Readership, as this is my last post ever on Legally Blind Observations here on Blogger, I just thought I'd do a little "thank you" post.
First, to Dr. Becker, my freshman year DNY professor. If she hadn't told us to make a blog for class, I would never have started Legally Blind Observations. Thanks for that Dr. Becker.
Second, to Maria, my first reader (even though I kinda forced it on her. haha).
Third, to A-Ham aka Tenth Dollar and Maeron aka the Purp, who were the first to randomly make my day by telling me that they read this hunk of dookie, and moreover, that they enjoyed it.
And lastly, to everybody else who has ever read this and gotten a laugh, or felt the need to comment and make me laugh, or to show how much of an asshole they were (cough), I thank you. You definitely made these past couple years pretty flippin' awesome.
Hopefully, the win will continue over at Tumblr. See you there!
And whatever you do.
Stay classy
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Children's Television Shows Upset Me
Before I start, it's with great sadness that I say that this will be my final Observation here on Blogger. It's been a good two years, but I'm not one to go against progress, so you'll have to go to Tumblr for your Legally Blind Observation fix in the future (this post is also available on Tumblr, of course).
Anyway.
Readership, as you remember, I have a thing about children's television shows, and now I'm back because, once again, I've found something that pisses me off.
First off, the Wiggles. What THE fuck. When my sister was younger, she used to watch it all the time, and I would be forced to sit there and make sure she didn't blow the house up, thus being forced to watch the Wiggles myself.
ALL THEY DO IS SING AND MAKE FRUIT SALAD. That's not only a pointless existence (they don't even eat the fruit salad!), but the strangest combination of activities to make up your occupation that I've ever encountered. I mean I can understand that some jobs have you do some weird shit, but sing as part of a four-man group, and make fruit salad that NOBODY EATS? That's fucking retarded.
As an aside, I think most of my anger stems from the fact that I love fruit salad, and feel as though these strange grown-ass men in purple shirts are disrespecting me and the fruit salad every time they make some and nobody gets to eat it.
I digress.
Secondly, we have Scooby Doo. Now, don't start with that "don't hate on Scooby Doo" shit, because I love Scooby Doo, and I always have, but come the hell on. "Ohhhh noes it's a pirate ghost he's chasing us runnnnn!" Nah, fuck that, BEAT HIS ASS. If you had a single black or Hispanic guy in "the gang," the longest episode of Scooby Doo would've been about five minutes. The ghost or witch or monster or whatever would've shown up and tried to scare everybody away, and the brother/boriquen would've been like "fuck you bitch!" and beat the shit outta him. Then Velma would've come through and unmasked him, and everybody would be confused because nobody would have any clues as to why whoever was under the mask was doing what he was doing, but the brother/boriquen would tell them that it's not our fucking job to investigate crimes, that's what the police are for. They have their suspect, he's caught red-handed in the midst of a crime, throw him in jail and then figure out why he's there (isn't that what police do anyway?). Of course, as a brother/boriquen, he would know that the police rarely do anything correctly (including and especially their jobs), but still, he would know even more that it wasn't his job to do the cops' job, even if the cops weren't doing it.
Lastly, and definitely the one that pisses me off the most, is Dora the Explorer. There's just SO MUCH wrong with the message it's sending to kids. Where the hell are her parents? How the hell do they think it's okay for their 7-year-old daughter to go out on a fucking adventure into the wilderness with a talking monkey and a talking backpack? Kids are highly impressionable these days, and they'll see this shit and think that it's all good to do the same shit, but if they try that, you know for damn sure they're not gonna be met with a LOT worse than a bitchass semi-clepto fox dressed as a bandit.
And speaking of Swiper, what the fuck kind of thief is he? How the hell does "Swiper no swiping!" stop you dead in your tracks? It would be more like:
"Swiper no swiping! Swiper no-"
BAM BAM BAM.
"Swipe muh Glock 9, bitch, that's MY talking backpack."
Stay classy
Anyway.
Readership, as you remember, I have a thing about children's television shows, and now I'm back because, once again, I've found something that pisses me off.
First off, the Wiggles. What THE fuck. When my sister was younger, she used to watch it all the time, and I would be forced to sit there and make sure she didn't blow the house up, thus being forced to watch the Wiggles myself.
ALL THEY DO IS SING AND MAKE FRUIT SALAD. That's not only a pointless existence (they don't even eat the fruit salad!), but the strangest combination of activities to make up your occupation that I've ever encountered. I mean I can understand that some jobs have you do some weird shit, but sing as part of a four-man group, and make fruit salad that NOBODY EATS? That's fucking retarded.
As an aside, I think most of my anger stems from the fact that I love fruit salad, and feel as though these strange grown-ass men in purple shirts are disrespecting me and the fruit salad every time they make some and nobody gets to eat it.
I digress.
Secondly, we have Scooby Doo. Now, don't start with that "don't hate on Scooby Doo" shit, because I love Scooby Doo, and I always have, but come the hell on. "Ohhhh noes it's a pirate ghost he's chasing us runnnnn!" Nah, fuck that, BEAT HIS ASS. If you had a single black or Hispanic guy in "the gang," the longest episode of Scooby Doo would've been about five minutes. The ghost or witch or monster or whatever would've shown up and tried to scare everybody away, and the brother/boriquen would've been like "fuck you bitch!" and beat the shit outta him. Then Velma would've come through and unmasked him, and everybody would be confused because nobody would have any clues as to why whoever was under the mask was doing what he was doing, but the brother/boriquen would tell them that it's not our fucking job to investigate crimes, that's what the police are for. They have their suspect, he's caught red-handed in the midst of a crime, throw him in jail and then figure out why he's there (isn't that what police do anyway?). Of course, as a brother/boriquen, he would know that the police rarely do anything correctly (including and especially their jobs), but still, he would know even more that it wasn't his job to do the cops' job, even if the cops weren't doing it.
Lastly, and definitely the one that pisses me off the most, is Dora the Explorer. There's just SO MUCH wrong with the message it's sending to kids. Where the hell are her parents? How the hell do they think it's okay for their 7-year-old daughter to go out on a fucking adventure into the wilderness with a talking monkey and a talking backpack? Kids are highly impressionable these days, and they'll see this shit and think that it's all good to do the same shit, but if they try that, you know for damn sure they're not gonna be met with a LOT worse than a bitchass semi-clepto fox dressed as a bandit.
And speaking of Swiper, what the fuck kind of thief is he? How the hell does "Swiper no swiping!" stop you dead in your tracks? It would be more like:
"Swiper no swiping! Swiper no-"
BAM BAM BAM.
"Swipe muh Glock 9, bitch, that's MY talking backpack."
Stay classy
Friday, May 7, 2010
Why Do You Say Such Stupid Shit? Volume 9
Once again, before I start this, know that this post is also available in its entirety on Tumblr. There will be only one more post after this one made here on Blogger, before the switch is made permanently to Tumblr, so make sure you migrate on over there if you want your Legally Blind Observations fix!
Anyway.
Readership, I'm gonna level with you. This past week or so has been so obscenely and ridiculously full of absolutely undiluted pure win that I really haven't had much to bitch about. As such, this is going to be the first time I've gone back-to-back with "Why Do You Say Such Stupid Shit?" and only the second time I've ever gone back-to-back with any "feature" (the other time was here and here, with back-to-back "Blame X for Y" posts).
Now, to the Observation.
First off, we have a favorite question asked around exam time in high schools and colleges nationwide.
"How many questions are on the test?"
What the hell does that matter? Are you OCD, and unable to take a test with an odd number of questions? The number of questions is entirely irrelevant; aren't you going to take the test no matter how many questions there are? If the professor says there are 29823729401 questions, if it's a final, and you give a shit about your grades, you know damn well you're gonna take the test. You might bitch and moan about it the whole time (shit, I know I would - that's almost 30 billion questions!), but you would definitely take that test, and three days later (when you actually finished it), you'd think you were the shit. Don't even lie.
Secondly, something said during most emergency situations, or drills for emergency situations: "Please move calmly in a single-file line towards the exit."
NAH BITCH GET THE FUCK OUT MUH WAY I'M 'BOUT TO DIE!
Seriously though, how the hell are you gonna tell me to move calmly away from that RAGING CONFLAGRATION behind us? I understand that losing your head in an emergency is what gets you and people you care about hurt or killed unnecessarily, but still. When there's some terrible shit going down around me - fire, explosions, gunshots, etc. - the LAST thing on my mind is being calm. I want to get the FUCK OUTTA THERE. I'll be calm when I'm several miles away and the probability that I'll die off some dumb shit is a little diminished.
Lastly, the action of making your bed. While it's "technically" not something you say, it's still fucking ridiculous. I mean, look at it logically. What's going to happen to your bed the next time you use it? Depending on how old you are and what your housing situation is, you're either gonna sleep in it or screw in it, and unless you're a quadriplegic, doing either is gonna un-make your bed. So what the fuck.
Stay classy
Anyway.
Readership, I'm gonna level with you. This past week or so has been so obscenely and ridiculously full of absolutely undiluted pure win that I really haven't had much to bitch about. As such, this is going to be the first time I've gone back-to-back with "Why Do You Say Such Stupid Shit?" and only the second time I've ever gone back-to-back with any "feature" (the other time was here and here, with back-to-back "Blame X for Y" posts).
Now, to the Observation.
First off, we have a favorite question asked around exam time in high schools and colleges nationwide.
"How many questions are on the test?"
What the hell does that matter? Are you OCD, and unable to take a test with an odd number of questions? The number of questions is entirely irrelevant; aren't you going to take the test no matter how many questions there are? If the professor says there are 29823729401 questions, if it's a final, and you give a shit about your grades, you know damn well you're gonna take the test. You might bitch and moan about it the whole time (shit, I know I would - that's almost 30 billion questions!), but you would definitely take that test, and three days later (when you actually finished it), you'd think you were the shit. Don't even lie.
Secondly, something said during most emergency situations, or drills for emergency situations: "Please move calmly in a single-file line towards the exit."
NAH BITCH GET THE FUCK OUT MUH WAY I'M 'BOUT TO DIE!
Seriously though, how the hell are you gonna tell me to move calmly away from that RAGING CONFLAGRATION behind us? I understand that losing your head in an emergency is what gets you and people you care about hurt or killed unnecessarily, but still. When there's some terrible shit going down around me - fire, explosions, gunshots, etc. - the LAST thing on my mind is being calm. I want to get the FUCK OUTTA THERE. I'll be calm when I'm several miles away and the probability that I'll die off some dumb shit is a little diminished.
Lastly, the action of making your bed. While it's "technically" not something you say, it's still fucking ridiculous. I mean, look at it logically. What's going to happen to your bed the next time you use it? Depending on how old you are and what your housing situation is, you're either gonna sleep in it or screw in it, and unless you're a quadriplegic, doing either is gonna un-make your bed. So what the fuck.
Stay classy
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Why Do You Say Such Stupid Shit? Volume 8
Readership, I'm no longer surprised that I continue to find stupid shit people say. So I'm gonna skip the "can you believe it?" and get right to the nitty-gritty. Also, as an aside, this post will also be available in its entirety on Tumblr.
First off, we have something courtesy of Hannah aka H-Rose (who, bless her, seems to deal with a bunch of morons, because she's had a hand in the last two or three iterations of this segment. that's true classiness right there). Let's look at a sample conversation to illustrate this.
Student: Professor, how do you spell the musical term, "ritornello?"
MUSIC PROFESSOR: Look it up.
What the hell? "Look it up"? I don't give a shit about the definition, I just want to know how to spell it, dick. And you, being a MUSIC professor, should know how to spell it. Now, if YOU don't know how to spell it, that's a different story, but even if that's the case, man the fuck up and tell me so we can look it up together and learn something and further our intelligence and shit. Don't be a bitch about it.
Secondly, we have the phrase "fresh-picked." People see "fresh-picked" on advertisements for fruits and vegetables and immediately think "wow, this must be some good shit!"
WRONG. "Fresh-picked" has absolutely nothing to do with freshness of the actual fruit or vegetable. For example, say I'm a farmer. I have a grove of the absolute nastiest apples you've ever seen in your life. I can go through my grove and find the single nastiest apple that the Earth has ever bore. It'll be a Red Delicious, but it will be blue. There will be holes all over it, a coddling moth caterpillar would've done this to it on the inside (and yes, I actually bit into that apple), and I would've sprayed it with so many pesticides that I need a Hazmat suit before I can even get within ten feet of it. But after I get my Hazmat suit on, I could go up to it and pick it right off the tree and hand it to you, and guess what? That apple, as nasty as it is, would still be "fresh-picked." And you, good sir/madam, would be shit outta luck.
Lastly, we have the excuse of "thinking out loud."
Bob: Man, I gotta get that .44 magnum . . . and the sleeping pills. How am I gonna distract Tim so I can put it in his beer and shoot him . . . hmmm . . .
Tim: Uhh, what the fuck?
Bob: Oh! Sorry bro I'm just thinking out loud. Haha.
The fuck? I have several problems with "thinking out loud." First of all, I call bullshit. You're not thinking out loud, you're talking to yourself, you got caught, and now you're making up some bullshit excuse so that whoever caught you doesn't think you're nuttier than squirrel shit. Secondly, why the hell would you think out loud? Your mind (aka where us normal folks do most of our thinking), is a limitless place, where all five senses can be experienced simultaneously. Why would you leave this PERFECT thinking place, where anything you can imagine can be played out in a zillion ways, to narrow your thinking to only words and sound? Are you a retard?
The last time I used "thinking out loud" as an excuse, I almost got my ass beat. My mom was pissing me off when I was around nine years old, and under my breath I said "shut the hell up bitch." She heard me, and I told her I was just thinking out loud. As she started chasing me, I told her that it was an Eminem lyric, which she almost believed, then remembered that I didn't listen to Eminem, and chased me around the house and out into the street.
Thank God I've got Kenyan speed, or else I wouldn't be here today.
But yeah. People say some stupid shit.
Stay classy
First off, we have something courtesy of Hannah aka H-Rose (who, bless her, seems to deal with a bunch of morons, because she's had a hand in the last two or three iterations of this segment. that's true classiness right there). Let's look at a sample conversation to illustrate this.
Student: Professor, how do you spell the musical term, "ritornello?"
MUSIC PROFESSOR: Look it up.
What the hell? "Look it up"? I don't give a shit about the definition, I just want to know how to spell it, dick. And you, being a MUSIC professor, should know how to spell it. Now, if YOU don't know how to spell it, that's a different story, but even if that's the case, man the fuck up and tell me so we can look it up together and learn something and further our intelligence and shit. Don't be a bitch about it.
Secondly, we have the phrase "fresh-picked." People see "fresh-picked" on advertisements for fruits and vegetables and immediately think "wow, this must be some good shit!"
WRONG. "Fresh-picked" has absolutely nothing to do with freshness of the actual fruit or vegetable. For example, say I'm a farmer. I have a grove of the absolute nastiest apples you've ever seen in your life. I can go through my grove and find the single nastiest apple that the Earth has ever bore. It'll be a Red Delicious, but it will be blue. There will be holes all over it, a coddling moth caterpillar would've done this to it on the inside (and yes, I actually bit into that apple), and I would've sprayed it with so many pesticides that I need a Hazmat suit before I can even get within ten feet of it. But after I get my Hazmat suit on, I could go up to it and pick it right off the tree and hand it to you, and guess what? That apple, as nasty as it is, would still be "fresh-picked." And you, good sir/madam, would be shit outta luck.
Lastly, we have the excuse of "thinking out loud."
Bob: Man, I gotta get that .44 magnum . . . and the sleeping pills. How am I gonna distract Tim so I can put it in his beer and shoot him . . . hmmm . . .
Tim: Uhh, what the fuck?
Bob: Oh! Sorry bro I'm just thinking out loud. Haha.
The fuck? I have several problems with "thinking out loud." First of all, I call bullshit. You're not thinking out loud, you're talking to yourself, you got caught, and now you're making up some bullshit excuse so that whoever caught you doesn't think you're nuttier than squirrel shit. Secondly, why the hell would you think out loud? Your mind (aka where us normal folks do most of our thinking), is a limitless place, where all five senses can be experienced simultaneously. Why would you leave this PERFECT thinking place, where anything you can imagine can be played out in a zillion ways, to narrow your thinking to only words and sound? Are you a retard?
The last time I used "thinking out loud" as an excuse, I almost got my ass beat. My mom was pissing me off when I was around nine years old, and under my breath I said "shut the hell up bitch." She heard me, and I told her I was just thinking out loud. As she started chasing me, I told her that it was an Eminem lyric, which she almost believed, then remembered that I didn't listen to Eminem, and chased me around the house and out into the street.
Thank God I've got Kenyan speed, or else I wouldn't be here today.
But yeah. People say some stupid shit.
Stay classy
I'm Gonna Take a Tumbl...r
Readership, progress is a beautiful thing, and I'm not one to shit on beautiful things, so I have a bit of news. Starting with the next post (a rousing investigation into our favorite paradoxical question of "Why do you say such stupid shit?"), Legally Blind Observations will be posted both here on Blogger and over at Tumblr. This will continue for a few posts, and then the switch will be made completely and permanently to Tumblr.
Why the change? Nothing against Blogger at all. Blogger has served me quite faithfully these past couple of years. However, Tumblr attracts a lot more readers than Blogger does, and everybody and their mother seems to have a Tumblr. Just like the decision I made when I realized that everybody and their mother had a Twitter (a decision which went against a moral stance I'd taken previously), I'm realizing that it's time to embrace this next big thing and make the move to Tumblr.
So once again, the short version. Legally Blind Observations will be posted simultaneously on Blogger and Tumblr for the next three posts, and upon the fourth, EXCLUSIVELY at Tumblr. I will post a link in the final post here (which by my calculations will be post #197) to the Tumblr blog, and a link back here on the Tumblr blog.
Stay classy
Why the change? Nothing against Blogger at all. Blogger has served me quite faithfully these past couple of years. However, Tumblr attracts a lot more readers than Blogger does, and everybody and their mother seems to have a Tumblr. Just like the decision I made when I realized that everybody and their mother had a Twitter (a decision which went against a moral stance I'd taken previously), I'm realizing that it's time to embrace this next big thing and make the move to Tumblr.
So once again, the short version. Legally Blind Observations will be posted simultaneously on Blogger and Tumblr for the next three posts, and upon the fourth, EXCLUSIVELY at Tumblr. I will post a link in the final post here (which by my calculations will be post #197) to the Tumblr blog, and a link back here on the Tumblr blog.
Stay classy
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Ford's Swap Your Ride - Could it be? Yes, ANOTHER WTF?
Readership, I've been watching a bit more television these days, and I've stumbled upon a new batch of car commercials. Ford has started this sales event, wherein they go to a random-ass person who drives something other than a Ford, and swap that person's vehicle for the closest Ford equivalent. For example, if the person is driving a Chevy Cobalt, they'll switch it for the Ford Fusion, etc. The kicker? The person who's getting their car swapped out doesn't know about it; nor do they give their consent.
Ford Swap Your Ride? Nah bitch, more like Ford SWIPE Your Ride. Where I'm from, that shit would get you shot or arrested, depending on whether you got caught by the car's owner or the cops.
I digress.
In the commercials, every one is all "heyyy we swapped your ride out for a Ford yayyy" and then the person who owned the non-Ford is all "oh my goshhhh you guysss okayyy I'll drive it" etc. etc. And then Mike Rowe (that old guy from "Dirty Jobs" on Discovery Channel) tells them all this sales pitch bullshit about the Ford they're driving, and then at the end they're all sold about getting rid of their non-Ford to get a Ford.
First of all, I'm calling bullshit. If, after driving a Ford, I was sooo impressed that I wanted to get rid of my non-Ford and then buy a Ford, I would first have to sell my non-Ford. I dunno about you, Readership, but my dad's been trying to sell his 1981 Corvette for about two years now. Maybe more. In this recession, it's almost impossible to sell a car because nobody wants to buy one because nobody has any money. Also, how the hell am I gonna be able to sell my non-Ford when everybody's seen these commercials detailing how fucking awesome Fords are and how shitty non-Fords are? Who wants a shitty non-Ford?
Secondly, what the fuck? I hope, that if/when I get a car and if it's not a Ford (which it probably won't be, because my family has owned two Fords and they both blew major donkey balls), that my friends are smart enough to know that randomly swapping my car out for a Ford without my consent will piss me right the fuck off. It's MY SHIT. What gives anybody the idea that basically stealing someone's car to make a point is okay?
The fact that it's stealing aside, people put some very sensitive shit in their car sometimes. The heavier you are into, shall we say, shady dealings, the more this would piss you off, and/or call for idiots getting fitted for cement shoes.
"Hey Carlito! We swapped out your Mercedes CLK for a Ford Fusion! Mira, it's Mike Rowe!"
"WHAT THE FUCK? Venga, Paco - GET THAT FUCKING CAMERA OUTTA HERE! Paco, where's my car?"
"N-no se man, calmate, what's wrong?"
"Puto, there's six kilos of coke in the running boards and taped under the seats, and I was supposed to deliver the car in twenty minutes. We're fucking DEAD, CULO!"
Or something to that degree.
Bottom line, just because you have a camera crew and a quote-unquote "celebrity," does NOT mean that if you steal my car - steal my car, moreover, to replace it with a piece of ABSOLUTE SHIT - you won't get your ass kicked. I've said it once, and I'll say it again: I'm not afraid to beat an old man's ass in public.
Bring it on Mike Rowe. Old ass bitch.
As for you, Readership. You know what to do already.
Stay classy
Ford Swap Your Ride? Nah bitch, more like Ford SWIPE Your Ride. Where I'm from, that shit would get you shot or arrested, depending on whether you got caught by the car's owner or the cops.
I digress.
In the commercials, every one is all "heyyy we swapped your ride out for a Ford yayyy" and then the person who owned the non-Ford is all "oh my goshhhh you guysss okayyy I'll drive it" etc. etc. And then Mike Rowe (that old guy from "Dirty Jobs" on Discovery Channel) tells them all this sales pitch bullshit about the Ford they're driving, and then at the end they're all sold about getting rid of their non-Ford to get a Ford.
First of all, I'm calling bullshit. If, after driving a Ford, I was sooo impressed that I wanted to get rid of my non-Ford and then buy a Ford, I would first have to sell my non-Ford. I dunno about you, Readership, but my dad's been trying to sell his 1981 Corvette for about two years now. Maybe more. In this recession, it's almost impossible to sell a car because nobody wants to buy one because nobody has any money. Also, how the hell am I gonna be able to sell my non-Ford when everybody's seen these commercials detailing how fucking awesome Fords are and how shitty non-Fords are? Who wants a shitty non-Ford?
Secondly, what the fuck? I hope, that if/when I get a car and if it's not a Ford (which it probably won't be, because my family has owned two Fords and they both blew major donkey balls), that my friends are smart enough to know that randomly swapping my car out for a Ford without my consent will piss me right the fuck off. It's MY SHIT. What gives anybody the idea that basically stealing someone's car to make a point is okay?
The fact that it's stealing aside, people put some very sensitive shit in their car sometimes. The heavier you are into, shall we say, shady dealings, the more this would piss you off, and/or call for idiots getting fitted for cement shoes.
"Hey Carlito! We swapped out your Mercedes CLK for a Ford Fusion! Mira, it's Mike Rowe!"
"WHAT THE FUCK? Venga, Paco - GET THAT FUCKING CAMERA OUTTA HERE! Paco, where's my car?"
"N-no se man, calmate, what's wrong?"
"Puto, there's six kilos of coke in the running boards and taped under the seats, and I was supposed to deliver the car in twenty minutes. We're fucking DEAD, CULO!"
Or something to that degree.
Bottom line, just because you have a camera crew and a quote-unquote "celebrity," does NOT mean that if you steal my car - steal my car, moreover, to replace it with a piece of ABSOLUTE SHIT - you won't get your ass kicked. I've said it once, and I'll say it again: I'm not afraid to beat an old man's ass in public.
Bring it on Mike Rowe. Old ass bitch.
As for you, Readership. You know what to do already.
Stay classy
Racism
Readership, if you'll recall, I'm very serious about equal rights. This is no joke. Racism, segregation, and the lack of diversity in America are still things that people think are all gone. If you think that this is true, you're still wrong.
Racism is alive and well in America. It pulses with every step of the KKK and every dribble of the basketball in this asshole's basketball league. There is not a single man, woman, or child who knows what racism is, that hasn't had a racist thought. I've had a racist thought. You've had a racist thought. Your momma's had a racist thought. Everybody has.
But this post isn't about the KKK. It isn't about that asshole or his whites-only basketball league (or the hilarious media coverage that he got). It isn't about your momma being a big, nasty, filthy racist.
The racism to which I'm referring is this:
Why is it, that when it comes to the new KFC Doubledown Sandwich, a sandwich made almost entirely of fried chicken, ALL THE IMPORTANT PEOPLE IN THE COMMERCIALS ARE BLACK!?
Stay classy
Racism is alive and well in America. It pulses with every step of the KKK and every dribble of the basketball in this asshole's basketball league. There is not a single man, woman, or child who knows what racism is, that hasn't had a racist thought. I've had a racist thought. You've had a racist thought. Your momma's had a racist thought. Everybody has.
But this post isn't about the KKK. It isn't about that asshole or his whites-only basketball league (or the hilarious media coverage that he got). It isn't about your momma being a big, nasty, filthy racist.
The racism to which I'm referring is this:
Why is it, that when it comes to the new KFC Doubledown Sandwich, a sandwich made almost entirely of fried chicken, ALL THE IMPORTANT PEOPLE IN THE COMMERCIALS ARE BLACK!?
Stay classy
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
For the Ladies
Readership, maybe it's the smell of spring in the air, but I've been noticing a marked increase in what I'd like to call "Oblivious Romantic Attachment." Since today is Opening Day for the New York Yankees, and I'm watching the game now, I'm going to keep this short and sweet. Peep it.
Ladies. If you have a male best friend, who is always down to chill, always there when you want to vent about some asshole, always down to beat the absolute shit out of a random stranger just because he looks at you funny, always okay with buying you stuff and taking you places, etc. etc., if he's not gay, he's totally and completely crazy about you.
Now, with this new-found knowledge, don't just drop it all on him - don't be like "so are you crazy about me?" Because 99% of the time he'll deny it flatly and lie right to your face. You ladies are crafty - feminine wiles and all that shit - so use some of that to see how he really feels, and if you feel the same way, let him know. There's always the chance that he's just a REALLY good guy friend and has nothing but friendly feelings towards you. But it wouldn't kill you to use all your feminine wiles and shit to figure it out. Just to be sure.
Because I've been there, and let me tell you, it's hard to dry the tears off my shoulder after some guy was a dick, and to listen to the whole "I can't find any good guys" speech, and the whole "I want my husband to be my best friend" speech, while all the while I'm standing right there, fulfilling every requirement for her "perfect man" or whatever, and still shit out of luck.
No, this isn't happening currently. I'm happily single. But it's happened before, and I'm trying to prevent it from happening any more. Baby steps.
Stay classy
Ladies. If you have a male best friend, who is always down to chill, always there when you want to vent about some asshole, always down to beat the absolute shit out of a random stranger just because he looks at you funny, always okay with buying you stuff and taking you places, etc. etc., if he's not gay, he's totally and completely crazy about you.
Now, with this new-found knowledge, don't just drop it all on him - don't be like "so are you crazy about me?" Because 99% of the time he'll deny it flatly and lie right to your face. You ladies are crafty - feminine wiles and all that shit - so use some of that to see how he really feels, and if you feel the same way, let him know. There's always the chance that he's just a REALLY good guy friend and has nothing but friendly feelings towards you. But it wouldn't kill you to use all your feminine wiles and shit to figure it out. Just to be sure.
Because I've been there, and let me tell you, it's hard to dry the tears off my shoulder after some guy was a dick, and to listen to the whole "I can't find any good guys" speech, and the whole "I want my husband to be my best friend" speech, while all the while I'm standing right there, fulfilling every requirement for her "perfect man" or whatever, and still shit out of luck.
No, this isn't happening currently. I'm happily single. But it's happened before, and I'm trying to prevent it from happening any more. Baby steps.
Stay classy
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Real Men Wear Pink?
Readership, this whole "real men wear pink" movement has finally gotten to the top of the "PISSIN' ME OFF!" pile, and now I have to address it.
Pink has been, is, and always will be a girl's color. My generation learned this through watching Power Rangers. There was never, is not currently, and never will be, a male Pink Ranger. Recently, they tried a season where they made the Yellow Ranger a dude and the Blue Ranger a chick.
That shit didn't last long.
But back on topic.
The whole argument for the "real men wear pink" thing is pretty damn asinine. Basically, these fools believe that a "real man" wears pink because a "real man" is manly enough and secure enough to do so. From a psychological and self-esteem view, they might have a point - but even if they do, it's flimsy bullshit at best.
On top of that, I have several facts that shoot their "real men wear pink" bullshit dogma down to shit. And I'll list them below, just cuz I know you're lookin' to read 'em.
First of all, we look to modern-day advertising campaigns. There are a lot of quote-unquote "manly" things that we see advertised on television. For example, pickup trucks, grills, and professional sports teams and their related indicia (apparel, stationary, etc.). Yet, in the advertising campaigns for these products that are widely recognized as "manly," there's a very curious lack of anything pink.
I've never seen a guy wearing anything pink in one of those hard-fucking-core, drop-two-tons-of-cinder-blocks-into-muh-pickup-so-it-kinda-bounces-and-dust-goes-flying-but-I-don't-care-cuz-I'm-a-manly-man pickup truck commercials, and I don't think I've ever seen a pink pickup truck at ALL, be it on TV, in a movie, or in real life. Shit, I don't even think I've ever seen a pink pickup truck in a comicbook or a cartoon. In the two places where there are NO RULES, there are STILL no pink pickup trucks.
Also, when's the last time you saw a pink grill? The only thing pink that EVER touches a man's grill is raw meat. And it doesn't stay pink for long. Because it gets grilled to perfection - if he's a real man.
Ditto for pink in professional sports. The only time you see pink clothing on a professional sports player is when they're playing the game for Breast Cancer, which is the only time a real man should be wearing pink. I hear all you "real men wear pink" dickheads screaming from deep something about pink baseball caps, and I tell you in reply, "shut up, they were made for chicks." And they were, so shut up.
If you don't get the significance of the fact that advertisement campaigns for manly shit NEVER include pink, for one, you're a loon, and for another, I'll have to explain. The SINGLE GOAL of advertisement is for you to buy whatever's being advertised. If you see an ad and buy the product, they've succeeded. If you see an ad and keep on walking, they've failed. Thus, logically they structure their ads to maximize effectiveness, and target their market accordingly.
If you're still not getting it, let me lay it out flat for you: knowing that they're selling manly things to real men, and knowing that they have to maximize their effectiveness with that target market, advertising departments DELIBERATELY LEAVE OUT PINK. Know why?
BECAUSE REAL MEN DON'T WEAR PINK.
Still not convinced? Then you're an idiot, but I'll give you irrefutable proof right now. If you don't believe that real men DON'T wear pink after this next bit, that means a) you're not a real man and b) you're wearing pink for some other reason that I'll leave to you and your psychologist to uncover.
Let's make a list of the top five manliest men. Obviously, this list would vary depending on who you asked, but we'll just assume (for argument's sake) that my list is representative of what the average man would list as his manliest men (as statistics slowly creeps into my non-academic life...).
Anyway, top five manliest men, in no particular order (besides the first one, obviously):
1. Chuck Norris
2. Clint Eastwood
3. Andrew Jackson
4. Sean Connery
5. Grigori Rasputin
If you "real men" in your pink shirts would take a gander, you'd notice two things that each of those five men have in common.
First off, they're INFINITELY manlier than you are, and infinitely to INFINITY manlier than you'll EVER be.
AND SECONDLY, THEY'RE NOT WEARING PINK!
Stay classy
Pink has been, is, and always will be a girl's color. My generation learned this through watching Power Rangers. There was never, is not currently, and never will be, a male Pink Ranger. Recently, they tried a season where they made the Yellow Ranger a dude and the Blue Ranger a chick.
That shit didn't last long.
But back on topic.
The whole argument for the "real men wear pink" thing is pretty damn asinine. Basically, these fools believe that a "real man" wears pink because a "real man" is manly enough and secure enough to do so. From a psychological and self-esteem view, they might have a point - but even if they do, it's flimsy bullshit at best.
On top of that, I have several facts that shoot their "real men wear pink" bullshit dogma down to shit. And I'll list them below, just cuz I know you're lookin' to read 'em.
First of all, we look to modern-day advertising campaigns. There are a lot of quote-unquote "manly" things that we see advertised on television. For example, pickup trucks, grills, and professional sports teams and their related indicia (apparel, stationary, etc.). Yet, in the advertising campaigns for these products that are widely recognized as "manly," there's a very curious lack of anything pink.
I've never seen a guy wearing anything pink in one of those hard-fucking-core, drop-two-tons-of-cinder-blocks-into-muh-pickup-so-it-kinda-bounces-and-dust-goes-flying-but-I-don't-care-cuz-I'm-a-manly-man pickup truck commercials, and I don't think I've ever seen a pink pickup truck at ALL, be it on TV, in a movie, or in real life. Shit, I don't even think I've ever seen a pink pickup truck in a comicbook or a cartoon. In the two places where there are NO RULES, there are STILL no pink pickup trucks.
Also, when's the last time you saw a pink grill? The only thing pink that EVER touches a man's grill is raw meat. And it doesn't stay pink for long. Because it gets grilled to perfection - if he's a real man.
Ditto for pink in professional sports. The only time you see pink clothing on a professional sports player is when they're playing the game for Breast Cancer, which is the only time a real man should be wearing pink. I hear all you "real men wear pink" dickheads screaming from deep something about pink baseball caps, and I tell you in reply, "shut up, they were made for chicks." And they were, so shut up.
If you don't get the significance of the fact that advertisement campaigns for manly shit NEVER include pink, for one, you're a loon, and for another, I'll have to explain. The SINGLE GOAL of advertisement is for you to buy whatever's being advertised. If you see an ad and buy the product, they've succeeded. If you see an ad and keep on walking, they've failed. Thus, logically they structure their ads to maximize effectiveness, and target their market accordingly.
If you're still not getting it, let me lay it out flat for you: knowing that they're selling manly things to real men, and knowing that they have to maximize their effectiveness with that target market, advertising departments DELIBERATELY LEAVE OUT PINK. Know why?
BECAUSE REAL MEN DON'T WEAR PINK.
Still not convinced? Then you're an idiot, but I'll give you irrefutable proof right now. If you don't believe that real men DON'T wear pink after this next bit, that means a) you're not a real man and b) you're wearing pink for some other reason that I'll leave to you and your psychologist to uncover.
Let's make a list of the top five manliest men. Obviously, this list would vary depending on who you asked, but we'll just assume (for argument's sake) that my list is representative of what the average man would list as his manliest men (as statistics slowly creeps into my non-academic life...).
Anyway, top five manliest men, in no particular order (besides the first one, obviously):
1. Chuck Norris
2. Clint Eastwood
3. Andrew Jackson
4. Sean Connery
5. Grigori Rasputin
If you "real men" in your pink shirts would take a gander, you'd notice two things that each of those five men have in common.
First off, they're INFINITELY manlier than you are, and infinitely to INFINITY manlier than you'll EVER be.
AND SECONDLY, THEY'RE NOT WEARING PINK!
Stay classy
Friday, April 9, 2010
Arbitrary Value
Readership, I noticed something that bothered me slightly today. There are a lot of things that have value, most of which are sold (like products and services). Most of them have clear values, usually based on the costs incurred during the process of manufacturing the products (materials, utilities at the manufacturing plant, salaries, etc.), or the manufacturing processes of making the products that are used in the service provided, as well as labor, etc.
However, there are some things for which there are simply no empirically identifiable values. For example, in those commercials for eHarmony, they say that they'll give you their Personality Profile for free, and stress the fact that it's a $40 value, and that you're getting for free.
I would really like to know how they came to that value. What were your calculations? Dr. Neil Clark Warren has been a Christian Life Counselor for like 30 something years, so are you paying for his experience? That's ridiculous (obviously).
But let's just say, for the sake of an argument, that you actually ARE paying for his 30 something years of experience. Thus, I would have to ask, a) how do you put a value on experience, and b) how the HELL are THIRTY-PLUS YEARS' EXPERIENCE worth only $40?
RIDDLE ME THAT BITCHES!
And whatever you do
Stay classy
However, there are some things for which there are simply no empirically identifiable values. For example, in those commercials for eHarmony, they say that they'll give you their Personality Profile for free, and stress the fact that it's a $40 value, and that you're getting for free.
I would really like to know how they came to that value. What were your calculations? Dr. Neil Clark Warren has been a Christian Life Counselor for like 30 something years, so are you paying for his experience? That's ridiculous (obviously).
But let's just say, for the sake of an argument, that you actually ARE paying for his 30 something years of experience. Thus, I would have to ask, a) how do you put a value on experience, and b) how the HELL are THIRTY-PLUS YEARS' EXPERIENCE worth only $40?
RIDDLE ME THAT BITCHES!
And whatever you do
Stay classy
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
College Apparel
Readership, as I ate my delicious sammich today at lunch, I realized something about college apparel. And then, in an amazing attack of serendipity, I realized something ELSE about college apparel. I was so excited, I had to tell you!
My first realization was centered around the fact that people have this strange habit of wearing college apparel from colleges that they've never attended (even while currently attending a different college). I just don't get it.
Now, it's far from me to tell anybody what to wear or anything like that, and please don't take what I'm about to say as me doing so, but when it comes to this sort of thing, the litmus test (for me, anyway) is a little something I like to call the "ridiculous answer" test. To clarify, that means that if someone were to ask you a question regarding the college apparel you were wearing (for example, "Oh, nice sweater. You go to Yale?"), and your only TRUTHFUL answer (and that's important!) would be some variation of "no" followed by something ridiculous (for example, "Nope, I take online courses at the University of Phoenix. I just like the colors. Matches my Best Buy uniform.") then you SHOULD NOT BE WEARING THAT COLLEGE APPAREL.
In my mind, there are only four scenarios where it would be okay for you to wear college apparel for a college that you don't attend. One, if your parent(s) and/or sibling(s) currently attend or used to attend that school, it's cool to wear that school's shit. Two, if this school is in some sort of college sports competition (including but not limited to the NCAA basketball tournament) - AND IS NOT AGAINST YOUR ACTUAL COLLEGE OF RESIDENCE - it's cool to wear their shit to show support as a fan. Three, if the apparel in question was free. However, I would still (personally) frown upon the wearing of said apparel in public, and would probably ask you "wtf," but if you told me it was free I'd probably be like "oh okay." Four, if you're in high school and have yet to receive acceptance and rejection letters from prospective colleges, you can wear whatever college shit you want. I think you'd look like an idiot, but technically since you could end up at any one of them, it'd be legit on paper.
Otherwise, what the fuck.
Whew.
Secondly, I realized that the whole point of wearing college apparel for your own college is the fact that you have pride in your school. Quick disclaimer: I know that a college education, no matter what institution it's from, is miles better than a high school diploma or GED equivalent, and that the people who graduate from community college or online colleges aren't any less accomplished or intelligent than people who graduate from Yale and Harvard. I'm pretty sure my mom graduated from a community college for her undergrad shit, and she's a fucking genius.
That said, let's face it, there are some schools that you should not have pride in attending. These include, but are not limited to, Stone Academy, the Sawyer School, ITT Tech, and any and all online-only universities. Wearing a DeVry University sweatshirt in public equates to you saying something along the lines of "Look at me, I got into DeVry!"
Must've been really hard for you, huh? All you had to do was open the fuckin' door.
Stay classy
My first realization was centered around the fact that people have this strange habit of wearing college apparel from colleges that they've never attended (even while currently attending a different college). I just don't get it.
Now, it's far from me to tell anybody what to wear or anything like that, and please don't take what I'm about to say as me doing so, but when it comes to this sort of thing, the litmus test (for me, anyway) is a little something I like to call the "ridiculous answer" test. To clarify, that means that if someone were to ask you a question regarding the college apparel you were wearing (for example, "Oh, nice sweater. You go to Yale?"), and your only TRUTHFUL answer (and that's important!) would be some variation of "no" followed by something ridiculous (for example, "Nope, I take online courses at the University of Phoenix. I just like the colors. Matches my Best Buy uniform.") then you SHOULD NOT BE WEARING THAT COLLEGE APPAREL.
In my mind, there are only four scenarios where it would be okay for you to wear college apparel for a college that you don't attend. One, if your parent(s) and/or sibling(s) currently attend or used to attend that school, it's cool to wear that school's shit. Two, if this school is in some sort of college sports competition (including but not limited to the NCAA basketball tournament) - AND IS NOT AGAINST YOUR ACTUAL COLLEGE OF RESIDENCE - it's cool to wear their shit to show support as a fan. Three, if the apparel in question was free. However, I would still (personally) frown upon the wearing of said apparel in public, and would probably ask you "wtf," but if you told me it was free I'd probably be like "oh okay." Four, if you're in high school and have yet to receive acceptance and rejection letters from prospective colleges, you can wear whatever college shit you want. I think you'd look like an idiot, but technically since you could end up at any one of them, it'd be legit on paper.
Otherwise, what the fuck.
Whew.
Secondly, I realized that the whole point of wearing college apparel for your own college is the fact that you have pride in your school. Quick disclaimer: I know that a college education, no matter what institution it's from, is miles better than a high school diploma or GED equivalent, and that the people who graduate from community college or online colleges aren't any less accomplished or intelligent than people who graduate from Yale and Harvard. I'm pretty sure my mom graduated from a community college for her undergrad shit, and she's a fucking genius.
That said, let's face it, there are some schools that you should not have pride in attending. These include, but are not limited to, Stone Academy, the Sawyer School, ITT Tech, and any and all online-only universities. Wearing a DeVry University sweatshirt in public equates to you saying something along the lines of "Look at me, I got into DeVry!"
Must've been really hard for you, huh? All you had to do was open the fuckin' door.
Stay classy
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Fitted Caps - Secretly Fucking Your Brain Up?
Readership, in the past four days I've noticed something that I've found quite strange. Between my time spent in the club on Saturday night, and my time spent watching a Wale video (with no sound) while at breakfast, I noticed that when people wear fitted caps (such as those from Lids), they have this strange tendency to spin them around and continuously rearrange them on their heads, constantly, and for seemingly no reason.
I looked at people wearing other types of headwear, however, and noticed a distinct lack of constant rearrangery - and shockingly, non-fitted caps (even of the same team as their fitted counterparts!) were not constantly rearranged and spun around the dome. Ski caps remained firmly in place (even if "in place" equated to dangerously dangling off the back of the head, in most cases), skullies weren't messed with, and the only possible exception was fedoras, which were given that little swipe across the front of the brim to accentuate the fact that the person was, indeed, wearing a sexy-ass fedora.
This leads me to postulate that there is something inherent in Fitted Caps (as they are now known to be some kind of unexplained entity, their name will become a proper noun) that almost forces someone to constantly arrange and rearrange them while wearing them, which serves no purpose practically or aesthetically.
With that said, I go further and theorize that Fitted Caps were invented and developed by the Feds, and as soon as they touch someone's head, they begin to secretly leech out information pertaining to whereabouts, illegal habits, and daily schedules. Every time information is leached and transmitted, the Fitted Cap sends a signal directly into your nervous system that makes you raise your arm up and rearrange the Fitted Cap, so it can get at a different area of your cortex and get more information. It's all a part of what I like to call the Federal Keeping the Black Man Down Act. Allow me to explain this a little further.
The Federal Keeping the Black Man Down Act was secretly enacted in 2009 after Oprah used her considerable influence to push it quietly through the House and the Senate, and since Oprah is Oprah, Barrack Obama signed that shit into law without hesitation.
IT'S NOT HIS FAULT. THIS IS OPRAH WE'RE TALKIN' ABOUT HERE.
I digress.
Don't take this the wrong way, but if there was a chart that displayed which ethnic group wore fitted caps most by percentage, African Americans would be at the top - and the government knows this (fucking Census!), and uses the Fitted Caps to implement the Federal Keeping the Black Man Down Act and exploit this knowledge.
That said, don't think that just because you're not black that the Federal Keeping the Black Man Down Act doesn't work on you. The Federal Keeping the Black Man Down Act works on EVERYBODY - all you have to do is wear a fitted. How do you think they caught Bernie Madoff? He was in the mall, saw a Lids store and thought "hmm. maybe I should go see about copping me the ill Yankees fitted, perchance?" The minute he tried that first Fitted Cap on, the FBI froze his assets and by the time he got home they were waiting to bust his ass and steal his Coldstone (cuz he got some on the way out of the mall).
So yeah. Beware the Fitted Caps!
And whatever you do
Stay classy
I looked at people wearing other types of headwear, however, and noticed a distinct lack of constant rearrangery - and shockingly, non-fitted caps (even of the same team as their fitted counterparts!) were not constantly rearranged and spun around the dome. Ski caps remained firmly in place (even if "in place" equated to dangerously dangling off the back of the head, in most cases), skullies weren't messed with, and the only possible exception was fedoras, which were given that little swipe across the front of the brim to accentuate the fact that the person was, indeed, wearing a sexy-ass fedora.
This leads me to postulate that there is something inherent in Fitted Caps (as they are now known to be some kind of unexplained entity, their name will become a proper noun) that almost forces someone to constantly arrange and rearrange them while wearing them, which serves no purpose practically or aesthetically.
With that said, I go further and theorize that Fitted Caps were invented and developed by the Feds, and as soon as they touch someone's head, they begin to secretly leech out information pertaining to whereabouts, illegal habits, and daily schedules. Every time information is leached and transmitted, the Fitted Cap sends a signal directly into your nervous system that makes you raise your arm up and rearrange the Fitted Cap, so it can get at a different area of your cortex and get more information. It's all a part of what I like to call the Federal Keeping the Black Man Down Act. Allow me to explain this a little further.
The Federal Keeping the Black Man Down Act was secretly enacted in 2009 after Oprah used her considerable influence to push it quietly through the House and the Senate, and since Oprah is Oprah, Barrack Obama signed that shit into law without hesitation.
IT'S NOT HIS FAULT. THIS IS OPRAH WE'RE TALKIN' ABOUT HERE.
I digress.
Don't take this the wrong way, but if there was a chart that displayed which ethnic group wore fitted caps most by percentage, African Americans would be at the top - and the government knows this (fucking Census!), and uses the Fitted Caps to implement the Federal Keeping the Black Man Down Act and exploit this knowledge.
That said, don't think that just because you're not black that the Federal Keeping the Black Man Down Act doesn't work on you. The Federal Keeping the Black Man Down Act works on EVERYBODY - all you have to do is wear a fitted. How do you think they caught Bernie Madoff? He was in the mall, saw a Lids store and thought "hmm. maybe I should go see about copping me the ill Yankees fitted, perchance?" The minute he tried that first Fitted Cap on, the FBI froze his assets and by the time he got home they were waiting to bust his ass and steal his Coldstone (cuz he got some on the way out of the mall).
So yeah. Beware the Fitted Caps!
And whatever you do
Stay classy
Monday, March 29, 2010
A Long (and Long-Overdue) Rant
Readership, I apologize. I feel that I've been very on and off with you this month. Looking at the number of Observations for this month, and the spacing of them time-wise throughout the month, it doesn't seem like I've been so spotty, but I can't shake the feeling that I have.
But fear not! In this one day I've witnessed and read about several things that pissed me right the hell off, and thus, you're in for a muchly needed, long-overdue rant. Enjoy!
These past few months in the Tri-State area, it's been raining like a bitch. There have been miniature swamps that I've had to ninja over. And it's been sneakily heavy sometimes too, like a fat ninja (aka Finja). I'd be walking and suddenly HELLO FUCKING DOWNPOUR.
With this knowledge under our belts, I put the question to you: why do people wear FLIP-FLOPS WHEN IT'S RAINING CATS AND DOGS? Do you LIKE that dirty wet feeling between your toes, borne of rain and/or dirty ass puddles with dog shit and God knows what else floating in it?
Oh you do? Cool.
Secondly, people who air out their private business in very public places, like, I dunno, Facebook. There was this couple last year that I was friends with on Facebook (I won't name names, because I'm not an asshole), that was on again, off again, on again, off again - every few fucking days they were back and forth between "go fuck yourself!" and "I luv youuuu <333" and it was the most annoying thing ever. There was one status that the guy had, which was something like "I'm losing the one thing that means the most to me, and there's no way I can stop it." I can sympathize with that, because I've been there too.
But then the chick comes through talking all this shit, and he's trying to get a word in but she's just shitting on him again and again and again, until he was just like "I'm done." But of course, she kept going. I logged on Facebook and saw this fucking EPIC POEM and I thought to myself "seriously? what the fuck."
THE PHONE WAS INVENTED FOR A REASON. You don't wanna hear his/her voice? It'll cause too much pain? TEXT THAT BITCH/ASSHOLE. Jump on AIM. If you HAVE to be on Facebook, there's this lovely thing called Facebook Chat. It's like AIM, but on Facebook. And if you don't like that (and nobody does), there are always private messages you can send on Facebook.
Point is: DON'T AIR YOUR PRIVATE SHIT OUT IN PUBLIC, YOU'RE PISSIN' PEOPLE OFF.
Thirdly, courtesy of Carlos aka Pimp-C. There are a couple ways to see what's for dinner when you walk into a dining hall. One, depending on how the place is laid out, you might be able to see what's good for food from the door. Also, you could see what people have on their plates. Third, if you're possessed of a sensitive nose, you can sniff out what's cookin'.
There's one way, however, that you don't want to find out what's for dinner: by seeing it BEING CHEWED INSIDE SOMEONE'S MOUTH.
HEY! LLAMA-LOOKIN', MOUTH-BREATHIN' DOUCHEBAGS! CLOSE YOUR MOUTH WHEN YOU CHEW! Ain't your momma taught you any better than that? Shit.
Lastly, this is probably one of the most annoying things that's happened to me this month. Tonight, I was in Monty's (the main dining hall on campus), making a sammich. The way they have the sammich-making area laid out is as follows: first, there's the bread. There's white, wheat, and some other weird brown shit, and then rolls (kaiser, hoagie, etc.). Then there's the meat (ha), which is usually ham, turkey and roast beef/corned beef. Then there's the cheese (American and Swiss, sometimes provolone too), and then the salad-ish shit (egg salad, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, etc.).
So. I had my bread, and I had grabbed my meat (ha), and I was going to grab some cheese, waiting in line behind this (kinda cute) girl. She smiled at me before she left with her sammich. I noticed this kid standing sort of awkwardly behind the two of us, not in line, and I was thinking "what the hell is this kid doing?" But I didn't give a fuck (per usual), so I went ahead and started grabbing my cheese. He slides in front of me grabbing some lettuce to put on his burger (like a bitch). I got a slice of provolone and two slices of Swiss (which were all in the same little receptacle), and then went to go grab some American cheese.
Then this motherfucker reached across me, underneath my arms and plate, to try and grab some shit behind me. I stopped dead and looked him dead in the eye. AND HE HAD THE NERVE TO LOOK AT ME AND CONTINUE. I was like "what the fuck dude." And he just sorta looked at me like I was a retard. AS IF THE RETARD WERE ME, NOT HIM!
THAT'S WHY THERE'S A LINE, DICK!
Whew.
Readership, again, I apologize for the spottiness of my shenanigans. I'll try to keep it more regular in the future. It'll be as if the blog started taking Benefiber.
Ha.
Stay classy
But fear not! In this one day I've witnessed and read about several things that pissed me right the hell off, and thus, you're in for a muchly needed, long-overdue rant. Enjoy!
These past few months in the Tri-State area, it's been raining like a bitch. There have been miniature swamps that I've had to ninja over. And it's been sneakily heavy sometimes too, like a fat ninja (aka Finja). I'd be walking and suddenly HELLO FUCKING DOWNPOUR.
With this knowledge under our belts, I put the question to you: why do people wear FLIP-FLOPS WHEN IT'S RAINING CATS AND DOGS? Do you LIKE that dirty wet feeling between your toes, borne of rain and/or dirty ass puddles with dog shit and God knows what else floating in it?
Oh you do? Cool.
Secondly, people who air out their private business in very public places, like, I dunno, Facebook. There was this couple last year that I was friends with on Facebook (I won't name names, because I'm not an asshole), that was on again, off again, on again, off again - every few fucking days they were back and forth between "go fuck yourself!" and "I luv youuuu <333" and it was the most annoying thing ever. There was one status that the guy had, which was something like "I'm losing the one thing that means the most to me, and there's no way I can stop it." I can sympathize with that, because I've been there too.
But then the chick comes through talking all this shit, and he's trying to get a word in but she's just shitting on him again and again and again, until he was just like "I'm done." But of course, she kept going. I logged on Facebook and saw this fucking EPIC POEM and I thought to myself "seriously? what the fuck."
THE PHONE WAS INVENTED FOR A REASON. You don't wanna hear his/her voice? It'll cause too much pain? TEXT THAT BITCH/ASSHOLE. Jump on AIM. If you HAVE to be on Facebook, there's this lovely thing called Facebook Chat. It's like AIM, but on Facebook. And if you don't like that (and nobody does), there are always private messages you can send on Facebook.
Point is: DON'T AIR YOUR PRIVATE SHIT OUT IN PUBLIC, YOU'RE PISSIN' PEOPLE OFF.
Thirdly, courtesy of Carlos aka Pimp-C. There are a couple ways to see what's for dinner when you walk into a dining hall. One, depending on how the place is laid out, you might be able to see what's good for food from the door. Also, you could see what people have on their plates. Third, if you're possessed of a sensitive nose, you can sniff out what's cookin'.
There's one way, however, that you don't want to find out what's for dinner: by seeing it BEING CHEWED INSIDE SOMEONE'S MOUTH.
HEY! LLAMA-LOOKIN', MOUTH-BREATHIN' DOUCHEBAGS! CLOSE YOUR MOUTH WHEN YOU CHEW! Ain't your momma taught you any better than that? Shit.
Lastly, this is probably one of the most annoying things that's happened to me this month. Tonight, I was in Monty's (the main dining hall on campus), making a sammich. The way they have the sammich-making area laid out is as follows: first, there's the bread. There's white, wheat, and some other weird brown shit, and then rolls (kaiser, hoagie, etc.). Then there's the meat (ha), which is usually ham, turkey and roast beef/corned beef. Then there's the cheese (American and Swiss, sometimes provolone too), and then the salad-ish shit (egg salad, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, etc.).
So. I had my bread, and I had grabbed my meat (ha), and I was going to grab some cheese, waiting in line behind this (kinda cute) girl. She smiled at me before she left with her sammich. I noticed this kid standing sort of awkwardly behind the two of us, not in line, and I was thinking "what the hell is this kid doing?" But I didn't give a fuck (per usual), so I went ahead and started grabbing my cheese. He slides in front of me grabbing some lettuce to put on his burger (like a bitch). I got a slice of provolone and two slices of Swiss (which were all in the same little receptacle), and then went to go grab some American cheese.
Then this motherfucker reached across me, underneath my arms and plate, to try and grab some shit behind me. I stopped dead and looked him dead in the eye. AND HE HAD THE NERVE TO LOOK AT ME AND CONTINUE. I was like "what the fuck dude." And he just sorta looked at me like I was a retard. AS IF THE RETARD WERE ME, NOT HIM!
THAT'S WHY THERE'S A LINE, DICK!
Whew.
Readership, again, I apologize for the spottiness of my shenanigans. I'll try to keep it more regular in the future. It'll be as if the blog started taking Benefiber.
Ha.
Stay classy
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Common Sense . . .
. . . is, clearly, not so common. As is evident by my rants, if it WERE common, I'd be out of a blog.
That is all.
Stay classy
That is all.
Stay classy
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Play-Doh Upsets Me
Readership, there are many things that upset me in this world, as you very well know. Sometime in the wee hours of this morning, another came to my attention. But I was so exhausted that I knocked out, and I couldn't remember it when I woke up later. I just remembered what it was: Play-Doh.
Now unless you're a Communist, you've played with Play-Doh at least once in your life. It was fun when we were kids. We'd make snakes and little people with faces and shit. And then the geniuses at Hasbro decided "hey... let's make play-sets that allow kids to make FOOD out of Play-Doh!"
I'm gonna pause here and drop a little bit of side knowledge for you, free of charge: kids are retarded. I knew a kid once that ate a Crayola crayon JUST because it was called "Macaroni & Cheese." So yeah. Kids are retarded.
I digress.
So here these (retarded) kids are, making food-shaped shit out of Play-Doh. And it looks real as hell at first glance. Especially the ice cream. They even have a Play-Doh ice cream server, and a little thing that makes sprinkles out of Play-Doh. But then you get THIS bullshit.
"Fun to play with, not to eat!"
The fuck!? So I'm gonna spend all this time making this ice cream out of Play-Doh and making it look all delicious and shit . . . and then take it back apart and put it away? How much fucking sense does that make?
All together now . . . "bottled water."
Some ol' bullshit.
Stay classy
Now unless you're a Communist, you've played with Play-Doh at least once in your life. It was fun when we were kids. We'd make snakes and little people with faces and shit. And then the geniuses at Hasbro decided "hey... let's make play-sets that allow kids to make FOOD out of Play-Doh!"
I'm gonna pause here and drop a little bit of side knowledge for you, free of charge: kids are retarded. I knew a kid once that ate a Crayola crayon JUST because it was called "Macaroni & Cheese." So yeah. Kids are retarded.
I digress.
So here these (retarded) kids are, making food-shaped shit out of Play-Doh. And it looks real as hell at first glance. Especially the ice cream. They even have a Play-Doh ice cream server, and a little thing that makes sprinkles out of Play-Doh. But then you get THIS bullshit.
"Fun to play with, not to eat!"
The fuck!? So I'm gonna spend all this time making this ice cream out of Play-Doh and making it look all delicious and shit . . . and then take it back apart and put it away? How much fucking sense does that make?
All together now . . . "bottled water."
Some ol' bullshit.
Stay classy
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Uh. BACK THE FUCK UP!
Readership, lately I've been going to the gym semi-regularly (I try to go at least once a week, ideally twice; I don't live on campus and I'm often too lazy to walk my ass out there). As anybody who has gone to a gym and/or has seen any fictional representation of a gym (on television, in a movie, etc.) knows, the average gym has a lot of exercise equipment in it. Also, if you have any common sense, you know that these machines, if used incorrectly, can cause a lot of physical harm, and in some extreme cases, death. You don't want to be in someone's space while they're using these machines, because it could end up hurting you or the person that's using it, or both.
So why do people think it's cool to walk within like five inches of me while I'm doing some exercise thing that clearly requires you to STAY THE FUCK BACK? And the worst part is, when I have to stop abruptly mid-rep (which is definitely not good for my muscles and bones and tendons and shit), because some DIPSHIT decided they couldn't wait TWO SECONDS for me to finish the rep before they tried to pass, they look at me like I'M the asshole.
Excuse me for making sure that I didn't fucking CRUSH you with 80 pounds of machine - at risk of physical harm to myself - because you decided you couldn't POSSIBLY wait one more second, and that you absolutely HAD to run by me at that EXACT moment, mid-rep. Because CLEARLY, that makes ME an asshole.
Fucker.
Stay classy
So why do people think it's cool to walk within like five inches of me while I'm doing some exercise thing that clearly requires you to STAY THE FUCK BACK? And the worst part is, when I have to stop abruptly mid-rep (which is definitely not good for my muscles and bones and tendons and shit), because some DIPSHIT decided they couldn't wait TWO SECONDS for me to finish the rep before they tried to pass, they look at me like I'M the asshole.
Excuse me for making sure that I didn't fucking CRUSH you with 80 pounds of machine - at risk of physical harm to myself - because you decided you couldn't POSSIBLY wait one more second, and that you absolutely HAD to run by me at that EXACT moment, mid-rep. Because CLEARLY, that makes ME an asshole.
Fucker.
Stay classy
Monday, March 15, 2010
Why Do You Say Such Stupid Shit? Volume 7
Readership, I'm back. Yes, back. Again. With yet ANOTHER installment of the only regular "columns." I have to ask, Readership: Why do you say such stupid shit? Volume 7.
First off, from my homeslice Sam aka Sam-E: "What's good?"
There are a lot of things that are good. Sex is good. Beer is good. Food is good. Music is good. Sleep is good.
However, if someone were to come to you and say "Hey bro what's good?" and you were to respond with "sex," while you'd be 100% correct, they wouldn't be too happy with you. But fuck it, do it anyway. And let me know how they react.
Secondly, courtesy of Waldy aka Sh80 (he didn't like Waffles so we switched it up), we have "dead ass."
What THE fuck. "Dead ass?" How do you figure that is an affirmative statement? A dead ass is nothing that I'd want around me. Makes no got-damn sense.
Lastly, "who's laughing now?" Scenario:
Super evil guy has a plot to take over the world. His plot involves shooting dark matter into the atmosphere. Super good guy snags him just before he fires the dark matter cannon, in a harrowing move that leaves four dead and countless wounded in a collapsed building. Lots of sadness, even though it was resolved relatively positively. Fast forward a week, and now super good guy has been captured by super evil guy, who has him dangling from some evil sort of super death trap involving a vat of molten gold. Super evil guy says something along the lines of "Well, Mr. Super Good Guy, who's laughing NOWWWW!?"
Uh . . . who the fuck was laughing BEFORE? Did you not see the massive crater that used to be a building where all those people died?
Not funny, dick.
Stay classy
First off, from my homeslice Sam aka Sam-E: "What's good?"
There are a lot of things that are good. Sex is good. Beer is good. Food is good. Music is good. Sleep is good.
However, if someone were to come to you and say "Hey bro what's good?" and you were to respond with "sex," while you'd be 100% correct, they wouldn't be too happy with you. But fuck it, do it anyway. And let me know how they react.
Secondly, courtesy of Waldy aka Sh80 (he didn't like Waffles so we switched it up), we have "dead ass."
What THE fuck. "Dead ass?" How do you figure that is an affirmative statement? A dead ass is nothing that I'd want around me. Makes no got-damn sense.
Lastly, "who's laughing now?" Scenario:
Super evil guy has a plot to take over the world. His plot involves shooting dark matter into the atmosphere. Super good guy snags him just before he fires the dark matter cannon, in a harrowing move that leaves four dead and countless wounded in a collapsed building. Lots of sadness, even though it was resolved relatively positively. Fast forward a week, and now super good guy has been captured by super evil guy, who has him dangling from some evil sort of super death trap involving a vat of molten gold. Super evil guy says something along the lines of "Well, Mr. Super Good Guy, who's laughing NOWWWW!?"
Uh . . . who the fuck was laughing BEFORE? Did you not see the massive crater that used to be a building where all those people died?
Not funny, dick.
Stay classy
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Mixed Signals Can Eat a Dick
Readership, I was having a conversation via Facebook Chat with my homeslice Sam aka Sam-E, and we readily came to an agreement: mixed signals can eat a dick. Let's get into a scenario here.
Guy invites girl out for dinner and a movie. Everything goes really well - nice restaurant, pleasant conversation, lots of laughs, the movie is enjoyable - all in all, a perfect night for two. Guy brings girl home, maybe a peck on the cheek at the door, then they part ways. Girl updates her Facebook status, something to the tune of "had a great time tonight :)", which Guy likes as soon as he gets home and checks his Facebook. Next morning, Guy texts Girl "good morning :)" or something cute.
Fast forward a week.
Guy isn't responding to texts. Guy isn't sending texts. No communication from Guy whatsoever.
Well, now, ain't this some ol' bullshit. Not picking on guys, because girls are often guilty of this as well (and I've been on the "wtf" end of this situation a couple of times, myself), but still. What the fuck.
Now, sometimes it's an honest mistake. Some people are just really ignorant to the signs and signals that they're sending out to people, and are genuinely surprised when someone who they see as a really close friend of the opposite sex is suddenly nose to nose, alternating between the "kiss me" eyes and staring at your lips. I've been on both sides of that situation (both the ignorant mixed-signals-sender and the kiss-wanting-friend) a few times, and to be honest, I didn't even know what was going on in either case until it was far too late and awkward. Thankfully I've been able to re-establish relations with the females in question (for the most part).
I digress.
Next, there are those malicious bastards that see what they're doing, and continue to do it, knowing full well that they're leading someone else on. Then, when they realize that this poor bastard is far too deeply infatuated to play the whole thing off as a joke, they split, hence the "good morning text to zero communication" maneuver. Not gonna lie, I sorta did that once, but once I realized what was going on, I pulled back into distant friend mode and everything's been working out pretty well since.
But yeah. Mixed signals can eat a massive dick. Especially if they're intentionally mixed. Like a dirty vodka martini of deception. Shaken, not stirred. Like your emotions.
I'm gonna stop now.
Also, I dunno if you know this, but this was my 180th post on this blog. Not quite a legit milestone, but definitely something I'm proud of. Thanks to all three or four of you who have been here since day one, and thanks to everybody that's jumped on since. It's good to know there are people who think what I'm saying is worth listening to.
And not that I have to tell you after 180 posts, but I'll do it anyway.
Stay classy
Guy invites girl out for dinner and a movie. Everything goes really well - nice restaurant, pleasant conversation, lots of laughs, the movie is enjoyable - all in all, a perfect night for two. Guy brings girl home, maybe a peck on the cheek at the door, then they part ways. Girl updates her Facebook status, something to the tune of "had a great time tonight :)", which Guy likes as soon as he gets home and checks his Facebook. Next morning, Guy texts Girl "good morning :)" or something cute.
Fast forward a week.
Guy isn't responding to texts. Guy isn't sending texts. No communication from Guy whatsoever.
Well, now, ain't this some ol' bullshit. Not picking on guys, because girls are often guilty of this as well (and I've been on the "wtf" end of this situation a couple of times, myself), but still. What the fuck.
Now, sometimes it's an honest mistake. Some people are just really ignorant to the signs and signals that they're sending out to people, and are genuinely surprised when someone who they see as a really close friend of the opposite sex is suddenly nose to nose, alternating between the "kiss me" eyes and staring at your lips. I've been on both sides of that situation (both the ignorant mixed-signals-sender and the kiss-wanting-friend) a few times, and to be honest, I didn't even know what was going on in either case until it was far too late and awkward. Thankfully I've been able to re-establish relations with the females in question (for the most part).
I digress.
Next, there are those malicious bastards that see what they're doing, and continue to do it, knowing full well that they're leading someone else on. Then, when they realize that this poor bastard is far too deeply infatuated to play the whole thing off as a joke, they split, hence the "good morning text to zero communication" maneuver. Not gonna lie, I sorta did that once, but once I realized what was going on, I pulled back into distant friend mode and everything's been working out pretty well since.
But yeah. Mixed signals can eat a massive dick. Especially if they're intentionally mixed. Like a dirty vodka martini of deception. Shaken, not stirred. Like your emotions.
I'm gonna stop now.
Also, I dunno if you know this, but this was my 180th post on this blog. Not quite a legit milestone, but definitely something I'm proud of. Thanks to all three or four of you who have been here since day one, and thanks to everybody that's jumped on since. It's good to know there are people who think what I'm saying is worth listening to.
And not that I have to tell you after 180 posts, but I'll do it anyway.
Stay classy
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Baby Geniuses? Chill
Readership, at the moment I am exhausted. However, I just saw a very troubling commercial, and since lately a) I've been thinking up ideas for Observations and then falling asleep and forgetting in the morning; and b) it's almost mid-March and I haven't made an Observation yet, I think I need to drop this Observation before I collapse and forget it when I wake up.
Whew.
I'm sure that you've all seen those commercials for that weird program that teaches two-month-olds to read. It's actually quite remarkable, and it works. There are all these toddlers that demonstrate either the ability to read, or if they can't speak yet, the ability to comprehend what they're reading (for example, pulling up their shirt and poking their bellybutton when "bellybutton" is presented on a flashcard).
I think it's a fucking abomination. Don't get me wrong, it's amazing and it definitely gives the children an AMAZING and priceless academic advantage.
But at what cost? Yeah, your kid is going to be a genius. But that means they're going to be skipping grades and shit. I'm all for kids getting ahead, but if they're gonna be graduating high school at like 12 with a bunch of older kids that are much more advanced socially and biologically, it's going to be incredibly awkward for your kid. If I had to choose between a socially well-adjusted above average kid and a socially awkward genius, I'd definitely choose the former.
So yeah. Welcome to March, I'm going to bed.
Stay classy
Whew.
I'm sure that you've all seen those commercials for that weird program that teaches two-month-olds to read. It's actually quite remarkable, and it works. There are all these toddlers that demonstrate either the ability to read, or if they can't speak yet, the ability to comprehend what they're reading (for example, pulling up their shirt and poking their bellybutton when "bellybutton" is presented on a flashcard).
I think it's a fucking abomination. Don't get me wrong, it's amazing and it definitely gives the children an AMAZING and priceless academic advantage.
But at what cost? Yeah, your kid is going to be a genius. But that means they're going to be skipping grades and shit. I'm all for kids getting ahead, but if they're gonna be graduating high school at like 12 with a bunch of older kids that are much more advanced socially and biologically, it's going to be incredibly awkward for your kid. If I had to choose between a socially well-adjusted above average kid and a socially awkward genius, I'd definitely choose the former.
So yeah. Welcome to March, I'm going to bed.
Stay classy
Monday, February 22, 2010
Why Do You Say Such Stupid Shit? Volume 6
Readership, you already know what happened. Once again, I've stumbled on some key phrases that have pissed me RIGHT the hell off. Let's cut to the chase.
There are many variations for the phrase you're supposed to employ after someone thanks you for something. There's always the classic "you're welcome," and then a myriad of other choices, such as "no problem," and "it was my pleasure." But then you have "don't mention it." There's just something about "don't mention it" that pisses me off. I think it's the fact that it's used SO DAMN MUCH, when, as I see it, there are really only a few certain situations where it would be applicable.
People will say "don't mention it" when you thank them for stupid shit, like "hey man, thanks for telling me there was a test tomorrow, I'll be able to study tonight," or "thanks for bringing my mail in with yours." Why the hell wouldn't you want someone to mention the fact that you did that? Are you some sort of Mad Max superbadass who couldn't bear to have the public know that you did one decent thing in your life?
I mean, the way I see it, the only types of shit that should be met with "don't mention it" is some shit that REALLY SHOULDN'T BE MENTIONED. If someone says to you, "hey, thanks for killing my husband, now we can elope in Aruba," or "thanks for paying off that Customs Agent so we could move our cocaine into the country safely," THEN you can say "don't mention it." Otherwise, chill the fuck out with that.
Secondly, the classic phrase "long story short." When the HELL has the story to follow that phrase been short? And the fucked up part is that usually, after you've sat and listened to this EPIC FUCKING POEM of a story for the last hour and a half, you come to the realization that it actually COULD'VE been told in a much shorter version - so the asshole might as well have started the whole conversation with "short story long."
Lastly, this is one that kills me. Let me set up the scenario.
You're asleep. You're dreaming about something pleasant, but then your dream is interrupted by a sort of buzzing noise. It's rhythmic and in perfect cadence. Finally, you wake up, still groggy and for a second you have no fucking clue who you are or what planet you're on, but the buzzing is louder than ever. You see something buzzing and skidding around on your desk with a bright light on it, and instinctively grab it before realizing it's your phone, ringing. You put it up to your ear and the conversation goes a little something like this:
You- "....hello..ughhh..."
Person- "Hey.... uh, were you sleeping?"
You- "...yeah.."
Person- "Ohhh I'm sorry! I'll call you back."
"NO FUCKER YOU WOKE ME UP YOU BETTER MAKE THIS SHIT INTERESTING!"
That's what you think, but you're too nice to say that, so instead you say:
You- "...nah, it's okay, it's cool... what's up?"
Person- "No, no, it's nothing, I'll call you later, it's not important."
WHAT THE FUCK YOU WOKE ME UP FOR SOME UNIMPORTANT SHIT?
At this point, you've got my permission to say that.
God I love people.
Stay classy
There are many variations for the phrase you're supposed to employ after someone thanks you for something. There's always the classic "you're welcome," and then a myriad of other choices, such as "no problem," and "it was my pleasure." But then you have "don't mention it." There's just something about "don't mention it" that pisses me off. I think it's the fact that it's used SO DAMN MUCH, when, as I see it, there are really only a few certain situations where it would be applicable.
People will say "don't mention it" when you thank them for stupid shit, like "hey man, thanks for telling me there was a test tomorrow, I'll be able to study tonight," or "thanks for bringing my mail in with yours." Why the hell wouldn't you want someone to mention the fact that you did that? Are you some sort of Mad Max superbadass who couldn't bear to have the public know that you did one decent thing in your life?
I mean, the way I see it, the only types of shit that should be met with "don't mention it" is some shit that REALLY SHOULDN'T BE MENTIONED. If someone says to you, "hey, thanks for killing my husband, now we can elope in Aruba," or "thanks for paying off that Customs Agent so we could move our cocaine into the country safely," THEN you can say "don't mention it." Otherwise, chill the fuck out with that.
Secondly, the classic phrase "long story short." When the HELL has the story to follow that phrase been short? And the fucked up part is that usually, after you've sat and listened to this EPIC FUCKING POEM of a story for the last hour and a half, you come to the realization that it actually COULD'VE been told in a much shorter version - so the asshole might as well have started the whole conversation with "short story long."
Lastly, this is one that kills me. Let me set up the scenario.
You're asleep. You're dreaming about something pleasant, but then your dream is interrupted by a sort of buzzing noise. It's rhythmic and in perfect cadence. Finally, you wake up, still groggy and for a second you have no fucking clue who you are or what planet you're on, but the buzzing is louder than ever. You see something buzzing and skidding around on your desk with a bright light on it, and instinctively grab it before realizing it's your phone, ringing. You put it up to your ear and the conversation goes a little something like this:
You- "....hello..ughhh..."
Person- "Hey.... uh, were you sleeping?"
You- "...yeah.."
Person- "Ohhh I'm sorry! I'll call you back."
"NO FUCKER YOU WOKE ME UP YOU BETTER MAKE THIS SHIT INTERESTING!"
That's what you think, but you're too nice to say that, so instead you say:
You- "...nah, it's okay, it's cool... what's up?"
Person- "No, no, it's nothing, I'll call you later, it's not important."
WHAT THE FUCK YOU WOKE ME UP FOR SOME UNIMPORTANT SHIT?
At this point, you've got my permission to say that.
God I love people.
Stay classy
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
CD Compilations
Readership, there are many, many things in this wide, wide world that make absolutely NO sense. From bottled water to white people on Fringe, there are many things that are just ridiculous. Recently, however, something else has smacked me in the face with the illogical and pointless nature of its existence.
If you keep the TV on long enough, you're bound to see a commercial for a CD compilation. Some examples include "Buzz Balads," "the Edge," and "Now That's What I Call Music Volume 1232139873242398472" (or whatever number they're up to now), but I'm sure you could find more if you took the time to search.
The deal with these TV CD compilations goes a little something like this: first you have a Star Wars-esque rising text with every song that's on the compilation and who it's by, with the songs in yellow text being played - video included - on the commercial, while some guy tells you how fuckin' awesome this compilation is. Then you see that it's $19.95 plus shipping and handling.
A retard would jump on that shit super quick - $22 or so for a bunch of songs from albums that are out of print and/or would cost like $20 each anyway is a steal, right?
Wrong.
First off, if you're an old guy (the target demographic for the rock CD compilations, I think), you probably have all the albums that these songs are yoinked from. There's this wonderful thing called the CD burner, which works by putting songs on your computer, and then burning them onto a CD, to make a custom compilation. In fact, that's actually what the assholes selling the CD compilations on TV are doing, believe it or not.
And if you don't have the albums, there's this other wonderful thing called Limewire that will get them for you.
Dumbass.
Stay classy
If you keep the TV on long enough, you're bound to see a commercial for a CD compilation. Some examples include "Buzz Balads," "the Edge," and "Now That's What I Call Music Volume 1232139873242398472" (or whatever number they're up to now), but I'm sure you could find more if you took the time to search.
The deal with these TV CD compilations goes a little something like this: first you have a Star Wars-esque rising text with every song that's on the compilation and who it's by, with the songs in yellow text being played - video included - on the commercial, while some guy tells you how fuckin' awesome this compilation is. Then you see that it's $19.95 plus shipping and handling.
A retard would jump on that shit super quick - $22 or so for a bunch of songs from albums that are out of print and/or would cost like $20 each anyway is a steal, right?
Wrong.
First off, if you're an old guy (the target demographic for the rock CD compilations, I think), you probably have all the albums that these songs are yoinked from. There's this wonderful thing called the CD burner, which works by putting songs on your computer, and then burning them onto a CD, to make a custom compilation. In fact, that's actually what the assholes selling the CD compilations on TV are doing, believe it or not.
And if you don't have the albums, there's this other wonderful thing called Limewire that will get them for you.
Dumbass.
Stay classy
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Men
Readership, I recently saw something that upset me greatly. I'll reproduce it for you below.
"Male: the cause of global warming and everything else bad that happens on earth; A walking idiot with a penis - true. but that is only the begining of their definition. assholes. God had to be a man because only a man would create more retards of the same kind. If God was a woman, we wouldn't have men walking this Earth. i stopped believing that there are decent guys out there just because there isnt. read my definition. men are the cause for global warming. you ask why? that makes no sense. okay look at it this way.what is global warming caused by? garbage. EXACTLY why men cause it. MEN are GARBAGE. end of story."
I'll withold the name, because I'm a nice guy (despite what this person believes about nice guys no longer existing).
As you should know, Waldy and I have predicted the Fall of Man will come upon us by the hand of Vagina. You might see that and think "well shit, looks like this person might have a point, asshole."
And you'd be wrong.
While men might be assholes - while MOST men might be assholes - MOST of them didn't start that way. Men can take a lot of abuse (how do you think we survived the stone age? men had to kill sabretoothed tigers and shit to feed the family), but constant abuse from women (I'm talking emotional . . . for the most part) is what breaks a man. I'm not saying all women are bitches, just like I'm not saying all men are assholes. It's like everything else. There are nice women, and nice men, and there are bitches, and there are assholes.
Not to toot my own horn, but I consider myself a very nice guy. I hold the door open for women (regardless of attractiveness), I don't lie to girlfriends, I don't cheat, and I've never had a girl for a one night stand. What has that gotten me?
My girlfriend junior year of high school told me we were going on a "break" and made it abundantly clear that we were going to get back together at some point in the near future, when knowing full well she had no intentions of doing so. My girlfriend senior year cheated on me repeatedly with a mutual friend and lied to me about it. After visiting my first girlfriend freshman year of college in her home state for New Years at her request (and because I wanted to be with her), we got back and she professed she had feelings for a mutual friend, for whom she left me. The aftermath of that was pretty ugly. After breaking up with my girlfriend sophomore year of college - something I did, mind you, because I saw how unfair it was for her being in a relationship where she wasn't getting nearly as much back as she was putting in - some really terrible shit went down, and my life was literally almost pulled out from under my feet, and there was nothing I could do about it.
Let me stop right here for a moment and say this, and know that I mean it: Every situation I just mentioned has been resolved. I'm cool with every girl I just mentioned, or at least I'd like to think so. I can text/AIM/whatever every one of those girls and it would be okay. Sparks wouldn't fly. I had sushi with the second girl I mentioned before I got back to school, I have a class this semester with the third girl I mentioned (a class which sucks major dick, by the way), and while I'll admit I don't talk to the last girl I mentioned very much, it's not because I don't like her or I think she hates me or anything.
The point is, after ALL THAT, I'm still the same good guy. Much to the surprise of many of my friends, who have seen me unhappy and crushed because of a girl and been upset by it, I'm still the same good guy. I still don't cheat. I still hold doors open for women. I still respect women.
But that's me. And a few other guys. Not everybody can take the shit and walk away with a smile, and THAT'S where the assholes come in. I'm not saying that there aren't some guys who were just BORN assholes, because there are. I'm just saying that not every one of us is an asshole, and that while it's not an excuse for assholery, most of the assholes were made that way by girls. You girls have much more of an effect than you could possibly ever know. That's why, sadly regardless of whatever efforts Waldy and I can muster, you and yours will one day take over the world.
But yeah.
Just had to get that off my chest.
Stay classy
"Male: the cause of global warming and everything else bad that happens on earth; A walking idiot with a penis - true. but that is only the begining of their definition. assholes. God had to be a man because only a man would create more retards of the same kind. If God was a woman, we wouldn't have men walking this Earth. i stopped believing that there are decent guys out there just because there isnt. read my definition. men are the cause for global warming. you ask why? that makes no sense. okay look at it this way.what is global warming caused by? garbage. EXACTLY why men cause it. MEN are GARBAGE. end of story."
I'll withold the name, because I'm a nice guy (despite what this person believes about nice guys no longer existing).
As you should know, Waldy and I have predicted the Fall of Man will come upon us by the hand of Vagina. You might see that and think "well shit, looks like this person might have a point, asshole."
And you'd be wrong.
While men might be assholes - while MOST men might be assholes - MOST of them didn't start that way. Men can take a lot of abuse (how do you think we survived the stone age? men had to kill sabretoothed tigers and shit to feed the family), but constant abuse from women (I'm talking emotional . . . for the most part) is what breaks a man. I'm not saying all women are bitches, just like I'm not saying all men are assholes. It's like everything else. There are nice women, and nice men, and there are bitches, and there are assholes.
Not to toot my own horn, but I consider myself a very nice guy. I hold the door open for women (regardless of attractiveness), I don't lie to girlfriends, I don't cheat, and I've never had a girl for a one night stand. What has that gotten me?
My girlfriend junior year of high school told me we were going on a "break" and made it abundantly clear that we were going to get back together at some point in the near future, when knowing full well she had no intentions of doing so. My girlfriend senior year cheated on me repeatedly with a mutual friend and lied to me about it. After visiting my first girlfriend freshman year of college in her home state for New Years at her request (and because I wanted to be with her), we got back and she professed she had feelings for a mutual friend, for whom she left me. The aftermath of that was pretty ugly. After breaking up with my girlfriend sophomore year of college - something I did, mind you, because I saw how unfair it was for her being in a relationship where she wasn't getting nearly as much back as she was putting in - some really terrible shit went down, and my life was literally almost pulled out from under my feet, and there was nothing I could do about it.
Let me stop right here for a moment and say this, and know that I mean it: Every situation I just mentioned has been resolved. I'm cool with every girl I just mentioned, or at least I'd like to think so. I can text/AIM/whatever every one of those girls and it would be okay. Sparks wouldn't fly. I had sushi with the second girl I mentioned before I got back to school, I have a class this semester with the third girl I mentioned (a class which sucks major dick, by the way), and while I'll admit I don't talk to the last girl I mentioned very much, it's not because I don't like her or I think she hates me or anything.
The point is, after ALL THAT, I'm still the same good guy. Much to the surprise of many of my friends, who have seen me unhappy and crushed because of a girl and been upset by it, I'm still the same good guy. I still don't cheat. I still hold doors open for women. I still respect women.
But that's me. And a few other guys. Not everybody can take the shit and walk away with a smile, and THAT'S where the assholes come in. I'm not saying that there aren't some guys who were just BORN assholes, because there are. I'm just saying that not every one of us is an asshole, and that while it's not an excuse for assholery, most of the assholes were made that way by girls. You girls have much more of an effect than you could possibly ever know. That's why, sadly regardless of whatever efforts Waldy and I can muster, you and yours will one day take over the world.
But yeah.
Just had to get that off my chest.
Stay classy
Saturday, February 13, 2010
A Quick Announcement
Readership, I've always considered myself a man of the people, and I
get a happy feeling every time someone that I don't know personally
takes the time to come by, read, and comment on something I've
written. I even like the ones that disagree. Honest.
get a happy feeling every time someone that I don't know personally
takes the time to come by, read, and comment on something I've
written. I even like the ones that disagree. Honest.
In the spirit of encouraging more interaction between myself and the
people I'm hopefully entertaining (that'd be you lovely people), I
offer this. Ask me any question you like. You can ask totally anonymously, or leave your name (or some pseudonym that only you and I would understand). I answer every single question I receive, and I answer them all 100% honestly.
Sound like something you'd be down for? Then head on over to
Formspring and ask away.
And whatever you do.
Stay classy
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Stupid Commercials!
Readership, Waldy's Xbox has been bleeding quite profusely from its proverbial vagina these past few days, which has severely limited my ability to play Call of Duty and Grand Theft Auto. Thus, I've been watching much more television than I was at this time last semester - or, indeed, at any other point in my college career.
Of course, with the increase in viewing hours of television, there comes an increase in the amount of commercials I see. And this means, as you well know from such Observations as this, this and this, that I've once again found a couple commercials that put me right on the train to Pissed the Fuck Off-ville.
First off, there's this one.
"Oh . . . not tonight sweetie, you've had Chef every night this week."
What the hell kind of mother serves her kid Chef Boyardee for dinner EVERY NIGHT? I assume that it's at least Wednesday (otherwise the mother would've said something along the lines of "you had Chef last night" if it was only Tuesday), so for at least two days this kid has eaten Chef Boyardee for dinner. I mean, the stuff is good, but it's not "eat it and only it" good.
Secondly, what the fuck is up with the kid? A can of Chef Boyardee - a can, moreover, that you held in your own hands in the store that is AT LEAST five miles away - just happens to roll through your doggie door and into your lap, and you just pick it up and SMILE? If that shit happened to me, I'd be like "WHOA WHAT THE FUCK WHERE DID THIS CAN COME FROM HOW'D IT GET HERE NINJAS COMMUNISTS WHAT'S GOING ON!?" The can is freakin' possessed - that's some shit straight out of a Steven King novel, and thus some shit that I just can't get down with.
Whew.
Secondly, EVERY commercial about saving abused animals and shit.
NOW LISTEN!
I love animals. All jokes aside, as soon as I have my own place, I'm getting a kitten and naming him Nigel. I've grown up around dogs and cats and parrots and shit. I genuinely love animals.
But to be perfectly honest, with the number of people that are homeless in America, or starving, and the children dying from easily-curable diseases and shit abroad - HUMAN BEINGS in need - I could give a fuck about these animals.
It's not because I'm heartless. Every time I see the commercial with the little kitten pawing at the camera with its big eyes I feel a little sad. But then I realize that there are other PEOPLE in far worse situations than the cat, and I get angry. Call me crazy (just don't call me Shirley), but I feel like we should be helping our fellow man before our fellow man's best friend.
Lastly, there's this bullshit. This commercial pisses me off for two reasons. One, the whole "Swine Flu" thing pisses me off, because of the vehement debates on either side of the issue. One side is all "HOLY FUCK WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE FROM SWINE FLU ZOMG WHATEVER WILL WE DO?" and the other side is all "you guys are retarded." And it pisses me off. I mean, the flu is serious. It DOES kill people every year. While the Swine Flu hasn't killed nearly as many people as the "regular flu," it still is killing people, which makes it dangerous. The fact that people are writing it off as a complete joke kinda pisses me off.
And secondly, what the hell fat kid? Could that sneeze have been ANY FAKER? I mean, I know you're in like second grade, but DAMN. Your acting is fucking TERRIBLE. You couldn't have found a kid who WASN'T a retard to do the sneeze? Shit.
Stay classy
Of course, with the increase in viewing hours of television, there comes an increase in the amount of commercials I see. And this means, as you well know from such Observations as this, this and this, that I've once again found a couple commercials that put me right on the train to Pissed the Fuck Off-ville.
First off, there's this one.
"Oh . . . not tonight sweetie, you've had Chef every night this week."
What the hell kind of mother serves her kid Chef Boyardee for dinner EVERY NIGHT? I assume that it's at least Wednesday (otherwise the mother would've said something along the lines of "you had Chef last night" if it was only Tuesday), so for at least two days this kid has eaten Chef Boyardee for dinner. I mean, the stuff is good, but it's not "eat it and only it" good.
Secondly, what the fuck is up with the kid? A can of Chef Boyardee - a can, moreover, that you held in your own hands in the store that is AT LEAST five miles away - just happens to roll through your doggie door and into your lap, and you just pick it up and SMILE? If that shit happened to me, I'd be like "WHOA WHAT THE FUCK WHERE DID THIS CAN COME FROM HOW'D IT GET HERE NINJAS COMMUNISTS WHAT'S GOING ON!?" The can is freakin' possessed - that's some shit straight out of a Steven King novel, and thus some shit that I just can't get down with.
Whew.
Secondly, EVERY commercial about saving abused animals and shit.
NOW LISTEN!
I love animals. All jokes aside, as soon as I have my own place, I'm getting a kitten and naming him Nigel. I've grown up around dogs and cats and parrots and shit. I genuinely love animals.
But to be perfectly honest, with the number of people that are homeless in America, or starving, and the children dying from easily-curable diseases and shit abroad - HUMAN BEINGS in need - I could give a fuck about these animals.
It's not because I'm heartless. Every time I see the commercial with the little kitten pawing at the camera with its big eyes I feel a little sad. But then I realize that there are other PEOPLE in far worse situations than the cat, and I get angry. Call me crazy (just don't call me Shirley), but I feel like we should be helping our fellow man before our fellow man's best friend.
Lastly, there's this bullshit. This commercial pisses me off for two reasons. One, the whole "Swine Flu" thing pisses me off, because of the vehement debates on either side of the issue. One side is all "HOLY FUCK WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE FROM SWINE FLU ZOMG WHATEVER WILL WE DO?" and the other side is all "you guys are retarded." And it pisses me off. I mean, the flu is serious. It DOES kill people every year. While the Swine Flu hasn't killed nearly as many people as the "regular flu," it still is killing people, which makes it dangerous. The fact that people are writing it off as a complete joke kinda pisses me off.
And secondly, what the hell fat kid? Could that sneeze have been ANY FAKER? I mean, I know you're in like second grade, but DAMN. Your acting is fucking TERRIBLE. You couldn't have found a kid who WASN'T a retard to do the sneeze? Shit.
Stay classy
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Why Do You Say Such Stupid Shit? Volume 5
Jeeze Louise, Readership, it looks like I'm back - yet AGAIN - with yet ANOTHER installment of "Why Do You Say Such Stupid Shit?"
I received quite an interesting message today from Hannah aka H-Rose, which brought to my attention a couple new, INCREDIBLY STUPID phrases that people say and think are intelligent. Let's get to it.
First off, we have something that's more of a "stupid shit to say archetype" than an actual "stupid shit to say." Basically, it entails you doing something (usually accidentally), and then someone nearby says something to the effect of "watch out for *whatever accident just happened*." Examples? Oh fo sho.
YOU: "Ouch I just hit my head on this low branch!"
ASSHOLE: "Watch your head."
YOU: "AAARGGHHH I've been shot!"
ASSHOLE: "Yeah, watch out for guys with guns cuz they like to shoot."
YOU: "Awww TITS! I pressed the wrong button and now a nuclear bomb is going to detonate over China, thrusting the world into a global conflict that - if there are any survivors - will be known forever as World War III . . . instead of the button to call my secretary!"
ASSHOLE: "Make sure you press the right buttons, man."
That's when the sticks come out and people's feelings (and faces) get hurt. Cuz seriously? Wow! That would've helped me like TWO SECONDS AGO, BEFORE I HIT MY HEAD / GOT SHOT / STARTED WORLD WAR III!
For all the good you did, you should've just sat down, gotten comfortable, and had a nice, hot cup of SHUT THE FUCK UP.
And then we have the always lovely, "I'm ready when you are." Logically, this phrase makes little sense, and in practice (taken literally), VERY rarely happens as such. When was the last time that, completely by chance, you and a friend that were going somewhere together were ready at exactly the same time? Yeah, I can't remember when that was for me either.
Usually, when you say "I'm ready when you are," what you MEAN is something along the lines of "Hurry up you lazy prick, you're holding me up and I got places to go and shit to do!" Except you don't want to be an asshole about it and call out your buddy. However, if they continue to be a lazy prick and hold you up, you have my express written consent to use that phrase verbatim. Dictated, not read. Signed, Fred the Observer.
Fucking idiots make me sad and happy at the same time. Sad because I'm upset that they're still in the gene pool. Happy because I get to bitch about it here.
Anyway. Thanks again to H-Rose for the topics, and please, whatever you do, Readership . . .
Stay classy
I received quite an interesting message today from Hannah aka H-Rose, which brought to my attention a couple new, INCREDIBLY STUPID phrases that people say and think are intelligent. Let's get to it.
First off, we have something that's more of a "stupid shit to say archetype" than an actual "stupid shit to say." Basically, it entails you doing something (usually accidentally), and then someone nearby says something to the effect of "watch out for *whatever accident just happened*." Examples? Oh fo sho.
YOU: "Ouch I just hit my head on this low branch!"
ASSHOLE: "Watch your head."
YOU: "AAARGGHHH I've been shot!"
ASSHOLE: "Yeah, watch out for guys with guns cuz they like to shoot."
YOU: "Awww TITS! I pressed the wrong button and now a nuclear bomb is going to detonate over China, thrusting the world into a global conflict that - if there are any survivors - will be known forever as World War III . . . instead of the button to call my secretary!"
ASSHOLE: "Make sure you press the right buttons, man."
That's when the sticks come out and people's feelings (and faces) get hurt. Cuz seriously? Wow! That would've helped me like TWO SECONDS AGO, BEFORE I HIT MY HEAD / GOT SHOT / STARTED WORLD WAR III!
For all the good you did, you should've just sat down, gotten comfortable, and had a nice, hot cup of SHUT THE FUCK UP.
And then we have the always lovely, "I'm ready when you are." Logically, this phrase makes little sense, and in practice (taken literally), VERY rarely happens as such. When was the last time that, completely by chance, you and a friend that were going somewhere together were ready at exactly the same time? Yeah, I can't remember when that was for me either.
Usually, when you say "I'm ready when you are," what you MEAN is something along the lines of "Hurry up you lazy prick, you're holding me up and I got places to go and shit to do!" Except you don't want to be an asshole about it and call out your buddy. However, if they continue to be a lazy prick and hold you up, you have my express written consent to use that phrase verbatim. Dictated, not read. Signed, Fred the Observer.
Fucking idiots make me sad and happy at the same time. Sad because I'm upset that they're still in the gene pool. Happy because I get to bitch about it here.
Anyway. Thanks again to H-Rose for the topics, and please, whatever you do, Readership . . .
Stay classy
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Motivational Posters
Readership, something has come to my attention recently that has troubled me greatly. Allow me to explain.
I'm sure that all of you have heard of and seen the amazing gift God has given to the world, called "De-Motivational Posters." If not, a couple examples can be found here and here. A Google Image Search of "demotivational posters" would yield countless more beautiful examples.
These "De-Motivational Posters" have enriched the lives of many people since the genius who invented them introduced them to the world. Personally, I've been on the verge of tears, seen a De-Motivational Poster, and my frown was turned instantly upside-down as I laughed uncontrollably. They are hilarious, timeless, and most of all, fuckin' AWESOME.
But! Something eluded my perception. In the very naming of this funnybone-ticklery as a "DE-Motivational Poster," it follows logically that there must be a NON-de-Motivational Poster, or as the more grammatically inclined of us would say, a regular ol' Motivational Poster.
I did a quick Google Search.
And I was appalled.
What the fuck is this bullshit? Or this?
Does anybody honestly ever get motivated by this sorta shit? And then I did a little more digging, and found out that these posters are put up mostly in corporate-style office buildings.
What the fuck!?
I'm going to come to this same BULLSHIT dead-end job five days a week - maybe six! - for every week from now until my 65th birthday, at which point I'll most likely retire and due to the absolute shambles that Social Security is in currently, have to find another job to keep my house and keep food in my belly - BUT THANK GOD that there's that poster on the wall, telling me that persistence will help, and that aspiring to climb as high as I can dream is something I should be doing! Without that, I might just throw my ergonomic chair out my twelfth-story office window and then jump out after it!
Fuck!
This cognitive psych class is definitely not helping my good nature and sunny fucking disposition.
Wooo-sah. Wooo-sah.
Stay classy
I'm sure that all of you have heard of and seen the amazing gift God has given to the world, called "De-Motivational Posters." If not, a couple examples can be found here and here. A Google Image Search of "demotivational posters" would yield countless more beautiful examples.
These "De-Motivational Posters" have enriched the lives of many people since the genius who invented them introduced them to the world. Personally, I've been on the verge of tears, seen a De-Motivational Poster, and my frown was turned instantly upside-down as I laughed uncontrollably. They are hilarious, timeless, and most of all, fuckin' AWESOME.
But! Something eluded my perception. In the very naming of this funnybone-ticklery as a "DE-Motivational Poster," it follows logically that there must be a NON-de-Motivational Poster, or as the more grammatically inclined of us would say, a regular ol' Motivational Poster.
I did a quick Google Search.
And I was appalled.
What the fuck is this bullshit? Or this?
Does anybody honestly ever get motivated by this sorta shit? And then I did a little more digging, and found out that these posters are put up mostly in corporate-style office buildings.
What the fuck!?
I'm going to come to this same BULLSHIT dead-end job five days a week - maybe six! - for every week from now until my 65th birthday, at which point I'll most likely retire and due to the absolute shambles that Social Security is in currently, have to find another job to keep my house and keep food in my belly - BUT THANK GOD that there's that poster on the wall, telling me that persistence will help, and that aspiring to climb as high as I can dream is something I should be doing! Without that, I might just throw my ergonomic chair out my twelfth-story office window and then jump out after it!
Fuck!
This cognitive psych class is definitely not helping my good nature and sunny fucking disposition.
Wooo-sah. Wooo-sah.
Stay classy
Friday, January 22, 2010
Paying to get Laid - Financially Sound?
Readership, I was talking to the ever-lovely Jordan today, and the subject of getting pussy came up.
Oh yeah.
But yeah. She related to me a highly philosophical debate she'd played party to in her days as a bartender. The debate stemmed from the question of "to pay, or not to pay for pussy." While this question was being debated, it was discovered that even if you don't directly pay for it, if you go through conventional channels (i.e. not rape), you will end up paying for pussy, even if it is highly indirectly. An explanation? Of course.
There are two ways to go about getting laid if you're a guy. One, is to hire a prostitute/go to a brothel/etc. This means you pay directly to get pussy. Is it dirty? Probably. Is it good? Probably not. But it's pussy. So you get laid.
The other way is to be a player about it. This is a blanket term for actually talking to a girl and taking her out to dinner and whatnot, and for going to the club and macking, etc.
If you're a broke ass dude, which is the easier of the two for your small budget? Most would say that it would be cheaper to actually mack and be a gent about it, but I'm going to disagree. Why?
How much money did you spend on the outfit you're wearing? Unless you're buying from the bargain bin, a good outfit with name brands is going to run you about $100-$120, then another $100 or so for some fly kicks. The watch, even if it's fake, will run you from $30-$50, and the chain another $50. That right there is $280 minimum. Add taking her to dinner ($40) and a movie ($30), and you're over $370. And factor in gas, and you're over $400.
Let's pause here. This is one date. In the preparation (clothes and transportation) and the actual date, you're spending over $400. And statistically speaking, you're not even likely to get any pussy from her that night.
Looking in your local newspaper at the escort classifieds, you can get a classy escort to come to your house and smash for around $200, depending on where you are.
In summation. While I don't personally prefer going after escorts to looking for a meaningful relationship (which I have now), speaking strictly financially, it is preferable.
Who'da thunk it.
Stay classy
Oh yeah.
But yeah. She related to me a highly philosophical debate she'd played party to in her days as a bartender. The debate stemmed from the question of "to pay, or not to pay for pussy." While this question was being debated, it was discovered that even if you don't directly pay for it, if you go through conventional channels (i.e. not rape), you will end up paying for pussy, even if it is highly indirectly. An explanation? Of course.
There are two ways to go about getting laid if you're a guy. One, is to hire a prostitute/go to a brothel/etc. This means you pay directly to get pussy. Is it dirty? Probably. Is it good? Probably not. But it's pussy. So you get laid.
The other way is to be a player about it. This is a blanket term for actually talking to a girl and taking her out to dinner and whatnot, and for going to the club and macking, etc.
If you're a broke ass dude, which is the easier of the two for your small budget? Most would say that it would be cheaper to actually mack and be a gent about it, but I'm going to disagree. Why?
How much money did you spend on the outfit you're wearing? Unless you're buying from the bargain bin, a good outfit with name brands is going to run you about $100-$120, then another $100 or so for some fly kicks. The watch, even if it's fake, will run you from $30-$50, and the chain another $50. That right there is $280 minimum. Add taking her to dinner ($40) and a movie ($30), and you're over $370. And factor in gas, and you're over $400.
Let's pause here. This is one date. In the preparation (clothes and transportation) and the actual date, you're spending over $400. And statistically speaking, you're not even likely to get any pussy from her that night.
Looking in your local newspaper at the escort classifieds, you can get a classy escort to come to your house and smash for around $200, depending on where you are.
In summation. While I don't personally prefer going after escorts to looking for a meaningful relationship (which I have now), speaking strictly financially, it is preferable.
Who'da thunk it.
Stay classy
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Barbershops
Readership, since my hair grows like a vociferous weed on plant-steroids, I've had to have several haircuts while I've been away at college in Queens. I had two last school year, and today, my second of this school year. There were three barbershops around St. John's. There were the Jewish guys, the black guys, and the Dominican guys. The black guys, much to my dismay, closed down at some point last year, second semester. I went to each barbershop once each, with the exception of the Dominican barbershop because of the aforementioned closing.
Anyway.
Each place was an experience, and since classes start tomorrow and I'm trying to be a good boy and get good grades - and thus won't have much free time to blog/bitch during the first week of classes - I thought I'd drop those experiences on ya. Let's do this (LEEEEROYYYYY JENKINSSSS).
The first place I ever went to get my hair cut was the black barbershop. Now, this was my first time ever setting foot inside a black barbershop, but I HAD seen the Ice Cube movie "Barbershop," so I had an idea of what to expect. I opened the door, stepped in, and instantly realized that the movie "Barbershop" was almost a carbon copy of the actual barbershop (minus Cedric the Entertainer) - right down to the one "Eminem" white guy in there cutting hair.
Suddenly, from around my left elbow, came a low, surly voice.
"Yo. You wanna get CUT?"
And I was like "WHOA WHAT THE FUCK NO!" and I sorta freaked out a bit. But he gave me a look that said, quite plainly, "dumbass cracka" and said "Nah b, your HAIR." And I was like "oh fo sho."
About an HOUR AND A HALF LATER, I'm still in the chair. I'm legally blind (duh) so I can't see my reflection too clearly, but from what I can see, he's just about done (cuz I'm lookin' good). Suddenly, he stops with the clipper, spins me around SUPER FAST to face him, and says, "yo . . . you want me to go get muh blade?"
"WHOA WHAT THE FUCK NO!" He shot me the same "dumbass cracka" look, went out to his car, and came back with a butterfly-knife (which worried me even more). He grabbed a spray bottle full of (what I thought was) water, and told me, and I quote, "put your head back." Something told me "CLOSE YO EYES BITCH" and I did, just in time - because it wasn't water.
It was rubbing alcohol.
The Jewish guys were, again, an experience. There were like six of them, but only two of them were cutting hair. The other four were watching the door, like they expected half of Palestine to suddenly flood through the door and try and take over. The two cutting hair were polar opposites. One was old and wise, the other young and trendy. The young guy cut my hair, and kept asking me questions about how I wanted my hair cut, like I was a retard. "Do you want it . . . like mine? Or . . . like his?" And I was sitting there like "are you fuckin' serious bro?"
As an aside, they were the only barbershop I visited with a cash register.
Lastly, and most recently, was the Dominican barbershop. I've been twice, and both times I was highly satisfied with the results. When I went the first time, I got the chill, older guy (out of the three barbers there; the other two were a little older than me and crazy).
I'm gonna pause here for a second to drop a little knowledge. I'm Puerto Rican. Obviously, Dominicans and Puerto Ricans both speak Spanish. Most people will tell you that Puerto Ricans speak quickly, regardless of what language they're speaking, and they'd be right. However, when it comes to speaking Spanish at a rapid pace, there is no race better than the Dominicans.
So, I'm sitting there in the chair, and these guys are rapid-firing Spanish at each other, and from the little bit that I actually catch, I come to understand that they're debating amongst themselves. The topic? My ethnicity. Finally, the chill guy cutting my hair stops and says to me, "What are you man?" So I told him. He smiled and laughed, because he won the argument.
The first thing the crazy younger guy says when I sit in the chair? He starts arguing with the chill guy about my ethnicity again. The chill guy goes "boriquen" which is Spanish slang for "Puerto Rican," and the crazy guy goes "No. Wrong. What are you buddy?" He was pissed when I told him I was Puerto Rican.
So yeah. Three different barbershops. Three very different flavors.
Completely unrelated to the above: I don't wanna go to class tomorrow.
Stay classy
Anyway.
Each place was an experience, and since classes start tomorrow and I'm trying to be a good boy and get good grades - and thus won't have much free time to blog/bitch during the first week of classes - I thought I'd drop those experiences on ya. Let's do this (LEEEEROYYYYY JENKINSSSS).
The first place I ever went to get my hair cut was the black barbershop. Now, this was my first time ever setting foot inside a black barbershop, but I HAD seen the Ice Cube movie "Barbershop," so I had an idea of what to expect. I opened the door, stepped in, and instantly realized that the movie "Barbershop" was almost a carbon copy of the actual barbershop (minus Cedric the Entertainer) - right down to the one "Eminem" white guy in there cutting hair.
Suddenly, from around my left elbow, came a low, surly voice.
"Yo. You wanna get CUT?"
And I was like "WHOA WHAT THE FUCK NO!" and I sorta freaked out a bit. But he gave me a look that said, quite plainly, "dumbass cracka" and said "Nah b, your HAIR." And I was like "oh fo sho."
About an HOUR AND A HALF LATER, I'm still in the chair. I'm legally blind (duh) so I can't see my reflection too clearly, but from what I can see, he's just about done (cuz I'm lookin' good). Suddenly, he stops with the clipper, spins me around SUPER FAST to face him, and says, "yo . . . you want me to go get muh blade?"
"WHOA WHAT THE FUCK NO!" He shot me the same "dumbass cracka" look, went out to his car, and came back with a butterfly-knife (which worried me even more). He grabbed a spray bottle full of (what I thought was) water, and told me, and I quote, "put your head back." Something told me "CLOSE YO EYES BITCH" and I did, just in time - because it wasn't water.
It was rubbing alcohol.
The Jewish guys were, again, an experience. There were like six of them, but only two of them were cutting hair. The other four were watching the door, like they expected half of Palestine to suddenly flood through the door and try and take over. The two cutting hair were polar opposites. One was old and wise, the other young and trendy. The young guy cut my hair, and kept asking me questions about how I wanted my hair cut, like I was a retard. "Do you want it . . . like mine? Or . . . like his?" And I was sitting there like "are you fuckin' serious bro?"
As an aside, they were the only barbershop I visited with a cash register.
Lastly, and most recently, was the Dominican barbershop. I've been twice, and both times I was highly satisfied with the results. When I went the first time, I got the chill, older guy (out of the three barbers there; the other two were a little older than me and crazy).
I'm gonna pause here for a second to drop a little knowledge. I'm Puerto Rican. Obviously, Dominicans and Puerto Ricans both speak Spanish. Most people will tell you that Puerto Ricans speak quickly, regardless of what language they're speaking, and they'd be right. However, when it comes to speaking Spanish at a rapid pace, there is no race better than the Dominicans.
So, I'm sitting there in the chair, and these guys are rapid-firing Spanish at each other, and from the little bit that I actually catch, I come to understand that they're debating amongst themselves. The topic? My ethnicity. Finally, the chill guy cutting my hair stops and says to me, "What are you man?" So I told him. He smiled and laughed, because he won the argument.
The first thing the crazy younger guy says when I sit in the chair? He starts arguing with the chill guy about my ethnicity again. The chill guy goes "boriquen" which is Spanish slang for "Puerto Rican," and the crazy guy goes "No. Wrong. What are you buddy?" He was pissed when I told him I was Puerto Rican.
So yeah. Three different barbershops. Three very different flavors.
Completely unrelated to the above: I don't wanna go to class tomorrow.
Stay classy
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Art
Readership, there's been something that's been bothering me for quite some. It's a bit . . . semantic. Allow me to explain.
Due to the natural progression of a society, certain words and phrases will go in and out of style, or change meanings. Usually it's a pretty drastic change - for example, in the twenties, a "pussy" was a normal thing to call a cat. Now it's slang for "vagina" or someone who fits the description of "scared to do anything" or a "bitch."
There's one word that has managed to change its definition so drastically that the original definition has been lost to the ages. What word is it?
Art.
Back in the Renaissance, art was a word that was reserved for something visual that stirred the soul - you looked up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, or saw the Mona Lisa, or the Statue of David, and you KNEW it was art. There was no doubt in your mind that what you were looking at was something that transcended the very lives of the men who created them, and would be considered almost sacred centuries after their deaths.
Nowadays, art has as much of a set-in-stone, concrete definition as the word "thingamagig," or better yet, "jount." It's ridiculous. There are people who spend LOTS OF MONEY on "paintings" that were made, to be perfectly honest, by someone just throwing paint at a blank canvas until they felt they were done. There are these large, plastic "statues" (for lack of a better word) around Yale and Downtown New Haven that are just abominations. They're shapeless, mindless, and pointless. But it's "art." And I'm sure the guy that the City of New Haven contracted to create these "works of art" made a fucking killing.
Basically, it seems like anything can be art, and since the definition is so subjective, nobody could say that what you said was art, wasn't actually art. Technically, my shoe is art. So is my shower. That broken window? Art. That cardboard box, with one side ripped off? Art. The computer on which I'm typing this Observation? Art. The letter N? Art.
When I get back to St. John's, I think I might just go up to my old art teacher and take a shit right there on the floor in the middle of the classroom.
And call it art.
Stay classy
Due to the natural progression of a society, certain words and phrases will go in and out of style, or change meanings. Usually it's a pretty drastic change - for example, in the twenties, a "pussy" was a normal thing to call a cat. Now it's slang for "vagina" or someone who fits the description of "scared to do anything" or a "bitch."
There's one word that has managed to change its definition so drastically that the original definition has been lost to the ages. What word is it?
Art.
Back in the Renaissance, art was a word that was reserved for something visual that stirred the soul - you looked up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, or saw the Mona Lisa, or the Statue of David, and you KNEW it was art. There was no doubt in your mind that what you were looking at was something that transcended the very lives of the men who created them, and would be considered almost sacred centuries after their deaths.
Nowadays, art has as much of a set-in-stone, concrete definition as the word "thingamagig," or better yet, "jount." It's ridiculous. There are people who spend LOTS OF MONEY on "paintings" that were made, to be perfectly honest, by someone just throwing paint at a blank canvas until they felt they were done. There are these large, plastic "statues" (for lack of a better word) around Yale and Downtown New Haven that are just abominations. They're shapeless, mindless, and pointless. But it's "art." And I'm sure the guy that the City of New Haven contracted to create these "works of art" made a fucking killing.
Basically, it seems like anything can be art, and since the definition is so subjective, nobody could say that what you said was art, wasn't actually art. Technically, my shoe is art. So is my shower. That broken window? Art. That cardboard box, with one side ripped off? Art. The computer on which I'm typing this Observation? Art. The letter N? Art.
When I get back to St. John's, I think I might just go up to my old art teacher and take a shit right there on the floor in the middle of the classroom.
And call it art.
Stay classy
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Jury Duty Can Suck My Civic Balls
Readership, once you turn 18, your name goes on a couple lists (at least in America). If you don't have a job, it goes on the State Unemployment list. If you have your license, it goes on the State DMV license registry. If you register to vote in your state, it goes on the State Registered Voters list. If you filed taxes in your state last tax season, you go on the Paying Taxes to *whatever state* list.
From these four lists, names are drawn randomly by computer, and if yours comes up, you're in for a treat. A treat dripping in as much sarcasm as the previous sentence.
Yup, you guessed it. Jury duty.
Jury duty, as the video they show you explains, is an honor. It is your civic duty as a proud citizen of your state to be selected to a jury of your fellow state residents so you can uphold another fellow citizen's Sixth Amendment right to a speedy trial by a jury of his or her peers.
Fuck jury duty.
I woke up at around 7 this morning so I could be ready to leave by 7:45. I got to the courthouse at 8, still half-asleep. After going through a metal detector and up an elevator to the top floor, myself and about fifty other people were confined to what looked like a fucked up lecture hall with chairs in rows that didn't separate. There was a 32-inch television on one of those elementary-school-esque carts against the back wall, next to the podium, and it was perpetually tuned to CNN.
We're going to stop here for a moment. There was recently a REALLY bad earthquake in Haiti. Like REALLY REALLY bad. There have been a lot of deaths, and there are thousands of people still unaccounted for, even now at the moment that I'm typing this. CNN was reporting on the earthquake all day. So as if it wasn't bad enough that I was stuck in this fucking room with a bunch of strangers (and not a few creepy old guys), I was smacked in the face with a tragedy that genuinely saddened me, because my roommate and good friend Waldy has family down there, that when I last asked him, hadn't been accounted for.
To top it all off, some dickhead with a SmartBoard came on the screen, and used it to tell the viewers that 47% of Haiti's citizens lived in Port-au-Prince (which was the earthquake's epicenter), and also that Haiti had a 53% literacy rate.
Why the fuck was that important? I wondered, did he perhaps think that the earthquake had given the Haitian people an ultimatum before it struck - "READ ROMEO AND JULIET OR I'LL CRUSH YOU!" - and thus this statistic was relevant? Somehow I think not.
I digress.
All of this depressing and makin'-me-mad shit ceased for about five minutes, when this late-fifties Hispanic guy got on the podium. He had a sexy Telemundo voice, but spoke English (obviously), and spoke like a pilot. Everything was enunciated and pronounced super clearly and the cadence was fake as hell and I wanted to shoot him. I couldn't even pay attention to what he was saying because his voice pissed me off so damn much.
When he stopped, we got a "coffee break." The coffee was completely gone after everybody had some. And it wasn't even good coffee.
After the "coffee break," at around 10, they sat us back in the auditorium/lecture hall/torture chamber.
And we sat.
And we sat.
And I listened to Aesop Rock.
And we sat.
And this creepy lady dressed all in black who seemed to have went to Goku's stylist to get her hair done stood up against a pillar twenty feet behind me and stared at me for an hour or so.
And we sat.
Finally, at around noon, an announcement came over hidden speakers saying that we were free to go.
I SPENT FOUR FUCKING HOURS OF MY MORNING SITTING WATCHING DEPRESSING CNN AND DRINKING BAD COFFEE WHILE BEING STARED AT BY CREEPY MEN AND WOMEN.
And I got paid something to the tune of 10 bucks.
Fuck jury duty.
Stay classy
From these four lists, names are drawn randomly by computer, and if yours comes up, you're in for a treat. A treat dripping in as much sarcasm as the previous sentence.
Yup, you guessed it. Jury duty.
Jury duty, as the video they show you explains, is an honor. It is your civic duty as a proud citizen of your state to be selected to a jury of your fellow state residents so you can uphold another fellow citizen's Sixth Amendment right to a speedy trial by a jury of his or her peers.
Fuck jury duty.
I woke up at around 7 this morning so I could be ready to leave by 7:45. I got to the courthouse at 8, still half-asleep. After going through a metal detector and up an elevator to the top floor, myself and about fifty other people were confined to what looked like a fucked up lecture hall with chairs in rows that didn't separate. There was a 32-inch television on one of those elementary-school-esque carts against the back wall, next to the podium, and it was perpetually tuned to CNN.
We're going to stop here for a moment. There was recently a REALLY bad earthquake in Haiti. Like REALLY REALLY bad. There have been a lot of deaths, and there are thousands of people still unaccounted for, even now at the moment that I'm typing this. CNN was reporting on the earthquake all day. So as if it wasn't bad enough that I was stuck in this fucking room with a bunch of strangers (and not a few creepy old guys), I was smacked in the face with a tragedy that genuinely saddened me, because my roommate and good friend Waldy has family down there, that when I last asked him, hadn't been accounted for.
To top it all off, some dickhead with a SmartBoard came on the screen, and used it to tell the viewers that 47% of Haiti's citizens lived in Port-au-Prince (which was the earthquake's epicenter), and also that Haiti had a 53% literacy rate.
Why the fuck was that important? I wondered, did he perhaps think that the earthquake had given the Haitian people an ultimatum before it struck - "READ ROMEO AND JULIET OR I'LL CRUSH YOU!" - and thus this statistic was relevant? Somehow I think not.
I digress.
All of this depressing and makin'-me-mad shit ceased for about five minutes, when this late-fifties Hispanic guy got on the podium. He had a sexy Telemundo voice, but spoke English (obviously), and spoke like a pilot. Everything was enunciated and pronounced super clearly and the cadence was fake as hell and I wanted to shoot him. I couldn't even pay attention to what he was saying because his voice pissed me off so damn much.
When he stopped, we got a "coffee break." The coffee was completely gone after everybody had some. And it wasn't even good coffee.
After the "coffee break," at around 10, they sat us back in the auditorium/lecture hall/torture chamber.
And we sat.
And we sat.
And I listened to Aesop Rock.
And we sat.
And this creepy lady dressed all in black who seemed to have went to Goku's stylist to get her hair done stood up against a pillar twenty feet behind me and stared at me for an hour or so.
And we sat.
Finally, at around noon, an announcement came over hidden speakers saying that we were free to go.
I SPENT FOUR FUCKING HOURS OF MY MORNING SITTING WATCHING DEPRESSING CNN AND DRINKING BAD COFFEE WHILE BEING STARED AT BY CREEPY MEN AND WOMEN.
And I got paid something to the tune of 10 bucks.
Fuck jury duty.
Stay classy
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Cows
Readership, I was having a deeply philosophical discussion with Mistah Welch tonight, and he brought up a very interesting point. How did the milking of cows come about?
Yeah. I said "hmmm" too.
The way I see it, there are three possible ways that milking a cow was "discovered." I'll outline them for you in order from least probable to most probable, below.
First off, we have what I'm going to call the "Genius Theory." In the Genius Theory, some know-it-all young dick (picture Einstein in his twenties with short hair) decided that since his momma's boobies gave him milk, that every animal's momma's boobies had to do the same thing. Actually, since according to this site, cows were first domesticated between eight and ten thousand years ago in the Near East (which is just fancy archaeologist-speak for what us normal bastards call the Middle East, minus a few countries), he probably had filthy long hair.
I digress.
This know-it-all young dick probably tried a few animals out first, but was frustrated by their distinct lack of boobies.
And then he saw the cow. Its udder was in plain sight. No need to search for boobies or nips. There it was.
And the rest, as they say, is history. Ancient history, actually.
The second theory, which I'll call the "Clean Accident Theory," follows a similar tact as the previous theory, except there was no intelligence involved. A regular ol' guy, same as you and me (except somewhere in 6000 BC Iraq), tripped over a rock towards a cow, and, flailing his hands out to try and grab something that would save him from his terrible tumble, his fingers fastened securely around the plump, full udders of a cow, squirting the delicious "Moo Juice" (as my father calls it) onto the ground.
He was then most likely kicked in the head by said cow, permanently fucking his brain up. It would be several years before anybody put two and two together and discovered that it had been the sudden and surprise milking that had pissed the cow off enough to strike back.
As an aside, this was also the first documented case of the whole "No means no" thing.
Lastly, and I believe, most likely, is what I'll call the "Dirty Accident Theory." In this theory, there was some sick-in-the-head, perverted Ancient Iraqi, who saw those plump udders and couldn't help himself. He had to have them. And he did.
Over. And over.
Stay classy
Yeah. I said "hmmm" too.
The way I see it, there are three possible ways that milking a cow was "discovered." I'll outline them for you in order from least probable to most probable, below.
First off, we have what I'm going to call the "Genius Theory." In the Genius Theory, some know-it-all young dick (picture Einstein in his twenties with short hair) decided that since his momma's boobies gave him milk, that every animal's momma's boobies had to do the same thing. Actually, since according to this site, cows were first domesticated between eight and ten thousand years ago in the Near East (which is just fancy archaeologist-speak for what us normal bastards call the Middle East, minus a few countries), he probably had filthy long hair.
I digress.
This know-it-all young dick probably tried a few animals out first, but was frustrated by their distinct lack of boobies.
And then he saw the cow. Its udder was in plain sight. No need to search for boobies or nips. There it was.
And the rest, as they say, is history. Ancient history, actually.
The second theory, which I'll call the "Clean Accident Theory," follows a similar tact as the previous theory, except there was no intelligence involved. A regular ol' guy, same as you and me (except somewhere in 6000 BC Iraq), tripped over a rock towards a cow, and, flailing his hands out to try and grab something that would save him from his terrible tumble, his fingers fastened securely around the plump, full udders of a cow, squirting the delicious "Moo Juice" (as my father calls it) onto the ground.
He was then most likely kicked in the head by said cow, permanently fucking his brain up. It would be several years before anybody put two and two together and discovered that it had been the sudden and surprise milking that had pissed the cow off enough to strike back.
As an aside, this was also the first documented case of the whole "No means no" thing.
Lastly, and I believe, most likely, is what I'll call the "Dirty Accident Theory." In this theory, there was some sick-in-the-head, perverted Ancient Iraqi, who saw those plump udders and couldn't help himself. He had to have them. And he did.
Over. And over.
Stay classy
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Married Chicks
Readership, married chicks at bars piss me off. Why, you ask? Lemme lay it out flat for you.
First off, every single chick at a bar that's a "chick at a bar" (as opposed to someone sitting at a bar who just happens to have a vagina - and there IS a difference) is dressed sexy. That's the bottom line. They are dressed to sexify your night. Short skirts, belly shirts and plunging necklines - and then the hair and perfume, and whew. There goes your mind.
So, naturally, being a man, you approach these ladies and drop your best lines, and then you get THIS bullshit:
"Uh . . . I'm married."
Uh . . . the fuck? You say you're married? So, uh . . . where the hell's your husband? Does he know you're dressed like a hooker trolling bars every night?
Or is this whole thing bullshit? Did you just hit up a toy store and toss a quarter into a machine, crank the crank and get a fake ass ring to wear, so you can be dressed like a filthy whore and then lure unsuspecting saps into your web of lies, only to be a snarky bitch and shoot them down to make yourself feel better?
Readership, YOU be the judge.
And please, whatever you do.
Stay classy
First off, every single chick at a bar that's a "chick at a bar" (as opposed to someone sitting at a bar who just happens to have a vagina - and there IS a difference) is dressed sexy. That's the bottom line. They are dressed to sexify your night. Short skirts, belly shirts and plunging necklines - and then the hair and perfume, and whew. There goes your mind.
So, naturally, being a man, you approach these ladies and drop your best lines, and then you get THIS bullshit:
"Uh . . . I'm married."
Uh . . . the fuck? You say you're married? So, uh . . . where the hell's your husband? Does he know you're dressed like a hooker trolling bars every night?
Or is this whole thing bullshit? Did you just hit up a toy store and toss a quarter into a machine, crank the crank and get a fake ass ring to wear, so you can be dressed like a filthy whore and then lure unsuspecting saps into your web of lies, only to be a snarky bitch and shoot them down to make yourself feel better?
Readership, YOU be the judge.
And please, whatever you do.
Stay classy
Friday, January 1, 2010
What the Hell, Pokemon
Readership, I'm going to open up the new decade with a Pokemon Observation. Let's hope that this doesn't come back and bite me in the ass. If this year is a bad year, I'm gonna blame this post.
Anyway.
Pokemon, as any idiot knows, originated in Japan. I'm gonna climb out on a limb of the Asshole Tree and say that Japanese people are immediately identifiable because of their squinted eyes (among other things). However, in the Pokemon animated series, there was only one person who had squinted eyes (well, technically like seven, but they're all related and only one of them is around for more than one episode). His name is Brock Harrison.
And he's black.
What the fuck. The ONLY character with "Asian" features in this show is a BLACK GUY?
Insert "blackanese" joke here.
Welcome to 2010, folks.
Stay classy
Anyway.
Pokemon, as any idiot knows, originated in Japan. I'm gonna climb out on a limb of the Asshole Tree and say that Japanese people are immediately identifiable because of their squinted eyes (among other things). However, in the Pokemon animated series, there was only one person who had squinted eyes (well, technically like seven, but they're all related and only one of them is around for more than one episode). His name is Brock Harrison.
And he's black.
What the fuck. The ONLY character with "Asian" features in this show is a BLACK GUY?
Insert "blackanese" joke here.
Welcome to 2010, folks.
Stay classy
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