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*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!

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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.

Her: KITTY LITTER.

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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.’

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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.

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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.

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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

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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.”

 

 

4 Things I Learned at the GNR Concert

4 Jul

GNR

“’Cause yesterday’s got nothin’ for me

Old pictures that I’ll always see

Time just fades the pages

In my book of memories”

-“Yesterdays,” Guns N’ Fucking Roses

In case you’ve been living under a rock, Guns N’ Roses’ original lineup reunited (well, mostly…Steven Adler and Izzy Stradlin aren’t onboard) and started touring again after a 23 year breakup. Dubbed the “Not In This Lifetime” tour (based on what Axl Rose had previously said about the possibility of ever reuniting with Slash), they’ve only played a few dates so far. They kicked off the tour in Detroit, then hit FedEx Field in Landover, MD, which is where I saw them last week. Let me tell you something: they rocked my balls off. Like completely. I went in with balls and left with none. I think it happened during Slash ripping through The Godfather theme or maybe it was Axl screeching through Nightrain that did it. Doesn’t matter — they’re gone and it was totally worth it. And I learned a few things, like…

4. Sometimes You Can Go Home Again.

Generally speaking, when people say “you can’t go home again” they mean that the awesome things you remember from your youth will totally suck just like the biggest set of swinging, unwashed donkey balls when you experience them again once you’re older. That’s how I interpret it anyway. For just about everything – movies, video games, toys, music, Jean-Claude Van Damme (okay, not him; if anything his awesomeness ages like the finest bottle of wine…which he then dragon kicks into oblivion) – this holds true. So how would a reformed band that used to rule the world fair 23 years after breaking up? The answer: balls-fucking-tastic. They rocked the shit out of FedEx Field (and my balls; see above) for over two and a half hours. It was high-energy and pure fan service (you can check out the setlist here if you don’t believe me). Oh, and they showed up on time! And Axl seemed genuinely happy to be there! And his voice sounded awesome! I have no idea how he’s still belting it out at his age, but it was quite a thing to behold. Slash and Duff were amazing and the three newer members of the band tore it up as well.

The band had a bit of a reputation for starting ridiculously late or ending ridiculously early (and hating each other, but not anymore!). So maybe I could go home again in this case because my expectations were actually quite low going in.

3. Not Nearly Enough People Have Seen PCU.

I’d be willing to bet a bunch of you (the really cool ones with the most attractive genitals) know exactly where I’m going with this:

If you couldn’t spare 9 seconds to watch that clip (I get it, you’re totes busy), it’s a classic scene with Jeremy Piven and Jon Favreau. Favreau is going to a concert and Piven notices the shirt he’s wearing, then utters this all-time quote: “What is this? You’re gonna wear this to the show? You’re gonna wear the shirt of the band you’re gonna go see? Don’t be that guy.” I saw hundreds of people in GN’R. Shirts. Possibly thousands. Most weren’t even wearing some beat up joint that they were using to wax the car until the band reunited. No. Most people were wearing shit they bought ONSITE. That means they wore something else to the event, dropped $45 on a shiny, new tee, and changed into it so that the rest of us knew they were there to support the band. Thanks for that. That’s the kind of mentality used by five-year-olds the world over when they get a new pair of shoes that they just have to wear out of the store. Guys, you wear the concert tee AFTER the show so that people are forced to ask you about it and then learn that, “Yeah, I went to the GNR show. What of it?” Your friends will be properly awed and SO jealous, which is the whole point of going to events like this in the first place.

I’m not even going to get into the raging cock weasels who showed up dressed as Axl or Slash because the savage beatings I assume they received were probably punishment enough.

BTW, if you haven’t seen PCU, read this article. It lays out why it’s still relevant 21 years (now 22. Wait…that can’t be right. Wasn’t it just 1996 a few months ago? I am so fucking sick of Time Wizards making years last for only days now. It’s also possible that I’m old as fuck. Unrelated, I wish all these damn kids would get off my goddamn lawn. Motherless bastards) and why you need to watch it…you know, after you’re finished reading and sharing this post with every living being you know.

2. Without Hyperbole, I Can Say Cell Phones Will Be the Death of Humanity.

Take pictures, I don’t mind. Recording every second of everything you do? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHY DO YOU DO THIS??? You know you’re never going to watch it again. Be honest. The only reason you’re recording it is so you can inspire Instagram/FaceBook/Twitter envy from your followers.

“Look at me! I’m out doing cool shit! Aren’t you jel? You’re totes fucking jel, right? Please validate me! I’m cool, right? I matter. I do matter? Oh sweet Jesus, what is the point of it all? Every breath we take brings us simply one breath closer to the always looming specter of death!! Life is but a grand farce.”

I’ve been to multiple fireworks nights at Camden Yards and saw that many people, rather than watching and enjoying said fireworks, recorded that shit on their phones. They recorded fireworks. On their phones. To ostensibly watch later.

Motherfucking fireworks.

Instead of watching them filtered through a tiny-ass screen maybe, you know, just fucking look up! Ever watched fireworks on TV? Pointless bullshit. They’re kind of meant to be experienced in person with the naked eye.

Pro tip: life is happening all around you — experience that shit! You don’t need to record it on a four inch screen so you can later show your relatives and distant acquaintances what a fucking whirlwind of an amazing life you lead. And you don’t need to record every waking second of your existence. You’re not a journalist nor a documentarian, so stop it.

1. Other People Are Just the Absolute Fucking Worst

For as much as I enjoyed the concert, this is the biggest takeaway from it: I cannot stand to be in the presence of other people. I mentioned the cellphones in the previous entry. Just about every single human in front of me recorded the show for long periods of time. This meant I had to try to see the band around extended arms and tiny screens shining light into my face. It was beyond obnoxious.

The eight-foot tall gentleman directly in front of me was apparently part snake as he shimmied from side to side from the opening bars of “It’s So Easy” to the closing chords of “Paradise City.” He blocked my view to the right, then the left. Right, left, right, left, ri…STAND FUCKING STILL AND BOB YOUR HEAD UP AND DOWN LIKE A NORMAL FUCKING PERSON, YOU SLITHERING ASSHOLE!! I paid extra for field seats only to spend most of the concert standing in the aisle in attempt to see.

Add to that people bumping into to me for the duration of the show and the ridiculous traffic trying to get out of there and I have to wonder why I ever go out in public at all. Good time, though.

PSA

23 Mar

“Knowing is half the battle.”

-Roadblock, ranking member of elite military force, G.I. Joe

“I’m so excited! I’m so excited! I’m so…scared!!”

-Jessica Spano after taking one too many caffeine pills on a very special episode of Saved by the Bell

Hello again, Gentle Reader. Time for one of my patented, long-form blog posts! I can feel your excitement; how it nourishes me. As you regulars are well aware, I’m kind of obsessed with the 1980s. And why not? It was a radical, super-awesome, amazing decade. The technology, the fashions, the casual cocaine use – none of it has been surpassed. I know this because I spent a bit of time in the ‘80s. Granted, there were a few oddities to be found in the decade (I cannot for the life of me explain all the goddamn neon colors), but there is one particularly curious nugget of nostalgia on which I’d like to focus today: the ‘80s obsession with the PSA.

“What does PSA mean?” you may be asking yourself if you’re a caveman – sorry, caveperson – frozen in ice millennia ago and recently thawed out. If so, let me be the first to welcome you to the wonders of the 21st century! Those big metal birds in the sky are called “airplanes” and we use them to travel. Those round-footed animals speeding right towards you are called “cars” and are also used for transportation. Please don’t hurl spears at them; they’re not food. Don’t worry, you’ll adjust and soon be bitching about the ridiculously slow speeds at which the entirety of humanity’s knowledge is delivered to your mobile device like the rest of us.

A PSA is a Public Service Announcement; basically a commercial for how dope it is to look both way before crossing the street or how totally bogus it is to burn to death in a fire because your parents didn’t replace the batteries in the smoke detector. And sure, they were pretty prevalent throughout the ‘90s as well and they’re still around today, but the ‘80s, man. That was the golden age of the PSA. There were so many that they clearly ran out of useful topics to cover. To wit, I present to you quite possibly the dumbest PSA of not just the ‘80s, but all time:

Did you watch it? If you did, I apologize because…

I’ve just sucked 30 seconds of your life away.

Rugen

For those of you who didn’t watch it, here’s the rundown: Louis the Lifeguard is apparently a dwarf who lives on a dining room table in some David Lynchian nightmare of anthropomorphic, fully cooked foodstuffs. Though prepared for human consumption after having been either plucked from the earth or lain by chickens, they remain quite alive and bizarrely cheery.

That is until one of them starts to drown.

No need to fear though, Louis is on that shit. He sees a potato screaming for help as it sinks oh so slowly in a quagmire of sour cream and plucks it from certain doom. Then the purpose of the PSA kicks in as he sings the following:

Don’t drown your food!/In mayo or ketchup or goop./Yuck!/It’s no fun to eat what you can’t even see, so don’t drown your food!!!

There’s a lot to mentally unpack here. Again, the food is alive, but can apparently die if you douse it in condiments. The food WANTS to die, but only by your mouth and then only if you munch it in its purest, most unadulterated — hell I’ll just come out and say it — bare-ass naked form. It’s all very cult-like

More to the point, the sole reason this thing even exists is to keep kids from using condiments. It has no higher purpose. Not don’t smoke, don’t use drugs, don’t talk to strangers, but, “Hey fuckers, consider eating those fries sans ketchup.”

And is this really a path worth walking? To children, vegetables taste like the bitter remnants of their most terrifying nightmares sprinkled with dirt. Getting them to ingest them under any circumstances is a minor miracle. And let’s be honest: that doesn’t change much in adulthood, does it? Vegetables still taste terrible even to mature and refined taste buds; the only difference is that we eat them because we know we have to. Whenever someone says something like, “Have you tasted these Brussels sprouts? OMG! They’re so good!” I want to slap that person in the face and let him know that I know he’s a filthy liar and/or living in denial. Because I’ve tried the Brussels sprouts and they taste like they were dropped from the sulfuric butthole of some wretched, demonic hell-beast that itself was shat from the darkest, most putrid depths of the underworld. Besides, it’s not like adults ever practice what we preach to children. Have you ever seen someone eat a plain salad? No, you haven’t and if you ever did, you would assume that person to be insane and you would not be wrong.

Just look at this bullshit.

Just look at this bullshit.

Salads are terrible without meat, croutons, bacon bits, and some kind of dressing. So if a kid wants to slather some sour cream or ranch, ketchup or mayo on those vile, earthen abominations to make them slightly more palatable, who the fuck is anyone – especially Louis the fucking lifeguard –  to tell them otherwise? Fuck that guy.

That’s only the most egregious example of the commercial length PSA from the ’80s. Go to YouTube and search “’80s PSA” if you want to torture yourself by watching more, but there was another more insidious way in which the ’80s abused the PSA: the “Very Special Episode.” This was a PSA disguised as a sitcom so when you tuned in expecting laughs, you instead got the bait and switch treatment. The results were always traumatizing or at the very least uncomfortable and unsettling. You weren’t an ‘80s show until you had your own Very Special Episode. Whether it was Dudley getting groped by Gordon Jump on Diff’rent Strokes, Arnold and Kimberly getting kidnapped on Diff’rent Strokes, or Sam getting kidnapped on…Diff’rent Strokes (What the fuck, Diff’rent Strokes???), there was no shortage of ways to traumatize ‘80s kids to, ostensibly, make us aware of danger and thus safer because of it. Need examples other than Diff’rent Strokes? No problem: the above quoted Saved by the Bell was about the dangers of abusing “drugs” (in quotes because fucking caffeine pills are not drugs); Family Ties did an episode featuring an alcoholic Tom Hanks(!) getting drunk and wailing on Alex; Punky Brewster did an episode about Punky’s bestie getting locked in a discarded refrigerator and nearly suffocating; DJ had an eating disorder in an episode of Full House; Wesley got fondled on Mr. Belvedere; Mike got offered coke (the drug, not the sugary beverage) on Growing Pains; and, for the love of God, Steve Urkel rapped about gun control on an episode of Family Matters. Oh, and then there’s the time Kimberly suffered from bulimia on — Jesus Christ — Diff’rent Strokes.

This man should not be allowed to care for children.

This man should not be allowed to care for children.

I say all that to lead into my very own PSA. That’s right, this entire rant was a deception. I Keyser Söze’d you. Don’t be mad; my intentions are noble. Please tamp down your hatred and read on.

If you have a landline (and if you’re a Comcast subscriber they practically force it upon you), you’ve no doubt received or will receive a call from Microsoft or Google. These fine folks will inform you that your computer is in distress and sending out error messages and virus alerts in a desperate attempt to keep its poor head above water. How do they know this? They’re Microsoft and Google; they know everything. All you have to do is give them access to your computer and that pesky credit card number you have and they’ll happily steal all your money, files, and personal data for you. You didn’t want that stuff anyway, right?

I’ve researched this scam quite a bit because I get at least eight of these calls per day. Oh, and you cellphone only people sitting up there in your ivory towers, uh, whittling ivory or whatever and silently judging the rest of us? Yeah, they’ve started calling cellphone numbers too.

So what can you do? Well, apparently no one in authority is doing anything about this because they can’t be bothered to give a single fuck. I can only assume there must be some kind of fuck shortage for which they’re preparing.

“Whatevs, I’ll just block the number,” you say. “Ha!” I retort back because my wit is that razor sharp. Block one number, a new one pops up. They’re like Hydra in that way. Now personally, I like to answer the phone and pretend I’m both hard of hearing AND touching myself. That really makes them mad, which makes me happy because I draw my power from the bitterness of others.

I could just chalk this up as a mild annoyance, but they’re ripping people off — mostly older, vulnerable people. That makes them the worst type of parasite there is (yes, even worse than that one that swims up your peehole and makes its home there). In addition, I’ve read that they often say very inappropriate and vulgar things when asked to stop calling. This will not stand.

I implore all of you to mercilessly fuck with these people when they inevitably call you. Not all of you have the time that I do to alternately shout, “WHAT?” and moan in ecstasy to torment them, so I recommend picking up a police whistle or an air horn. When they go into their routine, blow it right in their ear. If enough of us start doing that, the calls will stop. We can do this!

The Big Lies

11 Apr

The 3 Biggest Lies People Tell

{AUTHORS NOTE: You may notice this post is slightly different in format from my usual ramblings. That’s because this started out as an article that I planned to submit to the bestest comedy site on the web, Cracked.com. Unfortunately, I wrote most of this before reading the requirements for outsiders like myself to be published on the site. This is because I’m a dumbass. In short, this one doesn’t meet the criteria. I finished it anyway and here it is for your enjoyment. If anyone from Cracked is reading this and wants to publish it, let’s do lunch.}

People lie all the time; we can’t help it, it’s in our nature. In fact, it’s necessary for us to lie if we want to exist in a civilized society. When someone asks us how we’re feeling, we plaster on a faux smile and inevitably respond, “Fine.” We can’t tell the truth: that we hate them for asking that on a Monday morning and that if they don’t walk away now, our foot is going to get acquainted with their dicks at high velocity – people will assume we’re psychotic if we say that. If someone asks me what I had for lunch, I tell them, “your mom’s sweet ass.” Okay, that’s a lie (see how pervasive dishonesty is?). I usually just tell them, “I had a salad.” The truth, that I ate a bag of Goldfish crackers and washed it down with a pint of Old Grandad, is just too awesome for them to comprehend. It would quite literally cause their heads to explode.

We lie to each other so much that it becomes almost impossible to spot. However, there are three things people say that are always lies, to you, but mainly to themselves.

3. “I’m Classy.”

This often comes accompanied with the modifiers, “as shit” or “as fuck.” No classy person has ever had to insist to others that she was classy. Class is generally easy to define, yet hard to spot. It’s far easier to recognize what isn’t classy than to point out what is. That guy at the bar pounding Bud skull crushers and then belching the alphabet? Talented, but not classy. The girl with the leopard print everything and tattoo of Evel Knievel jumping his rocket cycle over her lady canyon? You want her phone number, but she’s not classy. Anyone you’ve ever seen at Wall Mart? Surprisingly classy as fuckballs. Here, let me illustrate further with a real life example.

One evening after work, I and a few coworkers headed out to happy hour at the local liquortorium. We were waited on by a young man named Sailor. Before you get mad at your brain for unfairly stereotyping this guy as a lacrosse playing, soccer watching, Abercrombie & Fitch wearing bag of dicks, allow me to assuage your guilt: that’s exactly what he was. In fact, we spent most of the first hour or so of happy hour (oxymoron?) mocking him for being a supreme frat-boy Douche Lord. After a while though, Sailor began to grow on us. He was actually kind of funny and had a very self-deprecating way about him. In fact, I downgraded him to Douche Viscount once he started throwing back shots with us. So what does all that have to do with “I’m Classy”? I’m getting to that. Christ, you’re impatient.

I don’t remember how (drinking – remember?), but we began talking about tattoos. Sailor mentioned that he just got a tattoo the night before and offered to show it to us. I admit to feeling uncomfortable yet intrigued when he unbuttoned his pants and turned around. He pulled his pants down just to the top of his ass crack and there it was, in cursive script: the word, “Classy.” See what he did there? Getting “Classy” tattooed just north of one’s coin slot is the opposite of classy! It’s ironic! At least, I think it’s ironic (someone call Alanis). Anyway, obviously Sailor was in on the joke. However, I think he missed the part where the joke was kind of on him since he, you know, permanently scarred his skin for a laugh that could have easily been gotten with henna dye. I can’t imagine a woman willingly engaging in sexual intercourse with a guy marked up like that, so enjoy having all of your intimate moments in the dark or with a sweater tied around your waist for the rest of your life. I hope he had no dreams of ever being a plumber; he’d get laughed right out of Plumber Academy with crack graffiti like that. (Can someone please start a Kickstarter campaign to fund Plumber Academy: The Movie starring Michael Winslow and Steve Guttenberg? I will love you forever if you make this happen. Plus, those guys really need the work.)

Still, despite all of the facts screaming otherwise, Sailor insisted to one of the girls in our group that he really was a classy guy. She just needed to get to know him. Such denial. Clearly an intervention was in order. I hope he got the help he needed.

2. “I’m Smart.”

This one is a little harder to quantify, but you’ll mainly see it being bandied about in comments forums on every page of the goddamned worldwide internet. For example, think of a movie you like a great deal. Got one? Good. Now look it up on the IMDB and go to the message boards. Within the first few posts, you should see one cleverly labeled, “This Moieve Suxxxxxx!!!!” The quality of the movie you selected doesn’t matter – it could be Lawrence of Arabia, The Godfather, or My Balls Itch: The Movie – those comments are lurking on the boards. Their sole purpose for existing is not to make a compelling, intelligent argument, but to bait you into a flame war where the original poster gets to question your taste and call you a moron. This is where you might wish to defend yourself and say, “Nuh-uh, I’m smart.” I hate to break it to you, but no, no you’re not. You proved your lack of intelligence by engaging this sack of fucks in the first place. You gave him what he wanted and he’s thus correct to call you a moron – Q.E. motherfuckin’ D. I saw someone try to win one of these arguments by writing, no shit, “I’m smarter than you, asshole. I’ve been in the Mensa since 2003!” Full disclosure here: I’m not a member of “The Mensa.” I have no idea if they issue membership cards or make you get a tattoo of a giant brain on your penis or what. I DO know that the organization is simply called, “Mensa,” without the qualifying article, “The.”

“Well,” you say, “just who in the holy fuck do you think you are? You think you’re some kind of Mr. Smarty-Smart Smart Guy or something? I hope you get the flesh eating bacteria on your ass.” Wow. Harsh words, hypothetical readers, harsh words indeed. No, I do not think I’m smart. I have evidence that proves quite the opposite.

One fine evening after imbibing a few gentlemen’s beverages, I found myself eating cold pizza and watching infomercials at 3am as I am wont to do. This particular infomercial was for cologne called, “Realm.” Intrigued? So was I. For 30 minutes, I watched confident men discuss the benefits of applying Realm to their naked skin and beautiful women talk about how the smell of those men made the pants melt right off their bodies. You see, Realm is crammed with assloads of pheromones. Pheromones give confidence to men and turn women into nymphomaniacs, so claim the makers of Realm. Naturally, there was simply no way my intoxicated mind could resist. I fumbled my credit card (with $500 limit – jealous?) out of my wallet and called the number on the screen because the internet wasn’t a thing yet (Fuck, I’m old). As I was placing my order for cologne that I had never smelled – its scent being it’s ONLY redeeming characteristic – some much more sober part of my brain spoke up. “What the hell are you doing?” it said. “I’m buying cologne with pheromones, goddamn it! Now shut up and leave me alone,” I retorted. The woman taking my order was a little taken aback as I had apparently verbalized this inner dialogue. Still, sober brain made kind of a good point. No problem, I had this. “Hey, does this cologne smell good?” The woman said nothing. I assume she must’ve thought I was still arguing with myself. “I only ask because I’d kind of like it to smell good.” She realized I was talking to her and offered, “Oh, I’ve never actually smelled it, but yeah, probably.” What a saleswoman. A smart person, drunk or not, would have hung up and shaken his head the next day over the $50 bullet he had managed to dodge. Not this guy. “Fuck it, how bad can it be? Here’s my credit card number.”

I then promptly forgot about Realm for 4-6 weeks until one day, a strange package arrived on my doorstep. Not knowing what it was, I excitedly opened it because, hey, a package. Once I viewed the contents, I could feel my face turning crimson with embarrassment as a hazy, drunken memory wafted across my brain, along with the thought, “Well, you did it again.” Still, maybe this was the one infomercial product that lived up to its own obscene hype. I sprayed it on my wrist and inhaled…

How do I describe the smell? Okay, imagine the filthiest hippie you can imagine – you know, one with a scraggly beard, crusty dreadlocks, who never wears shoes and has perpetually black feet. The kind of hippie who always wears a plaid poncho because he believes it hides the stains (but you can totally see the stains). The kind of hippie who only takes showers on each of the equinoxes because he’s, “one with Mother Nature, don’t be such a square, man.” Now, imagine that hippie died three weeks ago and his corpse has been putrefying in a small, windowless room during a heat wave. Still with me? Okay, now you enter the room and decide the best way to cover up the stench is to pour bong water and patchouli all over the hippie corpse – THAT is what Realm smells like: musk, ass, stale weed, body odor, and decaying hippie. If you hate yourself (or someone else), it is available for sale on Amazon. Just saying.

1. “I’m a Christian.”

Oh boy, this one’s a doozy. This is where you’re either going to fully embrace what I’m saying or completely turn on me. This is THE BIG LIE. It’s often preceded by, “You can totally trust me.” If you hear it, it’s time to hide your wallet and run for the hills because you’re about to be robbed and possibly violated. [DISCLAIMER: I’m not endorsing nor condemning Christianity, or attempting to slam any particular political party, just presenting my point of view.] People from all walks of life are guilty of saying this and then doing things that are the exact opposite of what an actual Christian would do. A few generic examples:

-Politicians who claim homosexuality is offensive to their Christian ideals… and then get caught working the glory hole in an airport bathroom.

-Television preachers who solicit donations from people who can’t afford to donate… because God wants them to be rich? I’m not really sure.

-Assholes who totally cut the line that time we camped out for Grateful Dead tickets because the Ticketmaster outlet at Hecht’s in White Marsh refused to recognize the officiality of campers’ names on a hand-scrawled list… okay, this one is admittedly a little more specific. I swear one of them told me he was a Christian, though.

A Christian is, ostensibly, someone who follows the teachings of Jesus Christ. You know that guy, right? He was The Dude millennia before the Coen brothers directed The Big Lebowski. He showed up and said, and admittedly I’m paraphrasing here, “New shit has come to light.” An “eye for an eye” became “love your enemy;” he raised Lazarus even though he had the preexisting condition of death; he cured the lepers without worrying about copays or donut holes; he turned water into wine because it was a wedding and JC knows how to party; he even threw the money changers out of the temple because, seriously, fuck those guys.

A lot of this stuff is for the capital “B” Believers, but I don’t think you have to be religious to follow Jesus. His teachings are not a bad thing on which to model your life: be a decent guy, treat people as you’d like to be treated, always travel in a posse – these are all good things. The problem is that people conveniently forget these things when they become a hindrance to what they really want to do. Here’s one more hypothetical example to further illustrate my point:

Let’s say you’re sitting in front of your computer reading this article and you really like it. You like it so much you wish you had written it. Who can blame you? It’s fucking amazing. Your envy is understandable and also nourishes my soul (writers are a bit of an insecure lot). But what if it went beyond that? What if you started telling people you helped write it? Maybe we’re friends and you suggested I write the article. You should totally get writing credit because, damn it, you had a thought and that’s the same thing as writing. Maybe you find a way to put your name on this piece and actually place it above mine in the byline subtly implying that you were somehow more instrumental in making this article a reality. You’re a “Christian” though (so you’ve said) and this might conflict with your “beliefs.” Then again, fuck it, credit for stuff is awesome, so you do it anyway. Let me just tell you, you’d be an asshole if you did something like that – a major, major asshole. You’re also a really shitty Christian in this purely HYPOTHETICAL situation. Hypothetical.

So remember, whenever someone tells you they’re a Christian, they NEED to do that because their actions would never indicate it. In other words, they’re lying. Always.

Now, if that’s a fact, tell me, am I lying?

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