Monday, December 20, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
My boss came up to me the other day and accused me of stealing. He said the other day my drawer was off and that he thinks that I’m the one who keeps eating shrimp off the line. I’ve never been more insulted in my life. He ‘thinks’ it was me? THINKS?!?!? Yeah, of course it was fucking me. Are you kidding? I’m in high school and I work at a fucking fish and chips restaurant. Of course I steal. I’m a shithead. It took me a month of working here before I realized that chips means fries. I’m dense. I’m in my own little world. The only reason I got this job is so I had an alibi on Thursday nights to leave the house when I wanted to go get drunk and high with my buddies down by the quarry. (The quarry by the way, perhaps the worst place for high school kids to hangout because the only things that ever happen at the quarry are the recovery of dead bodies, mafia deals, and plot lines from Scooby Doo.) Of course I steal. Although for the most part I’m a fucking moron, I have figured out that a large soda with tax is $2.06. And if that’s all a customer orders and they pay with cash, I can pocket that shit because it’s impossible to keep an accurate inventory of fountain soda. I steal money out of the register and I eat food when you’re not looking. And that’s nothing compared to the free food I give to my buddies on the days that you’re not there. You know I steal. We all steal. Everyone who works in the food industry steals. Bussers to general managers. I make five bucks an hour plus whatever I steal in tartar packets which I take home and can’t put on anything because the only thing tartar sauce goes on is fish, which is the last thing I want to eat after stealing and eating it at your restaurant all day. I am an awkward teenager that hates the world. You know that. You knew I would steal when you hired me. You factored that in when you agreed to give me my shit wage. I have no morals. I have no ethics. Why do I steal? I have no idea. I am a confused adolescent. I don’t know why I do half the shit I do. So far this week I’ve sniffed airplane glue, done lawn jobs in a geo metro and stuck my dick in a vacuum cleaner. I know I hate you. I know I hate this fucking job. Maybe I steal because you made me work on homecoming weekend. Maybe it’s because you keep calling me ‘Chief’. Maybe it’s because you fired that slutty hot chick that worked here thus ruining my only immediate replacement of dates with a vacuum cleaner. I work with five dudes that are worse pot heads than me, an old creepy guy with kids who’s always wanting to hang out with us after work, and one Rick Moranis looking freak who actually loves working here. So much so that you made him ‘Shift Manager’ the biggest nothing title awarded to the one person who shows up on time in every restaurant. All ‘Shift Manager’ means is that you make ten cents more an hour than everyone else to wear a bigger name tag and and do the boss’s shit job of making the schedule. Although every now and then, if the ‘Shift manager’ is a real anal uptight prick, the boss will let them handle guest complaints. Which handling guest complaints in the food service industry just means offering them free dessert. That’s the restaurant business’ solution to everything, free dessert.
“Sir our food was cold.”
“How ‘bout some free dessert?”
“We felt that our waiter was rude.”
“How about some dessert, on the house.”
“I think my wife is a having an allergic reaction to her dessert.”
“I think some free dessert ought to fix that.”
I steal. And I’m going to keep on stealing, just like you stole when you were a teenager. I’m going to steal, and I’m going to talk shit behind your back. I going to tell everyone that one of these days, during a rush, when it’s real fucking busy, I’m just going to walk out in the middle of a shift. And I’ll do it too. And while I’m doing it, the whole time I’ll be thinking how I can’t wait to tell my buddies that I just fucking walked out. Then I’ll get another job. And I’ll think it’ll be cool for awhile because it has different food, different people, and the pay is a bit more. But then after about three weeks I’ll hate that place too. A customer will order a triple cheese burger with chili cheese fries, a side of onion rings with mayonnaise and a diet soda. I’ll ask who the fuck she’s kidding ordering a diet soda. I’ll get fired. I’ll go on to the next job and the next job, hating each one more and more till before I know it’s thirty years later and I wished my job and life was as simple as it was when I worked at the fish and chip restaurant. So much so that I’ll actually say fuck it and get a job there. I’ll want to hang out with the kids that work there to get a little reminder of my long lost youth, but they’ll just look at me as some creepy dude with kids of his own wondering what the fuck I’m doing working at a fish and chip restaurant. No matter who’s working for you, they’re going to be stealing. Why not just let it be me? I don’t piss in the lemonade or do crank in the bathroom, I steal. Ask yourself this though, in the whole scheme of things, is it really going to ruin anybody to let a teenage total fucknut have a little extra money to take the wrong girl out on an awkward date. Is it really going to bankrupt this million dollar restaurant chain if a little high school piece of shit, has a three hour old dried up piece of shrimp? Fuck you! Anarchy Forever!
Friday, November 5, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
I was sifting through the internet to find if the Domino’s 80’s mascot ‘The Noid’ really happened, or if it was just something I just made up in my head. Turns out ‘The Noid’ was a real thing, as well as this story I found on wikipedia:
In 1989, Kenneth Lamar Noid, a mentaly ill customer who thought the (Noid) ads were a personal attack on him, held two employees of an Atlanta, GA Domino’s restaurant hostage for over five hours. After forcing them to make him a pizza and making demands for $100,000, getaway transportation, and a copy of The Widow’s Sun, Noid surrendered to the police. After the incident had ended, police Chief Reed Miller offered a memorable assessment to reporters: “He’s paranoid.”
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Chen Wei-yih, a 30 year old woman in Taiwan who was tired of answering questions about being single, not to mention an overall social pressure to get married, has decided to marry herself.
I don’t think I could marry me. Especially cause if it didn’t work out, I’d never be able to live with myself.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
This is an old piece that is now another…
Excerpt from the book ‘How Not To Buy A Volkswagen Bus’
By Nick Vatterott
A guy pulled up to the urinal next to me and proudly proclaimed that he had to pee like a racehorse. First of all, I don’t care how bad anybody, let alone a complete stranger, has to pee. Second, why is ‘peeing like a racehorse’ the only metaphor we have to inform those around us how dire our need is to urinate? What does that even mean? I would be a lot more okay with it if after saying that, the person got down on all fours and started running circles around the bathroom while a small man on his back whipped his ass and people started placing bets on him. That’s the only case where I would walk out of the bathroom saying, “Wow, that guy really had to pee.”
I left the peeing racehorse and ponied up to the bar. I looked over a drink list of some of the local beers in the area, before asking the bartender to get me a pint of whatever his favorite was. He served me some dark brew and I settled in. I took a sip and then thought the same thing that I always think after ordering whatever the bartender’s favorite beer is, “Not bad. I wouldn’t order it again. But it’s not bad.” I then took advantage of being able to watch muted sports highlights in a bar that I had never before watched muted sports highlights in. At this point I realized that this wasn’t so great. I mean, I was enjoying myself. I get a kick out of downing alcohol and staring at a different wall or sports highlights on a TV that I’ve never stared at before. But I realized that this is pretty much it as far as the bar world goes. It used to excite me to go to bars in cities that I had never been to before. But with the exception of a small minority, all the bars are pretty much the same thing.
All Irish bars have that green tint with wood and brass over the entire interior. Nostalgic Guinness signs mixed with zingers towards people who don’t drink Jameson line the walls in between pictures of Ireland that were probably purchased from some irish bar start up kit. If you order a Guinness, a shit head stranger sitting at the bar may begin talking your ear off about how Guinness is actually suppose to be poured. He’s usually wearing some douche bag hat, like the kind an old man would wear fifty years ago. He’s usually by himself. There are two types of people in this world; those who purposely go to an Irish bar, and those who wind up at an Irish bar. If you wind up at an irish bar, you’re probably a descent human being. Conversely; if you’re someone who earlier in the day said, ”Let’s go to an irish bar tonight,” then you’re the reason I don’t like going to Irish bars. If another patron at an Irish bar asks you if you’ve ever been to Ireland, that’s their way of telling you that they’ve been to Ireland and that you’re about to spend the next three U2 songs hearing about it.
Every sports bar has a stench that is a combination of old miller lite, stale french fries and shattered dreams of athletic achievement lived vicariously through one of seventy seven televisions scattered all over the establishment. The size of the T.V.’s range from tiny plasmas located over the urinal, all the way to jumbo screens as big as the void in the regulars’ lives that they are trying to fill with sports. The inside is wallpapered with any type of sports memorabilia from banners to jerseys. They’re the same banners and jerseys any typical sports fan possesses with the exception that these have frames. Photographs consist of a local sports celeb, posing next to some random dude that nobody knows, wearing a hawaiian shirt. Autographs often consist of people that the average person has never heard of. If it is someone famous, the legitimacy is often in question. For instance; the glass case that holds an old football that looks more like a half deflated basketball with shoe strings glued to it, signed by Secretariat. Forget any variety in your drink selection. Your choices are beer, beer in a bottle or beer bottles in a bucket. Your waitress is either the girl who asks how you are doing nine times before you’ve even sat down. Or the girl you see once and that’s about it for the rest of the night. Once you give up on her ever coming back, you go to the bar to find some cheese ball bartender who either looks like, or actually is, Styles from Teen Wolf. He also takes his sweet time cause he’s too busy talking to another waitress at the cherries and olives part of the bar that your not allowed to go to. (It’s the part of the bar where instead of a bar stool there are two swimming pool rails like someone’s getting out of the deep end.) When he eventually turns around it’s either to fix the pen behind his ear or it’s his turn on the megatouch machine. You see that the girl he’s talking to is your waitress that never came back. She gives you that look like she knows you from some where but can’t put her finger on it. Above the bar is a huge banner that proudly states that wings are obnoxiously cheap on some day that is never the day you are there. Most important of any sports bar, the Golden Tee machine. Three to four guys spinning a ball, slapping their hands against a screen. Every once in a while a loud scream because some guy was “too aggressive” and hurt himself on the machine. He’s the guy who yells “You bum” at the seventy seven T.V.’s every five minutes, and brings up on a daily basis how he would be in the majors if he didn’t tear his ACL in high school. Tomorrow ACL boy will have to explain to his coworkers how he didn’t just hurt himself playing golf; he hurt himself playing video game golf.
Every dive is filled with the most important aspect of the dive; people who don’t think it’s a dive. Every song on the juke box starts out with a holler, a fiddle (the poor drunk man’s violin) or a gunshot. No specials. Don’t even ask. There’s probably not a door to the bathroom, or a seat for the toilet, let alone specials. Your choices to drink are beer in a can, and some lableless bottle of whisky. Half of the regulars are sleeping on the bar. The other half work at the bar. Sometimes you can’t order a drink until the bartender’s turn at the lopsided pool table is over. Mismatched chairs. Mismatched tables. Mismatched faces. There is nothing in the establishment that doesn’t have a sign of the attempted carving of initials or misspelled profanity. The kitchen consists of a microwave and a chip rack. If it’s a really good dive there will be a dog running around that doesn’t seem to belong to anyone. The bartender could be any number of types of people, but 9 out of 10 times it’s an old lady who thinks a poorly angled black and white television adds to the atmosphere. Behind the bar there’s always something weird, like decorated plates you would buy at a small town gas station or dolls. After looking at each ID, intensely, for a good minute each as if it was the most bizarre thing they’ve ever seen, the bartender reluctantly asks what everyone wants, with a disappointed tone that says, “This place will never run out of business if you all keep spending money here.”
From the minute one enters the club, all conversations are held at the volume level of discourse held inside a helicopter landing at a jack hammer convention. It’s pitch black with the exception of purple and aqua blue lights on the outskirts of the bar area. That’s how you can tell how cool a club is. The more purple and aqua blue lights and things made out of metal, the bigger the headset on the big bald guy in the black t-shirt carding people behind the unnecessary velvet rope at the door. The same guy who puts needless blue paper wrist bands on everyone as if he’s tagging canadian geese that are migrating south for warming climate and stickier floors. The ten dollar cover will ensure that your watered down, over iced drinks are served in the flimsiest of ‘Solo’ plastic cups. Specials consist of a bottle of budweiser for six dollars, or a vodka tonic that was the recipient of a wrongly dropped roofie. The main party area has a light show that’s the equivalent to if someone ate a police car, the mall store Spencer’s, and every piece of entertainment technology from the 1970’s and puked them up from the ceiling, to the dance floor continuously till three in the morning. “Music” consists of a twelve track rotation of hip hop hits sprinkled in with ambulance sirens, strung together by a d.j. who mixes and samples together songs that by themselves were already the result of other songs being mix and sampled together. Every guy in the club is trying to get laid. How a guy dances, dictates his chances on getting laid or not. There are those who can’t dance. They won’t get laid. The only reason they’re at the club is because they couldn’t find that Irish bar that they wanted to go to. There are those who can dance. They got a shot at getting laid; if their spiky hair and unbuttoned shiny shirt have anything to say about it. Then there are those who dance, as if they’re getting laid at that moment. This is the guy who thinks everyone’s staring at him because he’s practically knocking up a girl on the dance floor. When in reality if anyone is looking at him, it’s only because they’re trying to figure out what a grown man is doing wearing a shell necklace. The girls dance in a big crowd with other girls to make it harder for the gyrating guys to hit on them. Even though meeting a guy is why the girls came to the bar, and whyat the end of the night they’ll complain the whole way home that no guys hit on them. The guys who dance in a big crowd with other guys do it to hit on the other guys dancing in the big crowd with other guys. At the end of the evening, all the lights in this warehouse of a bar go on at the same time, revealing just how ugly the person you’ve dancing with all night really is. Once the club goers spill out into the street you’ll find that one in four girls are crying, one in three dudes are ready to fight, one in two girls are calling Kelly a bitch, and one out of every one group of guys is explaining to the bouncer that the reason the bouncer shouldn’t beat the shit out of their buddy who threw up all over the bar because “Dude, it’s my buddies birthday”.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Before a wedding, women will get together and give the bride gifts that will be conducive to their marriage; sex toys and tupperware. Guys get together and give things that could ruin a marriage; strippers and advice from other guys
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
The Chilean Miners are finally being rescued. Which is good news. Except for Yonni Barrios whose wife and mistress who met each other during the ordeal are both waiting for him to surface. I’m not sure what his first words will be if he gets to the surface and sees those two standing there, but probably will along the lines of, “Okay…. thanks everyone…. you can lower me back down now.”
Monday, October 11, 2010
This is a Japanese bag of Doritos. You have to wonder, at some point, is Japan just trying to be weird on purpose? They have to know, right? Japan is what you would get, if ‘hipsters’ ran everything.
Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it makes perfect sense. Maybe these Doritos taste just like holding a guy upside down by his legs with your foot in his crotch.
On bags of Doritos, like many packaged foods, it lists the website for Doritos. And this next thing is kind of an interesting fact; if you go to www, dot doritos, dot com, you can actually feel God’s disappointment of how you’re spending your time on earth.
Friday, October 8, 2010
It’s 1 a.m.. I’ve already muscled my way through the biggest headache of the evening which consists of coordinating a group of completely drunk people to leave a parking lot and agree on a singular place to meet up. We walk into the trendy club; hip looking cat behind the bar, a half dozen rocker looking patrons on over-plush amenities strewn through the art-deco establishment, DJ mixing together two different esoteric melodies together. I would have hated the place if I was in New York, but since I was in Kansas City I found the place incredibly charming. It was the end of a long weekend. I was super beat and with an early flight the next morning I wanted nothing more than to chill for about an hour with some buddies in the purple lit ambiance before turning in. After about a half an hour of hanging out in the basically empty, chill environment, some friend of a friend I met only an hour prior says, “Dude, we’re getting out of here and heading to some place more HAPPEN’N!”
“I beg your pardon”, I royally retorted.
“Dude, I an SO SORRY that we brought you here, we’re going to head some where that is straight up JUMP’N!”
This is what I don’t understand. I have a drink. I’m hanging with the people that I want to hang with. There is for the most part nobody else in the bar. I asked him, “What makes this other place so ‘happening’?”
He says, “There’s tons of people there!”
Why is that an attractive attribute? I say, “But I’m not going to talk to any of those people. I can not talk to those people here and not have to go anywhere.”
“But there are TONS of PEOPLE DUDE!!!!”
REALLY?!?! Tons of fucking people that I don’t give a shit about?!?!? This is what I don’t understand; in the past I’ve gone out with friends of mine, with their wives, and their wives want to go to some place that is packed and hard to get into. WHY?!
What is the FUCKING POINT? You don’t know any of those people. You don’t even like any of those people. All you do when you get there is make fun of what the other people look like, and bitch about the weird interaction that you have in the bathroom, complain about how it’s impossible to get a beer, not shut up about how sweaty everyone is, the vomit that you stepped in on the dance floor, the cigarette burn that you got on your “going out clothes”, the “date rape cheer” that emits every time the “shots” song comes on, and how every guy in there hits on you even though that’s exactly what you wanted to have happen when you dressed like you did. You’re married. You are there with the person that you married, so you’re not there to hook up. A couple; given the choice between an empty bar and one that’s full, want to go to the full one, even though they won’t interact with one single person in that bar if they don’t have to. What’s the fucking point of being drawn to a place where you have no intention of interacting with the people there? The answer: To make yourself feel like you’re really making the most of the night. You know what makes me want to see what a high velocity bullet tastes like? When that Black Eyed Piss song comes on about how “Tonight’s going to be a good night”. And everyone starts singing the song like they actually believe what the lyrics are saying. Ima be Ima be Ima be tell'n you sump'n: It’s not going to be a good night. Tonight’s going to be like every other night. In fact those should be the lyrics:
Tonight’s the night
we sit around
And watch the game
Till about ten
Then we go out
It’s kinda lame
We’re at some bar
Watching the game
I know I’ll spill beer on my jeans
Throw up in my mouth; lose my cell phone and keys
Kelly is mad at debra and won’t let it go
I ask the cabby to stop by white castle on the way home
I walk in to a plate glass door
And then I do it again
I will say though that no matter how lame the night gets, at least the people that you are partying with are not the people in this video by 'The Sweet'. I've never seen a more awkward group assmebled in my life. They all look like people trying to figure out how their bodies work, the ol' aliens pretending to be human game, not one person in this music video can dance. Not even the black people that they seemed to have stuck in the corner with the front man for AC/DC. One fun thing to do is to try to figure out who is the most awkward and who has the deadest stare in their eyes. Mozoltov Black Eyed Peas, Mozoltov indeed!
Thursday, October 7, 2010
This is a pretty amazing commentary on not just the “ground zero mosque” debate, but on our country’s perception of Muslims in general. I feel the overall point is that so much of our country of made up of Americans who have incredibly strong opinions about things they have not taken the time to inform themselves about. Media and politicians manipulate people’s perception of issues. The term ‘Ground Zero Mosque’ paints the image of an Aladdin looking building that would cast a shadow on what used to be the World Trade Center. The reality is that there are two blocks of buildings that are more than six stories tall separating the proposed Islamic center from the site of the twin towers and the World Trade Center Memorial. The “mosque” itself is a normal, Manhattan building over ten stories tall. It will primarly be a community center open to the public, with facilitates such as cooking school, a basketball court; only the top two stories will be used for prayer. But these points are just facts that those adamantly against the “ground zero mosque” haven’t taken the time to learn about. Perhaps my favorite point that Keith made above is that the whole reason we were supposedly in Iraq, is too protect the citizens of Iraq; who are Muslim. We will risk our lives to save Muslims, but don’t want them building a cooking school in lower Manhattan.
The minds of Americans are being manipulated by those who can gain from it. What’s there to gain? Politicians need the votes of Americans to have a career/celeberty/moneyforstrippers. What’s a better/easier campaign strategy? To tell voters to change how they think, or to inflame what they already perceive to breed success on election day. Sarah Palin said in a tweet regarding the building of the Islamic Center:
“We all know that they have the right to do it, but should they?”
Vast amounts of Americans already have a stigma towards Muslims, and she is perpetuating that. Polititions know that stating things like, “I will not let them build them build a mosque at ground zero; NOT IN MY AMERICA!!!” will resonate with voters. Voters will say, YES, I agree with how you think, you got my vote!” Politicians use fear and American pride to work up a frenzy on issues that aren’t even real.
And what does the media have to gain? Well what sells more papers, “Controversy on Ground Zero Mosque Continues!” or “Islamic Recreational Center Gets Permit”
Donald Trump pointed out that it’s insensitive for Muslims to put a community center that close to a tragedy caused by other Muslims. What an incredibly racist statement. If a black guy shot some kid on a playground, and six months later another black guy was playing basketball on a nearby basketball court. It would be outrageous if someone said, “Hey, I know that you have the right to play here, but there are a dozen other courts you could play at. Why do you have to play right here? I know that YOU specifically didn’t have ANYTHING to do with the tragedy, but people around here don’t really want a black person being a part of this area because of what that another black person did. In fact, I think you playing basketball here is incredibly insensitive”, that would obviously be an offensive racist outlook. We have a new racism in our country. Ignorance and anger cause Americans to be so blind to the new racism, they don’t even realize that themselves are being racist.
Don’t be manipulated. Inform yourself. Then decide who to hate.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
An excerpt from the book
'How Not To Buy A Volkswagen Bus' by Nick Vatterott
Apparently Tracy had taken off just before I had gotten to the garage the first time. I swear, if I was born ten minutes earlier, I would have never missed, or be late for anything in my life. Tracy was on a “short little errand”, to probably the only store in town. The only task now was to kill time. I grabbed my bike and decided to do a little riding inside the state park. I turned down an old path, long since overgrown with weeds and grass. The trail ended near what seemed to be a recreation area of some sort, some time ago. A relic of a picnic table was surrounding by weeds measuring in height taller than the table itself. A swing set whose swings had long since abandoned the area, now shifted it’s duties from supplying fond childhood memories, to rusting and collecting bird shit. A giant corroded crowbar leaned against the remains of a slide that looked like it had been beaten with a corroded crowbar. I leaned my bike against a tree that was used as post for a now faded sign. As the need for whatever information was on that sign dissipated so had the sign itself. I waded through the grasses, stepped up on the picnic table’s seat, plopped down on it’s top and just waited. There were five or six of these big weird ass bugs flying around the area. One of the smaller ones landed on my arm. I looked at it and thought, “Aww look, a baby weird ass bug.” The thing then bit me, and I swatted it down. It landed on the table next to a dirt caked glass jar. I looked at my enemy and pondered: do I let it live or take it’s life? Action movies have taught me that either he will one day return the favor by saving my life, or be my demise while uttering the phrase, "You should have killed me when you had the chance!" I placed the jar over him while I decided his fate. I noticed a weedless area just past the slide. I stood on top of the picnic table to see a giant round rusted disk, seemingly the main cog of a merry-go-round. Except it was upside down, and had many of its hand rails (the tiny banisters that four years hold on to for dear life) lying in a pile next to the round disk. Next to that were four bar-b-q pits. Except they were in pieces as well, four grills sat on top of each other right next to four posts in a pile next to four of the actual ‘pits’ themselves, clumsily stacked, all rusting into one solid object. It was as if merry-go-round and bar-b-q pits had all been neatly disassembled at one point. I hopped down from the table and took a step through the tall grass. My foot crashed into a pile of rusted chains. I looked down and to the right of the chains were several seats perfect for riding a swing set. Maybe these rides were never assembled at all. Perhaps this was a work in process, an idea started with gusto, and abandoned when the project became inconvenient. Not sure why, I bet at the time this would have been one of the main attractions of Veneta, Oregon. This could have been the thing that really put this town on the map.
COME VISIT VENETA,
NOW WITH SWING SET!
I wondered if the construction of the play area had been finished, if this place would have turned into something so forgotten. Ideas are common to everyone, but fewer have what it takes to see an idea through to it’s completion. Anyone can have inspiration, it’s what we do with that inspiration that separates us from what we are, from what we could be. I stepped back to the table and turned the glass prison over to let my infant attacker go. Its just too disheartening to see things meet their demise before ever getting a chance to exist.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
A woman in Spartanburg South Carolina was caught stealing two vibrators from Spencer's Gifts.
When caught, the store owner berated the thief by saying, "You shoplifters are the worst! You are the lowest form of humanity! You can go fuck yourself!"
To which the woman replied, "I was trying to, why do you think I stole the vibrators!"
My favorite part of this is the mug shot. Because it's a mugshot that tells you that she got caught stealing, then starting crying which caused her mascara to run all down her face. Yet still at the time of the photo you can tell that she tried to smile just a little bit to look pretty.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
This past week a man in Brazil had a 4 inch knife removed from his head after it had been there for over three years as a result of a disagreement at a bar. I can only assume the disagreement was whether or not the knife should be stuck in the victim's head. The knife apparently took out the part of the brain that gives people the urgency to get knives out of their brain. I guess when things get tough, we have to stop and say to ourselves, 'Yeah, there is way too much toffee in this mochichino, but at least I don't have a knife stuck in my brain.'
Monday, September 27, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Yeah. There used to be 16 great things, but the government cut off money to the english department. If you think the above sign is bad, it doesn't end there. I went and read the 15 great things about their school system and the top 5 were:
5. Lots of teachers on hand- Job training
4. We will help you fill interns openings
3. Great Study a Broad Program
2. Get the tranny you deserve
1. Lots of weird dicks everywhere
Thursday, September 23, 2010
I type in 'where' and the top suggestions are 'where is Chuck Norris', 'where am I', and 'where is my mind'. Now we all know that 'where is Chuck Norris' is asked by most everyone on a daily basis, but 'where am I' and 'where is my mind', represent the section of the human population that has run out of options and is now seeking Google's guidance for such vague inquisitions. When I type 'what am' it's revealed that Google is not just for finding actors' names and restaurant Groupons. We also look to Google for existential answers and general life guidance. The search 'what am' leads to 'what am doing here', 'what am I doing with my life' and 'what am I worth'.
When people pray for guidance, they hope to get an answer in the form of a sign, a sort of mental clarity, or some other 'mysterious way'. When one asks Google for guidance, they get about 507,000,000 results in 0.36 seconds. And who can really blame anyone who feels like they're run out of options, to see if Google holds the answers. You're depressed, you have a question weighing on your mind, and even though you know that there is no rational reason to do it, you look up at that little box in the corner, glance side to side, and ask Google a life question such as 'Why am I such a failure?'. Thousands of people have done this. I know this because when I typed in 'Why am I s', 'Why am I such a failure' was one of the top suggestions. When anyone asks Google why they are such a failure, I feel that Google's response should be, 'Because you're the type of person that gets advice from Google'.
But what if Google does hold the answers. I ask Google the big questions and see what I get.
1. Dear Google, 'Is there such a thing as true love?'
Google responds with a link where THE ALMIGHTY KEVIN has a question answered about love by OUTLAWPRINCESS5321. First of all, with a name like THE ALMIGHTY KEVIN, you don't even need to ask a question for me to know what your relationship problems are. And OUTLAWPRINCESS5321, I have two problems with your name, neither of which have to do with 5, 3, 2 or 1.
A guy who thinks he's king getting love advice from someone who thinks they're a bad ass princess. I move on.
2. Dear Google, 'What's the secret to happiness?'
Google responds with a anonymous post, "Happiness is not found by appreciating what you have but by ridding yourself of what you have."
This is so true, because we all know how happy homeless people look.
3. Dear Google, 'Why do bad things happen to good people?'
Google responds with a message from the bible saying, "there are no good people'.
Phew! It's comforting to know that there is no such thing as tragedy, only 'just desserts'.
4. Dear Google, 'What is the meaning of life?'
I think that is pretty self-explanatory.
5. And finally, I asked the be-all and end-all question; Dear Google, 'What's the point of it all?
Google responds with, "What's the point of pubic hair?"
Sometimes the answer to a question, lies in another question.
There were two words that I entered at one point in my searches that opened up a whole new world of google 'suggestionology'. The words 'Why can't' triggered 'Why Can't I Own a Canadian?'
I seemed to have missed the zeitgeist on this, but this became one of the top suggestions for 'why can't' because of a satirical letter towards Dr. Laura Schlessinger a few years ago. Which you can see here
or read below.
Dr. Laura Schlessinger is a radio personality who dispenses advice to people who call in to her radio show. Recently, she said that, as an observant Orthodox Jew, homosexuality is an abomination according to Leviticus 18:22 and cannot be condoned under any circumstance. The following is an open letter to Dr. Laura penned by a east coast resident, which was posted on the Internet. It's funny, as well as informative:
Dear Dr. Laura:
Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination. End of debate. I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some of the other specific laws and how to follow them:
When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord - Lev.1:9. The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?
I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?
I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness - Lev.15:19- 24. The problem is, how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.
Lev. 25:44 states that I may indeed possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can't I own Canadians?
I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself?
A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination - Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this?
Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle room here?
Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27. How should they die?
I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?
My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev. 19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? - Lev.24:10-16. Couldn't we just burn them to death at a private family affair like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14)
I know you have studied these things extensively, so I am confident you can help. Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.
Your devoted fan,
So is Google god? This isn't the first time the search engine has been likened to an all knowing entity. When we look back at Isaac Asimov's 'The Last Question', we find his 1956 short story as possibly yet another sci-fi tale predicting the future of humanity. ( It's a pretty great read, http://www.multivax.com/last_question.html and after reading it check this http://www.multivax.com/). Is Google god? Or is Google just a mere psychic, or psychiatrist that has all the answers? Maybe that's something we should ask Google.
By the way, in case you were wondering, I couldn't help but ask Google, 'Where is Chuck Norris?' and Google gave me this response:
Google won't search for Chuck Norris because it knows you don't find Chuck Norris, he finds you.
No standard web pages containing all your search terms were found.
Your search - Chuck Norris - did not match any documents.
* Run, before he finds you
* Try a different person
Google Home - Advertising Programmes - About Google
This page has no affiliation with Google
Created by Arran Schlosberg
(here's the link: http://www.nochucknorris.com/)
Monday, September 20, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
This is a blobfish, rarely seen by humans. It's found at the deepest depths of the ocean. We know that this fish lives in the deepest parts of the ocean by the incredibly bored look on it's face.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
Friday, September 3, 2010
A new study states that the earth may be on a path towards a mass extinction that would be worse than the last mass extinction that took place 250 million years ago that wiped out the dinosaurs. While many forms of life were able to live through the last mass extinction, the next one would be so devastating that few life forms would be able to survive. Fertilizers, pesticides, pollution and deforestation are the main causes prompting an unprecedented alteration in the ecosystem.
As I read the internet article regarding mass extinction, I thought to myself; maybe there's hope though. Maybe humans will have the foresight to not upset the delicate balance of the only planet that we know of that has perfect environment to breed life. I believe that we can do this, I believe in the human race!
I believed in the human race all the way until I got to the bottom of the article and saw that a number of people decided to 'like' mass extinction.
Earth. Hey... it was fun while it lasted.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The Original Prop Comic. Watching the audience react to an unknown Steve Martin is pretty amazing. And by the way, if you have never heard a Steve Martin Stand-up album, treat yourself to what exactly it was, that made him who he is.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Not many people know this, but I actually have some psychic ability. For instance, right now, hold on, it's coming to me...I am sensing that all of the stores where you can get your fortune read in the city... don't have any customers in them!
I once walked by a psychic who asked if I would like to have my fortune read and I replied, 'No... and you should have known that."
I then walked by her ten minutes later and she again asked me if I wanted my fortune read. Now how am I going to put any stock in your ability to predict the future, when you're having trouble conjuring up the recent past?
In Istanbul, one of the charms of the city is to get your fortune told by a bunny. A man will have a wooden box filled with pieces of paper and a rabbit will bite one of the pieces of paper; and whichever one he picks is your fortune. When I did this, the man shoved the rabbit's face in the box, then grabbed a piece of paper out himself and said that the rabbit had picked this particular piece of paper. I thought about arguing that I was paying to have the rabbit predict my future and not him, but I avoided that conversation on account of it being too ridiculous. So instead of protesting, I just opened up my piece of paper which read,
"Someone leaved you causes you to lose sleeps, but you not worry, for he will come back, and you and him will be happys once again."
Who the hell is this 'he' that I'm losing sleeps over? Me and 'him' will be happys again? I told the man that I was into women, that he must have given me someone else's fortune and that we should probably let the rabbit pick this time. But the man insisted that the rabbit picked the right fortune. There's no money better spent, than paying five bucks to have a bunny rabbit call you gay.
Perhaps my cynicism towards those who claim to know what has yet to be, stems from an arcade I went to when I was a kid. I had one quarter left. Not enough for any of the new age realistic 50 cent games of the day like Golden Axe or Smash TV, but enough for a machine that would give a sneak preview of your future in the form of piece of paper inside a plastic egg. I put my last quarter in the machine, pulled out the egg, and inside was a piece of paper that stated,
'YOU WILL SOON MAKE A FINANCIAL BLUNDER.'
I couldn't help but think that I already had.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Sometimes when I'm on the bus or in the car and open up my laptop, it tells me that it's searching for wi-fi networks. I always want to pat it on it's head and say, "Oh silly laptop, I'm moving right now. Any network you find, you're just going to lose right away." But at least it's trying. What an adorable idiot computer.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
I always try to make sure that everybody feels comfortable in social situations; I think almost to a fault. I'm regularly guilty of over introducing people. It's to the point where when I go home I'll be like 'Hey dad, you know mom right? Have you guys met? I you have? Oh that's why I'm here? Oh, right on. Cool, well, I'm gonna grab a beer, can I buy you guys one? Oh, you don't drink? Yeah I think I knew that."
Then under my breath I say, "Why do you think I offered?"
If you ever need to get out of a conversation, always chug your beer, and say you have to go grab another one. Offer to buy that person a drink, so it looks like you have every intention to resume the conversation with the person. But only do so if the person you are talking to doesn't drink, or if they have a full beer. If for some reason the person takes you up your offer, go to the bar and buy two beers. Then get a pretend call on you cell phone, walk outside, and drink both beers on the train ride home.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
I tell you what, when you got that hot August sun beating down on you, nothing hits the spot like an ice cold can of sandwhich. I will say, for a second, for one brief second, you might actually think that this whole thing is a rational idea. And then all faith is lost at the words 'interplanetary travel'. For the record, if you're ever going to try to convince the public that you're not crazy, leave the words 'interplanetary travel' out of all vernacular. The reality is though, that this man will be a millionaire. Because Spam, Chia Pet, and the Snuggie have taught us that if an idea is just bad enough, it becomes a great joke gift. Nothing sells better than something people purchase because they think, 'Ha, who would buy this thing?'
Friday, August 13, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
This is my tribute to the typical American Father, and first off before I get to my tribute let me say that I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking... wait, did you all stop thinking for a moment? You did, didn’t you! You read that I was saying, ‘I know what your thinking', and then you decided to stop thinking for a second so that there was no way for me to say what you’re thinking. In fact I can prove it, and I know what your thinking, you’re thinking (long pause)
Why did he put a (long pause) there? No, I know what you’re thinking, youre thinking, ‘he doesn’t know what I’m thinking?’ No, I know what you’re thinking, you're thinking ‘what’s he going to say next that I’m thinking’. No, I know what you're thinking, you're thinking... you're thinking... you know what? I don’t know what you were thinking. Alright? I don’t know what you were thinking. In fact I have no IDEA what you were thinking. WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING? You know what? You weren't thinking were you. You weren’t thinking! I proved it, you were not thinking! YOU WEREN’T THINKING! YOU GOTTA START USING YOUR HEAD AND THINKING!!!
And that’s my tribute to the standard american father.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
It's so hot that when someone says, "Talk to the hand", I do; just for the shade.
It's so hot I saw Lady Gaga wearing practical clothing.
It's so hot I climbed in the oven just to cool off
It's so hot I got B.O. taking a shower
It's so hot I went to 'human centipede' just to get out of the sun.
It's so hot the crazy pigeon lady is only wearing three coats.
It's so hot I saw keith sweat.
It's so hot I saw a hipster wearing skinny jean shorts.
It's so hot I saw a Palestinian schvitzing.
Its so hot even Jack Nicholson had a hard time being cool.
Sometimes I regret having the same girlfriend all through college. Because that's one semester I'll never get back.
Friday, July 30, 2010
The one thing that you can generally bank on showing up right before I do at any engagement, is my own tardiness. “Better late then pregnant” is what I say to break the tension of making people wait for me. I used to say that if I had been born twenty minutes earlier, I’d always be on time. But the truth is I always try to cram in something that I don’t have time for. The only thing worse than being late are the terrible excuses people have for being late. Nobody is ever honest about why they’re late, this is always the reason:
“Hey sorry I’m late, traffic was terrible.”
It would be refreshing to hear someone say why they were really late for once.
“Hey sorry I’m late, I was in the shower singing for way longer than I probably should have been, and then when I got out of the shower, I put on the song that I was singing and started dancing to the song around my apartment. And then I was like, ‘I gotta get going’. But then went to check my e-mail real quick, and then after that I checked my facebook, and saw that someone had posted a video of someone having a hard time parking their car. So then I watched videos of people parking badly for twenty minutes. Then I was like, ‘I gotta get going!’ So I started to walk out the door, and then realized I couldn’t find my keys. So I started to look for my keys and then came across a box of pictures of my old college girlfriend, so I sat down and looked at all the pictures before sitting in silence for 5 minutes pondering if it was my fault we split, and what my life would be like now if we were still together. I then thought about that one party where people kept knocking on the door while we were hooking up in the BATHROOM THAT’S WHERE I LEFT THE KEYS!!! SO I grab the keys, take off, and realize that I’m already about 35 minutes late, so what’s 5 more minutes and stopped off for a cup of coffee. Then, as I was getting back on the highway, I came across a little bit of congestion for about quarter mile which I then decided I would use as the reason for why I was late.”