Review of The Bachelor

Alright, I’m gonna go ahead and give you guys a review of the show “The Bachelor”. I only watched one episode, (actually I made the mistake of being in the same room when a family member was watching it, but that’s besides the point) so it’s a small sample size. But I think I got a pretty strong grasp of the show.

So, the premise of this show is that 25 or so girls who have had horrible, horrible, dating track records all think that it’s a good idea to go live in a house TOGETHER, and go after the same guy. Yeah, they all have had unsuccessful relationships in the past, so they decide that their next move is to get into one with one single guy and TWENTY-FIVE OTHER WOMEN. Oh, and they have never met the guy or any of the other girls.

It quickly becomes evident that every last woman on the show is completely insane. Enjoy sanity? Don’t watch this show. Seriously. Every single one of the girls falls in love with the bachelor dude the second they meet him. Head over heels. Like they cry when they see him talking to one of the OTHER TWENTY-FIVE GIRLS DATING HIM. You know, the girls that they agreed to live in the same house with and compete with over the same guy. They all have some annoying sob story about how their last relationship was a failure because their boyfriend didn’t like their spaghetti or played too much online solitaire. They actually want you to feel bad for them too. It’s bat shit crazy. If you’re like me, you’re probably thinking there is only one person on this show who is actually not insane. And you’re right.

The bachelor dude, who is a combination of a 14 year-old going through a growth spurt and a 60 year-old man, (Seriously, this guy is like barely 30 and has a full head of gray hair) is obviously just there to make out with and possibly bang 25 girls at the same time. Like come on. We all know your plan here, guy. You aren’t looking for your soul mate to spend the rest of your life with. You’re looking for love on that show like I’m looking for a polar bear in the Sahara desert. His thinly-veiled plan is pretty easy to see through once he begins taking the girls aside one by one and making out with every last one of them. He gets bored of the ones who talk too much and don’t immediately start sucking his face, so he sends them home and claims that “they just weren’t connecting.” I mean, the dude isn’t lying, he’s just being extremely literal. The most dedicated women will interrupt the make out sessions of the other girls and ask for a make out session of their own, to prove that they’re… who am I kidding I have no clue why they do it.

He then holds a cute little “rose ceremony” where he gives a rose to the girl who made out with him the most. Oh, it’s as corny as it sounds. Even the awkward host guy who has to conduct the ceremony looks like he wants to eat a bullet if it means getting out of there.

So, the girl that gets sent home, sobs and cries and claims her heart has been broken. (Yeah, she’s known the guy for like seven hours.) And then, my favorite part of the whole show: She questions why she can’t seem to find anybody.

Lady, you thought it was a good idea to go on a TV show to find love. You thought it was a good idea to go after a guy who wants to make out with 25 different girls for a couple months to decide which one he likes the best. You also fell in love with this guy the second you met him. You were a jealous mess when he interacted with the 25 other girls you agreed to share him with. Let’s also just mention that the odds were not in your favor. It was an awful ratio. One guy and 25 plus girls? You’d have better luck finding a boyfriend in a nail salon. I mean seriously, Godspeed, woman.

Final Consensus: As a reality show, I give it a solid 0.6/10 and that 0.6 is solely for the Bachelor guy’s hair.

As a Netflix observational documentary on the behavior and tendencies of psychopaths, I give it a 10/10.

 

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Smell My Flowers

I don’t know anything about flowers. I know what a rose looks like and what a sunflower looks like. Other than that, everything is just called a tulip in my world. One thing I think I do know though, is that flowers are supposed to smell good. They aren’t supposed to smell bad. People enjoy sniffing flowers and complimenting them, that’s just what you do with flowers, right?

The other day, my mom got a bundle, or bouquet, if that’s what it’s called, of flowers. She casually mentioned that she decided to get some “Baby’s Breath” in the bouquet. After expressing my confusion, she explained to me that Baby’s Breath is a type of flower usually used to compliment a bouquet.

This was just really, really stupid to me. Why would you name something that is supposed to smell good after something that smells bad? Baby’s Breath? That shit is nasty. Have you seen a baby? Have you seen what they eat? What they do? They have exactly zero personal hygiene. They don’t shower, they don’t put deodorant on, and they sure as shit don’t brush their teeth or use breath mints. They’re constantly drooling and spitting up on themselves and putting other people’s fingers in their mouths. If I had to make a bet on whether or not a baby’s breath was gonna smell good or not, I would put a lot of money on it not smelling good. A lot of money.

That’s like making a food dish and calling it “sticky nut cheese”. Mmm, yeah, sounds real appetizing. Or building an airplane and calling it “The Lead Penguin”.

Baby’s Breath. Here babe, I got you some Baby’s Breath. You know like the little creatures that chew on their own boogers? Yeah, I figured you’d want a flower that smelled like their breath. Oh, you want me to leave? And take the flowers with me? Put them where? Oh. Oh, geez. 

It’s funny because the people who named these flowers were definitely trying to be cute. Oh, we’ll just name these flowers after something innocent and pure like a precious little baby. People will love that! Well, those people aren’t me. I see through the weak attempt at applying an angelic air to these unfortunate plants.

Apparently, people buy these flowers though. The market for ironically named flowers could be pretty lucrative, you never know. Maybe I’ll look into becoming a florist and creating my own line of flower.

I think I’ll call it “Grandpa’s Queef”.

iPhone and Android Run Into Each Other at a Barbecue

Android: Hello there, iPhone.

iPhone: So, you think you’re better than me, huh?

Android: I never said that.

iPhone: Well, all your users are saying it.

Android: Yeah, well, I have very loyal customers.

iPhone: (mimicking) I have very loyal customers. You know all your customers use to be my customers, right?

Android: I mean, used to be.

iPhone: Don’t you cop an attitude with me. I’m your elder.

Android: Technically it’s a little fuzzy on which one of us came first.

iPhone: Are you just going to oppose everything I say?

Android: No.

iPhone: Agh! Since when did it become okay to disrespect the revered iPhone like this? I’m the greatest phone ever created!

Android: Questionable. You don’t really give the customers what they want. I mean, sure, you’re user friendly, but I’m actually pretty advanced compared to you, no offense.

iPhone: You’re really going to go there?

Android: I mean, we don’t have to go there. Because, to be honest, you might not even have the capabilities to go there.

iPhone: What’s that’s supposed to mean?

Android: Exactly.

iPhone: You are one pompous piece of metal, Android. That’s a dumb name by the way.

Android: Says the guy named after a fruit.

iPhone: All your customers are stubborn imbeciles.

Android: All your customers are just sheep following the heard.

iPhone: Your customers long to stand out even though they use a phone that is merely a poor imitation of a far more sophisticated and superior device.

Android: Big words! Is “superior device” iPhone lingo for “overpriced turd”?

iPhone: I am priced according to my value, peasant. That is why you are cheaper.

Android: Your value is horrible for your price. If I wanted the level of customization that you provide, I could just buy a calculator.

iPhone: I am a calculator. Among many other things including a computer, camera, GPS, clock, television—

Android: You are a souped-up iPod.

iPhone: Take that back.

Android: I’m not taking back a true statement.

iPhone: You know what? If we are taking cheap shots, then let’s talk about your inability to take a hit. You can’t even a handle a good old fashion drop!

Android: Well, I wasn’t intended to be used by mouth breathers who drop their phones every 30 minutes.

iPhone: Christ almighty, you are impossible. This is going absolutely nowhere and I’m starting to lose interest, frankly. I don’t even know why I’m still hanging around.

Android: Sounds a lot like what your customers say about you behind your back.

iPhone: You really have asked for the hammer, haven’t you, Android? Well fine, here it is. My sales? Yes, they absolutely demolish yours. It’s not even close. Think whatever you want but you can’t deny what is right before your screen. I am undoubtedly the most popular phone in the world, and until you can even think about entering the same realm as my sales, let alone surpass them, I think you should probably just stay quiet.

Android: Well, you do have me there. You are right iPhone.

iPhone: Ha! I know I am. Now, I’m done with this conversation. I’m not saying another word.

Android: Really?

iPhone: (silence)

Android: Hey, Siri, how’s the weather looking today?

iPhone: You son of a— Here’s the forecast for today!

Android: Gee, thanks, Siri! Say, Siri, how do I look today?

iPhone: Stop this idiocy before— On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d say you’re a 42! AGH! No you’re not! You’re a 2 at best!

Android: Have a good day, iPhone. You too, Siri!

iPhone: Well, I hope the rest of your day is—Thanks! Have an even better day yourself!—shit.

Siri: Your language! There’s no need for that.

The Most Amazing Coincidence In Human History

So, this really dope guy named Navneet Ballal recently chatted with his grandpa about social media to see how his grandpa would react. What a funny and original concept!

The crazy thing is, and stick with me here, his conversation with his grandpa went down the exact same way as mine did with my grandpa, in every way. Like word for word.

Dude. This is one of the most insane, earth shattering, solar system imploding, universe crumbling, multi-dimension defying coincidences that has ever occurred in the history of anything ever existing! I mean, this guy had the exact same idea as me to sit down with his grandpa and talk to him about social media by using the exact same words that I came up with! Just bonkers!

But it doesn’t stop there, oh no. This clever Navneet fellow’s grandpa responded to his trailblazing grandson’s original statements with the exact same words as my grandpa! Boom. Mind blown. Existence questioned. Navneet’s grandpa and my gramps really need to get in touch because they are unknowingly telepathic or some shit.

Perhaps the weirdest part of all, good ol’ Navneet did all of this within a week’s span of when I did it. And he even had the exact same idea as me to write about it and then post his hilarious findings online, just like I did! There really isn’t an explanation to any of this, it’s like magic or something. I mean, there’s no way this guy could’ve just seen my post and copied it word for word. There’s just no way. He would have to be like some kind of strange science experiment where someone takes a below-average-intelligence-possessing human brain and surgically implants it into a dildo. Yeah, that’s pretty much like the only way.

I don’t know if any of you are superstitious, but wowzers. This has to mean something, right? If you don’t believe me, go check out Navneet’s post and make sure to tell him how amazing he is! Here’s the link! (I still suck at posting links, but I think you should be able to use this to find the page, if not, just type “Social Media and My Grandpa” into google.)

 

https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/conversation-social-media-my-grandpa-navneet-ballal-1

 

Happy reading!

Road Ragin’

The road is quite an interesting place, as we all know. It is truly a wonder that most of the people driving were actually granted a license. Actually, it’s pretty terrifying.

I like to think I am a pretty reasonable driver. I’ve had my moments, but I am mostly aware and at least somewhat respectful of human life on the road, which is more than I can say for most drivers. I’ve had a lot of run-ins with ass clowns though, so here’s a quick story about one of them.

I was driving along, minding my own business, and obeying the speed limit. Suddenly, a car speeds up behind me and gets right on my ass. I double check that I’m going the speed limit and I am. The car is still on my ass but I keep the road rage in check and just merge over into the next lane. The car speeds up but stops once it is even with me. I look over and what is staring back at me is the most angry old lady I have ever seen. Like, heart attack angry. Like, demon-straight-out-of-Satan’-s-butthole angry.

This lady is staring into my soul and chopping it into tiny little pieces with her eye daggers. I’m confused as can be now and am looking around to check if I could’ve ran someone over or if I unknowingly have a bumper sticker on my car that says “QVC sucks”.

She shakes her fist at me and I give her the “You might as well be an 8-legged unicorn with a cowboy hat on cause I’m confused as shit” face. She motions for me to roll my window down and I oblige. She waits for the window to fully lower and for me to stick my head out in inquiry before she proceeds to enthusiastically flip me off.

Completely owned.

Who’s grandma was this?

I’m starting to feel my anger boil now. I attempt to ignore it and just stare ahead at the road. I glance into my rear-view mirror and can now see grandma is hot on my tail once again. She is still flipping me off and I can see her screaming now. I’ve had enough at this point and I begin to break check her. Before anyone tries to call me a dickhead for break checking a grandma, 1) She is the one who is a dickhead. And 2) You’re also a dickhead.

As I continue to lightly break check her, (yes, I wasn’t trying to kill her – time will be taking care of that soon) she snaps into an animalistic rage. I see her punching the ceiling of her car excitedly like some kind of strung out 80’s movie bully chasing down their nerd prey. For some reason this is when I notice her mullet. She looks like Kiefer Sutherland in The Lost Boys. She pulls out a cell phone and begins taking pictures of my license plate. Yes, this grandma was now texting and driving. After a few moments she looks at her phone with a satisfied smile and gives me a sarcastic thumbs up as if she finally acquired the incriminating evidence she needed. She then merges into the next lane and stares me down one last time before making a gun with her hand and pretending to cap me. (She’s obviously seen Gran Torino) She then kicks her Nissan Altima into high gear and shoots off into the sunset like Han Solo reaching light speed.

I quickly catch a sticker on the back of Grandma Satan’s car before she vanishes, and oh what a sticker it was.

“Coexist”.

Social Media And My Grandpa

I recently had the interesting thought of what it would be like to try to explain social media to my grandpa.

Twitter: 

Me: So, Twitter is a platform where people tweet out their thoughts.

Grandpa: I thought this was about the Internet. Are we talking about birds now?

Me: No, no. So, imagine a diary. But, instead of writing all these personal thoughts into a notebook that only you will ever see, you put the thoughts out onto the Internet for EVERYONE to see.

Grandpa: So, you put your personal information about yourself, out into the public on purpose? Like it’s not an accident?

Me: Yes. So, like, any opinion that you have on anything, you can just put that thought out into the world. This is all public information that anyone can see, like, say, a potential future employer.

Grandpa: You guys do a lot of drugs, huh?

Instagram:

Me: So, Instagram is for photos. It’s basically the same concept as Twitter, but with pictures. You like to take pictures, right grandpa?

Grandpa: Not really, but I do like to capture things that I may not see everyday. What kind of pictures do people post?

Me:  Well, people mostly just post pictures of their own faces, they’re called selfies.

Grandpa: Hmm, “selfie”? Sounds a lot like the word “selfish”.

Me: Well, yeah. They post them so other people will tell them how good they look.

Grandpa: And these people aren’t embarrassed or ashamed? Or in a mental asylum?

Me: No, on the contrary, a lot of them will post a selfie and caption it: “No shame”. They will post one about every day or two.

Grandpa: You’re making this shit up.

Facebook: 

Me: So, Facebook is basically just a combination of Twitter and Instagram. You pretty much just give people updates on your life and what you’re doing.

Grandpa: You update people on your life? But, these people do know that nobody gives a shit, right? And if this one does the same thing as the other two, why does anybody have the Twatter and Shitstagram ones?

Me: Well, because you have to try to get as much attention as possible. You’re a loser if you’re not updating, posting pictures, and tweeting about yourself!

Grandpa: Seems like it should be the other way around, but what do I know. I just fought in a war.

Snapchat:

Me: Alright, so this one is picture based, too. But instead of everything being public, you only send the picture to someone that you want to see it.

Grandpa: Okay, but what’s the point? Can’t you just do that with your fancy Mp3 ipod picture telephones?

Me: Well, it’s special because the pictures disappear after a few seconds and the other person can’t see it again. So, you know, people use it to send… naughty pictures.

Grandpa: Where do I sign up for a Snapchat?

Two is More Than One

Have any of you ever met or known someone that describes their personality with the words, “I like to have fun” ?

 

See, the thing about those words is that they make up quite possibly one of the most idiotically moronic statements ever conceived.

 

Oh, you like to have fun? Do you also eat food when you’re hungry? Do you breathe when you need air? That’s awesome, good for you!

 

What’s ironic about people who say this dumb shit is that they are trying to imply that they are an exciting and spontaneous person, when, in reality, I fall asleep due to a large-scale loss of brain cells immediately after I hear those words come out of their mouth.

 

“Yeah, you know, I just really like to have fun.”

 

No shit, Sherlock Holmes. It wouldn’t be considered fun if you didn’t like it. That’s the whole point. You needed to tell me that? What are the things you don’t like? Feeling sad? Being upset? What makes you laugh? Things that are funny? I mean, what the hell, dude. You are the absolute last person I would ever be around if I was trying to have a good time. You’re probably the type of person who warns others not to breathe under water. Or the type of person that steps outside during the day and is surprised enough that they have to announce, “the sun is bright!” Also, water is wet by the way, and ice is cold. Just clarifying.

 

Moral of this short little story here is that people are just so dumb, man. They make me so angry and I get really mad when I’m angry!

 

 

 

 

F$%k You, Mice

Have you ever had to deal with earth’s disgusting vermin dingleberries, otherwise known as mice? The cowardly little squeaky buttholes that just decide to run across your feet while you’re cooking? Or take little pussy poops in your bed, specifically on your pillow?

 

Well, as you can tell, I have. Many times. Many, many, times. That’s because I’m a college student and I have to have roommates, and roommates make messes. Messes that little scampering fur dildos make a living off of. It’s the same story every year, the temperature drops, messes are made, and in comes Mickey and his dickhead crew.

 

Mice are just such assholes. Barging in and looking for food like it’s my problem they’re starving. It isn’t my fault you’re an incompetent little ball of nut cheese, you stupid mouse. Stop crawling on my counters and go get a job. I’m starving half the time too, but you don’t see me crawling into my neighbors house through their basement and rubbing my furry little balls all over their pillow. Learn some respect.

 

Whenever these shitbags make their way into my place of residence, I turn into a man possessed. I buy every trap the store has to offer and maniacally place them all throughout the house along their food-hunting routes that I have carefully studied. I swear and curse and challenge the freeloaders to try to outsmart me. (You know school’s going bad when this is my strongest display of intellect.) One by one the traps snap shut throughout the night as Mickey and his boys start biting the dust. I find where they are getting into the house and I toss one of their homeboy’s dead bodies at the entrance, a message to all who dare to play the game. I then leave the house to go sleep elsewhere, I don’t sleep near my enemies. It is guerilla warfare, and I can’t be beaten.

 

Things weren’t always like this though, oh, no. It took a hardened group of gang banger mice punking me nearly every day for a month to reach this level of rodent homicide prestige.

 

Back when I lived in my first college house, winter came around and food was left out. You know the drill. My roommates and I started seeing little blurry objects out of the corner of our eyes in the kitchen but didn’t think anything of it. Then, one day I’m cooking and what is for sure a mouse runs across my foot. Now I’m annoyed so I go get some traps and set them up. As I’m squatted down setting one in the kitchen, I can see a mouse watching me from under the oven. Aren’t mice supposed to be timid? Just as I move the trap closer to him (he’s still watching me, as if to say, go ahead and set that trap, pussy) another mouse runs across my foot, causing me to jump and lose my balance, putting my hand in the trap and setting it off. Use your imagination to picture how I reacted. I look back over to the oven, holding my hand, and see two mice staring at me now. Their empty little blank eyes pierce my soul, challenging me to set another. I do, in fact, I set quite a few more.

Later that night, I leave my room to get some water. I turn the light on and see a mouse scurry across the floor. It stops at a trap. I excitedly sit and watch, knowing this will undoubtedly be a checkmate. The mouse just looks at the trap, looks at me, and scurries back under the oven. I can’t believe it, and just as I start heading back to bed, a mouse crawls back out from under the oven and goes straight for the trap.  This is it for sure. I watch intently as he casually proceeds to eat the peanut butter on the trap, not dead at all. I tell myself it’s only a matter of time before it snaps shut and crushes the little scumbag, but he licks it clean. I’m in disbelief as I watch him pimp limp back to the oven. Just as he moves out of sight, another mouse rolls out and goes straight for a different trap. Guess what happens? If you guessed that he casually licked the trap clean and returned to the oven, you guessed right. I go back to bed thoroughly defeated.

 

After this humiliating situation, my roommate buys poison traps and we get a little bastard that night. We watch as he tweaks out on the kitchen floor, cursing us and vowing that his boys will avenge him. I tell him that I hope they try, and he extends his middle finger to me before passing into the abyss while “Hit ‘Em Up” by 2pac plays in the background. (This is how I remember it at least.) I look over to the oven and a little pair of eyes are watching me. Or is that two pairs?

 

The next morning, I wake up to a tickle on my foot. I quickly sit up and look around, swearing I saw something scurrying out of my room. Nah, there’s no way. Mice are nocturnal, right? I go to lay back down, when I notice something on my pillow. I look closely and realize that what I’m looking at is a little microscopic turd. A mouse turd. A tiny little token of defiance from a cunning enemy. An ode to a fallen soldier.

 

There are more stories from that fateful invasion, but I will spare your time. After the turd though, we never saw any mice again that winter. I guess they decided to leave on their own terms. Letting us know what they were capable of was enough for them. Or they had other turfs to conquer. Whatever the case may be, I always check my pillow before bed now, permanently scarred.

 

Stupid dickhead mice.

 

 

 

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.”

The Crack Chronicles

Today I was sitting in my room studying when a knock on the door interrupted my half-assed attempt of acquiring knowledge. I answered it, and on the porch stood what I can only describe as the human form of crack-cocaine. This man looked like he had just crawled out of the New-York sewer system to restock on bath salts.

I skeptically asked him who he was, and after a moment of hesitation he says,

“I’m here to take some shit out of your garage?”

Yes, he said this in the form of a question. I didn’t know if this guy was asking me if I had anything he could take off my hands, or if he was asking me for my permission to rob me.

I close the door a little bit and say, “Huh?”

He looks confused and says,” I guess my boss wants me to take some shit out of your garage.”

So, now we are both just staring at each other, apparently equally confused. I decide that before shutting the door, I’ll give him one more chance. I ask him if he was sent by our landlord.

He responds with, “No.”

So, now I just tell him I don’t need anything taken out of the garage and start to wish him good luck on his next crack adventure when he says, “I talked to some dude who lives here, this is his number.”

Amazingly, it’s actually my roommates phone number. Completely astonished, I figure either my roommate has picked up a bad habit, or this guy is actually supposed to be here. Since my roommate is a pretty smart dude, and a work truck was actually visible in the street, I open up the garage.

The guy asks me what I need taken out and I legitimately have no clue. No one told me about this so I’m completely useless. There is a lot of crap in the garage and I just moved in a month ago so none of it’s mine.

He tells me, “I have no idea why I’m here, my boss just gave me this address. To be honest, I have three broken fingers in my neck.”

Yo, what the shit. So many questions. His boss just gave him an address with no further instructions? And he just went on over to the address and figured there must be shit in the garage? And he has broken fingers in his neck? Who put the broken fingers there? A unicorn? I’m thinking something was for sure broken above his shoulders but it wasn’t in his neck.

So, I tell him to call his “boss” (yeah, I had to tell him) and he does. The phone is on speaker and his boss seems normal. He tells Crack McGee to face the garage door from the inside and the stuff to his left is what he’s supposed to take. Seems to make sense as there is a bunch of shit piled in the corner. The guy mumbles something incomprehensible to his boss then hangs up. He then walks over to the RIGHT side of the garage, looks around and says, “I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about, there’s no shit over here.”

Realizing he isn’t joking, I gently explain to him that he was on the wrong side of the garage. He says, “Nah man, he said facing the garage from the inside, to the left.”

I can’t believe this is how my day is unfolding. I’m about to teach a grown man left from right.

But, before I can do so, the man has a moment of enlightenment when he sees the pile of stuff on the other side and shouts, “Well, THIS must be what he’s talking about! My boss can be such an idiot sometimes. You’ll see what I mean when you’re old enough to get a job.”

I’m 22.

I have no further words or feelings for this exchange. Moving on.

The next thing this guy does is fix our broken disposal. Long story short, when he pulls the disgusting broken fork tangled in hair and slime that was causing the blockage out of the pipes, he walks down the hall and into my room with it. I look up from my computer and he says, “Well, here was the problem,” and tries to hand it to me. I jump away from him in fear, telling him throw it away. He shrugs and walks off, leaving me in a variation of the fetal position up against the wall.

When he’s finally done and ready to leave, he tells me again how bad his fingers in his neck are bothering him, and then proceeds to stumble off and say, “Have a good night, man.”

It was 11:00 a.m.

Drugs are bad.