’s Hamburger Helper down, how he is doing as he passes by?
• Have you ever eaten an entire tub of frozen Cool Whip at 10:30am and called it dessert for breakfast?
• Has the following sequence ever occurred over a 4 year span in your lifetime?
• Year 1: You purchase a portable hammock (see photo for example) and find that you are able to swing in it with no problem through out the summer.
  
• Year 2: You notice the hammock is beginning to brush against the grass when swinging is attempted once again.
• Year 3: Swinging in the portable hammock is no longer feasible, as the subject’s increasingly large buttocks now touch the ground.
• Year 4: You break the hammock while attempting to lay on it, and toss reading material across the yard in frustration as baffled family members watch from the kitchen window.

• Do you have a goatee and are you aware that it is no longer 1998?
• Have you ever eaten rotten fish bait from a dog’s mouth?
• Have you ever forced small talk by asking someone what their plans for the weekend are on a Monday?
• Has anyone ever played connect the dots with your freckles after you passed out in a puddle of your own vomit?
• Did your wedding take place at Minebrook golf club in Hackettstown, NJ?
• Have you ever cried while watching the movie Babe?
• Do you use that little FML ditty on all your status tweets, as it is still so fresh and incredibly funny?
• Are you a 23 year old white male and the proud owner of a CD called Beg for Mercy by G-Unit?
• Do you truly believe you are the only person in America who knows all of the lyrics to The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air theme song?
• Have you ever spent an entire day criticizing the gamesmanship, pitch selection, and batting stances of 12 year old boys in the Little League World Series and laughed whole-heartedly any time a tear was shed; all while obliterating the recommended daily caloric intake via cheesesteaks, nachos, National Bohemian, and Swedish Fish?
• Have you ever blown out your vocal cords screaming Linkin Park and Limp Bizkit songs with 2 of your friends while driving to the beach, then after one too many beers decide to run into a fence on a bet?
• Have you ever spent New Years Eve at the home of your friend’s parents and did you end the night by blacking out on a bottle of scotch while playing Halo with his father?
• Have you ever been thrown out of an Applebees bar?
• Have you ever left that same bar with the trashy 40 year-old, mother-of-3 bartender?
• Is your last name Gosselin?
• Have you ever started a blog and gained a grand total of 3 followers in 3 months?

More Than a Clunker to Me

I apologize for the long lay off, but I’ve been kind of busy over the past month trying to take advantage of your tax dollars by purchasing a new car through Barack’s Cash for Clunkers program. I’m very cautious and indecisive when it comes spending money on anything. It took me about 2 weeks to settle on a new pair of shoes that cost less than $50 last month, so you can imagine the kind of torture my penny-pinching mind was going through on this one. Like a true American, I did nothing to help the floundering US auto industry and used the government rebate to buy a Japanese car, the 2010 Mazda 3.


So far I’m very happy with the car, and as you can see from that goofy Cheshire Cat-esque grin on its face, it seems to be pretty happy with me as well.


It’s obviously no Lexus, but it’s a very good car compared to others in its class, and I ended up getting a great deal on it. Well… I should say my dad got a great deal on it. I’m paying for the car, but since my old truck was registered in his name, I needed him to co-sign in order to get the clunker rebate. This ended up working in my favor though, because when it came time to negotiate a deal, I had one of the most ruthless hagglers to ever step foot in a dealership on my side. My dad possesses 3 traits that make for an exceptional negotiator: the stubbornness of a mule, the intimidating presence of a lion, and the wallet of a Hasidic Jew. He wasted no time whittling the salesman down to an offer of 37 dollars and a half eaten Snickers bar, and even got him to throw in a navigation system and satellite radio. Through out the whole process, I just silently sat there like a Dominican baseball prospect while Scott Boras nailed down a $100 million contract. Occasionally a question would be directed at me and I would say, “Jes, iz goot.”

Of course my purchase through the Clunker program meant that I had to bid a bitter-sweet goodbye to my 1997 Toyota Tacoma.


I will definitely miss the Taco. It was never the quickest, the smoothest, the slickest, the coolest, the cleanest, the greenest, nor was it the meanest car on the road. It had no power windows or locks, never had a decent pair of shocks. All its parts were rusted, yet it could always be trusted. It got me from A to B for the majority of my driving life, and that’s all I needed it to do. Unfortunately for her, socialist agenda reared its ugly head, and I jumped on the opportunity to get a car that was actually manufactured in the 21st century. I do feel guilty for putting it on death row where it awaits a capital punishment of having its oil replaced with sodium silicate and the engine run till it seizes, but I felt it was finally time for a change.

Now that its gone, I’ve been reflecting on our adventures together and I realized there are a lot of things that I will miss about my truck:

- The way the undercarriage used to rattle whenever I drove over a pot hole or crack in the road.

- The way it used to growl whenever I shifted into fourth gear too early.

- The eroding tailpipe that must have so helpful to the environment.


- How other Tacoma drivers would wave to me in passing, and how I would not acknowledge them at all.

- How it refused to start when the temperature dropped below freezing.

- The gay horn:


- Especially since it’s been replaced with an even gayer horn:


What is it with Japanese automakers and fruity car horns? I guess they got so tired of being honked at, they figured giving their horns an embarrassing sound would stop Americans from using them to chastise their driving.

- Having to strategize the best method of piling my groceries on the passenger seat.

- Not washing it, ever.

- The fact that I could drive it through dirt, mud, shit, piss, and park in the middle of a driving range without a care. Now I have to ask people to shower and take their shoes off before getting in my new car that’s been parked 20 miles from the nearest vehicle and covered in bubble-wrap.

- The fact that it had a cassette tape player.

- Catching the distinct smell of molded fries and stale vomit when opening the door.

- And of course, all of the self-deprecating material I got from it to write the majority of this shit. (see previous post)

My final ride in the truck couldn’t have been scripted better in the movies. Since it would end up getting crushed anyway, I decided to take one last, reckless joy ride with the old Taco. I peeled out a couple times, jumped some curbs, and hit a few signs, then I hopped on the highway and tried to top 100 with it for the first time ever. I got up to 90 and the whole thing started shaking worse than Michael J.Fox, so I eased back to the usual 55. Since I had cleaned everything out of the truck before leaving, I didn’t have my ipod with me and was forced to listen to the radio. After sitting through 20 minutes of commercials, a song finally came on in the form of “I Used to Love Her, but I had to Kill Her” by Guns N Roses. A strangely ironic and fitting song for the situation I thought, but not how I would have liked to close out our time together. Axl’s insufferable howling finally ended just as I pulled onto the exit ramp, and right after that, seemingly along with the truck’s deceleration, the slow, mournful chords of “Free Bird”came flowing through the cabin. Call me an emo bitch, but I have to say I got a little choked up in those final moments. I gave the dashboard a little pat, manually rolled down both windows, turned the volume up as high as it could go, and belted out:

Bye, bye, baby it’s been a sweet love.
Though this feeling I can’t change.
But please don’t take it so badly,
Cause Lord knows I’m to blame.
But if I stayed here with you girl,
Things just couldn’t be the same.
Cause I’m as free as a bird now,
And this bird you cannot change.

I pulled into the dealership sobbing and stroking the door while puzzled onlookers stared at me thinking I was on acid. I parked my old friend, said my goodbyes, and turned off the radio to make sure nothing else ever came through those speakers again.

Bumper Stickers I Wish I Had

Hamburger Helper, Helping Shitty Cooks since 1971

For me, the two most aggravating things about living on your own are doing your own laundry, and having to cook for yourself. I’m sure everyone can agree with me on the former (unless you’re a 73 year old widow from colonial Williamsburg) but there are a lot of people out there who actually enjoy cooking for themselves. Obviously, the only possible way someone can enjoy cooking is if they’re somewhat good at it. Everyone in my family seems to be: my mother cooks just about every night, my sister does a lot of international shit using ingredients that have no clear designation on the food pyramid, and my brother even has a degree from culinary school. I however, was not endowed with this gene of cuisine, and even if I did have the skills, I certainly don’t have the patience to spend hours cooking something that I’ll end up inhaling in 2 minutes.

My cooking ventures typically involve gratuitous amounts of sodium, and will almost always require the use of a microwave at some point. My most extravagant creations include Pork Chops seared in a Frank’s Red Hot marinade, the Chicken Nugget Sandwich, Mama Celeste's Frozen Pizza with a side of Spaghetti-Os, and for dessert, frozen Cool-Whip straight from the tub. There is however, one dish that the home economically challenged like myself can consider a true masterpiece, rivaling anything from Olive Garden’s menu: Hamburger Helper.


Hamburger Helper is one of the most underrated creations in the history of mankind. Not only is it incredibly delicious, but it’s so easy to make, a cave man with cerebral palsy and a low-rate car insurance policy can do it. Just about everything you need comes in a box, all you have to supply is a pound of ground beef and two cups of milk (the use of stale milk is not recommended, but I just hate seeing things go to waste). You start off by “browning” the ground beef, then you add the macaroni along with hot water and milk dated Jun 22. Finally, you mix in a mysterious, anthrax-like powder labeled “Cheese/Sauce Mix”. I don’t know how it works, but this magical fairy dust seems to be the secret to all of HamHelp’s flavor and supremacy. Without it, you would simply have wet noodles and cow meat, and with it, you have an entrée from a 5-star restaurant.


Once you have mixed all of the ingredients together, your Hamburger Helper should look like something that was projected from either one of two orifices of a diseased Rottweiler, but let it simmer for about 10 minutes and you’ll have a meal that would make Emeril Lagasse cower in defeat.


Even if you were brain dead enough screw up these simple directions, Betty Crocker offers online solutions to improve future attempts. Answers to questions like, “Why isn’t my sauce saucy enough?”, or “Why is my macaroni gummy?” can all be found on the FAQ page. In case you had any doubts, you’ll notice that Betty points out in the final question that it is actually possible to reheat leftovers in a microwave. According to the page, all of these questions are of the frequent variety, which clearly demonstrates the intelligence level of most HamHelp consumers.

HamHelps is a very versatile product that can be enjoyed by just about everyone, even those dumb ass pseudo-vegetarians who refuse to eat animals that they deem to be “cute”. So you think the cow is simply too adorable to ingest? No problem, grind up the much less aesthetically pleasing turkey and its just as good. When you’re finished, why don’t you jump in a car and swerve off a cliff while trying to avoid a precious chipmunk crossing the road? I’m sure the hideous vultures, maggots, and rats won’t have a problem picking away at that cute little carcass of yours, you superficial, speciesist piece of shit.

Since the debut of Original Beef Pasta in the 70s, Betty Crocker has built an empire in the Starch + Meat Instant Meal industry. Over the years, she has introduced Double Cheeseburger Macoroni, Philly Cheesesteak, Beef Stew, Beef Stroganoff, Cheesy Beef Taco, Beefy Lasangna, Beef Romanoff, and Beefy-Fuckin-Beefity Meat Cake. Then the bitch sold out and started making Tuna and Chicken Helper. What a fucking joke. These wannabe knock-offs were obviously created for elitist, yuppie pricks who still think BSE is something to be legitimately concerned about. Even if Mad Cow disease was a risk today, I’d still eat Hamburger Helper 8 nights a week. I'd eat it till my brain rotted out of my fucking skull and I started mooing obscenities at innocent children.

Things That Scared Me When I was Little: Vampire from Are You Afraid of the Dark?

I’m assuming most people reading this are familiar with this classic show from the 90s. But in case you were home schooled or your family couldn’t afford cable, Are You Afraid of the Dark? was a show on Nickelodeon that featured a group of racially diverse and socially awkward teenagers who sat around a camp fire every Saturday night after Ren & Stimpy telling ghost stories. Many of them were pretty corny and even laughable, but every once and a while, an episode came out that would scare the living shit out of you. One episode in particular called “The Tale of the Midnight Madness” kept me up at night for at least 3 years. When I finally got over it around fifth grade, I watched a syndicated replay and was fucked for another 2 years.

The basic premise of this episode centers around the attempt of two teens to save a failing movie theater. They end up showing the old silent film Nosferatu to audiences, and everything goes to shit:

For the sake of nostalgia, it’s definitely worth watching the whole episode (here’s Part One) but for those of you with lives, the real fun begins 5:30 into Part 2:

First off, Fuck Dr. Vink. I don’t know why this prick felt it was necessary to dedicate his life to traumatizing kids fresh out of puberty. Given his title, he apparently earned a PhD somehow. I don’t know how any institution of higher learning would have ever allowed that to happen. He never seems to have a formal means of income (I think he was a cook in another show), yet at the end of this episode he ends up buying the theater. I’m sure Citigroup really did their research before approving a loan for him.

Anyway, my nightmare begins around 6:05, where the most disturbing fucking vampire you will ever see in your entire goddamn life comes to life. The way that thing creeps up to the screen made me piss myself so much, my parents had to start buying Huggies again.

7:25: Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society: Another unnecessary interracial relationship on Nickelodeon.

8:00: Sure, the 19^th century, uneducated dead guy figured out how to disconnect the phone line.

9:07: The main reason I could not sleep at night. I always imagined those creepy long fingers wrapping around my closet door followed by the scene starting at 0:15 of Part 3. It’s a good thing for those kids this vampire has ADHD.

1:51: Looks like me on Monday morning.

3:04: Yeah laugh it up you fat fuck, see how funny it is when that deed is worth shit come 2008.

When I found this episode on YouTube, I was honestly a little hesitant to watch it again because of how mortifying it was to me years before. This time around I was at least able to keep my eyes open and my pants dry. When it was over, I realized how ridiculous my fear of this corny episode was and had no problem falling asleep later. But low and behold when I did fall asleep, that fucker poked his pasty long fingers into my dream once again, and I haven’t been able to sleep since. Just another reason for me to seek therapy.

How to Look Like a Jackass through Facebook

Now that everyone and their mother has a Facebook account (literally, membership among women over 55 has increased 550% over the past six months, the largest of any demographic), the social networking site has become a monster that simply won’t rest until all human brains become programmed to “tag” every image that is projected onto our retinas. Since my freshman year of college, I’ve watched Facebook evolve from a convenient website for keeping in touch with friends, into a full-on cyber circus featuring a cluster-fuck of clowns who make it quite clear on a daily basis that they are completely out of touch with reality. With so many people online, Facebook has become a great way to completely embarrass yourself on a grand stage, and here’s you can do it:


Use your Middle Name or “Clever” Nickname
Sorry Amanda Lynn Cunting, your life really isn’t that interesting.
Hey Ron “Shake N Bake” Burgundy, how about a little more effort in the alias department. While you’re at it, please develop an original sense of humor and stop quoting Will Ferrell’s stale and unoriginal movies.


Post those Ridiculous Quizzes
I really don’t care what Missy Elliot song describes your life, what brand of laxatives represents you best, or what Sex and the City/Desperate House Wives slut you are. If knowing these things makes you feel any better about yourself, I would suggest taking the Quiz: “How many people will miss me when I do my best David Carradine impression?”


The Cell Phone Event


So you dropped your phone in the toilet and were too drunk to realize that you were shitting on it, what do you do now? Host an event starring you of course, and make sure you give it a snappy title like “Kyle Blacked Out and his Phone Totally didn’t Survive! But Daddy Bought me a New One, So Now I Need Your Digits Maaaan!”. I’m sorry your intelligence level is slightly below average Kyle, but don’t give me a fucking chore to do. If you happen to find yourself in this situation, don’t announce to the world that you’re a complete moron. All you have to do is post your new number on your profile, and if I feel like associating with you, I’ll give you a call. That will be highly unlikely though, because anyone dumb enough to drop their phone in a toilet really can’t have that much to offer in my book.


Label your Event as an Erotic Party
Alright, we get it. There’s a silly theme option on the event set up thing and you found it, hardy-fucking-har. Enough already, this thing is so goddamn overused. Unless you’re an HIV-positive bisexual, you have never hosted or been to an erotic party, so just stop embarrassing yourselves. Nothing about Henry and Mildred’s 50th Anniversary party sounds orgasmic to me.


Post Self-Taken Photos
Any time you see an outstretched arm in a photo, you can make at least one of the following assumptions about the subject in it:
1) They could have an ego bigger than Louie Anderson’s appetite.
2) They may not very photogenic and need take matters into their own hands to find that diamond in the rough shot.
3) Their favorite musical acts probably include Panic at the Disco, The Killers, and The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus.
4) They’re social life is completely lacking, and they simply have no friends to take pictures with.
5) They have become so enamored with themselves, that they are completely oblivious to the outside world and have no regard for what is going on in their surroundings:


Post a Mysterious, Emotionally-Charged Status,
Wait to See if Anyone Cares enough to Question it,
Then Pour your Aching, Suburban Cracker Heart Out
For example:

Ron “Shake N Bake” Burgandy: Feels like the walls are closing in. The world can be so dark and cold sometimes.
Amanda Lynn Cunting: Oh dear! What’s the matter Kevin?
Ron “Shake N Bake” Burgandy: Well I wanted to go see Land of the Lost today, but the local theater isn’t showing it. I asked the manager why, and he told me, “Because that movie is so horrendous, it makes The Adventures of Pluto Nash look like Caddyshack.”
Amanda Lynn Cunting: How dare they diss Will!
Ron “Shake N Bake” Burgandy: I know! So I said, “Well how many times did you watch it? Will Ferrel movies are always better the second time!”
And he says, “Zero, I’m purely making an educated guess. Now go home you simple minded fuck.”
Amanda Lynn Cunting: Awww I’m so sorry!
Ron “Shake N Bake” Burgandy: On top of that, I’m all out of peanut butter, so my dog no longer has any interest in me :(


Update your Status more than Twice a Day
This whole status thing is beyond comprehension for me. I’ll never understand why anyone would find it necessary to document their meaningless life on a social networking site.
I know right! You blogging hypocrite bitch.
Anyway, I’ve taken shits that were more interesting then some of the things you people post:
“Making cookies with my baby! I love him soooo much"
“Just flew back into Jersey, boy are my arms tired!”
“It’s so beautiful out! Maybe I’ll go enjoy it after 5 more hours on Facebook.”
“Watching a video of a three-toed sloth masturbate to drying paint! Check it out: slothsgetoff.com”
I even saw someone post that they was stuck in traffic on the Turnpike one time. Well thanks for contributing to the problem, asshole. If I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw this person twittering away, I wouldn’t just brake-check them, I’d throw it in reverse and take responsibility for the accident just to make sure they came away with some kind of injury.
Now for those of you who share so much with us, I’m just curious, what’s stopping you from giving us the whole insight? Why not post something like, “I’ll be on the toilet for a while, I have a bad case of Taco Bell diarrhea”, or “My flow is heavy, gotta go grab more tampons from Rite Aid”, or “I really hope this lump on my genitals is just an ingrown hair”. If you need to keep us updated on everything going on in your life, at least be brutally honest.


If you find your online behaviors falling under any of the above categories, I would advise you adjust your practices accordingly. Otherwise, I will have you physically removed from “Drew’s Friends”. And don’t think I won’t do it, I’ve already removed a chubby girl who posted an entire album of self-taken photos, and another girl who wouldn’t shut up about her zit-faced boyfriend or her cat’s crazy high jinx. So think before you post, or else you will lose the privilege of viewing my profile, and the chance to see pictures like this:

Things that Scared Me When I was Little: Train Robberies featuring Billy the Kid

Way back in the late 80s, my parents used to take me to this Wild West theme park in upstate New York called Frontier Town. I don’t recall too much about my experiences at this the place, either because I was too young, or because it’s become a repressed memory due to trauma. All I can really remember is that upon entering the park, there was a train ride that would take you into the town. On my first visit, I boarded the train with small bag of cheese cubes to eat. I sat down next to mom and the ride began. Everything was fine until about five minutes into the ride when I heard gun shots going off to the side of the train. All of the sudden, some douchebag with a bandana over his face, supposedly playing Billy the Kid, pulled up to the train on horseback.


The conductor conveniently stopped the train, and this pathetic college drop-out boarded. He started yelling at the passengers, but I couldn’t hear what he was yelling because I was screaming like a little bitch. Realizing that I was the weak, diseased wildebeest at the back of this herd, he came over to me and demanded that I give him everything in my pockets. I feebly told him I had nothing. Dad was snapping black mail photos, Mom was laughing her ass off, and then Billy noticed the cheese.
“HAND OVER THAT CHEESE BOOOYY!”
I was utterly petrified. My response sounded like Nancy Kerrigan after she got beat with a club.


Without hesitation, he took the bag of cheese.
The inbred, hick, fuck took…from a helpless 3 year old boy…a bag of cheese.

Despite my complaints to the incompetent Sheriff, the cheese was never returned to me, nor was my self-esteem or dignity. Because of my cowardly act, I was immediately stripped of my honorary sheriff badge by my father. In future visits to Frontier Town, I sheepishly hid under the seats of the train right before the inevitable robberies.

Fortunately for me, Frontier Town shut down in 2004. I’m guessing they closed because the new Billy upgraded his criminal activity from petty theft to child molestation. I would imagine the prick who stole my cheese is now a 40 year old alcoholic sitting in shack pleasuring himself to all of the treasures he’s taken and saved from innocent children over the years. If I ever see him again I’ll shove a block of Cabot Extra Sharp down his throat, jam 2 sticks of Polly-O string cheese up his nostrils, and leave him to slowly suffocate. Then I’d take back my bag of 20 year old rotted cheese, and finish eating what’s left.

Training Daze

Last week at work, I spent 18 hours in a training seminar for reasons that are still unknown to me. The class took place behind closed doors in a tiny, crowded room with no windows. As luck would have it, I sat directly under a ventilation system that was incessantly blowing out cold, stagnant air. This convenience gave me the privilege of dealing with a sore throat and cough after both lectures. The whole experience was sort of like being stuck in a faulty gas chamber for 2 straight days.

Apparently, the goal of this mental boot camp was to become familiar with a new pharmaceutical database that really isn’t much different from the one that we currently use. An esteemed colleague of mine felt that attending this seminar would be a step in the right direction for our careers, telling me, “It’s just one more rung in the corporate ladder”.
Bullshit. She seems to be forgetting that we’re contractors with this company, so we’re not even on the fucking ladder to begin with. We’re basically standing on the ground trying to hold the thing steady, while the people at the top drop buckets of shit on us.

I can’t complain too much about the guy who ran the training, I have to give him a lot of credit for filibustering in front of a completely disinterested audience. Unfortunately for him and everyone else in the room, Satan’s mother was attending the seminar. I know it was Satan’s mother because when this woman walked into the room, the hair on the back of my neck stood up, and all of the Catholics in the room jumped up on tables and started hissing. She sat down in the chair behind me and immediately recited Psalm 23 in reverse. I was frozen.

The lecture began, and it quickly became obvious that this woman had not had any kind of clitoral stimulation in quite some time. The instructor was scrolling through a list of presentations on the screen, looking for the introductory slide show, and just to kill the awkward silence he said, “I almost have it.”
“No you don’t, you just passed the K’s,” replied the vile shrew.

For the remainder of the seminar, this woman (who by the way looked like the first member of Whoville’s 250lbs club) proceeded to play backseat lecturer. She corrected the speaker at least 17 times per lesson, and anytime someone had a question, she would field it. ‘Field it’ is actually a polite way of putting it; she more or less swallowed people whole and spit out the undigested bones and hair in pellet form. Her condescending remarks were so nauseating that I had serious thoughts of strangling her with an Ethernet cord, then bashing her face in beyond recognition with her laptop.

As if that weren’t enough to deal with, I also had the wonderful experience of sitting next to an old Asian woman who did not understand a single word coming out of the lecturer’s mouth. Every 10 seconds she would raise her hand and say, “Hi, I have kestion.” (Yes, she said “Hi” every time she raised her hand to ask a kestion.) This woman did, however, provide the only decent form of entertainment during the 2 day torture session. Towards the end of the first day, the speaker was going through a section on something called the RIM (Regulatory Information Management) project. He went on and on about the importance of this project, but I wasn’t really paying attention because I was too busy wondering if it would be less painful for me sit through another day of this, or to stick my scrotum through a meat grinder. Suddenly, I was awoken by the woman next to me who uttered the following statement:
“Hi I have kestion. When will we begin working on RIM job?”

Fuck the Gym

If I had to guess what Hell is like, I would say it’s probably similar to Bally’s Total Fitness in Wayne, NJ. Everyone in that gym wishes they were in a better place, it’s hot, sweaty, cramped, and overcrowded with Mexicans… or Italians, I honestly can’t tell the difference sometimes. The card-swiping minions that work there have no personalities or souls, and they blare ear piercing techno music while the damned grunt and groan in eternal agony. Every time I go there, my hope for humanity declines more and more.

Going to any gym in the first place is never enjoyable though, and my disdain for gyms is not limited to this particular one. The worst part about going to the gym is having to deal with some of the world’s most annoying people. I’ve hated the general population of every gym I’ve ever been to, and I’ve noticed the same cast of characters seem to pop up at each one. The following gym goers instill more rage within me than any steroid ever could:

The Hisser

Instead of breathing like a normal human being, this individual feels compelled to exhale through his teeth while lifting weight, usually in a prolonged, obnoxious fashion. Let me point something out to you Serpentor, when meat-heads talk about working on their pythons, they don’t mean it literally. Actually I take that back. You should continue trying to emulate a snake, in fact when you’re done working out, why don’t go home and peel off all of your skin, then try to swallow a capybara whole?

The Naked Old Man

I know this one is cliché since everyone has either witnessed the uncomfortable actions of the naked old man, or heard about them from at least 57 different comedians, but just let me explain my issue:
I could care less about 80 year old, wrinkled dicks flopping around, it really doesn’t bother me that much, but I had to draw the line with the naked old man after a recent, disturbing incident. Last week, I walked into the locker room to get changed while an old man was on his way out. It was crowded, and the only empty locker seemed to be the one he just vacated, so I went over and threw my bag on the white, plastic bench next to it. When I put my foot up on the bench to untie my shoe, I noticed a circular, brown stain next to my bag. It took a second or two to process the gravity of the situation, but once I did, my inner-monolog went into panic mode and starting chaotically yelling:
THAT’S SHIT!
THAT IS HUMAN SHIT FROM AN ASS!
THAT OLD MAN JUST WIPED HUMAN ASS-SHIT ON THE FUCKING BENCH!
Even though this alarm was going off, I was able to remain calm on the outside. I slowly moved my things to the next locker and had no intention of telling the next person who came in that there was shit on the bench.

The “Hey can I get a spot, bro?” Guy

No.

Mr. Notepad

I can only imagine what these fuck-stains are writing in their little journals:

Dear Gym Diary,

Today I came to the gym by myself around 5:30. I tried talking to the cute girl at the front desk but she just gave me a blank stare and scanned my card. :(
Some good news though, I added another half-pound weight block to the Ab-roller since I last wrote you! I also finally decided to give the treadmill a whirl today, but I only lasted about 5 minutes because my stomach felt funny. Must have been those Ramen Noodles and onion rings I had for lunch LOL!
Overall I think it was a pretty good work out! Not much else going on for me today, I think I’ll go home and ruin it by drinking a 6-pack of Milwaukee’s Best and eating an entire family-sized bag of Smartfood Popcorn.

Your Pal,
Drew

The Meandering Douche

This asshole conveniently spreads his gym accessories (water bottle, sweat-stained towel, notepad, etc.) across 3 machines and aimlessly wonders around them either thinking about which one to use, or how else he can ruin other people’s workouts. This guy is a nuisance because he forces you into awkwardly asking him if you can use the machine he is indecisively hovering over. It’s especially annoying when you’re listening to a death metal playlist on your ipod and are forced to turn it down because you have to interact with this prick. All I want is to be able to use the Butt Buster while Jonathan Davis tells me to slit my wrists without interruption, is that so much to ask you inconsiderate shitbag?

The Epileptic Chicken

A member of the Guido Genera, the epileptic chicken can be identified by its minimal body hair and child-sized tank top. His name derives from the peculiar head-bobbing dance that he does in between sets. Previously used by his ancestors as a courtship ritual, the chicken’s dance still serves a similar purpose today as it is intended to gain the attention of those surrounding it. The dance is usually set to a techno or hip-hop beat, and may include lip syncing, air drumming, and even minor fist pumping. The chicken’s music is played through headphones which, unbeknownst to him, prevent others from hearing what he is listening to. This makes for a very embarrassing situation, as the chicken is completely unaware that he appears to be dancing to the Mily Cyrus song that is being played on the gym radio. When his sets are done, the chicken struts over to the water fountain to fill up his 12 gallon jug and invests no concern in the line that begins forming behind him. When finished, he moves to his next apparatus, taking great pride in not being the one to move out of the way when someone walks into his path.

What is This Shit?

If somebody had told me a year ago that I would be writing a blog today, I would not have a response for them. I simply would have gone home and hung myself to avoid any possibility of that ever happening. I’ve had a long standing belief that people who write blogs are ignorant attention-whores that are completely full of themselves, and that most of them probably look like this:


Not only is having a blog extremely hypocritical on my part, it’s just a very strange venture for someone with my personality to undertake. I don’t exactly fit the mold of a stereotypical blogger, at least in my mind. I’m certainly not the type of person who craves the spotlight, and modesty is probably one of my few positive qualities as a human being. In fact I’m so humble; I have almost zero self-respect and spend most of my time verbally assaulting the bathroom mirror. Other reasons for me not to have a blog include my horrible grammar and spelling (I just spelled grammar with an e and had to be corrected by Microsoft Word), and the fact that I type with 3 fingers at max.

However, I am similar to most bloggers in that it is my worst qualities that have pulled me into this world of self-promotion. These flaws would be, without question, my temper and my impatience with the everyday hassles of modern society. I’ve spent my entire life with a perception that would make a half-empty glass seem like a good thing, and as I get older, my patience seems to be wearing thinner right along with my hairline. In order to delay the inevitable aneurism that I will eventually succumb to, I figured I should try to turn all these negative qualities into something positive before I go to work one day and pull one of these:



So I’ve decided to vent my frustrations through writing.

The majority of what you will see on this site will indeed be the diarrhea that my mind excretes from being fed so much intolerable garbage everyday, but it won’t all be querulous rants resulting from my contempt of reality. I’ll also be sharing stories from my awkward childhood and adolescence, my adventures and questionable behavior from young-adulthood, commentary on this generation’s sorry excuse for a pop culture, and anything else that I find funny or absurd, and feel that other people can relate to.

My plan is to write solely for entertainment purposes, and I’ll try to keep from be preachy or political, but I can’t make any promises. After 4 years of education at a school full of hippies and environmentalists, the seeds of liberal douchehood have been planted in my head. Those seeds were waterboarded thoroughly by the Bush administration, and now that I’ve spent close to a year experiencing the horrors of corporate life, those seeds are seriously beginning to sprout. But if I ever do end up going overboard with social commentary, take it with a grain of salt, because I really don’t know shit about politics.

I’m sure a lot of you are asking, “Don’t you have anything better to do?” Honestly, no I don’t. I’ve been out of school for a year now, and since alcohol has dissolved every ounce of athleticism I once had, I really needed to find some kind of hobby to at least salvage what’s left of my brain. Now before you call me a nerd for wasting my time writing worthless tirades, think about how many hours you logged on X-Box or how many times you updated that self-absorbed Facebook status today. Like anyone gives a shit you just got back from a hard days work at Macy’s and have to take Mittens to the vet because he ate a used tampon out of the garbage, go twitter yourself.

I’m not doing this to promote myself in any way; quite frankly I’ll probably be doing the exact opposite. Writing is just something I enjoy doing, and a decent amount of people seem to enjoy reading my crap, so I started this as a way to make it available to them. My goal with this is to make people laugh. Whether you’re laughing with me or at me I don’t care, as long as you find it entertaining. I think the real reason I decided to do this is that writing seems to have a therapeutic effect on me. Believe or not, I’ve actually found that I’m a happier person since starting this method of catharsis. Unfortunately, I think people find me funnier when I’m completely miserable. I can’t ever fucking win.