Thanksgiving, Haiku Style.

It's that time of year again.

Awkward family dinners with people you only see once a year.  Deep-fried turkey infernos and consumer whores skipping out on their families altogether, trying to score that 99 cent 55-inch LCD TV and getting into fist fights with other bloodthirsty, rabid people.

So with all this gearing up for the in-laws and going to the store to make sure you have enough beer to cope, I decided to keep this week's post short and sweet with a little Haiku action.  But not just any five/seven/fives, these are, naturally, all about Thanksgiving.

So help me God if you call it Turkey Day I'm going to find you and slash your tires.

I even asked you, my illustrious Tweetards, to send me your own Thanksgiving Haikus.  You'll find those at the bottom of the post.  Thanks for all your submissions!

So sit back, relax and enjoy.  Feel free to post your own in the comments.

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It's Thanksgiving Day
Fuck. The in-laws are in town.
Have to wear pants, now.

Deep-fry a turkey,
Burn hose down 'on accident.'
Keeps in-laws away.

Better stock beer fridge.
Nickelback's playing halftime.
Drink to forget, guys.

Green bean casserole
Because everything's better
With fried shit on top.

Most guests are older.
Have to sit at kids' table.
I'm twenty-seven.

Not a fam'ly meal.
Gram just called my sis a whore.
Now a fam'ly meal.

Grandpa told gramma,
"Ill stuff your turkey." Should I
High-five him or puke?

House feels like Walmart.
Thanksgiving not over yet
Christmas tree goes up.

Thanksgiving Day, huh?
With all these damn leftovers?
Try Thanksgiving Week.

Only diff'rence between
Black Friday, LA riots?
Less die in riots.

Black Friday shopping.
That TV's a hundred bucks?
Move, or I'll cut you.

Protesters? Leave 'em.
Rabid Black Friday shoppers?
Pepper spray the lot.

Confession: I'm usually the first one to throw a turkey.

Mmmm. Diabeetus.

So I can watch football.

My favorite kind of coma.

 I think I had more fun reading them than you guys did writing them.

If this were a contest, we'd have a winner.

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Happy Thanksgiving, you fucking slobs.  Try not to get trampled on Friday.

I'll trade you my strep for your bronchitis.

You might want to sit down for this one.

I haven't heard of anything this ridiculous since Kim Kardashian told that one joke about marriage, or that one time Justin Bieber was accused of being the father of the 20th Duggar kid or something.

"Baby, baby, baby?"

I don't know.  I can't keep up with this shit anymore.

In the newest testament to the fact that people should have to take a series of tests in order to be allowed to breed, a bunch of misguided and shithouse rat-crazy parents had the half-brained, dim-witted idea to send pre-licked lollipops to other misguided, shithouse-rat crazy parents.

Pre-licked lollipops?  By whom?  For what purpose?

Remember when I told you to sit down?  Well throw on a helmet, too, because the force at which the palm of your hand makes contact with your forehead could cause mild to moderate brain damage.

Now you've gone and upset Jesus.

According to this story, these "parents" are having their chicken pox-infected children lick said lollipops, and then sending these germ sticks to other parents they don't even know so that they, on the receiving end, would then have their kids suck on the diseased candy so that they can build a natural immunity to chicken pox over time.

Because the parents are afraid of the chicken pox vaccine.

Are you fucking with me, America?  You're totally fucking with me, right?

"The transport and sale of contaminated items has been linked to a Facebook group called 'Find a Pox Party in Your Area,' which helps people anonymously arrange for the swapping and sale of contaminated items."

These people are not fit to be parents, and if I had any faith in the system at all, I'd vote to have their kids taken away in a heartbeat.  Anonymously swapping contaminated goods?  Really?  And who's to say the person sending you that Cootie Roll Pop only put chicken pox on it?  What ever happened to not taking candy from strangers?  My parents checked my Halloween candy every year and we knew most of our neighbors.

I miss Razorblade Richard.

If these people are still allowed to have kids, then you might as well let Mike Vick have his dogs back because to hell with things that make sense.

These parents are probably the same asshats who take medical diagnoses from WebMD seriously.

"I woke up this morning and my hands were warm and now I'm going to die!"

These are probably the same people who thought the world was going to end on May 21st of this year.  The same people who think talking about not having sex is going to stop kids from having sex and making babies -- babies to whom they'll probably have tampered lollipops sent for homemade disease prevention.

People are so stupid, you guys.  So painfully stupid.

A thousand times stupid.

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Come share the Twitter disease with me, or add me to your ringworms, er, circles, on Google+.

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Pic sources:
1 - 2 - 3 

Content Unrelated: Now with more bubbles!

Good Thursday, people.

How's your day going so far?  Are you vanquishing that to-do list?  Stomach problems at work?  That's what you told your boss, right?  So you could whip out that fancy smartphone of yours and read the new post, right?

Right?

Guys?

This is where I go to tell Twitter how much I hate my job.

Let's talk about chocolate.

I know, I know.  "Fuck you.  I'm sick of candy.  Almost two weeks after Halloween and I still have a bag and a half of fun-sized diabetes to deal with.  Well you know what?  It's not fun anymore, goddammit.  IT ISN'T FUN ANYMORE."

But hang in there, you out-funned shitbastard.  This needs to be discussed.

You see, our friends over at Hershey's are always coming up with delicious new ways to sell chocolate.  They're like the Bubba from Forrest Gump of chocolate.  Willy Wonka might have a factory named for chocolate, but Hershey's has a fucking city.

FACT: The street signs on E. Chocolate Ave. are edible.

And, should your chocolate, you know, expire, you can give it a proper burial at the Hershey cemetery.

But if shit goes all Stephen King over there, I'll kick some zombie ass; even if they are made of chocolate.  Probably the only scenario where the humans crave zombie brains, too.

I tried to Google pictures of people with chocolate on their faces for effect, but they all looked like they'd eaten poop.

I recently saw a commercial of theirs where they were promoting this new product of theirs called "Air Delight," which come in Kiss and Original Bar form.  What they've done is aerated the chocolate to make it lighter and fluffier and all that.

Aerated, in case you didn't want to look it up yourself, basically means they took the chocolate they already had, put a bunch of holes in it and put it back on the shelves.  For the same price.

It's like a chocolate Easter bunny did the nasty with a block of Swiss cheese and had this monstrosity.

"You have your mother's holes."

I get that you're trying to diversify your portfolio or whatever it is you businesspeople like to call it, Hershey's, but don't try to sell me less of the same for the same.

I think that's what I'm going to start doing. When I write my posts, I'm goi〇g to j〇st litt〇r it 〇ith holes a〇d still ca〇l it a full p〇st. Tell me ho〇 lon〇 you t〇ink it'd take b〇fore it s〇arted to make you pe〇ple go batsh〇t crazy and yell obs〇enities and other in〇oher〇nt thi〇gs at me.

And while we're on the subject; come on, Ghirardelli, who seriously eats chocolate like this?

I've had four by the time you've wiped that caramel string off your chin from your first bite.

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Content Unrelated defiles yet another social network by joining Google+.  Add me to your circles or God kills a kitten.

Oh, and Twitter.

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Pic credits:
1 - 2&3 - 4 - 5 - 6

Bathfood.

Toilet humor Thursday, I guess.

Might as well just get to it because there's no comfortable way of asking you this question:  Which type of shit-taker are you?  Are you the type to play a quick game of Fruit Ninja?  Do you have a newspaper or magazine you flip through?  Post uncomfortably detailed tweets about the whole thing?

I've totally never ever done that last one.  Ever.

That's right.  I'm opening with poop again.  Everyone does it.  There's even a book on it so shut the hell up already.

Even apples poop.  Deal with it.

I have a tendency to find anything I can within arms-length to grab and read while I'm doing the doo.  I'll read the backs of toothpaste tubes, shaving cream, contact lens solutions, etc.  Even if it's the same bottle of mouthwash over and over again, it doesn't matter.  There's just something about reading ingredients I can barely fucking pronounce that makes time on the John a little more enjoyable.

In doing this one day, something caught my eye.  It seems as though most of my girlfriend's bathroom products have more ingredients in them to bake a cake than to make hair silky-smooth, and I don't understand it.  The way food is presented on some of those bottles, you'd think it was a goddang recipe.

That sounds fucking delicious.  Throw some rum in there, blend with ice and BAM, a Piña Colada protein shake, you know, if the first thing you want to do after your workout is to get shitfaced.

I tried to marinate chicken with this once.  We had to call poison control and had to have our stomachs pumped but it tasted absolutely divine.

Let's see, what else do we have here...

Conditioner?  I thought it was margarita mix.  Oh well.  Now my insides are all vibrant and silky-smooth.  Rinse.  Repeat.  Drunk.

I don't know whether to spread these on my toast or masturbate with them.  That's all hand lotions are for anyway, right?

Okay.  This one's mine.  Fuck you.

I swear there's more food in my bathroom cabinet than there is in the refrigerator, you guys.  There was more I was going to show you, but I ate the rest of it.

Ladies, go through your cabinets!  What are you using in the bathroom that you could also cook with?  Let me know in the comments!  Gentlemen -- same thing, I guess, if you'll admit to it.

Product placement fail?

One of the things you might know about me by now is that, in college, I majored in advertising.  For those of you who don't know or who are in college right now, an advertising degree gives you a lot to talk about with the people who sit in your section in the restaurant at which you work.

Believe it or not though, you actually do learn stuff!  Like different ad strategies and what to advertise where and when and who you're trying to reach.

A lot of that is product placement.  That's why you see a bunch of "you can start a path to success right now with [UNIVERSITY]!" while you're on your couch covered on Cheetos crumbs waiting to find out if Hector is the baby-daddy of little Steven or not.  Naturally, the people who wanted that advertisement to air at that time think because you're watching shitty TV at 11 in the morning that you don't have a job, when in reality you could just be somebody's restaurant bitch the other six days of the week and for once you happen to have a fucking day off.

I have to finish this shit by 10:30. Cheaters is on.

Or when you watch the Food Network and you see three commercials about fancy spatulas every half-hour.  Or Girls Gone Wild ads after midnight on Comedy Central.  You get the point.

Targeting, bitches.  Product placement is important.  It's all about research.  If you don't do research before you spend good money to place an ad for the wrong audience, you just wasted a bunch of money you could've given me to wipe my ass with.

Because I can't afford toilet paper.

I bring this up because my most recent encounter with poor product placement had me at a loss for words.  I couldn't figure out the logic behind any of it.

See, my girlfriend and I are doing everything in our power to not have babies.  Babies are, at this juncture, an expensive, 18-year STD we don't want anything to do with.  Plus, poop.  Lots of poop.  So, with the exception of abstinence (because no), we go through the necessary steps to ensure we stay away from food stamps, welfare and her dad kicking my ass.

One of those steps is, obviously, birth control.  She takes that pill each day and, well you know how it works unless you go to high school in the south.  If you're unfamiliar, you have to take that shit around (if not on) the same time every day or you could end up with Oops Jr.

Birth control: You're doing it wrong.

But you know what? Sometimes shit gets busy. Sometimes you get preoccupied with things and, well, you forget.  It never hurts to have a reminder to let you know it's time to take your daily anti-kid pill.  Some women set alarms on their phone for that time of day.  Taking a page from that book, there's an app available from the Android Market called PillReminder, which is supposed to do just that, by making you confirm three times that you've taken your pill.  It's annoyingly handy because that shit goes off every three minutes until you've confirmed.

Recently, they've included little advertisements to go along with the reminder itself.  Harmless things that you see on the reminder pop-up. But then there's this one that's started coming up every other day, and it almost made my girlfriend's phone explode because of how much sense it didn't make to be there.

This is the ad, shown on a reminder to take a pill to keep women from getting pregnant.

Trying to get what-now?

This is like McDonald's handing out Weight Watchers vouchers or atheists handing out pamphlets outside a church.  Bitches want their Big Macs and people who go to church love Jesus and people who need reminders to take their pills don't want babies and go to a place where people will fucking listen to your message.

That's the point.

Had they hired me, they'd have had someone to tell them how stupid this is.

Now, Cheaters.