Archive | June, 2017

*Contains Recycled Content (Part 2)

17 Jun

The clip show continues! If you missed part 1 of this epic stroll down memory lane with a dash of new content tossed in for good measure, click here. Shall we move on? Let’s.


Wednesday January 14: the day I quit my New Year’s resolutions. “You’re a quitter,” I hear you say. First of all, rude, second, duh, I used the word ‘quit’ right there when describing what I did with my resolutions. You don’t know the whole story though. Let’s say I went through with them, which I no doubt would’ve done because I am a man of perseverance; a man who does not walk away from something because it’s difficult; a man who gets the job done. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you the same (just promise you won’t ask any family or friends of mine or anyone who knows me or knows of me. Nothing but filthy liars every last one). Once completed, I would be quite nearly perfect (I only use the qualifier ‘nearly’ as a means of false modesty. In a cruelly ironic twist, giving up false modesty was one of my resolutions).  That wouldn’t be fair to anyone. Men would rend their garments and hate me for representing all that they could never be, women would wail inconsolably fearing that I was unattainable, and children would be directionless because I’d set a standard to which they could never aspire. Humanity would grind to a halt. Besides, one perfect man has already walked the earth among us mere mortals. Perhaps you’ve heard of him: long, flowing hair, well-kempt beard, and spoke often and poetically about love. I’m talking of course about Barry Gibb. He’s already done perfection and he’s still alive much as he prophesied in song. Not unlike Highlanders, there can be only one perfect man strutting around the earth at any given time.

What I’m trying to say is that I love you all too much to improve upon my many, many failings. Maybe next year…if Barry allows it.

Perfection personified. Glory unto his name.


Shit I think about: are there any modern mad scientists? If so, are they “mad” in the traditional sense meaning “crazy as fuckall?” Or is it more like, “He’s a mad scientist, yo. All he does all day long is science the shit out of stuff.” In other words, is having “mad science” the same as having “mad skillz?”


Stuff Facebook thinks about me based on the targeted ads in my feed:

-I’m gay, yet also super into mature women. So I guess I’m bi, but only for ladies over the age of 60. It’s so oddly specific and very confusing. Yesterday, I didn’t even know I was into guys. Today, I’m apparently a bisexual ageist. Crazynuts.

-There is a veritable fuck-ton of singles in my general proximity, both male and female, who are just dying to de-pants in front of me if only I’d acknowledge their existence by joining several, shady as fuck dating sites. They are so eager to sex me and they all live in my zip code!! What are the odds? Plus, they all look like models. I don’t know where these people are hiding because a solid 98% of the people in my neighborhood are trolls. Not like internet trolls, but mythical, hideous trolls. They should be living under bridges among the bones of goats unfortunate enough to trip-trap across their paths.

-I have herpes. Like mad herpes. Full body herpes. Just so much herpes. More herpes than you can shake a stick at. You could try, but you’d be standing there holding a non-shaking stick looking like a fool. That’s how much herpes Facebook thinks I have. All the herpes. Considering Facebook thinks I’m living a swinging, bisexual, ageist lifestyle, I guess that was inevitable. Ladies?

-I am incredibly litigious and interested in joining any number of class-action lawsuits even though I have no basis for doing so. Shit, I gotta get paid, right?

So thanks for the laughs, weird Facebook advertising algorithm. Care to try again?


My new horror film premise. Read on…if you dare.

Haunted by his father’s death in a tragic cardigan accident, a rogue entomologist creates a race of massive, basketball-sized MOTHS. When unleashed upon the world, they simply will not stop until they’ve destroyed the entirety of humanity…’s sweaters. Only one man can stop them – REX KILLBUGGINTON. Rex was laughed out of the Lepidopterist Society for his theories on the potential for moth huge-ification. Proven right, Rex has to race against time to construct the world’s biggest mothball or, failing that, like a really big cedar chest. Will he succeed or is mankind doomed to suffer a slight chill on those brisk autumn days…?



Fuck you, ninjas!!

The year: 1985. The film: Gymkata. I’m baffled as to why this film didn’t destroy Back to the Future at the box office and launch star Kurt Thomas into the stratosphere. It is easily the finest film about gymnastics as a martial art ever committed to celluloid. Haven’t seen it? Look at the poster. LOOK AT IT. That’s a dude kicking two ninjas’ faces right the fuck off with the power of gymnastics. Ninjas: the embodiment of stealth and badassery getting their skulls caved in by a gymnast. By the Gymkata. And that’s just the poster! Imagine what glory awaits you, novice viewer, if you possess both a VCR and $2 American (the going rate for a used VHS copy on eBay). I envy you, I truly do, for I can never watch Gymkata again for the first time. That is a pleasure to be enjoyed but once. Savor it. And when you come down from that Gymkata high, come visit me so we can high-five each other and talk about how inane our lives were before.

…before the Gymkata.


Why I’m a moron reason number 6,283

Yesterday, I had an issue with my work laptop and contacted IT for assistance. In order to help me, the IT guy told me he needed to know my computer’s name. I replied, “Kevin.” Understand, I wasn’t trying to make a joke, I really named my work laptop Kevin (Aside — I named my personal laptop, Robopal, because he is a robot and also my pal). He just got this look on his face — the kind of look I imagine all IT people get when, for the briefest second, they think maybe they’re dealing with a person who doesn’t spend his days seeing how hard he can hit himself in the head with a heavy wooden mallet before losing consciousness…and then immediately realize that, no, they’re yet again dealing with Lenny from Of Mice and Men. When he told me he actually needed the net name of my computer, I felt like an idiot. I think that’s because I am in fact an idiot.


Tonight I realized that my full name is an anagram of Rich Mr. Banana Pickle, ENT. This obviously made me very happy…and made me long to be a wealthy, phallically named ear, nose & throat specialist. Someday…


It’s been a long cold winter, ladies and gentlemen, but it’s finally here: jort weather. Jorts are not born, they’re made. So grab your favorite pair of jeans and cut the legs off! Oh, you went too far and now they’re too short? Let me tell you a little secret: JORTS ARE NEVER TOO FUCKING SHORT. No, but they’re, like really short and people can see your pockets? THAT JUST MEANS YOU DID IT RIGHT, MOTHERFUCKER. Bare those pockets for all to see. Luxuriate in the freedom, the gentle caress of shredded denim cradling your loins. From this day forward, you will wonder how you ever lived without it.

¡Viva la jort Revolución!

You should be wearing these or nothing at all.


I tried to watch Return of the Jedi for probably the 87th time last night (I have a bit of a Star Wars problem), but something happened. For the first time, I questioned something that I never even thought of before and it broke my brain. The 20th Century Fox fanfare barely ends when we get the John Williams theme and the famous crawl that includes this line:

“Little does Luke know that the GALACTIC EMPIRE has secretly begun construction on a new armored space station even more powerful than the first dreaded Death Star.”

More powerful than the first dreaded Death Star? Was not the first dreaded Death Star in possession of a laser capable of, you know, destroying an entire MOTHERFUCKING planet at the mere pull of a couple levers? What does the new Death Star do that’s more powerful than that? Does its planet-destroying laser blast planets into more satisfyingly small chunks? Is its planet-destroying laser slightly thicker or ribbed for her pleasure or something? Can its planet-destroying laser slap two planets out of existence at once like an angry Moe simultaneously bitch-slapping Larry and Curly*? Does its planet-destroying laser make espresso? If it does anything better than the original, we certainly never see it. From a layman’s perspective, my home planet being destroyed is my home planet being destroyed. I don’t care if it’s with a slightly more powerful weapon than you had before or not and neither should anyone else – we’re all extinct either way. I can’t help but wonder if the whole “more powerful” thing is tantamount to iOS updates: sure you gain a couple of minor bump ups to your planet-destroying laser, but it takes up a ton of memory space and suddenly you can’t get a wifi signal anymore and your GPS is telling you some random volcano on a lava planet in Bantha-fuck Tatooine is a rebel base. I don’t know, man, it just doesn’t seem worth it. And now I’ve ruined Return of the Jedi for myself. Don’t even get me started on Ewoks.

*Author’s Note: This post was written a few months before The Force Awakens gave us a planet-sized Death Star that did, in fact, bitch slap not two, but THREE planets out of existence at once. I’m beginning to think Star Wars needs to let the whole planet-destroying laser go for a while. Maybe try a planet destroying slingshot?  Call me, Disney. I have ideas.

*Contains Recycled Content (Part 1)

5 Jun

“They’ll never stop The Simpsons!
Have no fears, we’ve got stories for years, like,
Marge becomes a robot!
Maybe Moe gets a cell phone,
Has Bart ever owned a bear, or,
How ’bout a crazy wedding?
Where something happens, and do do do do do do.
Sorry for the clip show!”

-The Simpsons, Gump Roast

Ah, the clip show: the most hated of all sitcom tropes. And why? Because they slap a couple of minutes of new footage together making you think you’re in for a fun new adventure, but no — OH no. Because then the, “Remember that one time?” bullshit starts and suddenly, you’re watching clips of episodes you already saw. It’s even worse than it sounds. Inevitably, the premise for reminiscing is wafer fucking thin and characters flashback to shit they weren’t even a part of. Hell, Saved By the Bell did a clip show where the characters flashed back to other characters’ DREAM SEQUENCES. The following clip isn’t related to that, but it never isn’t hilarious:

Fuck a clip show is I suppose the salient point to take away from the preceding paragraph….which brings me to this post, well, series of posts. This is the blog equivalent of a clip show as most of this material was previously presented on Facebook. That said, I have like eight Facebook friends and at least five of them are Russian spambots trying to get all my personal info by promising to enlarge my penis with cutting edge drugs, and then have sex with said penis after they’ve properly huge-ified it.

It’s just a matter of time is what I’m saying.

And for my Facebook friends that aren’t spam, I’m assuming they don’t read my posts anyway so this will be new to them if they break down and decide to read it. So basically, it’s going to be like a clip show filled with clips from shows no one has seen. Fuck it, I’m just going to call it new material. This will help you hate me less and enjoy it more. Sound good? Let’s get to it!


If you needed additional confirmation that I’m a complete idiot, here’s an unedited conversation I had earlier with a female coworker. Enjoy!

Me: I’m supposed to go play trivia tonight. What are you up to?

Her: Not much. I need to stop and pick up some titty glitter on the way home.

Me: That’s awesome. Where do you even get something like that, the stripper warehouse?

Her: What? No! The grocery store!

Me: The grocery store? What aisle?

Her: With the cat food!

Me: Well that doesn’t even make any sense.

Her: Of course it does! Wait, what do you think I said?

Me: Uh, you tell me.


Me: Oh! God I’m dumb. I thought you said, “titty glitter.”

Her: (stares at me blinking for a few seconds, then laughs uncontrollably for several minutes at my stupidity) If you find out where you can buy that, let me know.

Me: I swear I’ve seen it before…

Her: “Titty glitter (laughs again, pats me on the head).” Stay pretty.

Me: (turns redder than the devil’s dick) I need a drink.

On the plus side, I may have invented a new product.


Every time I asked Siri to call someone today, she dialed the wrong number. I got angry and told her to fuck off, to which she replied, “That’s not nice.” I apologized and she told me it was okay. It was then that I realized this is the healthiest and most honest relationship I have in my life. Don’t change, Siri.


Pet peeve of the day: the phrase, “peel and eat shrimp.” When I eat steamed shrimp, there’s an expectation that I will have to remove an annoying shell (and those weird little shrimp feet) as part of the process, unless I’m 6 and my mom is peeling them for me. Nothing is lost by dropping the “peel and eat” qualifier and simply calling them, “shrimp.” More vexing, there are no peel and eat bananas, peel and eat oranges, peel and eat crabs, or peel and eat 7-11 burritos. Generally, when something we wish to eat has a peel that is tough, bitter, hard, or plastic, we remove it prior to eating. Can we please stop the madness?


A coworker was explaining her morning routine to me yesterday and why she always comes in late. I was good until she said, “I brushed all of my teeth,” then she totally lost me. What an odd thing to say. If she had said, “I brushed my teeth,” I’m still on board; continue this fascinating tale. But she threw in that damn “all” and I got fixated on it. Are there people who only brush a few teeth at a time? If you’re really running late do you just hit the top row, maybe the canines? I mean, if she had a gold tooth or something that required some kind of extra attention, you know, a good buffing or something to make it sparkle, I’d get why you might skip brushing that one if in a rush. That’s a goddamn chore. But no gold, just regular-ass teeth in her face. I wanted to say, “Yeah, I brushed all of my teeth this morning too except for my back left molar. That asshole knows what he did.” Instead, I sat there thinking these idiotic thoughts that I’m sharing with you now and then laughed when she finished her story. Not for nothing – she laughed too; I’m not a psycho who just randomly laughs when people are talking. Anyway, I have no idea what she said and I really hope she doesn’t read this.


Don’t grieve for yesterday, it’s over. Don’t wait for tomorrow, it never comes. Do something amazing today. Like, I don’t know, go out and get turnt on cough syrup or something. Maybe wear goggles and a snorkel to work and sincerely ask people to start calling you Jacques Cousteau. Slather yourself in marshmallow fluff and reenact the final 2 minutes of Ghostbusters. Use your imagination.


This is easily the most terrifying thing I’ve ever read: 107 MILLION SPIDERS. 107 million. Motherfucking spiders. Just hanging out together. In Baltimore. Did you know spiders formed gangs? I didn’t. I thought they were loners, rebels who occasionally wore 8-armed leather jackets while raising hell in the insect kingdom. But I guess they can hunt in packs and form dens like tiny, but somehow far more frightening, goddamn wolves or whatever. This is something I didn’t need to know. The only thing that could make this worse is if an army of clowns plucked handfuls of spiders from the nest and hurled them at passersby.


Can we please stop throwing around the phrase, “to die for,” as a descriptor for foods that taste super good? Because unless you’re willing to actually lay down your life for that plate of chili fries you’re just a liar. A dirty fucking liar.


Due to more stringent truth in advertising laws, ‘I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter’ is changing its name to ‘I Can Totally Believe It’s Not Butter Because Whereas Actual Butter Is Delicious, This Shit Tastes Like Melted Crayons, Plastic, And Ass.’


After we watched a news segment on Twitter, I had the following conversation with my mom:

Mom: So what is Twitter, is it email?

Me: What? No, it’s not email.

Mom: Well then what is it?

Me: I don’t know if I can explain Twitter to you. It’s a social network.

Mom: But what is it? I’ve never seen a Twitter. How do you do one?

Me: You…you don’t ‘do a Twitter.’ You go to the site, compose a tweet, and send it.

Mom: To who?

Me: I don’t know, everyone? I have followers.

Mom: People follow you? Do you know these people?

Me: A couple of them.

Mom: Only a couple? Is your name on it?

Me: Yes.

Mom: So just ANYBODY can see your Twitter? People you don’t even know? Is that safe?

Me: I…what?

Mom: How do you even know who to send it to?

Me: Because it’s like email, mom. It’s exactly like email.

Mom: Seems stupid to me.

Me: It kind of is.

This is the abridged version. The actual conversation went on for about 10 minutes and also touched on Facebook and Instagram. Nothing was resolved.


Maybe it’s just me, but I think the creepiest couplet from any children’s song has got to be, “He sees you when you’re sleeping; he knows when you’re awake.” That’s disturbing, right? As a kid, I used to imagine Santa standing over me, his face ruddy with the wintry chill or, more likely, cheap booze, mere inches from my own as he listens to me breathe and watches me sleep while cutting himself with a dull knife. He hopes I’ll wake up so he can absorb my life force and leave a soulless, desiccated husk where I used to be. I never got much sleep on Christmas Eve is what I’m saying, all thanks to that terrifying song.


Ferrari is now sending me targeted ads on Facebook. Fucking Ferrari. Would I like to own a Ferrari? Hell yeah, but I’m not Magnum P.I.; I’m just poor white trash from Gardenville. The only Ferrari I can afford is those foldable Ferrari sunglasses they used to sell on the Ocean City boardwalk for $5 with the massive lenses that made you look like some sort of futuristic insect with vision problems. And even that’s kind of a splurge. I guess what I’m saying is I don’t have $100k+ in disposable income to spend on a car I’d be terrified to drive because you just know some totes jell hater would key it the second I parked it somewhere. Now I’m both mad at imaginary people for keying my fictional Ferrari and sad that I’m not Magnum P.I. Thanks for making me feel bad about myself, Ferrari


Coffee is good, commercials are not. Sometimes these two concepts team up and really do some damage. Case in point: Folgers coffee commercials. You’ve seen them: someone wakes up early in the morning and brews a heaping pot of Folgers and someone sleeping smells it and wakes up with an orgasmic smile on his/her face as if beautiful angels had gently nudged them from slumber. They drink from their coffee mugs while gripping them with two hands – just like no one you’ve ever known or want to know – then you’re hit with the slogan: “The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup.” I hate waking up in the morning with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns, so it’s hard for me to find the silver lining that I might call “the best part.” Coffee is more of a necessity for me than it is a luxury. Drinking it in the morning greatly reduces the likelihood of me engaging in knife fights with coworkers. But if you fill my cup with Folgers, rest assured we’re going to have issues. Folgers tastes like hot sewage. It is the coffee of auto repair shops, of hospital waiting rooms, and of nursing and funeral homes. If you’re drinking Folgers you are in a miserable place and all but guaranteed to be dealing with annoyance at best and, quite possibly, death. Ultimately, calling Folgers “the best part of waking up” is like saying “the best part of torture is having your balls electrocuted.” So there you go, Folgers, I’ve devised a new, honest slogan for you – “Folgers: the coffee equivalent of genital electrocution.”






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