Do I Know You?

So, at the gym I attend, there was this kid who seemed to be on the same workout schedule as me. I would see him every day at the same time and he’d usually be working the same body part as me. I noticed he would always try to make eye contact with me, but I just tried to ignore it because I’m an anti-social piece of shit. It’s pretty obvious he is attempting to get my attention, but my attention isn’t something I just toss around to people I don’t know.

 

A few weeks after I started to notice him, I’m doing an exercise when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and it’s the kid.

 

“What’s up, man? It’s good to see you.”

 

He reaches out for a handshake and I reciprocate. I’m confused, but I play along and tell him it’s good to see him too. He tells me to have a good workout and walks off.

 

Now, I’m thinking, shit, I must know this kid. But where from?

 

The next day he comes up to me again. “Sup bro? How are things going?” He asks this with a look that could’ve been perceived as concern, or just genuine interest.

 

What did this mean? Is he just making conversation, or is he referring to a specific situation that I apparently don’t remember anything about? Were things not going well for me when I met him? Did I even meet him? I think about asking him where I know him from, but I don’t want to look like an idiot, so I just tell him things are going good and ask him the same question.

 

“Oh, you know how it is man, am I right?” He says this with a smile and slaps my arm, walking off.

 

I’m really confused now. No, dude, you aren’t right. I don’t know how it is. I don’t remember who you are. I don’t know if you’re just a friendly guy, or if we met under some really strange circumstances that I have no recollection of. Apparently, we have an inside joke, and I’m not in on it. I continue my work out and rack my brain in search of “how it is”.

 

As the days go by, these exchanges keep happening. I wasn’t getting any weird vibes from this kid, he genuinely seemed like a nice dude. A nice dude who I was pretty sure I had never met before. But, I had pretty much reached the point of no return. If I asked him who he was now, I would look like an absolute douche monkey.

 

One day, I walk into the gym and he’s standing by the entrance talking with someone he obviously knows. He asks me what’s up as I pass by, and I reciprocate. The guys he’s talking to then asks, “how’s it goin, bro?”

 

DUDE. Do I know this guy too? Was he at this mystery meeting as well? Or is he just being nice to one of his buddy’s friends? Dammit, I guess me and the original mystery guy are friends now. And I don’t even know his name.

 

I turn to mystery guy number two, and say, “ah, you know how it is, bro.”

 

He cracks a smile and excitedly points at me like we’re playing a pick-up basketball game and he just hit a three-pointer off of my assist. “That’s my dude!” he yells.

 

Things continue like this for over a month. I don’t see the second guy as often, but he greets me now as well. The original kid is there every day. People at the gym are probably thinking me and him are the best of pals, and I’m just praying I don’t have to introduce him to someone I know.

 

One day, one fateful day, me and him happen to start working out on machines located right next to one another. Rather than just the simple drive by interaction, I know that this will now be the time we are forced to have an actual conversation. We make eye contact, shake hands, ask each other how things are going, and then, silence. After about eight full seconds of excruciatingly painful off-into-the-distance stares, each of us thinking what to say next, the kid says,

 

“Hey man, where do I know you from?”

 

I breathe a gigantic sigh of relief. I explain to him I have no idea and he cracks up, telling me he’s been trying to figure it out this whole time. We finally learn each other’s names and agree to grab a beer sometime. Just then, the kid’s friend (mystery guy number two) walks by and excitedly greets us and shakes our hands before continuing on to his workout.

 

I turn to my new friend and ask him what the other kids name is.

 

He just looks at me and says,

 

“No idea.”

Public Germ Rooms

I don’t know how many of you consider yourselves germophobes, but let’s just say that when I have nightmares, they usually take place in a public restroom. Trying to hold my breath so as to not inhale any of the floating shit particles, tip-toeing around the puddles of piss on the ground to avoid soaking my shoes in urine, and closing my eyes in prayer while doing my business out of hope that my stream won’t create any dreaded back splash. I can hear the sound sounds of someone grunting one out in a nearby stall. It is truly a horrific scene. After I’m done I sprint towards the exit, the sinks are covered in loogies and hair, therefore I’m better off not washing my hands. I start wrapping my hand in my shirt so that it won’t come into contact with the disgusting door handle when suddenly, I slip on the pee and lose my balance. My heart stops as I realize I’m falling directly towards one of the giant piss puddles. I reach for something, anything, and my hands find a urinal. I scream in agony and despair, letting go immediately. This causes me to continue to fall directly into the giant piss puddle and then everything goes black.

That’s when I wake up. My heart is racing and I have to go take a shower just to get rid of the germ demons swirling around in my head. I would consider that a germophobe, right?

Anyway, there’s one other place that frightens me just about as much as a public restroom. And that place is the waiting room at the doctor’s office.

I was recently in one and it was the usual terror scene. People blowing their noses, old men sneezing and scratching their balls, loud breathing, and the worst of all: Little kids coughing without covering their mouths. Even though I go to an adult doctor now, there are always little kids coughing there. It’s like all doctor’s offices have a coughing kid quota that they need to meet.

My phone was dead and I was bored out of my mind. There was absolutely no way I was touching the germ-infested magazines they always have lying around. I just keep my hands in my pockets and try to breathe as little as possible. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice one of the little kids is licking his toy truck. Snot is pouring out of his nose. Sick little bastard. I shudder and start to pray when a putrid smell arises. Yup, the old man next to me had just farted. As I plug my nose the lady across from me (who had been reading one of the germazines) starts to eat an apple, touching it with her bare hands. I am really starting to think I’m in hell now. Besides, aren’t apples supposed to keep you away from the doctor?

I am startled when I feel an object hit my foot. I look down and see it is the little kid’s saliva truck. I move my body away from it in the same way that a vampire does when he is exposed to a crucifix.

The kid runs over and picks the toy up. His mom yells to him,

“Trevor! Apologize!”

The kid looks at me blankly and without warning, sneezes on me, spraying his repulsive snot/spit onto my arm.

“Sorry,” the little rat says.

I scream out, holding my arm out in front of me like it had been dipped in a chemical vat. I desperately look around for a towel or anything to wipe my arm with, but can’t find anything. I scramble up to the front desk and ask the lady if they have a towel I can use. She looks at me with a fake smile, points, and goes,

“Yes, sir. Right over there in our public restrooms.”

All The Time

I bet you hear the phrase, “all the time”, all the time. It’s such a common phrase, anyone who even halfway knows the English language uses it on a daily basis when describing something they do frequently. But have you ever really thought about how strange it sounds to say?

If you say something like, “I make tacos all the time,” to me, you’re saying that during all the time you have, absolutely all of it, you’re making tacos. When do you sleep? When do you go to the bathroom? Exactly how much does “all the time” really mean? Are you using other people’s time to make tacos as well? How much time even exists, and how are you monopolizing all of it to make tacos? How many tacos have you made? Who shops for all the ingredients?

How did this phrase even originate? It had to have come from someone who actually used the phrase in a literal context. What was he/she doing all the time? Maybe it was someone describing human’s inhalation of oxygen while here on earth? Was it a World of Warcraft player’s response to someone who asked him how often he masturbates? We may never know.

It doesn’t even sound grammatically correct. Whether you say it as “all the time” or “all of the time”, to me it sounds like a quote from the fictional movie character Borat.

“Bang, bang, skeet, skeet, my name ah Borat I like having the sex for all of the time!”

It would make more sense for the phrase to be “during all my available time”, that way you wouldn’t sound like some kind of grammatically incorrect multi-dimensional alien wizard-dragon who holds sole possession of “all of the time.”

I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore, the point I’m trying to get at is that the phrase “all the time”, is extremely strange. All I’m asking is that if you’re going to use the statement, just don’t do it all of the time. Now, does that mean I want you to merely use the phrase “all the time” sparingly? Or, does that mean I want you to not use all of the time in the universe to say “all of the time” repeatedly? Jesus, I confused myself again. Why does this have to happen all the time?

8-Year-Old Man

When you were a little kid, did you ever just wish you could get behind the wheel of a car and drive to wherever you wanted to go? Did you long to be able to take off, not needing your parent’s approval or permission, and head down to your favorite toy store or Fast-food restaurant? I’m sure all of us felt that way at some point in our childhoods. But of course, we could never make that far off dream a reality, as we all would have to wait many years to finally be able to drive a vehicle. All of us except one 8-year-old boy from Ohio.

According to a news article I recently read, this 8-year-old boy I’m referring to, drove his dad’s car over a mile to the nearest McDonald’s to get his sister some food. How did he learn to drive you ask?

YouTube, of course. Where else?

Apparently, after his sister informed him that she was hungry, he took to YouTube and searched up a video on how to drive. Cause, what else would an 8-year-old do? Be a normal 8-year-old and ignore his sister, crap his pants, then continue to watch cartoons? Nah, not this kid. After watching the video, he and his sister hopped into dad’s car and took off. Witnesses say he obeyed all traffic laws, successfully made a few turns, and drove the speed limit. What else would you expect from this badass mofo of a kid? The police eventually got involved, but not after the 8-year-old savage and his sister finished their cheeseburgers. The Most Interesting Kid in the World then told the cops he learned to drive from YouTube before flicking his cigarette at them and hopping back into the vehicle and burning out. (Okay, I made up the part about the cigarette and burning out, but that’s the version of the story I’m going to believe.)

First of all, this kid is 100 percent growing up to be Chuck Norris. If I wanted food at 8-years-old, I would probably beg for mommy to make me some, and if she didn’t, then I would cry and look for skittles in the couch. What grade is an 8-year-old in? I think it’s 3rd. Dude, in 3rd grade my mom was still dressing me and combing my hair. I was completely useless. This little guy is operating vehicles and using the Internet extremely effectively. He’s even selflessly providing for his sister. When I was that age, the only time I ever interacted with my sister was to call her a poopface. (I’m beginning to look like quite the little douchebag.)

This kid is the type who could be abandoned in the forest, and within a few days, be leading a pack of wolves. He’d gain their respect by defeating a bear in hand-to-hand combat using Jiu Jitsu that he learned from a YouTube video. I mean, really, what are the chances this kid doesn’t grow up to be a Navy SEAL? Sure, he disobeyed his parents, but when you’re a go-getter to that degree at such an early age, your future is pretty bright. And most likely includes you growing up to be James Bond or Indiana Jones.

Then again, maybe he’ll just grow up to be a driving instructor.

 

 

 

Dental Conversations

On Friday, I have to go to the dentist. Friday is going to suck, because the dentist sucks. The thing is, I actually don’t mind getting my teeth cleaned. What I do mind, is that while my mouth is wide open and being cranked on by the hygienist, I have to engage in small talk. For whatever reason, every hygienist I’ve ever had, has thought it was a good idea to ask about my life story while they have their fingers shoved into my mouth.

Every time I go, it’s the same situation. My mouth is gaped open and filling up with saliva. My eyes are nearly watering from jaw soreness. My teeth are being scraped on and my mind is elsewhere, trying to focus on anything but the excavation site that is my mouth. If there was ever a time when talking was not really an option, it’s now.

Yet, as always,

“So, what school do you go to?”

The hygienist says this without ceasing her assault on my mouth.

Me: Aaaaagghghhg.

Her: Oh okay, my niece goes there! What classes are you taking?

Me: Aghghh, ghhh, hhnnnggg, uhhh, euuhhahhh, ahhh hnnggahh.

Her: What was that?

Me: Aghghh, ghhh, hhnnnggg, uhhh, euuhhahhh, ahhh hnnggahh.

Her as she finally takes her hands out of my mouth: You know, that’s really great. You’re going to learn so much! What are you planning on doing after college?

Me: Well, I have—

She then shoves her hands back into my mouth, listening intently.

Me again: Ahhhggg ghhhdggh hnnnggg.

Her: That’s awesome! Sounds like you are following your dreams! What sports are you interested in?

This silly exchange continues throughout the appointment until she is done with my teeth and I am finally put out of my misery. As she cleans up and we schedule my next appointment, I always want to ask her: So, how does your niece like Aaaaagghghhg University? Or: Do you know any hnnggahh tutors?

But, I hold my tongue. One of these days, I will get the courage to mess with her. Maybe I will do it once I graduate and become a practicing Ghhhdggh hnnnggg.

Literally Literal

Literally: adverb. In a literal manner or sense; exactly. Used to emphasize the truth and accuracy of a statement or description.

 

That is the definition of the word “literally” from the Merriam-Webster Dictionary. That is what I’ve been led to believe is the true meaning of the word, and that is how I’ve used the word my entire life. However, there is also another definition now.

 

Literally: adverb. Used in an exaggerated way to emphasize a statement or description that is not literally true or possible.

 

Dude, seriously? They use the word correctly in the totally incorrect definition. How confusing is that. So if it’s “not literally true”, does that mean it’s not true, or that it’s actually kind of true? Doesn’t this defeat the whole purpose of the word “literally”? I don’t even know what I’m saying. My head hurts. This is literally like a literal Inception, literally.

 

Why can’t the people who make words just make up another word? It’s as if so many people were using it incorrectly that they just caved like lenient parents. “Ahhh fine, it can mean that too.”

 

Orrrrr, how about everyone just uses it correctly?

 

I can’t stand when people use the word “literally” in a nonliteral sense. It literally annoys me.

 

“Omg, I’m literally dying from that picture.”

 

Oh are you? Is the picture poisonous? Did it pull out a picture gun and shoot you? Is it one of those pesky hitman pictures? Wait, what? Those don’t exist? Hmm, guess that means you aren’t literally dying, are you?

 

“Those wings are spicy, my mouth is literally on fire. ”

 

What? Did the spicy wings pour gasoline into your mouth and then toss a match into it? Are you in the circus? Are you a dragon? Oh man, I better go get the fire extinguisher! Oh, what’s that you say? It isn’t actually on fire? You just said “literally” to add effect? Sounds a lot like being over-dramatic.

 

My personal favorite:

 

“I literally can’t even.”

 

You literally can’t even what? Use the word “literally” correctly? Finish a whole sentence? This “sentence” makes me literally confused.

 

So, in summary, the word “literally” either means the absolute truth, or the complete opposite of the absolute truth. You can literally just choose which definition you want. Maybe I’m the only one, but this just seems crazy to me. When I try to think about it, I literally can’t even.

 

An Ode To Sports

No guts, no glory.

 

To attain greatness, especially in the field of sports, (ha) you gotta have the balls to show up when it matters. And to show up when it doesn’t. To put in the work when the lights are on you, and put that shit in even harder when no one’s watching.

 

No guts, no glory, right? Wrong! Not if you’re a sports fan.

 

If you’re a fan then you just get to lay your sloppy ass right on the sofa – Mountain Dew in hand, Dorito crumbs laid across your flabby chest – and soak in all that ripe and juicy glory like you were right down in those trenches beaten and bloody kicking names and taking ass.

 

When your team pulls in that sweet victory you get to roll into work the next day repping your squad’s gear and talking non-stop shit to all the dumbasses that screamed, yelled, and got into fights with their wives over a different group of grown men throwing a ball around on the TV than you did.

 

“We smashed on you guys. We look like we’re gonna take it all.” Yeah. I mean you just dominated those guys that yelled and screamed at different guys than you. You totally had a hand in the beating that they didn’t at all actually endure.

 

And then the guys who yelled and screamed and got into fights with their wives over a different group of grown men throwing a ball around than you did actually feel bad about this. And before anyone gets all offended, look, I’m a sports fan. I don’t have a  wife but I would definitely get into a fight with her over grown men throwing a ball around on the TV, trust me.

 

But let’s get serious now. It’s all fun and games until someone’s team loses in a playoff/championship scenario.

 

Look, even though as a sports fan you have about as much control over what happens as you do of the sun rising and setting, there are real emotions in this shit. Like, when your team loses a big game, like say, the Superbowl, (hint, hint) it actually feels really bad. It feels like you were out there suffering with the players, toughing out those grueling practices, running those laps up and down the field, hitting those weights in the gym until you puked just so you could get the smallest ounce of an advantage over the opposition.  It tastes like real defeat.

 

It’s like you get yourself stuck in this shitty sports make-believe paradox. You put in zero real work but you feel all the pain of a real defeat. You’re humiliated, afraid to go outside. You slip off your jersey – the thing you wear with another grown man’s last name emblazoned across your back – and bury it in the bottom of the hamper, going with the excuse that your wife’s seven layer dip stained/ruined it. (Commence heated argument.)

 

You get a sick pit in your stomach every time you see the logo of your once proud franchise. The one that you have played exactly zero part in the existence of and would be in exactly the same state if you were to have never existed.

 

Some of your friends sympathize with you. Which somehow makes you feel even worse. How dare they patronize you? Some friends choose to kick you when your down, unaware of how dangerously close they walk to the edge of the valley of severed friendship. You get pats on the back and “maybe next year”s. Forget the players, who, you know, actually played the game. This is about you now. I mean, you were the one making sacrifices, right? All those times you could’ve played that video game, or rented that movie, or went to the gym, (yeah, that’s why you don’t work out) and instead you sat your dedicated and disciplined ass down on that couch and yelled at that TV as loud as your out of shape lungs could yell.

 

I mean, all those times your nerves of steel were put to the to the test? Those playoff games where the clock was running low, the score was almost out of reach, the temperature was nearing zero… and you sat there past your bedtime on that warm recliner, heart working harder than you ever have in your life, just so you could see that last minute touchdown to seal the win. I mean you earned that championship, right? You deserved it.

 

At least that’s what you try to tell yourself, because you know that the reality is much darker than that. You didn’t do anything. You didn’t sacrifice anything but DVR space. You worked, sure. But it wasn’t on the field or in the weight room, it was in the yard. Pulling weeds and edging the grass. Yet here you are, feeling like the world came crashing down on your dreams of sports super star glory.

 

And somewhere in between all the Facebook trolling, the office bullying, the dark urges that no one wants to admit they have about jumping ship to a rival, this is when you realize that you played yourself. You realize that all of the athletes that you’ve yelled and screamed at all season through the TV have millions and millions of dollars and all the women and fame you could imagine, and that you should probably stop crying yourself to sleep every night over the fact that they didn’t throw the ball around as good as the other millionaire ball throwers.

 

You realize this and after some deliberation, you sack up. You wipe off the Dorito crumbs, you order that treadmill on Amazon, and you start to pick up the pieces. You return to the real world.

 

Until next season that is.

 

Disclaimer: This isn’t about me. This is not about me at all. I’ll prove it, I mean I don’t have an office job, I’m not married, I don’t even have cable, I mean I’m— Dammit Jimmy G, why’d you have to overthrow Sanders?!?!?!?!!

 

 

 

 

The Almighty Cyclist

Forewarning, this is road rage Saucebox. I am not liable for anything he says. 

😉 

Imagine if laws were optional.

Imagine if obeying the laws of our society was entirely within your discretion. If at a certain moment in time a law wasn’t exactly convenient for you, you could just not abide by it. Then you could go right back to abiding, but only if you wanted to.

“What do you mean I can’t just walk into this house and live in it?”

“That’s breaking the law.”

“Oh, well you see, that isn’t exactly the most ideal situation for me at this time—you know, the law—so I’m just gonna not obey that one for now, sound good?”

I realize everyone may bend the law or even break it a smidge every once in a while. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the cocky-ass-blatant-as-shit-in-front-of-cops-f$ck-the-law type of behavior. People that truly believe they are above all the other peasants of society.

There are surprisingly (or not so surprisingly) tons of these higher beings our society. Thousands, maybe even millions. Through my studies, I have figured out a pretty easy and foolproof way to identify them, too. Using my method, you might actually uncover the frightening truth that YOU are one of these beings.

So here’s how you find out: If you’re driving along the road in your car, obeying traffic laws and not putting anyone’s life in danger, and you see a guy on a bicycle riding on the road along with you………….. that’s one of the beings!

These omnipotent ones, or as they like to be called, cyclists, are citizen/emperor hybrids. They do as they please, and if you don’t like it, you can suck the fart out of an asshole. Their words, not mine. (Actually not their words at all, but I imagine this is what they say.)

If you couldn’t already tell, I have been scorned by cyclists many times. Yesterday was the straw that broke the camels back however and brought me to the dark place of writing a humorous blog post about their behavior. For the first time in my life, my road rage has actually followed me off of the road.

I was late somewhere and of course was hitting every single red light. (I stopped at them though, even though it was inconvenient—*looking at you cyclists.) All of a sudden, Lance Armstrong veers off of the sidewalk and and cuts in front of me as the left turn light changes green. He gives me a condescending “halt” motion without even looking at my peasant face, and of  course I have to stop and let him in front of me. He then proceeds to leisurely pedal with one hand on the handle bars at about 4.72 mph through the extremely busy intersection in the turn lane. There are about 12 cars stacked behind my car which are now honking at me of course. The cyclist takes about 55 minutes to make the turn and I, along with the other 2 cars that actually made the green light are now stuck behind ol’ Tour de France.

He kicks up his speed to around 5 miles an hour and we are all backed up behind him on the two-lane road. He swerves back and forth between the right side of the road and the wrong side cause, well, it must get boring being so powerful.

I guess the poor guy got a little out of breath or something because he decides to just stop. No, not like off on the side of the road or God forbid the actual sidewalk. Just right in the middle of the road. He then starts flagging us by him. He gives us his almighty permission to steer our vehicles around his supreme existence. He then pulls out his phone and starts checking his GPS. I choose to not go around him because I literally can’t fit and instead just lay on top of my horn. The guy moves a few inches towards the side of the road, enough for us to inch by and lob all kinds of expletives at him. He doesn’t hear us though, because his ears are tuned to a higher frequency of sound than our meager human grunts.

I continue down the road, still in disbelief of what just happened, when suddenly, Lance tears by me. Hauling ass. I look at my speedometer, and I’m going exactly 25 mph. The speed limit for a residential, which I was in.

So now, he’s speeding. I see him narrowly dodge a small kid up the road. I watch in awe as he disappears down the street.

Fast forward and I’m still driving through the residential. To my dismay I find myself back behind Thanos the mad Biker.

He’s going a little faster now, but still slow enough to hold me up. His three speed settings are apparently 4, 7, and 55 mph. We are coming up on a stop sign and what do ya know?! The dude just blows right through it. Doesn’t look, doesn’t yield. Nothing. Just flops his metaphorical penis onto everyone’s forehead and guns it through the intersection.

Two cars had to swerve out of his way.

I get to the end of the road and I’M BACK BEHIND HIM. I’m turning left back onto a bigger, busier street.

The guy does a little condescending motion for “right” and I breathe a sigh of relief. As I start to turn left, he goes right. But, no, wait, he checks his phone and realizes that that’s not the most convenient way for him, so he swerves left, right in front of my car.

So we got texting and biking, speeding, holding up traffic, driving under the speed limit, running stop signs, driving erratically—am I missing anything?

I finally floor it past the guy on the main road, cursing his entire shitty existence and what does he do…

He waves.

I drive down the road in a stupor and look back to see a thick line of cars growing behind him. The cars begin dangerously swerving around him, honking and flipping him the bird.

He doesn’t care though.

Know why?

Cause a cyclist doesn’t concern himself with the opinions of sheep.

 

 

Hungry?

Mmm, soap. Yummy.

Very stupid post here but I just wanted to express my feelings towards surface cleaner, hand soap, and really any cleaning product in general that chooses to portray itself as absolutely delicious.

I’m not gonna name brands but I just cleaned my kitchen counters with a cleaning spray that had the scent of “Pink Grapefruit Banana Kiwi”. I don’t know about any of you guys, but let me tell you, that shit smells flat out amazing. As I cleaned, I seriously considered spraying some onto my tongue or even just screwing the cap off and taking a little sip of it. (Yeah, insert Tide pod jokes here.) The stuff is even in a see through bottle and is a radiant pinkish purple color, looking like a refreshingly delectable beverage that should be going straight down the hatch. It even says, “Non-toxic”. Seriously? Are you tempting me? Do you want me to try it? Cause I will.

I went online to search up the other “flavors” and oh, it gets much better. “Minty Lemon squeeze”. “Toasted Almond”. “Rosemary Herb Butter.” Dude, am I cleaning my counters or am I spraying this on my pasta?

And that’s just surface cleaner. Let’s not even get started with the “Winter Candy Cocoa”, “Frosted French Toast”, and “Warm Apple Pie”, hand soaps. Are you kidding me? How do you even portray warmth in a scent first of all, and second, we live in a world where soap is making me hungry. I sit on my couch sniffing my freaking hands after I go to the bathroom like some kind of narcissistic psychopath.

Dude, if I was a kid, I’d be cussing my mom out on the daily.

“You’re gonna eat soap now to clean out that filthy mouth!”

“Sweet! Can it be the Chocolate Caramel Bundt Cake this time? I ate too much of the Creme Brulee yesterday and got a stomach ache. Bitch”.

Imagine being a parent and telling your five-year-old not to eat this shit.

“Now, these are chemicals, Billy. You do not, under any circumstance, put these in your mouth.”

“Then why is it called ‘Scrum-diddly-umptious Marshmallows and Skittles cleaner?'”

“Because, well— I don’t actually know, Billy. Sounds pretty damn tasty to me.”

The actual food these products are imitating doesn’t even smell or look as good as these delicious chemicals.

All in all it’s probably some kind of conspiracy to thin out the heard. Speed up Darwinism. Next thing you know they’ll have flavored lighter fluid and candy cane car exhaust.

Moral of the story: If you eat Tide pods, you’re a dumb ass. Soap and surface cleaner is where it’s at, man.

 

Addressing Queefs

Are you the person who would go to an MMA fight and complain that it’s too violent?

Would you go to a scary movie and whine that it was too scary?

Are you the one that would go to a magic show, sit proudly upon your high horse, and use your keen intellect to inform everyone that the tricks are fake?

If you answered yes to any of those questions then 1.) Congratulations you’re a fart that comes out of a vagina and 2.) You also probably go to comedy shows and get offended.

Boring backstory: Over the weekend I attended a comedy show that was funny as balls. One of my favorite comedians headlined the show and it was an overall awesome time. The comedian that is one of my favorites is a pretty big name and he crushed the show with relative ease. However, there were quite a few up and coming guys who performed that had to work to win the crowd over. I’m sure you guys all know that comedians get heckled by people in the crowd which was no surprise to me. What did really make me start to sympathize with the idea of population control were the people who sat in their seats with scowls on their face and shook their heads in disgust at most of the jokes performed on stage.

Huh?

Why the tits are you at a comedy show? Better question, why did you pay money to be at a comedy show? Physically manifesting the fact that you’re wasting oxygen is free pal, do that at home.

These are the same people that write bad Yelp reviews because the steakhouse they went to didn’t have vegan crab cakes. If the joke isn’t funny to you, it’s very simple, don’t laugh. That’s all there is to it, guy. Don’t sit there and express your displeasure at the fact that you have 0 sense of humor and even your cat thinks you’re pathetic.

Comedians jobs are to try to make you laugh. Nothing they say should be taken seriously because they’re joking. 

“But that joke just went too far.”

No, you went too far. Too far out of your mom’s basement. Now head back.

Some people were sitting at this show looking as if they just shoved a handful of sour skittles in their mouth. You’re at a comedy show, not sniffing farts, dude. Oh wait, sorry, you are sniffing farts, because that’s the type of person you are. You pass gas and then pompously waft the particles into your own nostrils so you can dissect the aroma because that’s how arrogant you are.

The logic really escapes me on this one. It’s like attending a sports game of a team you hate just to root against them. If I’m a Packers fan I’m not gonna buy tickets to a Bears VS Eagles game just so I can sneer at the Bears every time they try to score points. But then again, I don’t drink my own urine because I like the taste.

Maybe I’m being a little too harsh on these people, I mean they’re obviously miserable and probably cry at night because they’re bullied on Tinder. But hey, I know it’s hard being offended. So here, let me use this next paragraph to show you just how much everyone cares.

Rural

Rurrrerrr. Rerrrrl. Ruruu—rll? Dear the word “rural”, you suck.

Is that word supposed to be society’s twisted way of tagging the inbreds? I live in a rurrrl area. Not near the city, pretty rurrrrer. The word creators were like yeah, they live out in the country, they won’t know the difference between an actual word and incoherent Scooby Doo noises. Asshole word creators. It sounds like midway through your sentence you just decided to start drowning.  Ruueerrl. Even if you say the word super slow and enunciate clearly you still sound like a Siberian Husky in one of those videos of them trying to explain themselves after chewing up a couch. Reeerrrerer.

Aren’t the point of descriptive words to make language more convenient? I’d rather just be like “yeah, the geographical location I reside in is sparsely populated compared to somewhere that’s say, in or near a large city. More of a remote countryside type of area.” That’s easier to say than rerrrrrerl. Reeuurel. Rrrl. At least I won’t give off the impression that I’m picking a chunk of food out of my molars.

What do people think when they’re learning English and they’re like “So how do I describe an area pertaining to the country, you know, not near a big city?” Then the person teaching them English is like “Oh, we just say ruurrr.” How confusing must that be. We have words like “Circumcision” for chopping your cock, but when it comes to describing geographic locations we just say ruuurrrerr. That should actually be flipped now that I think about it.

“Oh, yeah, I live in more of a circumcised area now. I just got tired of how uncircumcised New York was.” See that’s much better.  And that would leave rural’s origin much more logical.

“Doctor? What are you doing?”

“Well. I’m slicing away the skin around his penis for a more sleek appearance.”

“Oh…wow. Okay I see. What is it called?”

*Snip*

Patient: “RUURRRRRERRRRRLLLAALLLRRRRUUURR!”

Having Grizzly Troubles?

The other day I was doing some Grizzly bear research. If you want to know why I was doing Grizzly bear research it’s because it was part of my predator research. My predator research began because I wanted to know which animal was smarter, a dog or a cat. (My dog was eating my cat’s puke and my cat was licking its asshole, I figured it had to be close.) So naturally, after reading about cats’ intellect and bad ass hunting abilities I had to take it upon myself to find out who the most ferocious of the felines were. This of course turned into a quest to find out who the fiercest predator on earth was. I was basically able to narrow it down to the Tiger and the Grizzly after a few hours of my life that I’ll never get back. So yeah, Google. You guys get the point.

So, I’m researching how attacks from these animals play out on humans and *spoiler alert* ya die at the end. But there is actually some really interesting (hilarious?) advice on how to potentially “survive” a Grizzly bear attack. It’s mostly common knowledge but how many of you have really dissected this bullshit?

First thing you’re supposed to do, my fellow bear snacks, (this is all assuming you don’t have a gun, by the way) is not run. K, I get that bears can outrun the shit out of you. It’s physically impossible to outrun a bear. But, hey, don’t tell me to not run when there’s a ten foot Grizzly trying to eat me. Know why? Cause if I stand still he’s gonna see the shit dripping down my leg and there’s no way he’s not killing me after that.

Alright, step two. If you’ve managed to not run and you’re standing in front of Mr. Grizzly with your shit filled socks, now you must not make eye contact. Yeah, that’s right. Just pretend the snarling Satan creation that could practice his ping pong serve with your head isn’t there. Yup, just stare at a squirrel or something. Although that probably wouldn’t help because the squirrel would be laughing at you for not paying attention to the giant Grizzly bear in front of you. Seriously though, I get that this gives you the best chance to live but is anyone that doesn’t live in a cave that he stole from a pack of wolves really following this advice if actually placed in the situation?

Alright so now, you’re standing in front of a massive snarling Grizzly bear enjoying the weather and looking around at the flowers. Experts say now, if you can, make yourself look bigger than the bear. The ten foot tall thousand pound bear. Make yourself look bigger than him. Go ahead, do it. Oh, you’re not a sorcerer? Okay, well I guess we’ll just go with the option of not doing that.

Let’s say he decides to charge you. This is where you’re supposed to remain calm, stand your ground, and do not scream. Yeah, so if you weren’t calm before, A.K.A. you’re a human being, now is the most essential time to get real calm. That’s right, while the thousand pound bear is charging you. Come on man, calm down. What are you? Some kind of pussy? Also advised: Speak in a very low, friendly voice to notify the bear that you are a human.

“Hey, bear. No need for that aggression around here, man. I’m a human, everything’s cool. You can go back to flossing your teeth with deer spines.”

Bear: “Ah shit, sorry, man. You’re the third one this week. I accidentally ate the other two because they freaked when I charged them.”

Alright time for the most hilariously stupid piece of advice. This is where things really turn into a cartoon. So, if you’ve calmly stood in front of the massive behemoth of fur and muscle trying to eat you, remained super calm, ignored him, politely notified him that you’re human, and he’s STILL charging you, this is what you do.

You lay down on your stomach and cover your neck. You just lay there. Ya let him climb on top of you, hump you a few times, bite off a hand or two. Maybe tear a few ribs out. Poke a hole through your melon. But remember, you MUST REMAIN CALM. Absolutely no screaming and no noise making. If he bites one of your legs off, you MUST make zero noise. Seriously, don’t be an idiot and yell out in pain when one of your ears is swallowed. Do you want to live or not? So you lost a testicle or two? Big deal,  sack u— wait, bad idiom.

To illustrate my point with this last step, imagine laying face down in the dirt with a gigantic Grizzly bear standing over you sniffing you. You’re literally just waiting to see if he’s going to tear you to shreds, slowly eat you, toy with you, etc. This massive apex predator that is about as close as you can get to a flawless killing machine is SNIFFING YOU. There is no conscious thought in this scenario, there is only uncontrolled defecation.

Lastly, if the bear has had his fun with you, and you’re still breathing, now you can get up and go hike for help. You know, with one of your legs gone, your intestines spilling out, throat slashed, etc. Go hike back to camp and get help, buddy. We’re rootin’ for ya.

Alright, so I’ve ranted long enough. If any of you are curious as to what experts recommend for a Tiger encounter, they pretty much just say to hope that he eats you fast.

Finally, some logical advice.

Life Of A Used Car Salesman

A used car salesman stands astutely, arms crossed, overlooking his car lot. It’s his kingdom. His domain. It’s a metallic jungle and he is the mighty howler monkey—I mean, the lion. The mighty lion.

His dirty mustache hangs gently over his upper lip as the sun reflects off of his weathered Oakley shades. The cars in the lot sit lamely, looking like marinated swamp turds waiting to be put out of their misery. I don’t know what a swamp turd is, but the term feels right.

The salesman is just about to light up a cigarette and take a sweet drag when he spots what he’s been looking for all day.

Prey.

An unsuspecting couple is wandering around the lot near the hatchbacks. They are inspecting a ’99 Mercury Tracer with 392,000 miles on it priced at $10 grand. The perfect victims. The salesmen slinks over to the couple, leaving a thick trail of slime and hair gel in his wake.

Salesman: Hey folks, how’s it going? (Translation: So are you two morons here to buy a car or not?)

Couple: Oh, you know just browsing around. (Translation: Leave us alone, dickhead.)

Salesman: Ah, I see. You guys looking for anything specific? (Translation: I got some real shit bird cars here that I can hopefully swindle you into buying.)

Couple: Uh, yeah, we’re looking for something roomy but sleek. (Translation: We have no interest in buying anything here but we’re down to waste your time.)

Salesman: Great, let me show you our gorgeous pick up trucks. (Translation: I don’t give a shit what you’re looking for, I got some trucks that are overpriced as balls that I need to sell.)

Couple: This truck is nice. (Translation: We aren’t buying this one.)

Salesman: Oh yeah, she’s a beauty! I can totally see you guys rolling around in that bad boy. (Translation: Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, I have a huge boner.)

Couple: 543,000 miles? (Translation: Nice try, you little butt weasel.)

Salesman: Nothing to worry about. These trucks run forever. I got one of ’em and it just hit a million miles. (Translation: Oh yeah, the engine will blow up the second you drive it off the lot. But hey, I gotta make money somehow.) 

Couple: That’s just a little high for us right now. (Translation: You’re so full of shit it’s coming out your ears.)

Salesman: Alright, well how about I knock it down from $45,995 to $45,950? That’s a smokin’ deal. You’re never gonna find a vehicle of this caliber for that price anywhere else. (Translation: You could literally go anywhere else and find a vehicle of this caliber for cheaper but I think you’re stupid and I need to make money.)

Couple: That’s just too pricey for us. (Translation: You have actually managed to surprise us with your level of slime.)

Salesman: Come on guys, I’m really trying to help you out here. (Translation: Come on guys, I’m really trying to screw you over here, stop cock blocking me.)

Couple: Okay, well we will come back tomorrow. (Translation: We are going to get as far away from this place as possible and never come back.)

Salesman: Are you sure? I got other options. (Translation: Please, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…)

Couple: We’re sure. (Translation: Come on, you knew this was never happening, asshole.)

Salesman: Fair enough. I look forward to seeing you guys tomorrow so we can get you into your dream car. It was my pleasure helping you out today, here’s my card. I hope you guys have a wonderful rest of your day. (Translation: Eat my asshole.)

Couple: Thank you! (Translation: Drink bleach, prick.)

And with that, the proud salesman readjusts his Oakley’s, itches the Lit’l Smokies sausage between his legs and slinks off back to his perch to await his next chance at closing a badass smokin’ deal.

More Co-Worker Chronicles

Have any of you ever been bitten by a Black Widow? What about a Brown Recluse? A rabid rat? What about stung by a Scorpion? Stung by a hornet in the eye?

What about bit or stung by every single one of those creatures? If you said yes then you are probably my co-worker (Cartman).

Yup, he was not only bitten by a Brown Recluse, but bit by a Brown Recluse nine times. He then drove himself halfway unconscious to the hospital and then casually told the doctors what had happened. Then while in the hospital bed he grabbed the dying skin on his leg from the bites and tore it from his bone cause, well, that’s the logical, totally sensical decision to make. He told me the skin was irritating him. So he ripped it off. Makes sense, I mean, what else was he supposed to do? Wait for the doctors to assess his situation and treat him with their extensive resources and intense training and experience? Nah, not Cartman. (He showed me the scars by the way. They weren’t there.)

You know the band Smashing Pumpkins? Well they used to pay Cartman to beat people up. He once got $200 dollars for upper cutting a guy who threw something on stage. (I’m sure the super famous band Smashing Pumpkins didn’t have the means to hire an actually security team so this one is totally believable. Wink, wink.)

One time, Cartman was working as a bouncer (he told me this was back when he used to be fat— he’s 350 pounds at the moment) and he was attacked by six cholos who wanted to get in the club. He pepper sprayed them and was then attacked by their girlfriends who jumped on his back and clawed his bald head. He pepper sprayed them, too. (Imagine a middle-aged 350 pound man resembling Paul Blart, victoriously standing in the street holding a can of pepper spray, surrounded by six cholos writhing around on the ground in pain. Gotta give him props for this one.)

When Cartman was young, he used to hang around a driving range and shoot the golf balls out of the air with his pellet gun. (Yeah, he was this good of a shot apparently. I’m not sure why SEAL Team 6 never called. Or maybe they did? Guess I’ll have to  ask him tomorrow.)

Oh, and Cartman also fell off a cliff, outran a train, got hit by a car, and fell down a well. All in the same day by the way. (No words for this one.)

To sum everything up, after one of his stories I asked him (not) jokingly if he was dropped on his head as baby. His response: Well yeah, a bunch of times. My dad used to play a game he called “Drop the infant on its head” where he’d dangle me by my ankles and drop me on my head.

Things are all finally starting to make sense.

As long as the sun rises this guy has stories so stay tuned.

 

 

How’s My Driving?

Old people are my favorite.  In general, I have nothing but respect for them and the fact that they grew up in a world so different and in many ways so much more difficult than the one we live in today.  We can all learn a lot from the elderly. Plus, they fart in public with zero shame which is fantastic.

But, old people are not safe or immune from my literary and (hopefully) humorous observational attacks. So, here is my one burning question for society regarding the elderly.

Why, oh, why do we let them drive???

There is an awesome episode of South Park that deals with this subject but I’ve been nearly run off the road and killed by an old person way too many times to not bring this up. Have you ever got stuck behind a car going 35 mph on the freeway? Old person. Have you ever been cut off so ignorantly that you had to swerve into the next lane while watching your life’s montage as it flashed before you? Old person. Have you ever furiously sat still behind a car at a right turn that has a half-mile long merge lane? Old person. Have you ever been sitting at a red light and watched a car casually drive right past you across the busy intersection? Old person. Oh, and they 100 percent of the time never notice or acknowledge any of their wrong doings on the road. A dinosaur could be chasing an old person’s car and they’d just be putt-putting along at 28 mph without a care in the world.

I believe that different states have different laws regarding old people driving and renewing their licenses. I think some give certain tests or check their eyes or whatever. Well, I want to know what exactly the tests that the elderly are given entail. Do they simply check their pulses? Ask them if they are aware that the sky is blue? Do they just make sure that Grandpa McDustyBalls’ eyes are open? I mean jeez, dude. We’re at the point where you see a car driving on the opposite side of the road and you just think oh there goes Old Lady Wrinkle Tits heading to the grocery store.

There’s no way these tests to renew your license are up to par. There’s just no way. I may be sounding kind of brutal so I’ll extend an olive branch here and admit that I think basically everyone is a shitty driver. But, old people have a separate section for themselves on my highway shit list. I mean dude, I don’t want to get taken out by some old grandpa who sends me off a cliff and is so oblivious he never even notices my truck flying through the air and exploding into flames over the sound of his own fart. That can’t be my legacy. Alright, I’m being over dramatic but you get it.

To all the elderly people out there, no hard feelings. Please don’t kill me vehicularly.

 

Co-Worker Chronicles

Not going to go into too much detail here but I have a new temporary job and let’s just say my coworkers are very… interesting.

I have only been working for a week or so and already have endless amounts of comedy material. I’m just going to focus in on one coworker for now though. We’ll call him “Cartman”. That should help you get a good visual of him if you’ve seen the show South Park. 

He’s over 350 pounds and has bright red hair  (so, I guess he can’t really be Cartman). After meeting and talking to him for about two and a half minutes I quickly realized he is a compulsive liar and views himself as falling somewhere between George Clooney and Fonzi. When I met him, it went something like this:

Me: Hey, I’m “Saucebox”.

Cartman: I’m “Cartman”. You know, a few months back when I was fighting a Pitbull, my hand was torn almost clean off. It was almost as bad as the time when I was stabbed while stopping a theft on a construction site.

There was no context for this whatsoever.

Then, I shit you not, this guy points to a trailer 20 yards away from where we are walking (this is an outside job) and says: Yeah, it happened right over there in my front yard.

He wasn’t kidding. He lives in a trailer directly behind where we work. He clocks out and walks ten feet. One day after he had already clocked off  I was walking around the back of our building and ran into him. I was confused and asked him why he was still there after getting off work more than two hours ago. He says: What do you mean? I’m cleaning my yard.  And then points to his trailer behind him.

Cartman drives a thirty-plus year-old van that he claims was given to him after he pulled it back up from the edge of a cliff. He got this van after crashing his old Crown Vic that he had sprayed “Cop Killer” on the back of. The Crown Vic was the car he drove when his uncle was the Chief of Police.

Now, I’ve only covered about a quarter of what he’s told me as I’m lazy and will cover more of it as the days go on and I undoubtedly learn more about his legendary existence.

I’ll just leave you all with my favorite thing he’s said so far:

Cartman: You know, if a car hood shuts on your arm, it will break it like a twig.

Me: Really?

Cartman: Yeah, my arms been smashed by a hood four times.

Me: You’ve broken your arm four times?

Cartman: Nope.