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.

 

 

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.

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. 

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.

 

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”.

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?