Free Samples

Now, I know most children are innocent, pure, and uncorrupted, unlike the rest of us, but let’s just be honest here for a second.

Some of those little bastards are as rotten as the milk I accidentally drank the other day. (It was chunky.)

I mean, some of them might as well have chest hair, a beer in their hand, and a cigarette in their mouth. The amount of hostility and calculation they can display at such a young age is extremely alarming. For example, the concept of blackmail is not something I would expect a small child to understand, let alone execute with optimum effectiveness. Yet, there I was the other day at the store, watching it unfold before my eyes.

Two little kids, who I assumed were brothers, were on the same aisle I was on. It was a food aisle, and their mom was near the end of it on the phone with somebody. The kids were near me towards the front. They couldn’t have been much older than kindergartners.

One of the brothers looks to make sure his mom isn’t going to interfere with his master plan before turning to his brother and telling him to open one of the chip bags. The other brother refuses. The first brother, let’s just call him Turdsniff McGee, goes on to explain how the store allows free samples of the food so you can see if you want to buy it or not.

I forget about the Pringles I’m examining and start paying closer attention to Turdsniff, curious as to where he’s going with this. (Yeah, I could’ve told them not to do it but what would be the fun in that?)

So, the other brother is apparently persuaded pretty easily, which is pretty in line with normal kid behavior, unlike his brother, and tears open a Lay’s bag and starts munching.

Turdsniff McGee immediately points and goes, “Oooooooooh, you’re stealinggggg!”

A look of fear comes across the other brother’s face as he realizes he has been deceived. Meanwhile, the mom is still way down at the other end of the aisle, talking on the phone, and hasn’t even looked to see if her kids are still around. It’s starting to make sense now why Turdsniff is such a P.O.S.

I’m not even holding the Pringles anymore, I’m just watching intently, thinking in my head: Oooooooh, you’re in troubleeee.

Turdsniff cracks a smile, knowing he’s got the checkmate. He doesn’t even care that I’m watching, knowing if I caused any trouble, he’d just call his goons on me. The other brother is nearing tears as he stuffs the bag back onto the shelf.

“Please don’t tell mom!” he pleads.

Turdsniff smiles even brighter now.

“I won’t tell mom if you give me all the money in your piggy bank.”

The other brother is crushed, you can see it in his little miniature body language. He’s been defeated.

“Fine,” he pouts.

Damn, I think. This little Turdsniff is one smooth operator.

Then, like some kind of untouchable mob boss who’s got the whole city on his payroll, he looks at me and says,

“You know they let you try samples here?”

Instant Karma

A while back, I’m heading home from class after bombing a test, (it was one of those tests where the professor tells you what will be on the test, so you study that stuff and then you take the test and none of that stuff is on the test) and I’m not in a good mood. Everything is pissing me off.

 

As I drive along the road, clenching my steering wheel angrily, a guy on a motorcycle speeds up right next to me and cuts me off, missing my car by what seems like inches. He then continues to fly down the road before disappearing around a corner, his engine screaming.

 

Really? Nice, jackhole.

 

I turn my stereo up and continue on, just wanting to get home. I am watching my speed, as I had just gotten a parking ticket the day before, and couldn’t afford to get another citation. Suddenly, my mom calls, so I answer and put her on speaker phone. I hold the phone near my face and tell her all about how I aced my test.

 

I near the corner where I last saw the motorcyclist. I make the turn and come to a halt at the stoplight, a smile quickly spreading across my face.

 

There was the motorcyclist, no longer the badass he thought he was, standing on the side of the road with two police officers, looking like he was on the verge of tears. I immediately bust up laughing. My car is stopped just a few feet from him and I look on in delight, pointing and laughing as I explain the situation to my mom. This is just what I had needed.

 

As my laughter and joy dies down, I make eye contact with one of the police officers. He looks back at me with what I can only explain as disbelief, as if I had just pulled an open beer from my cup holder and offered it to him.

 

I’m confused now, and become even more confused as he begins walking towards my car.

 

You’ve got to be kidding me.

 

He comes up to my window and knocks on it. Still on the phone with my mom and still holding the device near my face, I roll it down.

 

“What are you doing, sir?” he asks.

 

I look back at him like an idiot and say, “Uhh, talking to my mom?”

 

My mom is now blabbering through the phone frantically asking what’s going on.

 

“Hang your phone up, sir,” the officer says, his voice now stern.

 

I hang up and say even more stupidly, “But it was on speaker…” my voice trailing off as I start realizing my mistake.

 

“When you are talking on the phone while driving, it has to be hands free, sir. I’m going to have to write you a ticket.”

 

I let out a sigh and hang my head. For whatever reason, maybe it’s the universe evening itself out, maybe it’s God rubbing my face in my own arrogance, all I can do in my moment of defeat is helplessly turn my head to the motorcyclist.

 

He is sitting on his freshly started bike, pointing at me and dying of laughter.

 

Touché, karma. Touché.

 

 

 

 

The Crossroads 

I once had a conversation with a family friend that has stuck with me ever since.

It was a year or so ago, and we were sitting outside sipping on some beer when he began to tell me about his life during college. I myself was just beginning my college experience, so I listened intently. He went on to explain how he was slacking in school, partying and drinking too much, getting in fights, etc. I took another sip of my beer, thinking to myself that this sounded like fun.

Although, he grew very serious as he explained that during this time, he met his current wife. Putting his beer down now, he stared at me and I could hear in his voice just how hard this was for him to talk about.
 
“Once I started dating her, I realized I was at a crossroads where I needed to make a choice between a life of joy, fulfillment, and passion… or prison.”

He seemed on the verge of tears at this point as he nodded his head in the direction of his wife, who was sitting nearby.

“And I chose prison.” 


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Fake I.D.

Over the weekend, I went out to the bars with some of my friends. We did not want to pay the price of an Uber, (knowing our wallets would already be taking a beating at the bars) and were in desperate need of a designated driver.  My sister decided to be the one to make Christmas come early. She wanted to bring her friend so they could use their fake I.D.s. They were supplying the ride, so I had no complaints.

 

We make it downtown and head to the bar we planned on staying at for the night. After waiting in line for a few minutes and people-watching all the drunkies, (always fun to do, until I become one of them, that is) we make it to the front of the line. My sister’s friend’s fake I.D. works like a charm, and my sister is up next. She hands the bouncer the card, and he’s already looking at her skeptically. My sister is 19 years old, but is fairly small, so this was expected. The bouncer scans the I.D. and looks at it for a while, then stares back at my sister. My sister is starting to look nervous. Being the douche that I am, I watch on excitedly, thinking, this oughta be good.

 

He asks her, “When were you born?”

 

My sister answers correctly according to the fake I.D.’s info.

 

The bouncer looks unimpressed. He then asks, “So you’re from Illinois?” (We aren’t from Illinois.)

 

“Yes,” she responds nervously.

 

“What’s the capital of Illinois?”

 

I chuckle in my head, as I know he has gotten her. She looks back at me with defeat spread across her face. I watch on, curious to see how this goes down.

 

“Uh, Chicago?” she responds, her voice void of all confidence.

 

Ouch…I think in my head. I turn to the bouncer, a grin on my face as I wait for him to laugh at her and possibly confiscate her I.D. But, he pauses for a few seconds. As I look at him, I realize something.

 

This dude has no clue what the capital of Illinois is either!

 

He gives her a look of approval, nods his head, and hands back her I.D.! I can barely hold in my laughter as he checks mine.

 

“You probably catch kids all the time with the capital question, huh?” I say.

 

He nods his head and smiles at me.

 

“I swear, these underage kids man! They always think they’re sneaky, but I get ’em every time!”

 

I can only wonder what would’ve happened if my sister had said “Springfield”.

 

 

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See You in Hell

When I am driving along the road, minding my own business, and a car pulls out into traffic in front of me from a perpendicular street (or a parking lot, whatever the case may be) and proceeds to drive twenty miles an hour slower than every other car on the road, my faith in humanity gets just a little weaker than it already is.

 

What on earth can possibly be going through someone’s mind to pull into moving traffic, and go half as slow as the traffic? What kind of logic told you this was the move to make? I’m going to assume that if you’re driving, you have eyes, so not seeing the fast approaching cars is not an excuse. What is the malfunction?

 

A car is quickly nearing your position at 40 plus mph, and your decision is to pull out in front of that car and mosey along at your own snail-like pace. Never mind the fact that this car now has to either slam on their brakes if they have time to do so, or make the quick decision to swerve around you, possibly colliding with other cars and creating a large traffic accident. None of that matters, as long as you didn’t have to wait an extra few seconds for traffic to clear up, right? Or you didn’t have to be bothered to press down another few inches with your foot to accelerate to the speed of traffic. As long as you aren’t inconvenienced, it’s all good, right?

 

Fair enough, but I have a few questions for people who do this.

 

Can you go to the bathroom by yourself? Do you stick your head in the microwave in your free time? When something gets caught in the disposal, do you turn it off before you stick your hand into it? You probably think you can serve chicken medium rare, don’t you?

 

If you pull out in front of swiftly moving traffic and drive along at 15 mph, I hope a burning pile of dog crap is waiting for you on your doorstep every night when you get home. I hope you stub your toe on the corner of your bed every day when you wake up. I hope when you make toast, it burns. When birds fly over you, I want them to sense your ineptitude and dump right on your head. I hope the next time you’re at the movies, someone kicks the back of your seat the entire duration of the film.

 

People who commit this act just flat out suck, and I’m fully convinced there is a VIP suite in Hell reserved just for them. God have mercy on their souls.

 

That is all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Which Syrup Would You Like?

When my sister and I were young, we were eating at an IHOP with our parents. I would say my sister was around four years old, and I was six. When our food arrived, we all reached for the syrup. My mom asked me what kind of syrup I would like, and I told her I’d like the boysenberry. My mom then looked to my sister and asked her if she would like the boysenberry as well. My sister frowned, obviously offended, and exclaimed:

 

“I don’t want the boysenberry, I want the girls and berry!”

Sockatory

Quick piece here on another one of the unsolved mysteries of life: Missing socks.

 

Socks are something that I personally am very horrible at. My socks are either dirty, have holes in them, or have twirled off to the alternate dimension where all my socks eventually end up.

 

I will buy a brand new pack of socks and place them into my drawer, where they usually stay put for a day or two, three if I’m lucky. I get to enjoy the wonderful feeling of fresh cloth under my feet for just that short period of time. Then, when I go to grab my third or fourth pair, I realize there are only a few socks in my drawer.

 

Didn’t I buy the twenty pack?

 

I sift around and realize the socks I’m grabbing are old.

 

It cant be?

 

I find a pair that look new. Breathing a sigh of relief, I sit down and start putting them on. My foot slides in, but what stares up at me? One of my toes poking through a gaping hole in the sock. I just stare back, and if my toe could speak in that moment, it would say: Nice try, pal.

 

I tear the sock off in anger and check the other one. No hole, but I realize it’s a dress sock.

 

Okay, I guess this can be a fallback.

 

I go back to my drawer and frantically search for the new socks that I just bought a few days ago. The only socks I can find are the old ones, or ones with holes. The other dress sock isn’t even in there! It’s an ego thing now, I’m not going to put on the old ones when I just bought new ones, and I’m not going to church, so I’m not wearing the holy ones.

 

The undesirable socks left in my drawer just stare back at me, a painful symbol of my incompetence. They are the socks too old or too sick to travel off to the prestigious alternate sock dimension. (This dimension apparently accepts wallets as well, you can guess how I found that out.) My search is in vain, and I end up settling for an old sock, and one of the new socks I wore the day before that I find behind the toilet. And yes, I only find one. The other one has apparently stumbled upon the portal that provides direct flights to the sock purgatory, along with all the others.

 

No matter how many pairs of socks I buy, I always end up with the same depleted supply. Over the years, I have developed many theories on where these socks go. Is it a sock nirvana that only accepts the strongest and freshest of socks? Is there a sock demon that gets off on only allowing me to have the bare minimum amount of foot clothing? Is there a sock creature that lives in my house that must feed on healthy socks to sustain its existence? Where do the socks go? Have I stumbled upon a conspiracy that is far beyond my understanding? If you guys don’t hear from me again, you know why.

 

 

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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.

 

Trainer Trickery

I wanted to write a little here about something I see almost every day and absolutely cannot wrap my head around.

 

What I’m going to talk about here are Personal Trainers at the gym.

 

Now, stick with me. I have no problem with the concept of a Personal Trainer. Getting in shape is awesome and if you need a little help to do it, great, whatever works. My issue here is that 97.6 percent of these trainers I see are out of shape! (If you’re thinking that percentage is oddly specific, that’s because I’ve actually conducted an entire study on this phenomenon and written an article on my results that can be found on the Harvard Science Review website. And yes, everything I just said there was complete bullshit.)

 

These Personal Trainers that I see are completely out of shape, and they are training other people to get in shape. Maybe it’s just me, but if I were to hire a Personal Trainer, you best believe I’m hiring the guy that looks like Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson or Zac Efron, not the guy who looks like he just finished a 6-pack of beer and a bag of Barbecue Lay’s, then rolled off the couch to put his “Personal Trainer” shirt on and hit the gym.

 

I mean, I don’t know if it’s the same for you guys, maybe my gym is weird, but just about every single Personal Trainer I see is in worse shape than the person they are training! I love seeing people at the gym who seem like they are new to working out, it means they are kicking ass and setting goals. So, it is a massive disservice to these people that they are being told what to do by Beer-belly Brian.

 

I’m sure Beer-belly Brian is great to hang out with on a Saturday night, but am I going to hire him to show me how to get abs? Hell no! And you can bet your house on that. If you wanted to train to be good at football, would you hire a badminton coach? If you needed your toilets fixed, would you hire a psychologist to solve the problem? No, you’d hire a plumber, wouldn’t you. (Shit, maybe you’d hire a psychologist, depends how bad the damage is I guess.)

 

These trainers are being paid top dollar too! I headed over to my gym website to investigate, and some of them are being paid hundreds a session!

 

Whaaaaaaat?

 

Ol’ Beer-belly’s charging an “affordable” $110 a session! His specialties? Fat loss, and athletic training. Again,

 

whaaaaaaat?

 

If this is how things work, well guys, looks like I’m going to go pursue my life long dream of training fighter pilots. No, I’ve never flown a plane, but if Beer-belly can tell people how to get abs, I can show people how to fly planes in battle right?

 

Oh, and if you want to “gain muscle mass”, the trainer for that is 120 pounds, maybe. Dude, if I want to look like Arnold Schwarzenegger, I ain’t gonna hire Frodo, right? That’s like paying an atheist to be a Pastor at my church. Part of me just can’t help but to think that this is just a giant scam. I mean, what does it really take to acquire the esteemed Personal Trainer title? Knowing not to play tag on the freeway? Not sticking your hand in the disposal?

 

I’m not trying to bag on how these trainers look, this is just a business thing. Money is at stake here. I love my grandma, but am I going to pay her money to show me how to use Twitter? These trainers man, they’ve got quite the nerve charging money with such a weak display product. Train people for free all you want. But don’t look like Larry the Cable guy, and charge money for fitness advice. Am I right?

 

 

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Harry Pawter

Just a quick story from a while back.

 

So, my dog is a Siberian Husky. She is gray and black on the top of her head and all down her back and tail. The rest of her body is a very bright white, including her face. She is a runner, one of the fastest animals I’ve ever seen, and when you give her an inch of daylight, she will bolt like an escaped prisoner. She got out of our backyard multiple times when I was a kid, and sometimes it would take us hours to track her down. (Crazy, I know)

 

She has a collar with a dog tag that has our phone number on it so if someone happens to find her, they can call us.

 

So, one day, my little cousin is over at our place. He happens to find a Sharpie and decides to have some fun with my dog. He ends up drawing Harry Potter glasses around her eyes, and the signature lighting bolt scar on her forehead. He then adds a mustache for good measure, because, why not, right?

 

We see what he’s done and I’m not going to lie, it was freakin’ hilarious. Seeing a big, wolf-looking dog trot around with Harry Potter glasses and a mustache is one of the greater gifts this life has to offer. After getting a solid laugh out of the artwork, we figured we’d try to wash it off after dinner.

 

But of course, my dog slipped out of our side gate when my Dad was taking the trash out and bolted away.

 

Big ol’ Harry Pawter was now sprinting down our street at full speed like she was running from a Dementor, missing only a broom and wand.

 

We get in our cars to try to chase her down, but she’s nowhere to be found, presumably using her trusty invisibility cloak. About twenty minutes into searching, we get a phone call. My mom answers.

 

“Hi… uhhh, I think my wife found your dog.”

 

This guy is obviously very confused and trying to hold back laughter. Imagine what is going through his head. Makes me laugh every time I think about it.

 

My mom, extremely embarrassed, tells the guy thank you and we will be right over to pick her up.

 

“We” turned out to be just my mom, as the rest of my family wanted nothing to do with this one. None of us wanted to jump on that grenade.

 

My mom goes and gets our dog, and when she gets back, the canine-wizard comes running inside happily, still sporting the disguise.

 

We all excitedly ask my mom how it went, and she doesn’t say much. She’s obviously still embarrassed and just says that she doesn’t think the guy knew what Harry Potter was.

 

We all died laughing.

 

Moral of the story, if any of you are ever feeling down, please just put yourself in the shoes of the people who found my dog that night, and I’m sure your day will get a little brighter.

 

P.S. I am going to try to find the picture we took of my dog with the marker on her and post it on here if I do.