Content Unrelated

What's that "L" stand for, again?

2012-02-08T21:29:00.000-05:00

TLC.

When you see this acronym, what does it mean to you?

Does it represent the pre-Destiny's-Child musical chick trio that didn't "want no scrubs"?

In this case, the "L" represents the first letter of Lisa Lopes' nickname in the group, "Left-Eye." With the other members' nicknames "T-Boz" and "Chilli," you get your TLC.

This makes sense.

Does TLC represent the often-used "Tender Loving Care" when referring to something which needs just that? As in, "Boy! That dirty old car could use some TLC!"

In this case, "loving" fits in the acronym because it's used to describe the care that will be going into whatever needs said TLC.

This makes sense.

Does it represent The Learning Channel?

What do you mean, "What's The Learning Channel?"

You know.

The Learning Channel, you guys. The "L" in this case, obviously, stands for Learning.

The Learning Channel.

But when was the last time you've actually heard someone refer to this network by its full name?

Can you count that number with your fingers and toes?

Let's just start with one hand and work our way up from there.

Shit, if you can count at all, it wasn't because you learned how by watching the goddamn "Learning" Channel.

Now let's count the number of times you've actually learned something on The Learning Channel.

Even fewer fingers?

Thought so.

This does not make sense.

But TLC wasn't always the mind-numbingly, brain cell mass-murdering ball of shit you've come to know and loathe.

In 1972 until the mid '90s, you were able to turn on The Learning Channel and actually learn shit. Science and math and history and all the boring shit that helped you become more knowledgeable and thus more tolerable to have actual conversations with.

The shift from education-oriented programming happened sometime in the late '90s and into the infancy of the new millennium, when TLC execs (I assume) came to the conclusion that consumers are fucking dumb, and wanted programming that reflected their fucking dumbness. (Source?)

Phasing out anything even remotely educational, The Learning Channel was forever shortened to its acronym in hopes that people would eventually forget they were supposed to be doing any sort of learning in the first place.

But the fact that they simply stopped referring to themselves as The Learning Channel shouldn't be a green flag for their bullshit lineup. In the last 12 years, the only thing I've actually learned is that if I want my own TV show, I need to either be under four feet tall, have 37 kids, getting married or be really fucking good at baking.

Source.

And don't even get me started on that glorified child abuse that is Toddlers & Tiaras. Go-go juice? You're kidding, right?

If TLC had been doing its original job the whole time, this kid would already know about diabetes and she'd tell her mom to shove that bottle up her ass.

If you're going to keep this crap up, maybe it's time for a name change. I mean, if Outback Steakhouse stopped cooking steaks and did away with the Aussie theme, do you think they'd still call it Outback Steakhouse?

Probably not, TLC. Probably not.

Four things they forget to tell you about owning a new puppy.

2012-02-03T20:21:00.001-05:00

As opposed to an old puppy, I guess?

So, as the title might suggest, we've recently taken on the all-consuming (read: patience and time) role of puppy parents.

I'll let that last sentence be my reasoning for disappearing.

Merry Christmas, by the way. I hope you enjoyed yourselves, because, you know, it was the last one any of us will ever enjoy.

Happy New Year.

Much like free music, porn, anonymous illiterates picking misspelled and grammatically hilarious fights with people on message boards, porn, and midget porn, the Internet is bursting at the series of tubes with information on how to properly raise your new puppy.

While Google might be able to point you in all sorts of directions when it comes to your new puppy getting acclimated to you, its new environment and not shitting on the rug one more fucking time I swear to GOD, slightly less abundant are the resources and information on just exactly how much the first couple months are going to suck.

Listed below are four ways the world as you know it is going to come to a screeching halt during the pupocalypse.

"Stop looking at me like you left my toy box on top of the crate you put me in when you left and I decided to rip out the bottom and bring all my toys in with me while you were gone."

1. Even though the initial stress will make you want to drink more, you will drink considerably less...

Here's the thing about puppies. Like babies, they will go through a seemingly endless every-three-hour cycle of eating, peeing, shitting and sleeping. Unlike babies, a puppy does not wear diapers to hold in all that piss and shit, and if you don't take it out every 17 seconds so it can relieve itself, you're going to lose the hell out of your security deposit.

This every-17-seconds includes the middle of the night and at the ass-crack of dawn.

What does this have to do with alcohol?

The only thing worse than having to wake up in the middle of the night or first thing in the morning to take your new puppy out to do its business, is having to wake up in the middle of the night or first thing in the morning to take your new puppy out while you're piss drunk or hungover. You will learn painfully quick that a hangover plus picking up your dog's shit equals you having to clean up more than your dog's shit.

And even if you do manage to make yourself a tasty liquid treat or two, your puppy will try everything it can to drink it. Because puppies are tiny closet alcoholics.

2. ... But mostly because you won't be able to afford beer in the first place.

Unless you're the One Percent or a ~~hoarder~~ extreme couponer, chances are the only stacks of paper you'll have lying around are vet bills. New puppies are expensive as shit. Depending on how old it is when you adopt, you'll still need to take it for a couple more rounds of vaccinations to protect them from Alka-seltzer mouth and parasites that'll liquefy their insides. If it's your first puppy, chances are you'll visit the Vet ER a couple times because Sparky's leg is twitching and you really aren't sure it should be doing that plus you don't think that the half a couch he ate is digesting well at all.

All that shit costs money that, up until now, you weren't used to shelling out. Not to mention the potential for obedience training unless you adopted a little puppy Einstein, in which case, good-for-fucking-you.

3. You used to not be able to remember the last time you stepped in a pile of dogshit, now you can't remember the last time you haven't.

Unless you have a fenced in area for your pooch, you'll be waking with it on a leash so it can find a nice, soft grassy place to do the doo -- areas which you're not normally used to walking through. Areas other people have also thought to walk their dogs.

While walking around, waiting for the drop, poo bag in hand because you're going to be a responsible pet owner and clean up after your dog (or I'll find you), you catch a whiff of something foul. But wait! You cry out in surprise as your nose-holes go suicidal. My dog hath not defecated yet! To what can I attribute this stench?!

Some other asshole, who is clearly not as responsible of a dog owner as you are, left his dog's ass fertilizer out in the open, ready to invade the nooks and crannies of your favorite pair of shoes upon contact.

I have to wear slip-resistant shoes for work, you guys, and if you're a communications major; you'll probably have to for your post-college job, too. If any of you already know how they're designed on the bottoms, you'll immediately understand my frustration.

This.

Plus this.

Good luck scraping that off in the grass.

4. Coitus Interruptus.

While it might sound like a cock-blocking spell from some horny teenage girl's Harry Potter fanfiction, Coitus Interruptus is exactly what it implies. Not only are puppies tiny closet alcoholics, they also have a sixth sense when you and yours want to bump uglies.

It's been a couple weeks. You finally feel like you have your puppy on a pretty structured schedule. You know when it'll want food, when it'll need to go out, and most importantly in this situation, when it's going to nap. Puppies are generally pretty heavy sleepers, but if you've been letting it sleep in your bed, there are few other places in your house that it'll want to pass out. If by chance your puppy falls asleep other than your bed, get on it. You have about four and a half minutes (and, truthfully, that's probably all you'll need, stud) before your puppy's seventh sense (OH MY GOD WHERE ARE MY PEOPLE OHMYGODOHMYGOD) kicks in. Just one moan or head smacking against the headboard and the jig is up. See, last night when you were asleep, your puppy microchipped you with a tiny GPS. So go ahead, sneak away all you want for some alone time. It. Will. Find. You.

---

All that being said, if you know you can revamp your entire lifestyle for the next nine to 15 years, the pros of owning a dog far outweigh the cons the moment you come home from a shitty day at work to that four-legged bundle of tail-wagging happy.

Best decision we've ever made.

Don't buy. Adopt. Check out your local Humane Society if you're ready to make the leap. And remember, if it doesn't work out between you and your new pet, you can always recycle it. It's all the rage in England.

See, Sarah McLachlan? You can do this shit without getting us all depressed.

Thanksgiving, Haiku Style.

2011-11-22T13:50:00.001-05:00

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.

---

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.

---

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

I'll trade you my strep for your bronchitis.

2011-11-17T11:58:00.001-05:00

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.

----

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!

2011-11-10T08:00:00.000-05:00

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.

----

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.

2011-11-03T10:33:00.000-04:00

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?

2011-10-27T09:11:00.000-04:00

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.

The power of suggestion.

2011-10-24T17:23:00.000-04:00

The weather is getting a little more bearable. I've heard talks of leaves changing colors, but living in a state where leaves don't change colors with the seasons, I can only call bullshit.

Source.

What is this wizardry?!

And with that, the holiday season is upon us. With seeing the first pumpkins and ghosts and costumes grace the shelves at the local Targets and Walmarts, it's just one big spooky reality check that the gluttonous cycle of candy, turkey and gifts is upon us.

First on that list, of course, is Halloween. All Hallows' Eve is just a week away, and you know what that means.

Only seven days left for you to figure out what kind of slut you want dress up as, obviously.

A Google search will find you what you're looking for in a third of a second.

If my SafeSearch had been off, I probably would've had to clear my browsing history before my girlfriend got home from work.

But with this sea of whoretastic costumes (I'm seriously not complaining), comes the decorations. The props you litter your house with for 20 or 30 days to let people know how much you love Halloween even though you don't buy any candy and turn all the lights off in your house the day of because you don't want those fucking beggars coming to your door, disrupting your hot tea, bath robe and Two and a Half Men time -- only to toss that garbage in a Rubbermaid 11 months only to wonder what the fuck happened to that one Halloween box with those webs and shit in it on the first day of October the following year.

But you know what? Sometimes you find a diamond in the rough. Sometimes a prop is realistic enough to be creepy. Sometimes a prop will scream bloody murder when you walk by.

Others just scream obscenities.

Behold the pirate skull. You can buy this at Walmart for like, 10 bucks. My parents did. They like this crap. When I came to visit two weeks later, they showed me their find and, because apparently I'm always thinking in four-letter words, I immediately started laughing because of what I think I hear the pirate say just before he starts laughing.

To me, all I heard was, "Boo! Where do you think you're going? Come back here! FUCK!"

I took this recording so you could be the judge.

The problem is, I don't know what it's actually saying because from the very first time I listened to it, I heard the f-bomb.

Ever since I heard it and pointed it out to my family, that's all they hear, too.

So it's come down to you. What do you think this skull says before he starts laughing? Let me know in the comments.

Happy Halloween!

Fuck!

Psst! The password is 'password.'

2011-08-30T12:46:00.001-04:00

I found an interesting article today that, in all honesty, had information in it that was painfully obvious for anyone with half a brain and a mastery of not being a complete moron.

It tackled the fine art of password creation, and how your laziness can get your shit hacked faster than you can say, "Whoa, someone totally hacked my shit, dude."

A password is a series of characters (numbers, letters, symbols) that you use to keep personal information personal. From your online bank accounts to your Facebook profile (for the love of GOD don't click on that 'video' your friend posted, even if it claims you 'can't watch this for more than 20 seconds LOL!'), your e-mails and your subscription to that one really tasteful pay-for-porn site you swear you set up for your friend that one time but you keep getting the e-mails so his girlfriend won't flip her shit.

Going back to the article, author Taylor Hatmaker (Googled, disappointingly doesn't make hats) first mentions a giant hack of a social gaming Web site. When research was done to figure out how so many people were hacked, the results were mind-blowing -- and are pretty much the reason why I'm writing this post to begin with. To create awareness for you, the shit password-maker. Though, if your password is any of those listed in the following tidbits from the article, you fucking deserve it.

"The study found that more than 29,000 of the compromised accounts were using the password "123456" — the most popular password."

Mine is 234567. It totally throws 'em off.

The only person who should have this password is Count motherfucking Chocula. And he isn't even a real thing, and is thus unable to have online accounts with such passwords.

In short, it shouldn't exist.

And it gets ~~better~~ worse.

"[T]he fourth most common password? 'Password.'"

This is a real thing? People actually do this?! I just facepalmed so hard I think the impact of skull and hand gave me brain damage. God help me, I can't stop drooling.

"Other popular passwords ... include 'iloveyou,' 'abc123,' and a handful of common first names like 'Ashley' and 'Michael.'"

Just. I mean. Um...

Guys. I wish there wasn't even a reason for the article to even have been written in the first place, but clearly this is still an issue so do yourself a favor if you fall into the category of DERP and read the rest of the article.

Fix your shit or someone is going to have a field day with that fifty bucks in your checking account while telling all your friends on Facebook you're into beastiality by posting a video on your page.

The Over/Under Results Show.

2011-08-24T19:26:00.000-04:00

A couple days ago, I wrote about a very serious topic. A debate that, to this day, rages on and that is (or should be) on the minds of every self-respecting, ass-wiping human with access to toilet paper.

In that post, you were to decide, with your comments and Twitter replies, the way in which the toilet paper in the bathroom of mine and my girlfriend's apartment will stay. God knows we can't come to an agreement, so it's up to you!

Because I like when complete strangers get involved with such incredibly stupid and pointless shit.

It keeps things interesting!

Shit! I'm using too many exclamation marks!

So, what did you decide?

Over?

Under?

Let's take a look at what we have here...

The only person who chose UNDER did so with ulterior motives.

You will always be welcomed here.

Our score so far:

UNDER - 1

OVER - 0

We then get into a couple votes for OVER.

Half a point for OVER. I can't help the judges are assholes.

I make this very same argument.

I do, but it's a project and I usually complain about it for like an hour and a half before I actually finish the job.

Which brings us to tally of:

UNDER - 1

OVER - 2.5

But all of the sudden -- some wild NEITHER/NORs appear!

I applaud, respect and fully support the laziness, you three.

So that's it. With an overwhelming SEVEN VOTES (holy shit!), we have a total score of:

UNDER - 1

OVER - 2.5

FUCK IT - 3

And so it is.

I can't wait to see her face when she gets home.

Sharing a Place #1 - The Over/Under

2011-08-23T01:59:00.000-04:00

Job transfers have been arranged and settled.

The furniture is where we want it. Things have drawers and cabinets.

The cardboard boxes are gone.

There is Internet and a TV.

I have no pants on.

Move-in complete. Everything is now as it should be.

As I've said before, this apartment is not mine alone, but a joint venture between myself and [I still haven't come up with a catchy blog name for my girlfriend].

Now, this is the first time I've lived with someone other than my parents. You might recall the first time I moved, I did so on my own. Now that I live with someone, compromises on both sides have had to be made. What household products to use, what shows to watch on TV, various food choices, when I have to wear pants -- you know, the usual.

But there is one thing that neither of us can come to an agreement on, and this is where you come in, my loyal fanbase (all five of you!).

It's time to play a game that I'd like to do from time to time in which I describe a situation where myself and my girlfriend have unwavering opinions, so please allow me to welcome you to the first installment of I'm Right! No, I am! or: How Quickly Can I Land Myself in the Doghouse.

So, here is this episode's situation. It's one that people of the world have a definitive stance on. Either on one side or the other. A debate that has no middleground. No compromise. No mercy to the opposition.

Abortion? Gay marriage? Waterboarding?

No, children. Toilet paper.

Yeah. You read that right. Toilet paper. More specifically, the over/under debate that has plagued mankind since we stopped having to guess whether or not that leaf we were going to wipe our ass with was poison ivy or not.

Here are some stats regarding over/under in this very, very cool infographic.

Incidentally, this is great reading while you're on the shitter. Mobile phones at the ready!

Source.

It is a war that will most certainly never be won. But, while neither side will taste its enemies' tears, a side must be chosen nonetheless.

So now it's in your hands. One of us is over, the other -- under. Help us decide how our bathroom's fate. Comment here or Tweet your toilet paper configuration and why you prefer it that way.

Our time on the shitter is in your hands.

Thank God for the how-to.

2011-07-18T18:56:00.000-04:00

In my last post, I explained that my inconsistency was due to the fact that myself and [insert cute blog name for my girlfriend HERE] are within days of getting our first place together.

We decided on the apartment, the living room set and the TV.

The kitchenware, flatware and patio set.

All of which took almost zero conversation, as we have similar tastes in pretty much everything.

Me: "How about this? This is cool, yeah?"
Her: "Yes. Absolutely. And this? Do you like this?"
Me: "Oh yeah, That's pretty sweet. Get that, too."

You guys want to know how long it took us to pick a shower curtain and corresponding bathroom shit?

If it wasn't for her mom, we still wouldn't have.

For upwards of six weeks we went from store to store, city to city (seriously), and sometimes even the same store but in a different location.

It got so bad, you guys, that for her birthday, my girlfriend's mom bought her the entire bathroom, from shower curtain to accessories. The girl loves it, and as of two weeks from now, this will be in our new bathroom.

Because love means never saying 'no' to a monkey-themed bathroom.

Then I thought about it for a second. After a really shitty day serving food to the nation's impossible to satisfy, how could I stay pissed off when I go into a bathroom to take a shit with all these overly happy monkeys looking back at me?

So suck it. The monkeys are staying.

After the bathroom ordeal, I wondered how difficult it would be to compromise on the other small stuff. The big stuff was easy for some mind-boggling reason, but what about the toaster? What about lighting? Placemats? The vacuum cleaner?

And then Bed, Bath & Beyond came to the rescue. At least with the vacuums.

Problem solved. Now, about those placemats...

---

Twitter, motherfuckers!

Transitioning.

2011-07-18T10:11:00.001-04:00

So I originally posted this on Saturday, but today, looking at my stats, I saw that exactly zero people have viewed this blog, I had to do some investigating.

Apparently, somehow, one way or another (it wasn't me, I didn't drink this weekend), Blogger decided to set my blog to be viewable only by people whom I invited.

This has since been fixed.

Sorry :(

Here's the post from Saturday

---

Okay, guys.

Hi.

Hope everyone's enjoying their respective goings-on.

I've been pretty slammed as of late. Packing and getting ready to get my move-on with my better half.

Exciting stuff.

Honestly, I just can't wait for the blog material I'm going to have now that I'll be living with a lady.

I'll have the camera ready to film the potential aftermath of leaving the seat up.

Anyway. I've been doing some shuffling around with the blog. There isn't too much different noticeably, but I did associate the entire blog with a more appropriate Gmail account. One that you all can use to E-mail me with post suggestions, shoot ideas back and forth for potential future collaborations (I want to do this with some of you) and guest posts.

I'll post the new E-mail address later. No attachments, guys. I love my computer and I'm not about to go to a gas station for plastic-wrapped porn.

I mean.

Um.

So, yeah. The other current issue I'm having is with all the blogs I was following. I was able to import all of my subscriptions into Reader then transfer them over to the Dashboard on Blogger, so I should still technically be following all of the blogs I had been before the transition.

If for some reason I'm missing from your list of followers, it was simply because of the transition. Nothing personal.

I look forward with collaborating with some of you in the near future on some hilarious posts (if it's something you'd be interested in doing, of course).

Updating will be limited for the next couple weeks, so bear with me.

In the meantime, please use my comments section on this post as a makeshift bulletin board. Whore out your hilarity to the masses (all 119 of them) and give them something to read while I take care of business outside of the Internet. I'll still be dicking around on Twitter, of course, so maybe I'll see some of you around on there.

I'm so glad I went to college.

2011-06-24T00:17:00.001-04:00

I can't figure something out, guys.

I've been told time and time again since I've been out of college that, due to the economic fuster-cluck, companies are only looking to hire the best of the best.

It makes sense. If you only have so much money to pay someone to perform a certain job, you don't want to give it to just any asshole who walks through the door or clicks 'apply' on some bullshit, totally and disgustingly impersonal online application.

I do not have the real world experience most companies require (and seem to prefer) over actual college, but I am fully capable when it comes to executing and completing tasks that would be required of me if I were to actually land a job in the field in which I earned a degree. I'm AP Stylebook literate, I'm dependable and dammit, I think I'm pretty good at what I put my energy into.

Hire me.

So of they're still looking for the golden-egg-shitting elite.

If they're still looking for the unmatched talent.

If they're still looking for the constantly exceeded expectations.

How do I not have a job when something like this makes it on to a 30-second prime time TV spot?

What the hell is a Hyundai Tuscon?

Sounds Italian.

I'll admit, when I first saw a Tucson on the road, I asked myself, "'Tucson'? What? T-u-c-s-o-n. Tuk-sahn? There's no way that can be right. Those asshats! How do you screw that up?!"

And then, you know what I did, guys?

You might want to sit down for this one.

I... wait for it...

Did some research.

Two seconds on Google and I learned the error of my ways. Research is an integral part of any advertising campaign -- local or otherwise. You don't need five years' experience in a related field or position to know that, much less an expensive college degree that throws you in a tailspin of student loan debt you can't pay off because no one will hire you.

Because you don't have experience.

Am I the next best thing? No way.

Do I make mistakes? Definitely.

But dammit, I've got something to offer, and that something isn't a misspelled product or company name, am I right, Guy from [REDACTED] Markweting [sic]?

I'm so glad I went to college.

Rant over.

Happy Friday.

Nice display, but what if I wanted one?

2011-06-19T09:30:00.002-04:00

I went to Walmart last night after work near the stroke of midnight, despite being terrified of most of the people who are usually at Walmart near the stroke of midnight.

I'd normally post a picture here, but I'd just end up
stealing it from PeopleOfWalmart.com anyway, so just go there.

Call me a terrible son, but I needed to get my dad a Father's Day gift. You know what? I got something pretty kick-ass, and there was actually some thought behind it too, so suck it.

But while I was there, bleary-eyed and on my last nerve because of all the screaming children (seriously), I saw this display of styrofoam cooler things, red-tagged and clearanced, going for the insanely roll-backed price of two dollars and twenty-eight cents.

Holy fuck!
What a deal!

But the issue I had with said product was the display in which they were featured.

This setup started from the ground and reached (as you can see) almost to the lighting of the store. Looking around, there were no other ice bins on shelves or on display anywhere else.

So what the fuck is a man to do if he can't resist that great deal? What if I needed somewhere to put my beer and ice and more beer? How the hell would one even go about obtaining such an item?

So I said "fuck it" and pushed the whole damned thing down.

Pic of results not included. I was either running

away too fast to snap a picture or it never happened.

Your choice.

The place was a disaster, kids were screaming and their parents were yelling at them to "shut the fuck up," so, you know, business as usual at Midnight Walmart.

Samuel L. Jackson wants you to "Go the Fuck to Sleep."

2011-06-15T01:11:00.039-04:00

It's one in the morning. Why are you still awake?

Because fuck you, that's why.

Unless you're one of my Aussie readers (how the fuck are ya, Australia?!), in which case it's probably like five in the afternoon next Tuesday or something.

It's like you people live in the future.

But all the bugs and snakes and animals there are gigantic and skin-meltingly poisonous and they all want you dead.

So it's a trade-off, I guess.

But for those of you still awake, facing a bright monitor in a dark room waiting to answer your bed's call, I have a story that might help you if counting sheep isn't your thing.

It isn't mine. Communications majors don't math well.

So turn off the lights. Shut down the monitor but turn the speakers up. Samuel L. Jackson would like to read you a bedtime story.

More specifically, Go the Fuck to Sleep by Adam Mansbach.

Yes. It's a real book.

So click play, close your eyes, and for the love of God -- go the fuck to sleep.

Good night and sweet dreams.

>via reddit<

---

Still awake? Get your tweet on.

Turns out you might need a good hand-washing after visiting this blog.

2011-06-13T09:00:00.000-04:00

Have you ever wondered, on a scale of, I don't know, we'll say one to ten, exactly how clean or dirty, nice or naughty, tame, calm, vile or vulgar your blog is?

There were a lot of commas up there. Sorry about that.

No I'm not.

Now, while you might not be able to get an official rating on your blog for neither the aforementioned one to ten, nor G to NC-17, E to M, or, "Hey mom! Did you read my newest post?" to "I'm disowning you. Get the fuck out of my house." -- you can get yourself a very detailed rating using a scientific scale you might not be all-to-familiar with.

It's called green to red.

Mind: Blown.

Brought to you by the Clean Meter(TM), you can enter your URL into the necessary field and this device will almost instantly scan your homepage for anything that might have an adverse effect on your overall cleanliness based on variables such as Crude Anatomical References, Vulgarity, Sexual References and the like.

Before I post my results, I have to give props to the hilarious @Spud_Slinger over at My Own Private Idaho for bringing this to my attention. You can see his results here and here.

And now the moment you've all been waiting for (and probably won't be surprised to see) -- the Clean Meter(TM) results for Content Unrelated.

I'm sorry, mom.

After all this is said and done, I just really want to know what a Potential Sexual Reference is.

"Was that a dick joke?"

"I'm not sure. I thought a meat hammer was one of those big, spiky, metal mallets you'd use to tenderize different meats."

"We need more data. We should Urban Dictionary it."

"Urban Dictionary? Is it safe?"

"Hang on, let me check..."

"Sir, Urban Dictionary is a low-red. Proceed?"

"Best we didn't and err on the side of vulgarity. My computer suddenly erupting in flames isn't covered in the manufacturer's warranty. Can't be too careful."

---

What are your Clean Meter(TM) ratings? Can my non-existent children visit your blogs? Did entering your URL into the search bar crash the site?

And don't forget to tweet me your own Weiner jokes in response to my last Half-Assed installment ~~so I can strip all ownership from them and use them as my own material~~ for a post later this week.

I'll just leave this here.

2011-06-12T17:52:00.031-04:00

Source.

Pot, kettle, black?

"BAY'-nur." Yeah. Okay.

Last time I checked, Boeing wasn't pronounced BAY'ing.

Is it the h? Is that what gives it the long a sound?

Explain how this works.

Maybe I need to brush up on my phonics.

And while you're at it, I still have no idea how you people get FAR-ve out of FAVRE.

I'm not even convinced he knows.

Anyway. Carry on.

LOL. You said "Weiner."

2011-06-11T11:09:00.060-04:00

Welcome to the Half-Assed Weekend.

It's pretty self-explanatory. It's the weekend and you have shit you want to do that you didn't get to do all week.

I don't want to waste your time. Because ~~I don't really give a shit but I want to act like~~ I care.

So I'm going to half-ass it. Though one could argue that I half-ass most of my posts anyway.

Would that make this quarter-assed?

That doesn't roll off the tongue quite as nicely as a half an ass does.

Wait.

Ahem. Anyway, as before, this half-assed post is brought to you by the Simple Dude.

So when you get done here, make sure to click over to his blog. It's the right thing to do, people. For America.

So, Weinergate, y'all.

Some politician (who clearly has never heard of Brett Favre) sent crotch shots to some ladies on Twitter. Because it was a direct message, it's private, right?

RIGHT?!

Wrong, Weiner.

If you're in the public spotlight and you decide to pull some of this shit, you have to expect it to come right back around and kick you in the wiener. Again, Brett Favre knows. Tiger Woods knows. John Edwards knows. And, most recently, Arnold Schwarznegnentnendjsger knows.

"Schwarznegnentnendjsger." Nailed it.

The best part about this particular incident, obviously, is the dude's unfortunate last name. I've seen some pretty hilarious tweets with Weiner-related puns, but, as it turns out, some of the best ones are coming from people who aren't even trying to be funny.

I found this on Yahoo! yesterday. I'm still cleaning off my monitor from the half-chewed food I spat on it while in the middle of a crippling laughing fit.

That was probably an awkward interview. Especially if the officer was hot.

What are some of your best Weiner-related jokes? Did you already write some? Tweet them to me or comment here and I'll throw a few of them in a post later this week.

I'm so cool.

Now go out and play. It's fucking gorgeous out.

People'll watch anything these days.

2011-06-10T08:20:00.062-04:00

Apparently even if it means watching a bunch of strung-out 3-year-olds.

In yet another installment of me taking things way too fucking literally -- to a point of being hilariously stupid -- I was channel-surfing the other day when I came across this extremely questionable material.

GIVE THEM MORE RITALIN.

An entire channel dedicated to pre-school children overdosing? What is this world coming to?

You should see the series lineup for this station. It's hilarious.

Toddler Intervention
--Parents of troubled 2-year-olds are at their wits' end as their children spiral further down the tubes of soda, sugar addictions. By bringing the professional help of Dr. Johnson, parents hope to finally curb their children's addictions once and for all. Probably with drugs.

Youth Hoarding
--Piles of dinosaur T-shirts, a mangled pile of broken and twisted Transformers and stacks upon stacks of Pokemon cards clutter Jimmy's bedroom, leaving only a small area for his race car bed. If he doesn't have it clean by supper his mom's going to lose her shit. After days of trying to get him to clean the mess himself, his parents have decided to resort to professional help. And probably drugs.

Toddlers & Tiaras
--Syndicated from TLC. Fuck this show. Makes me want to do drugs.

Happy Friday, y'all. I'm gonna go watch some drugged-up shit-machines for four hours. What are your plans? You know, besides following me on Facebook and Twitter.

Finally, a product that doesn't beat around the bush.

2011-06-07T16:37:00.058-04:00

It eliminates the bush!

Zing.

You ever find something with a weird name or box or label at the store and you wonder to yourself, you say, "Self? What in the H-E-double-fuck is that?"

Except you didn't say it to yourself.

You said it out loud.

Now people are staring. Turning their kids away.

To hell with 'em! You're balls-deep in this sea of obscure, vague, useless, off-brand shit. But you know what? Sometimes you find a little treasure. A diamond in the rough. A needle in a haystack.

Corn in the shit.

You know,

Something.

I did. It's a dermatologically tested, natural gel for hair removal. Now, having extremely negative experiences with rubbing gels on my man-bits when I was a kid (I'm looking at you, Icy/Hot), the first thing I ask myself is, is it safe for my... oh... well I suppose it must be.

Then I do my research, and it seems to me that their Web site (appropriately addressed "www.nads.com," ugh, I'm going to have to delete my history after this) has hair removal products for every part of the body except the twig and berries.

Unless your little buddy is the muscle they're referencing that you'd want to show off, but at that point I think you'd be required to be on some kind of list or something.

But if you have hair elsewhere you want gone, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to give them a try.

Nads people, if you're reading this, you're welcome.

---

If you like me that much, prove it! Click that button on Facebook.

Or you can follow my bullshit (and why wouldn't you want to?) on Twitter.

Click something.

Plant, Zombie war comes to Android.

2011-05-31T10:08:00.000-04:00

Own an Android phone? Are you cheap?

Sweet.

Because the Amazon Appstore is offering Plants vs. Zombies as their free app of the day.

I figured I'd download it and see what all the hype is about. I mean, I know some people who have iPhones who regularly tell me I'm less of a human being because I don't have an iPhone/don't have Plants vs. Zombies because I don't have an iPhone.

I haven't played the actual game yet. I'll get to that later.

Before I even downloaded it, though, I took a gander at the list of permissions the game itself requires of my phone, you know, what it needs to do to my phone in order to operate. I'd like to think I wouldn't unknowingly give an app permission to like, take over my SMS system and systematically burn all my bridges by telling everyone to fuck off via text.

None of that was on the list; but let me tell you, guys, I had no idea how exciting this game could be.

Dare I say, orgasmic?

So much for casual gameplay on the city bus or the local coffee shop. Might get arrested.

They DO exist!

2011-05-26T16:16:00.001-04:00

I'm not a huge fan of animals. I'll go ahead and put that out there.

If it has more than four legs or less than two, it either gets violently and repeatedly bludgeoned with a shoe or I'll just flat-out run away screaming like a little bitch.

As far as things with four legs are concerned? If it doesn't make a good steak, fetch me beer from the fridge or sniff out a life-threatening infection and take care of it while I'm asleep -- it can go to hell.

Like salamanders. Creepy little bastards. Had one jump from the screen door to my neck once and you know what? Fuck everything about that.

The good news is, there are wonderful tools out there to help children learn about the different animals we share the planet with. All the real-life creatures you'd ever want to know about can be read about in books! Just take a look at this small but expansive selection and you'll see what I mean.

Dinosaurs! Dolphins! Sharks!

Whales! Wookiees! Snakes! Puppies!

See? All kinds of--

Wait.

Go back.

Did I see what I think I...

Yep. There it is.

Right there with all the very real things that exist(ed), is a book about Wookiees. Maybe the author knows something I don't. Maybe they do exist. But what is there really to say about Wookiees, anyway? The only real, necessary section in that book would be something like, Winning, and Why You Should Let Them.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm trying to find a book on how to properly raise my gremlin. For some reason, the little asshole goes batshit crazy when I give him a bath; tearing up the furniture, breaking plates, killing the neighbors --

But he's just so adorable otherwise.

Apocalypse, now? No, now! No... NOW! No... Uhhh...

2011-05-24T00:55:00.000-04:00

Doomsdayer Harold Camping had us all on edge this weekend, warning that 200 million people would be chosen by God to get front row seats to the five months of earthquakes, scorpions and scores of dead bodies leading up to the Apocalypse, during which the entire planet would be consumed by fire.

Clearly, none of that ended up happening. In fact, more happened during M. Night Shyamalan's The Happening, and pretty much nothing happened then, either.

With May 21st coming and going with the drunken blur that comes and goes with most Saturdays, we were left to laugh it off and await the next at-bat for the End of Days: December 21st, 2012.

But wait a minute.

A wild statement appears!

"...Camping said that he's now realized the apocalypse will come five months after May 21, the original date he predicted. He had earlier said Oct. 21 was when the globe would be consumed by a fireball.

Saturday was 'an invisible judgment day' in which a spiritual judgment took place, he said."

Source.

An "invisible judgement day"?

I'm going to try this.

The next time someone asks me to pick them up from somewhere, I'm going to agree on a specific day and time in which the picking up will occur.

When they call me four hours later, spitting through the phone and wishing I had herpes of the eye, I'll tell them I was there, but that I was invisible.

They'll totally get it.

But, in light of this new information, I've been forced to revise the picture from my last post-end of days post.

Can't wait to do this again in ~~2012~~ October. Have a great ~~Sunday~~ Tuesday, guys.

Ugh.

I mean, he's right.

2011-05-23T18:38:00.000-04:00

Can't argue with that.

And the beat goes on.

2011-05-22T16:19:00.002-04:00

Did everyone enjoy their Saturday?

Did you have to fight off any zombies? Any floating people? Some people attached balloons to blow-up dolls and sent them soaring.

Seriously. When I find the link to the story I'll edit this post accordingly.

I didn't have much to contribute to the hilarity of our latest Apocalyptic scare, except for maybe 10 or 15 tweets -- one of which, and pardon me for tooting the shit out of my own horn, was RT'd by Taco Bell.

Pretty much made my day, guys.

So anyway, aside from that, I didn't have much to put on the table. So I got home from work, drew a picture and scanned it in -- just for you!

(Figure source)

Can't wait to do this again in 2012. Have a great Sunday, guys.

Pet application.

2011-05-16T00:30:00.000-04:00

Looking for apartments is a pain in the ass.

A huge, royal, stinking, festering pain in the ass.

Luckily, life still manages to throw little nuances here and there that make it a little more enjoyable, if even for a few fleeting moments of laughing hysterically at my computer, wondering what kind of questions the leasing agent is going to ask my dog, and how exactly they're going to communicate those questions to him.

Will it be one-on-one?

Mano y perro?

Will it be a verbal interview or a written one?

Will the apartment complex be an equal opportunity complex and accept all dogs?

Will they be breedcist?

All I know is, the tests couldn't be administered by Dog Whisperer Cesar Millan. Every time the pooch would try to answer, the poor bastard would be cut off mid-woof by a pinch to the neck and a "tssst!"

I can only imagine the type of questions that would appear on a questionnaire for a dog.

---

SEX (CHECK ONE): MALE_____ BITCH_____
FIXED? (CHECK ONE): YES_____ NO_____
AVERAGE WEEKLY ASSES SNIFFED: _____
AVERAGE WEEKLY OBJECTS VIOLATED (HUMPED): _____
PEOPLE BITTEN: _____
ONES WHO DESERVED IT: _____
MAILMEN: _____
LITTLE KIDS: _____
OWNER'S IN-LAWS: _____
ONES WHO DIDN'T: _____
CARS CHASED: _____
CARS ACTUALLY CAUGHT: _____
NUMBER OF TIMES YOU'VE CHASED YOUR TAIL: _____
NUMBER OF TIMES YOU'VE ACTUALLY CAUGHT IT: _____
(If zero, why the fuck do you keep doing it?!)
EVER SHIT IN THE HOUSE? (CHECK ONE): YES_____ NO_____
(If no, good dog! Very good dog!)

---

I don't know, man.

Guys. I think I struck it big.

2011-04-22T21:14:00.001-04:00

I love my spam folder.

Full of shady job opportunities and grammatically-challenged people who want nothing more than to send me all their money because they apparently think the American dollar isn't worth one single solitary shit.

It seems like everyone from everywhere wants me to have their entire fortune, and I have to "act fast," "send informationings to me," because "we not will have no more of these moneys in seven day so completing of my request very urgent is important."

Fuck. I better get on this! I'm certainly not making any cash doing this. Might as well see what kind of instant fortune I'm getting myself into.

Here's an excerpt from the latest:

Oh, I have to share it?

With, what's that? Other email users?

Well that's okay, I don't mind sharing. We could all use a little monetary pick-me-up.

Let me just do a little research, first. Exactly how many other email users will I have to split this cool 10.5 million bucks with?

Source.

According to this, it looks like I have to split 10.5 million dollars with only like, two billion people.

So, with that in mind, let's see, here...

Well, shit. It's been fun, guys, but retirement is calling.

How are you going to spend your half a penny?

More short and sweet.

2011-04-20T02:15:00.000-04:00

Because I really like writing Haikus, guys.

I can write, like, a hundred words total and pass it off as a legitimate post. It works well because of how completely and utterly lazy I am.

Whatever. If I got paid per word you people would have to sift through a novel every other day.

Until then, you get Haikus.

And I get unemployment.

Oh, relax. I work.

The system.

With that, I give you more short and sweet.

---

Woke up late for work.
Skip shower? Skip breakfast? Nah.
Fuck all that. Skip work.

---

I have a question.
If there were Hump Day parties,
Would everyone come?

---

While eating a pear,
I had quite a scare. Oh, these
Aren't supposed to rhyme.

---

Filled my gas tank, then
Took wallet out back, put 'er
Down like Old Yeller.

---

Why do we call them
Wisdom Teeth when the bastards
Can't grow the right way?

---

Afraid of zombies?
Don't worry. Not enough brains
Here for them to last.

---

Hope this was enough to get you people through the wretched hump that is Wednesday. For my other five/seven/five trainwrecks, go here.

"H" is for "Hangover."

2011-04-18T08:54:00.001-04:00

Hi, guys.

It's yet another Monday, as you might've already been made painfully aware by your alarm swearing at you in a series of beeps and buzzes way earlier than it did Saturday or Sunday.

But Saturday and Sunday hath forsaken you.

You're The Man's bitch, now.

So here you are, waiting for your breakfast Hot Pockets to finish plotting their assault on your gastrointestinal tract. Clutching the coffee mug with both hands, shaking like a scared chihuahua from lack of sleep, body recovering from a weekend full of bad decisions.

You don't have to worry about pissing yourself like the aforementioned tiny dog, though.

You did that over the weekend.

Allegedly.

You swore up and down you weren't going to drink that much last night, too. On a work night? "Fuck that," you said definitively, "I have to work early tomorrow and dammit, I'm going to be responsible this time!"

"Besides, who the fuck parties on a Sunday night?"

And then one of your friends was all, "I brought Tequila," and then someone else was all, "There's a bathtub! With a keg in it!"

With that, today's post is brought to you by the letter H.

Some fun words that start with the letter H are house, herpes, heart, hour, horse, hair, whore (work with me, guys), and the topic of today's blog -- hangover.

Can you say "hangover"?

If you aren't familiar with the term, please turn your attention for a moment to Professor Jack Black.

Dewey Finn: Okay here's the deal. I have a hangover. Who knows what that means?
Frankie: Doesn't that mean you're drunk?
Dewey: No. It means I was drunk yesterday.

A night of casual drinking can quickly escalate into something much less entertaining for you (but equally more entertaining for those around you).

Before you know it, you've reached a level somewhere between Doing Something Mildly Embarrassing to I Can Never Show My Face Around These People Ever, Ever Again.

It's all very scientific.

But, should you make it through the night without puking yourself inside-out, professing your love to the couch or humping a lamp, you're more than likely going to fight your battle in the morning.

When the sun makes its presence known through the vomit-streaked blinds, the last words you remember saying the night before play over and over in your head.

"Whatever, I'm not even that drunk."

You take note of the position you've woken up in and try to figure out how the fuck you managed to sleep like that in the first place. Somehow, you fell asleep with half your body on your friend's coffee table and one leg shoved underneath the cushions of the couch. The rest of your limbs resting at seemingly impossible angles.

Open your eyes.

This lasts all of five seconds, any normally tolerable amount of sunlight is amplified to the point of force-closing your eyes like a bad Android app.

You close your eyeholes as quickly as you can, but the damage is done. Your head is five shades of pissed. Every vein starts to throb uncontrollably. Brain melting, seeping through every orifice. Your eyes could explode from your skull at any moment.

Carefully repositioning your body from the aftermath of the unintentional game of drunk Twister you were apparently playing on the coffee table and couch right before you passed out, you start to notice some aches and pains you don't recall having the night before. They could be from the contortionist-style way in which you slept, but their origin is most likely from tripping and falling over the aforementioned coffee table that you swore each and every time "totally wasn't even fucking there before."

Headache in full swing, you stand and take your first steps, unsteadily making your way to the bathroom because you've had to take a piss for what feels in your bladder like an eternity. Catching a glimpse of the clock, you hate yourself even more because you have to work in an hour, and at this point you aren't really sure where your keys are.

Or your pants.

Aside from the headache, you feel a churning in the pit of your stomach. Something is brewing. Something unholy. The slightest smell or sudden movement has the potential to make you go all The Exorcist on everything within a 10 mile radius.

Trying to shake it off, you open the bathroom door to find no less than three people passed out on the tile. Some girl ripped the shower curtain down and is now using it as a makeshift blanket in her bathtub bed. She said she liked your shirt six different times last night.

You'll pee when you get to work, you decide. Finally finding your car keys -- which were in your pants, which were on someone else's head (what happened last night?) -- you open the front door and go outside.

How's that sunlight and fresh air treating you?

After the initial shock to your senses, you get in your car and head to work. You still have Friday's clothes in your back seat so you'll just change in your car when you get there.

Looks like it's all going to work out. Another epic weekend for the books, as far as you can remember. Just have to make it through the day so you can spend the rest of the night recuperating.

Just a few hours.

Thinking about the time you shared with friends and strangers last night, you're happy your dignity didn't end up on the bathroom floor. You totally won beer pong, too. You were the champ and everybody fucking loved you. Remember that?

Then, five minutes from work, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the rearview mirror.

In the small mirror, you try to make sense of what you saw. Black streaks above your eyes? What the hell is... is that -- is that what you think it is? Can't be. No way. No one does that anymore.

Yup.

Some motherfucker drew a dick across your forehead with a Sharpie.

Happy Monday.

Oh, and even though it should go without saying, please drink responsibly. I kinda like you guys.

"...and then I almost died. It. Was. HYSTERICAL."

2011-04-11T15:34:00.000-04:00

Wouldn't you hate to be the guy who has to type in all the synopses and show titles for all the channels on the digital cable and satellite networks?

Seems like it'd get tot be pretty repetitive after awhile. Monotonous.

Really, really boring.

Some guy just mentioning the idea of it was actually the real culprit behind the two minute, seventeen second blackout in Flash Forward.

Dick.

So I wonder if Guy Whose Job It Is To Write Those Damned Synopses likes to have fun with it every so often.

Channel: CBS12
Date: 4/11/11
Time: 9:00 - 9:30 PM
Program: Two and a Half Men
Info: LOLJK. Shit's canceled, bitches!

I mean, why not? Screwing with people is the foundation for not having a totally and completely miserable job.

So the other day when I was scrolling through the digital guide on the TV, something caught my eye. A tale of survival. Beating the odds. Death-defying. A story about second chances, new leases on life. Hilarity.

Hilarity? Near-death experiences aren't usually funny, are they?

Answer: Apparently.

Let's take a closer look at the side-splitting details.

Falling off a kayak? Classic!

Hearing the tormented screams of the eternally damned? FOUR STARS.

Be right back. Gonna go play in traffic. It's going to be a fucking riot.

Kind of difficult to NOT notice, I guess.

2011-04-07T09:00:00.000-04:00

Have you seen Twitter's you people need to get a life and stop tweeting so goddamn much because it's crashing the site notice lately?

If you have, you're probably one of those people.

Guilty.

If you haven't, here's what you're missing:

Also, what does 'outside' look like?

Nothing special.

The part that gets me, though, is the 'Thanks for noticing."

Thanks for noticing?

Seriously?

What choice did I have? You hijacked the whole damn page, you and your broke-ass robot.

Guess I'll just do what everyone else does when Twitter crashes. Bitch about it on Facebook.

There's a really bright light shining in through my window. I might have to see what the hell that's all about.

I know, Nic Cage; I'm scared, too.

"And if my day keeps going this way I just might...

2011-04-06T12:00:00.002-04:00

... ask the people behind the meat counter to break stuff for me."

You ever walk through the grocery store and just imagine yourself, I don't know, sticking your arm straight out to your side, running down the aisles and knocking everything off the shelves in the process?

Bringing a baseball bat and going to town on the wines?

Throwing cans, shattering bottles, pushing a loaded shopping cart into a cereal box pyramid?

How about pushing down the one row of shelves at the end of the store, creating a domino effect that knocks down every row of shelves in the entire place?

Grocerocalypse.

How about that?

You lunatic.

No one should allow you in a grocery store.

But seriously. Your local supermarket employees are apparently more than willing to help you all but burn the place to the fucking ground.

Now, I know what they're really trying to convey, here. If you find a gigantic package of chicken legs you want less from and you're too lazy to look for a smaller package, the dudes behind the meat country will tear that shit open and re-package your whiny ass a smaller amount.

But I desperately fought the urge to ask the stock boy if he wanted to help me smash 12-packs of soda on the ground to see how many cans we could explode at one time.

Short and sweet.

2011-04-04T09:58:00.000-04:00

It's Monday, and God knows none of you want to go back to work -- if in fact you consider whatever it is you do to be work at all.

You have enough on your plate; juggling time with Angry Birds, checking Twitter every five fucking minutes and getting all that nonsensical shit moved from your in pile to your out pile.

I know, frog.

So I won't burden you with paragraphs upon paragraphs of mind-blowing, life-changing epiphanies that would surely take the rest of your life for the supposed 10 percent of the brain you use to even begin to comprehend.

I won't do that.

So I'll keep it short and sweet, as the title suggests.

I've decided to take a different approach with this post than what I'm used to. I've been a big fan of Haikus for a long time and I thought now would be a good time to share some of my own with you guys.

For those of you who plan your entire day around when to check my Twitter, you might recognize some of these, as I put a few of them there during my hiatus -- so deal with it.

So if you'll indulge me, here are some of my five-seven-fives.

---

Looking for a job
Experience trumps degree
College was bullshit

---

Looked up, clear blue sky
Then, wetness. No clouds. Not rain.
Bird shit in my eye.

---

Having friends over
Release silent-but-deadly
No dog, blame the wife.

---
That guy cut me off
Honk my horn? Give him finger?
Ran him into tree.

---

Emailed resume
Never heard from company
Must've read my blog.

---

Reply to someone
Realize they're on their Bluetooth
Trip them, feel better.

---

At the store. I'm drunk.
People are staring. Laughing.
Oh, shit. Forgot pants.

---

This is the last one.
Stop reading. Get your shit done.
Your boss is watching.

My mind, infinitely in the gutter -- part two.

2011-04-02T01:38:00.002-04:00

Welcome to the second part in a continuing series that will have, I'm sure, a lot of parts.

I don't have any forthcoming ones planned out, of course.

That would be stupid.

Instead, I fully intend on making shit up as I go along and hope for the best.

Worked for them.

So, here we are. You're sitting on the other side of the Internet, reading. Waiting for me to get to the point. To cut to the chase. To somethingthing to the somethingsomething.

I don't know. Whatever your catchphrase of choice.

You ever walk through a store and come across a product that sort of makes your brain shrivel up and regress to the sense of humor of a 12-year-old? You start laughing to yourself, letting a few audible chuckles slip through the cracks of your lips. Maybe you're alone. Maybe people in your immediate surroundings start to back away slowly. Maybe parents hide their kids. Maybe the head cashier's hand wraps around the interstore walkie, ready to radio the fuck out of security to escort "that goddamn lunatic on aisle five" out of the building.

Don't ask.

Thankfully, the last two times I ran into this situation I wasn't alone. Though I can't speak for certain that those with me didn't want to get themselves escorted the hell away from me while I whipped it out (my phone) to snap the shot that would later make it to this page.

First up we have Hot Nuts -- the dirty joke in a bag.

These hot nuts are not the same as the ones you got when your friend told you how awesome it was to rub IcyHot on your testicles in the sixth grade.

Don't. Ask.

I didn't get a picture of it, but there was a disclaimer on the bag.

"DISCLAIMER: Contrary to what you might think, having a bag of these in-hand will not help if you ask that girl you like if she wants some of your hot nuts. HOT NUTS is not responsible for knee-to-testicle contact."

Let's see. What's next?

You still hungry? Hell yeah you're still hungry! But what to eat? You're tired of the same old bullshit recipe. You're out of ramen noodles. That cookbook grandma gave you has thirty different meatloaf recipes and dammit if you aren't sick of meatloaf.

You can't explain it, but your mouth waters for something spherical. Maybe bite-sized. Maybe stuffed or covered with cheese. Where on Earth could you find such deliciousness?!

Problem fucking solved.

I didn't have to flip through the book to know there are probably three different recipes for Rocky Mountain oysters.

And, if in the event you screwed up the cooking instructions and your friends are all, "These aren't very good at all, honestly," You could just be like, "Eat my balls!"

Making them eat your ill-prepared dinner and telling them off at the same time?

I believe Charlie Sheen refers to that as winning.

Failbruary and March (un)Madness.

2011-03-30T13:20:00.002-04:00

My immediate surroundings upon waking were a bright white. Almost blinding. The color of a blank blog post staring back at me.

Waiting.

I glanced at my watch for a time. A date. Some sort of clue as to how long I'd been out.

Almost eight weeks in an Internet coma. Shit.

Blinking and rubbing my eyes (and one out, it'd been eight weeks, after all), my surroundings finally came into focus. I shakily got up from the fetal position in which I'd presumably been for the duration of time in which I was out.

I smelled something. Rancid.

Did I shit myself?

Upon further investigation, I had indeed shat myself.

Don't tell anyone.

Gaining more of my senses, I realize it's been too long since I've written anything useless. I begin scouring the Interwebz for shit I missed the opportunity to mention here. Shit I could post for my readers to enjoy and also make fun of.

Charlie Sheen went batshit crazy. He said something about winning and having tiger blood in him. Though with all the porn stars he's slept with, I wish he'd clarify if it was the blood of a tiger, or the blood of Tiger Woods.

And then he called his boss an imp or something. I don't know. Whatever he did, he got his show fucking cancelled.

Zing.

People put too much focus on his shenanigans. Stars act like douches all the time. You're going to give the MaSheen MaShit for it? I mean, at the end of the day. he's just acting in real life how he's been paid to act every week for eight years.

Get over it, y'all. There are real things happening that require more attention than a warlock.

Let's see. What else?

Oh! Chris Brown broke a window at Good Morning America. I guess he got mad at Robin Roberts for doing her fucking job and asking him questions about sensitive things. Like beating up Rihanna.

Let it go, dude. People are going to ask you about it. All the time. I didn't even know who you were until then.

Take a page out of Kanye's book. He interrupted Taylor Swift a couple years ago and pissed a bunch of people off. What did he do? He released a Rolling Stone-rated five-star album. That's what.

And, speaking of music.

(I'm so sorry)

Fun fun FUN ~~FUCK~~ FUN.

You know what this reminds me of? You ever watch How I Met Your Mother? You know who Robin Sparkles is? You want me to stop asking you so many fucking questions?

Ugh. We have such terrible taste in music. At least Sparkles isn't real.

Finally; a cobra at the Bronx Zoo took a page out of Prison Break's book and got the hell out of dodge, all but completely disappearing from existence a few days ago.

If you need to get a hold of him, he's on Twitter like apparently every one else. Even squirrels are on Twitter now.

---

So that's it. That's all I've got for you right now. Really sorry for my absence. I had matters of outer-Internet importance to take care of. But all is well, now.

I will return to my usual nonsense, within the next day or so, starting with a post about balls, as I tend to do after long periods of inactivity.

Looks legit.

2011-02-11T18:38:00.002-05:00

As you all know, I've been in the hunt for a job for some time, now.

My resume's been posted online with several job-searching sites, companies and corporate sites.

CareerBuilder focuses on my past instead of my future, which makes about as much sense as a fifth Scary Movie.

STOP IT.

I get job alerts from CareerBuilder probably once every, oh I don't know, three minutes, letting me know of all the great jobs in the area that match my previous experience, and that don't at all match the specifications of my actual four-year degree.

Monster, on the other hand, doesn't focus on shit. You know how many jobs Monster thinks I'm qualified for? Like, three. When I posted my resume and qualifications, I got one e-mail. One. No words. They sent me a picture.

And in every interview I've been on as a result of craigslist, I've been asked 12 times to remove my pants, and another six times to "put on one of these masks."

Four of those times, I was asked to do both.

In my time with these job sites, I've gotten more spam than aisle four of a Walmart, as much bitterness as a Sopranos fan after the finale and as much faith in the system as pretty much anyone else who tried to use the system.

CareerBuilder, Monster -- it's with a heavy heart (not because I'm sad, because I'm fat) that I am removing myself from your respective sites.

Here. You can have all the e-mails back that I got sent as a result of being a member as a consolation.

Looks legit.

Sick days.

2011-02-06T18:02:00.000-05:00

Sleep with the testicles of three black sheep under your chin.

Consume four pounds of deep-fried belly button lint.

Rub extracted squid ink on your uvula.

Drink goat's milk while urinating on a gecko.

"Uh, yeah. About that."

There are some pretty wild cold remedies out there, guys. Fortunately, the ones listed above aren't.

Though, deep-fried lint. Can't be that bad.

I decided to fight through my feverish delusions and self-medication to give you something to read this weekend. I've been holed up for three days with a temperature that matches the classic rock stations found on your typical FM radio.

"I'm hot-blooded, check it and see..."

Though, I will say, if I have this disgusting cough for a couple more days I'm going to have fucking abs of steel.

Fuckin' bronchitis, y'all!

ProTip: If your significant other tells you last week that you should probably go to the doctor, you might want to consider it. Just sayin'.

Until next time, folks.

Now, where did I leave those black sheep testicles...

Things that Suck #21

2011-01-31T19:13:00.001-05:00

It's been a little over six months since the last Things that Suck post.

But I didn't need to tell you that. I know you've been keeping track. Obsessively. You had it marked on your calendar.

There are notches on the tree outside your house. Tally marks representing each day that has passed since the last one.

You couldn't eat. You couldn't sleep. Your sex life started to suffer.

That's really sad.

Could've fixed all that shit with a cheeseburger, some Ambien and a Viagra.

But if you aren't into red meat or self-medicating, ~~why are you even fucking here?~~ then I've got your fix.

1. That car with the bright lights.

It's nighttime. You're driving home from, uh, where ever it is you drive home from at night. You're on a street that's generally well-lit, and tonight isn't any exception. As dark as it is, you have relatively no trouble finding your way home.

And then something catches your eye.

You get quick glimpse of it in your rear view mirror, but that's all it takes. All the sudden your entire world turns to corneal-burning shit. Like someone came up to you in a pitch black room and decided to take your picture a thousand times with the flash on.

For a few seconds, your scorched retinas lead you to believe a fucking nuclear bomb was set off behind you.

When the glare goes away and you come to the realization that nothing around you has been completely vaporized by an atomic bomb, your eyes adjust and you find the source of your visual agony. Some asshat is driving behind you, and he's got his bright lights on for no apparent reason but to visually impair you enough to send you careening into a ditch.

All the time, you guys. All the time.

I don't understand it. The street already has lights, and other cars on it which also have lights. If for whatever reason you need your brights on every second of your drive, get the fuck out from behind me. There's a left lane. Use it. Pass me.

And if you're coming from the opposite direction. Facing me. With your stupid lights set to bright. If I flash you, I am asking you in car language to turn that shit off right the fuck now.

I am not saying hello.

I do not want to communicate with you in more words than it takes to tell you to turn off your brights.

2. Chip settlement.

You ever buy potato chips? If you use the Internet on a regular basis and you answered "no," you're a damn liar. We all buy chips. I like to buy the big family size bags even though I'm the only one who eats them because I have absolutely no shame.

You prepare yourself for the family-sized chipgasm that's about to commence upon opening the bag. Your ass is firmly planted on the couch. You're ready for some fucking Law & Order.

You tear into the thin barrier between you and those delicious empty calories, and are almost depressed to tears when you have to pass half a bag of empty space to even reach the first chip.

Excuse me? Where is the other half of my chips? This bag led me to believe it was full, but instead is half empty on the inside.

And now you're all empty.

On the inside.

Literally and figuratively.

Serves you right, though. You shouldn't be eating that shit anyway.

It's good to know I'm not the only one who feels this way, either.

Live at Gotham

Michael Palascak - Chips

www.comedycentral.com

Tosh.0

Funny Jokes

The Comedy Awards

3. BUFFERING.

My girlfriend and I recently discovered the magic of Netflix and instant streaming. For five years I've heard people talk about Dexter-this and Dexter-that, so we decided to start watching because we could do it instantly via Netflix.

We've been able to get through a few episodes and we love the show. We especially love when shit starts to get really, really good and the episode begins to reach its climax.

And this happens.

Once, it happened five times during an episode. Five times!

The amazing thing isn't our abilities to instantly watch almost anything we want to watch. What's really amazing is how instantly I can go batshit insane when one minute I'm eating my half-empty chips and watching Dexter, and the next minute I'm swearing more at the TV than I do during the NFL Playoffs.

---

There you have it, children. If you need even more of a fix, hop on over to the Things that Suck archives here.

Don't forget to follow the suck on Twitter and Facebook.

Wait. You've seen Jurassic Park, right?

2011-01-27T11:10:00.000-05:00

In more why-the-hell-are-you-wasting-time-and-money-on-this news.

Japanese researchers plan to resurrect the mammoth in five years.

The Woolly Mammoth.

Woolly. Fucking. Mammoth.

This is huge.

Pun intended.

So, why bring to life a big, hairy elephant? Must be trying to find a cure for some terrible disease or something.

"After the mammoth is born, we will examine its ecology and genes to study why the species became extinct and other factors." source

Oh.

So, hold on a minute. If I'm following this correctly, you want to bring something back to life just to find out what killed it?

And then what? You kill it again?

That's mean, guys.

Can't this sort of information be discovered based on the preserved cells you already have? What difference is bringing it back going to make? You going to ask it what happened?

"Sup, Dumbo. So one day you were all, you know, alive or whatever; then you like, went all extinct, or something. Tell me about that."

You went Jurassic Park on me for this?

Just don't interrogate the poor bastard for too long, I hear they can't take the heat.

Zing.

There is no cord: A half-assed post.

2011-01-23T00:44:00.002-05:00

Welcome to the half-assed weekend.

Brought to you by the Simple Dude, the half-assed weekend post is pretty self-explanatory.

It's the weekend, so you're doing other things. You're drinking. You're watching football. You're drinking and watching football.

Doing. Other. Things.

You're visiting family. I don't know. It isn't my business.

So let's get on with it. I've got beer to drink.

And football to watch.

---

Valentine's Day is coming up, you guys. Yeah, I know, Christmas was like, three days ago. But Hallmark doesn't give a shit how much you put on your credit cards for your significant other during the holidays.

There's a big-ass teddy bear you need to buy. It's holding a fluffy heart. It's adorable. Buy it or sleep on the fucking couch.

I'm holding a fluffy heart. I'm adorable. Buy me or sleep on the fucking couch.

Thankfully, if you're totally out of ideas, there's an article on Yahoo! with some ways to say "I love you."

I'm not going to re-hash the whole thing here. This is supposed to be half-assed, if you recall. But I would like to point out way number two.

Source.

That's cute. Tie the flowers together with something meaningful. Rope, a scarf, a charm bracelet. Wait. What was that last one?

Great. Now I need a second article about how to tie something together with a cord that doesn't exist.

Enjoy your weekend.

Google Has Led You Astray #6

2011-01-19T02:00:00.000-05:00

In these posts, I explore the search terms people used when they were mistakenly directed to my blog and its contents -- proving once again that not all surprises are nice surprises.

The Internet has a habit of giving you things you never thought you wanted.

Like that time you got herpes from a prostitute.

Surprise!

So every-so-often I come here and compile my favorites. Because the Internet is full of weird shit, and the world is full of people who search for it.

1. "pee."
That's it? Just "pee"? I don't know what's more worrisome to me -- that you used Google to search only for pee; or, when searching for pee, it brought you here.

What exactly were you trying to accomplish, Peeperson? Did you need to know where it comes from?

Are you trying to buy pee?

Is there, like, a peepee black market or something?

"Aye, man. You want piss? We got piss. Expert-tested, Gold Standard piss. Name your price."

If there was a urine-selling Web site out there somewhere, I'd like to think it'd be called peeBay.

The really terrible thing is that I had to search for pee just to bring you this picture. Fuck you, Internet. You win again.

2. "stupid duck stuff."
Ducks are getting a bad reputation because of the countless Facebook photos of girls who, for whatever reason, try in an increasingly desperate manner to look like ducks.

So to the Google Searcher who used the above query -- stop. Ducks don't need any more shit than they've already gotten, okay?

"Don't. Ruin this. For me."

3. "I think shitstained underwear on guys is hot."
Wow. Just. Wow. Rare that I can't find words for something; but you got me, Google Searcher. Props to you.

I just, I mean -- I just want to know what it was you were trying to accomplish with this particular search. Were you looking to connect with other people who get off on guys who can't properly wipe their asses? What's after shit-stained underwear? "Dudes who have pieces of toilet paper left behind in their cracks really get me going"?

"But dad! The chicks dig it!"

This is the part where I re-evaluate the tags I'm using for my posts.

---

As always, there are plenty more where these came from. As long as people keep searching for weird shit and finding Content Unrelated instead (suckers!), I'll have fuel for this fire.

Thanks again, Internet.

For more Google shenanigans, check out the Google Has Led You Astray archives.

Don't forget, you can follow the bullshit 140 characters at a time on Twitter. Or, you can get your "like" on with Facebook. And, since there is no shortage of simple ways to show your friends the kind of stupid shit you read, I added share buttons next to the comment link. You should use them. Really.

You could even make things even easier on yourself by clicking "Follow" above.

Awards Season.

2011-01-18T03:22:00.005-05:00

I've been a slack-ass piece of shit recently.

Bruce (and the evil twin) over at Just Another Day in Paradise and Stupid Stuff I See and Hear (respectively), and J. Day at Ramblings of Charlie Brown bestowed upon me the LIFE IS GOOD award.

It looks like this.

I haven't taken the time necessary to accept and thank these two (three?) people for thinking enough of my blog to make mention of it with an award.

So, you know.

Thanks.

Apparently there's more to accepting this award than copying this JPEG and reposting it here. There are rules.

IT'S THE RULES.

Apparently there are questions I have an answer. And since it's nearing three in the morning and I'm getting dangerously close to FUCK! on the x-axis, I'm going to put those off for now.

Let's be honest, it'll probably never happen. I'm lazy. We've discussed this.

For what it's worth though, my favorite summer drink is Newcastle.

But, so as to not come off as a complete slack-off, here's a random-generated one from the Edit Profile function on Blogger that I answered for you!

---

Random Question:
You've successfully slain the dragon! How will you toast your marshmallows?

While the dragon lay on the ground paralyzed from my kick-ass ass-kickery, I'll search the nearby woods for a large stick to which I will set fire. Not with a match or sorcery, but with the dragon's own fire-breath.

His last breath.

Stick in-hand, now aflame with dragonfire, I grab that piece of shit by the tail and drag his ass to a clearing, and then I set him on fucking fire.

With his own fire.

It's so incredibly ironic I literally piss myself with excitement.

Then I put on my sunglasses and say something cool like, "You just got burned."

YEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!

I grab a smaller stick, impale a marshmallow and hold it over my new fire.

---

What I will do in accordance with the LIFE IS GOOD rules is pass it on to a few other bloggers, like these!

Hed Above Water
The Didactic Pirate
The Badass Geek
The Ranter's Box
Seriously??... Reeeally?..... Seriously?

Check out these blogs along with those mentioned up top. If you don't, you're only hurting yourself.

Your life is a lie.

2011-01-14T16:21:00.001-05:00

Every morning you look.

You flip the pages of the newspaper.

Past the world news and floods and dead birds.

Past the economic crises and elevating gas prices.

Past the Family Circus shenanigans and Dear Abby-inquirer who dubs herself Sexless in Syracuse (you'll read that later because it sounds like you two have a lot in common).

Ah. There they are.

The horoscopes.

For some of you, your entire life has been determined by stars and constellations and planetary alignments and things of the sort. Determined by rams and scorpions and twins (twins!), you read your daily prognosis and took it seriously.

Then, on Thursday, astronomers took everything you thought was real and threw it out the fucking window and left it for dead, like Triceratops and Pluto.

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

Thank God we still have instant mac and cheese.

So that pretty much sums it up. Everything you ever thought you knew about yourself is a complete fucking hoax. Now you have to change your personality to fit your new sign's specifications. Otherwise when people come up to you and are all, "OMG what's your sign?!" and you're all, "I'm yaddayadda!" And they go, "Wow I never would've guessed, it's usually the Aries who are the insufferable pricks."

Unless you're hot. Then you don't need to develop a personality at all. Just watch E! for like, five minutes and you'll see what I'm talking about.

Speaking of. Now that I'm not an Aries I need to come up with new justifications for being a hard-headed jackass.

How many of you are the new sign, Ophiuchus? According to the symbol, the male Ophiuchus has the personality traits of a chronic masturbator.

So did the astrology shake-up turn your world upside-down, or is the world just turning upside-down?!

Bedtime vs. hating yourself in the morning.

2011-01-10T02:31:00.000-05:00

By the time you read this, your weekend will be over.

Unless you're still awake like I am. If that's the case, you're really going to be pissed at yourself in the morning if you have to wake up and go to work.

You probably also told yourself you weren't going to stay up this late. Not on a Sunday. Not the night before you have to start school again. Not the night before a busy work-week. Not the night before you promised yourself you were going to wake up early as part of your (now belated) New Year's Resolution to exercise/take a shit in the morning before work/do whatever it is you fucking said you were going to to, but haven't yet, because you have no ambition or no follow-through.

Who? Me?

I didn't make any resolutions this year.

See: Lack of ambition, follow-through.

But I did make you this fucking beautiful graph. It illustrates the impact of how late you finally decide to go to sleep has on how much you're probably going to hate yourself in the morning. Because I'd rather stay up and bitch about staying up late and being pissed about it in the morning instead of actually going to sleep at a decent time.

You may also substitute the x-axis with the title: How Many Shots You Take, replacing the data with Two Shots, Four Shots, Eight Shots, I Pissed Myself and Please Take that Picture off of Facebook.

This graph had some serious potential at first, but after I spent the better part of what seemed like my entire fucking existence spacing out those dammed lines on the x and y axes, I really wanted to scrap the entire idea altogether and pass out.

But then I realized how important this was, and how imperative it was that I didn't let this vital piece of scientific data slip through the cracks.

The more you know.

I never learned sharing.

2011-01-07T09:45:00.001-05:00

I love euphemisms, guys.

What I mean to say is, I hate them. Very much. They're stupid, and they accomplish nothing. The only purpose they serve is to soften the blow of reality or prevent someone's feelings from getting hurt.

Let's be adults, here.

I'd go into it more, but the late (and still great) George Carlin has and always will tell it better than anyone else. The following is not a video. Merely sound. But the sound is all you need.

I was at the grocery store the other day, waiting in the 10 Items or Fewer lane behind some dickwad who clearly lacked the ability to count to 10.

Just because you think 57 comes after 10, doesn't mean it does. Doucheface.

One of my favorite things to do while waiting for these people to figure out how to use their fucking debit cards is to browse the candy. Candy accounts for 96 percent of my entire diet, so it's vital I keep the shelves stocked.

Besides, my body rejects anything without trans fats.

I saw the Twix and the Snickers, the strawberry Mentos and the Stride, and then my eyes fixated on a large bag of M&Ms. Right next to the KING SIZE Hershey bar and the KING SIZE Snickers bar, was this abomination:

Excuse me? "Sharing Size?"

What the hell is this?

I desire candy that's fit for a king.

And kings don't share.

I say if you're going to fuck the King Size; at least change it to something equally cool, like the More for Me Size, or the I Have More Than You Do So Na Na Na Na Boo Boo Size.

Or, you know, just call it like it is and leave this sugar-coated soft bullshit language out of the whole thing.

BIG.

Bur seriously. Fuck sharing. M&Ms are like a dollar. Buy your own.

Said Nature to Science, "I hope you like fishsticks."

2011-01-03T01:01:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, I told you of a story out of Beebe, Arkansas where thousands of birds kamikaze'd out of the sky on New Year's Eve in an event that scientists are describing as "just something to scare the shit out of us for a minute."

As if Science doesn't have its work cut out for it as it is, Ozark, Arkansas (the same fucking state) experienced a random fish kill that blanketed a 20-mile stretch of river, with an estimated death toll of 100,000 goddang fish. [source]

One. Hundred. Thousand. Fish.

So let's recap.

Over the course of half a week, in the same state, roughly five thousand birds stopped flying and ten percent of a million fish stopped swimming.

WAT.

"Biologists believe the bird deaths were stress-related from either fireworks or weather and are unrelated to the fish kill near Ozark."

Fireworks? Weather? Unrelated?

Yeah. Okay.

I'll just wait right here with you guys.

Squirrels, you better watch your furry little asses. If I had to bet, I'd say you were next.

Yeah. You.

Said Nature to Science, "Figure this one out, bitches!"

2011-01-02T10:29:00.001-05:00

Two days in and we've already been given our first whathtefuck?! of 2011.

It's raining birds! Hallelujah! It's raining birds! Amen!

Too soon?

Apparently these birds in Arkansas didn't get the dammed memo. 2012 is next year.

Birds, while we appreciate the role you wanted to play in the increasingly cataclysmic events leading up to the Mayan-predicted apocalypse, you really dropped the ball on this one.

That being said, thanks for keeping us on our fucking toes over 700 days before this generation's Y2K.

And people bitch when a bird shits on their car.

Okay. One more.

LET THE BIRDIES HIT THE FLOOR.

Countdown to 2011.

2010-12-25T01:41:00.001-05:00

You all have things to do, people to see, wrapping paper to annihilate -- so I'll make this quick.

From myself and all of the imaginary staff at Content Unrelated, Merry Christmas.

And since this will be my last post of 2010, Happy New Year, as well.

Let's raise our glasses.

Here's to a 2011 without environmental, economical and political crises.

A 2011 without unnecessary violence.

A 2011 of coming closer to achieving our dreams. Meeting goals. Exceeding expectations.

A 2011 full of hilarity. Good conversations. Lazy days.

Here's to 2011, and thank you for being a part of my 2010.

Cheers.

Does a bear shit in the woods?

2010-12-23T02:13:00.000-05:00

No.

Cookin' by the book, mothaSHUT'CHO MOUTH.

2010-12-20T00:58:00.001-05:00

I love remixes.

Blending songs together for an orgy of sound. Sometimes genres get crossed to birth something that sounds so magnificent, your brain can't process the audiogasm and it liquefies -- pouring from your earholes and onto the ground into a puddle of that-was-fucking-awesome.

We've heard hard rock and hip hop. Pop music and metal. What else could we blend together? How about children's music and rap?

WHAT?!

In the following remix, Lil Jon visits Lazytown (yea-uh!) to learn how to bake a cake (okay!) by simply following the recipe, or as the characters on Lazytown put it, "cookin' by the book.'

I think it's great Lil Jon is getting involved with children's programming. When learning is involved, it's necessary to keep things light and fun so you can keep the attention of those young minds you're trying to reach.

Wonder what would happen if we introduced rap to Dora the Explorer.

Maw'fucka, get'cho backpack,

Get'cho map up outta dat sack!

We goin' adventurin' with our monkey friend,

Now help me fuckin' count to ten!

Shit. I'd watch it. And I don't even have kids.

Uno! Dos! Tres!

Until next time, muchachos.

The only reason I'd buy a bird.

2010-12-18T02:29:00.000-05:00

I never thought about ever wanting to own a parrot as a pet for a few reasons.

1. I don't like birds.
2. They squawk, and are generally more loud than I'd ever care to tolerate.
3. They live to be like a thousand years old or something ridiculous and stupid like that.
4. I don't like birds.
5. Because I believe everything I see on the Internet, parrots eat diarrhea but are very picky about it, and that's gross.

Because you don't eat enough corn.

6. Every person who would ever come over to my house would say something stupid like, "Polly wanna cracker?"
7. I
8. Don't.
9. Like.
10. Birds.

The only reason I'd ever want to own a parrot is to make a reality the joke that goes something like, "If you don't teach your parrot to say, 'Help! They turned me into a bird,' you're wasting your time."

And then I saw this video.

The bird's an auto-tuning away from a fucking record deal.

Now I don't care so much about being 95 and taking care of an ornery, geriatric bird with a highly refined taste for my feces. At least I wouldn't ever have to buy food for it; which is good, since retirement funds and social security for my generation will have been dried out for years by then, anyway.

Though, the first video I see of a parrot singing Whip my Hair, I'm changing my mind.

If you had one, what song would you teach your shit-eating parrot to sing?

There is no condom -- A letter to Trojan.

2010-12-14T10:30:00.002-05:00

Dear Trojan,

I would first like to thank you for saving me (and most of the rest of the responsible population) from painful lesions, piss that burns with the fire of a thousand Suns, and 18 years of child support or a visit to the Maury show (or both).

Picture unrelated. Sort of.

You've always been there for me with all your ultra-thins and twisted-this and magnum-thats. While I'm not a fan of that one kind that can give you frostbite and third-degree burns on your no-no parts while simultaneously re-styling the shit out of your hair, that's not the reason why I'm writing you today.

"Pardon the smell, I think my pubes are on fire."

Trojan, I greatly appreciate your continuous innovations in the field of Holy Shit it Doesn't Even Feel Like Anything's There, I'm a tiny bit concerned that you've taken things too far.

You see, in my most recent purchase of phallic-shaped saran wrap, one of your condoms was so brilliantly ultra-thin that it was invisible.

I've provided for you a side-by-side comparison of a wrapper sans sperm-stopper and one containing the proper equipment necessary for dramatically reducing the chances of it burning when I pee. While the photo quality might have little to be desired, I feel as if these pictures provide enough evidence that I am, in fact, not completely and utterly full of shit.

Feels like nothing's there.

Looks like nothing's there.

While I applaud your effort to reduce the sensation of the presence of Mini-Me ponchos during sexy time, I'm worried you've taken your latest attempts at making a condom feel invisible to a dangerously literal level.

Effectiveness (from left to right): Zero percent, 98 percent.

Because I am open to other possibilities as to why one wrapper is completely lacking its normal contents, I'm entertaining the notion that -- while I may have gotten totally gypped -- somewhere, some double-dicked man unwrapped a two-in-one and it made his fucking day.

Regards,

Jeff

Oh, hey guys.

2010-12-13T23:45:00.000-05:00

I'm still here, guys.

I'd like to say I've spent the last three weeks world-traveling or dragon-slaying or something equally exciting.

Sadly, this is not the case.

I don't even play WoW, so I can't blame that.

Only cataclysm here is the fact that I've not written here in so long.

What's worse -- I haven't been keeping up with your posts, either.

I'll make it better.

Shit's in the works.

And after I take that shit, I'll get to writing.

The University of It Burns When I Pee.

2010-11-23T02:18:00.000-05:00

Most people who attend college absolutely hate it. Having to juggle an impossible workload with putting your liver through its own Iron Man competition and turning your body into a walking Petri dish of bad decisions is total bullshit.

Not to mention the job your asshole parents made you get after they cut you off financially. Something about your "failing grades" and "complete disregard for social responsibility."

Total bullshit.

One of the more passive-aggressive things college students like to do is make up different words for the letters of the initials of their schools.

I once heard the University of Central Florida referred to as U Can't Finish.

I asked my Twitter followers for some of theirs.

@Adjective_J: Unofficial A. Holes. instead of Univeristy of Alabama in Huntsville.

@msmugler: FSU: Football Scholarship University.

@PickledPOV: Weiners Scrotum Uterus (WSU Utah))

Follow them, then come right back. I'll wait.

As I said, these makeshift meanings make any school more fun to talk about with your peers. Because it doesn't matter whether or not your school is a good one; you hate it anyway, remember?

I call shenanigans.

So the reason I bring all this up is because there are some schools that do this work for you. Some schools' letters are arranged in such a way that is almost so successfully and accidentally self-deprecating, any jokes you could come up with on your own would be sub-par, at best.

With that, I give you the Universal Technical Institute.

Do you see what I see?

This should help with your, uhm, issue.

If the burning doesn't go away in a couple days, WebMD says it's probably herpes.

WARNING: Contains dildos.

I mean, all jokes aside, the people who attend this particular institution probably have more knowledge about cars under the nails of their pinky fingers than I do in my entire body.

What are you?!

Plus, you know, there's the whole job placement success rate thing.

So carry on, UTI.

I'll just be sitting over here, if you don't mind.

In the corner.

Careerless.

Sipping my cranberry juice.

Like a ~~boss~~ bitch.

A year of Content Unrelated (dot com!).

2010-11-16T02:15:00.000-05:00

I just received an automated E-mail from Google Checkout.

It was to inform me that the amount of 10 US dollars had been deducted from my bank account.

It is this 10 dollars that will keep Content Unrelated (dot com!) alive for 365 more days.

While I started this blog in June of 2009, it wasn't until November of the same year that I decided to circumcise the (dot)blogspot(dot)com from my URL.

It was for the best, though. I heard that uncircumcised URLs were more prone to infection, and I had no intentions of keeping this shit clean.

So today I celebrate one year of Content Unrelated (dot com!) with a look back at some favorites. Some are way more recent than others. You might be all, "You posted this like, yesterday, you asshole."

And, you know, that might be true.

But whatever. Just indulge me.

---

Why Chick-Fil-A Wins.

There are few things in this world that elicit feelings of warmth, happiness and pure bliss.

Some things just leave you with a big smile on your face; while others could quite possibly fill you with so much positive energy, your head has the potential to fucking explode. (more)

---

Is it Manly? #2 - Fruity Beers.

Beer -- or, Hopsious Alcoholus -- has made it easier for men to ask women out, and it has also made it easier for women to say yes. It acts as an empowering agent and can bring anyone -- from the socially awkward to the attention whore -- to their wobbly, drunken knees. In this way, beer is the great equalizer. (more)

---

What (Google says) you really want to know about your significant other.

I decided that, as a public service, I would find out some questions that plague couples, and then attempt to answer some of them here so as to give you a one-stop-shop for relationship advice. Because at the end of the day, I sort of give a shit. Sort of. (more)

---

Euthanasia? Forget it! Now you can recycle your used and unwanted pets! and
Pet recycling is catching on in England, apparently.

While it takes thousands of aluminum cans to produce one car, it only takes a few stuck-up douchebag pays-you-no-attention-whatsoever-unless-you're-feeding-it cats to produce one puppy that would totally fucking love you with every beat of it's little puppy heart. (more) and (more)

---

The placenta: Not just for baby anymore.

I wasn't at some off-the-wall hippy in-touch-with-the-Earth-spirits type of store, either. This was at the fucking Bed Bath & Beyond. I looked around for more products like this, but the only thing similar I could find was some kangaroo spleen hand lotion, which they were fresh out of. (more)

---

Google Has Led You Astray #4.

Because the Internet is still full of really weird shit, and the world is still full of people who search for it. I'm a little disturbed at how many search terms involved women and horses. I'm talking double digits. You people disgust me. (more)

---

I can haz job?

"I'm a slack-ass piece of shit; and if I hire you, you'll undoubtedly take my job because upper management will finally realize what it's like to have a decent, hard-working employee." (more)

---

I really hope you enjoy reading this nonsense as much as I enjoy writing it.

So, you know.

Thanks for hanging around.

Here's to 12 more months.

That about sums it up.

Hasta la vista, baby. Part II

2010-11-11T01:08:00.002-05:00

Part one.

A friend sent me a link today with evidence that we're in more trouble than we thought.

In a story from four years ago, it was reported that the Japanese had created a robot that could "taste" wines, commenting on body and flavor.

The robot can be programmed to recognize dozens of wines, that "all foods [have] a unique fingerprint."

That's awesome. A machine that can discern between a chardonnay and a chianti.

Fantastic. Totally practical.

At least, it seemed like a good idea until the reporter placed his hand on the "tasting" sensor of the robot.

"When a reporter's hand was placed against the robot's taste sensor, it was identified as prosciutto. A cameraman was mistaken for bacon."

Bacon? It thinks human flesh is breakfast food?

More proof that robots have more on their minds than vacuuming floors and tasting wines.

Part of a balanced breakfast.

And this story was written four fucking years ago. How much time have we wasted not worrying about robots since then?

By my count? Four fucking years.

Soon, the time will be upon us when the robot forces unleash Operation: Most Important Meal and begin the systematic breakfasting of the entire human population. Children reduced to bacon bits. Men and women instantaneously converted into the most delicious part of a BLT.

The world is their skillet.

Good God. I can still hear their tortured screams.

Wait. How old is your kid, again?

2010-11-08T12:00:00.000-05:00

Kids grow out of clothes rather quickly.

Or so I'm told. I don't have any kids yet. Thank God.

I can barely take care of a gerbil.

If you can see this, Petey, I thought the Alka-Seltzer was candy. I didn't know any better. I was only six.

He did bite my finger, though, so I guess he got his.

Anyway.

One of the benefits of having kids is that all the friends you have who've already had them can give you all their hand-me-downs. You know, shit their fat little bastards can no longer fit into.

The following article of baby-wear was found in a bag of others like it, en route to someone else's kid. Knowing how much I like to bring attention to really stupid shit, it was immediately handed to me.

I mean, it's okay, right? It'll do. The recipient can't really complain, I mean, it is free shit, after all. Even though their spawn can really only wear it one day out of the year, and only that one day. Because the kid's going to fucking grow up. Fast.

And talk back, drive your car and steal your beer before you know it.

But then, the reason I'm showing this to you in the first place was pointed out.

Math isn't my strongest skill, guys, but don't birthdays normally happen once a year? And -- bear with me -- aren't there 12 months in one calendar year?

Now, before you get all up in arms with your, "But some kids don't grow as fast as others/were born small/weren't given McDonald's that early," it should probably be said (but shouldn't have to be said) that I totally understand that. There are always exceptions.

Now get off me.

But I seriously doubt those exceptions were on the forefront of the minds of the people who made this particular article of clothing. I just can't imagine a memo coming from corporate saying, "Attention bitches! Some one-year-olds are smaller than your average one-year-olds for reasons I'm too busy to get into right now, so make a couple of those 'Birthday Boy' pieces small enough to fit a three-month-old. Also, we are observing No Lunch Break Week, so fuck you. Have a nice day."

But hey, if that's how it went down, then awesome.

Maybe they make these available for those douchy couples who celebrate every stupid milestone in their lives; like their two-monthiversary, or the one-weekiversary of their first kiss -- and this article of clothing is available for them to buy so they can pass along their dumb-ass traditions to their kid as early as they can.

---

Follow me on Twitter and watch me act a quarter to half my actual age.

Hasta la vista, baby.

2010-11-05T09:57:00.000-04:00

I wish I'd found this video before Halloween, because this shit is creepy.

I have some bad news, guys.

The rise in zombie apocalypse propaganda is taking our attention away from the real problem.

Mayan calendar? 2012?

Try again.

It's this.

<br /><a href="http://www.bing.com/videos/watch/video/creepy-realistic-robot/1jrv9yxnz?q=Robot&rel=msn&from=en-us_msnhp&form=MSNHED&gt1=42007&fg=sharenoembed" target="_new" title="Creepy realistic robot">Video: Creepy realistic robot</a>

Enjoy that blank, soulless stare as it replays in your nightmares.

You aren't fooling anyone with that empty smile of yours. I've seen Terminator. I know how this ends.

I'm just glad Schwarzenegger is done playing politics so he can give us a hand. Maybe we can get Christian Bale to yell at them to death.

If it becomes sentient, it'd better make me a sandwich before it kills us all.

BRB. Need ammo, canned goods.

Oh, so you DO have a light?

2010-11-03T19:17:00.001-04:00

I just fired my research and development team, guys.

The whole lot of them.

Those fuckers.

Because of their half-assed article research and blind confidence that they're 100 percent right 100 percent of the time, they've made me look like only-right-80-percent-of-the-time Wikipedia.

[citation needed]

Almost immediately after posting my last entry; in which I bitched for a good few minutes about how technologically advanced we are but we can't seem to figure out how to put lights in freezers, a couple of you wonderful people graciously informed me that I was a fucking moron who needed to do a little more fact-checking before writing a post after two in the morning.

I should've known better than to post so late. Nothing good ever happens after 2 a.m. Am I right, Ted Mosby?

HOW DID YOU MEET MY MOTHER?!

After throwing the last of my newly unemployed (and now more than likely comatose) R&D guys off the roof, I took it upon myself to get my hands a little dirty for the sake of redemption.

That's right. I looked it up myself.

I don't know anything about when they started putting lights in freezers, but it must've been pretty recent, as all the lighted freezers are a part of a sweet-ass refrigerator unit. Stainless-steel, and all that.

Ooo. Shiny.

As opposed to most other freezers.

So, in short, I just want to say one thing.

My bad. I guess that's what I get for living in the 90s.

BRB. Watching Ren & Stimpy.

It's okay, though. This isn't the first time I was wrong and had to correct myself.

I've now officially spent entirely too much time talking about shit that keeps food cold. Ugh.

Read the last entry. Now with a disclaimer!

Feel free to watch me get stuff wrong on Twitter, too.

Hey, buddy. Got a light?

2010-11-03T02:26:00.032-04:00

Bullshitter's note: This post, while entertaining, is completely inaccurate and totally misrepresents those freezers out there with actual lights inside them. Since posting this, I have been made aware that, in fact, not all freezers are lightless. That being said, this post has not been edited from it's original form.

Science, I'm still not apologizing to you for taking Pluto and Triceratops from me. I still hate you forever for that.

---------Original Posting---------

Two in the morning is a breeding ground for bullshit.

This post is no exception. Bear with me. It's about to get really (more) stupid around here.

I've been doing some thinking, guys. Not the kind of life-altering why are we here and what does it all mean?-type of thinking I normally do while I'm showering or taking a shit -- it was just a quick thought, like when you remember you have to pay a bill or something.

Aw dammit. I'm late paying the government the monies they gave me to go to school.

Go ahead. Repo my degree. Not doing me any good anyway.

Anyway.

It's about my freezer. I know. I know. Just hang in there.

Here's my issue. We've given old men the gift of the erection. We can help people who are having difficulties conceiving a child (even though it's given some of them their own show on TLC).

In 50 years we've taken a machine as big as a fucking livingroom and put it in our pockets. We're putting robots in our bloodstreams, for Christ's sake! Robots!

We've put a man on the Moon (allegedly), and have sent other guys into space to fix satellites that enable us to do a picture-in-picture of that obscene fetish porn you secretly like on channel 463, while watching the New Zealand rugby team do the incredibly awesome, mind-blowingly intimidating-as-shit Haka before the game on channel 897.

"Greetings, opposition! Best of luck with today's competition! Also, suck it."

We've created a place where people can be whoever they want to be (usually soulless asshole pricks) in the comfort of their own homes, and all they need is a computer and a decent connection to the Web.

We've turned the horse and carriage into the sports car. Somewhere, someone figured out that a bottle of liquor plus an old rag plus fire plus a good throwing arm equals a lot more fucking fire.

We have prosthetic legs so people can walk again.

We have microwave ovens for our instant macaroni and cheese needs.

We have instant fucking mac and cheese!

But after all of our technological advancements and milestones (worthless or otherwise), no one has figured out how to put a light in the fucking freezer.

Science, you've taken Pluto and Triceratops.

You owe us this.

So get with it. God.

Oh, and cure cancer, please.

Halloween!

2010-10-31T16:12:00.000-04:00

Ah, Halloween.

The only holiday where it's socially acceptable for women to be anything they want while wearing as little clothing as possible (and, you know, not charging money for it).

As demonstrated by this equation, where y is equal to any profession, costume stores have given women a seemingly endless amount of possibilities to choose from.

sexy + y = costume.

It's a very simple formula, ladies.

You want a challenge? Try dressing up as a slutty cockroach. Even with considerable cleavage, I'm pretty sure I'd still spray one of those fuckers in the face with an entire canister of Raid.

One of you should try a slutty Betty White.

I wonder if a hooker has ever dressed up as a business woman.

How many of you plan on honoring some of our fallen celebs this year. Any Ronnie James Dios or Corey Haims in the crowd?

Guys, why not use this holiday as an opportunity to get closer to that special someone? By that of course, I mean making her watch scary movies until she's afraid of dark corners, campgrounds, run-down motels, guys named Jason and her own fucking shadow.

On second thought, skip that. It'd be a real asshole thing to do.

Unless you're going as an asshole for Halloween. Then I guess you'd have to play the part.

"Nice costume, asshole."
"Exactly!"

Happy Halloween. Now, go scare the shit out of some kids.

An open letter to potential employers.

2010-10-28T10:45:00.001-04:00

Dear Potential Employers,

You've no doubt received my resume and cover letter by now; and have since decided that before you make any decisions on whether or not you want to contact me, you've found it best to do a little ~~Internet stalking~~ informal research on Mr. Asset-To-Your-Company. Mr. Strong-Ability-To-Multitask.

Yours truly.

I feel as though maybe you've already come to some conclusions about me that might cause you to "regret to inform" me, or to "seek candidates who more closely match" your "needs." I've written this letter to you in hopes that you might reconsider "going another direction."

Spare me. I've heard it all.

I'm almost certain you've sifted through my tweets, and positive you've read more on this blog than the post you're reading right now. You might be shocked at my use of colorful language and, at times, crude humor. Well, Potential Employers, I'm here to let you know that while I'm on the clock, I promise to maintain a professional demeanor. However, there is always the remote chance I might let a four-letterer slip every so often. I'm not a fucking machine, guys.

See?

Sure, I might talk about the office whore or last night's game with the guys at the water cooler from time to time. After all, you can't expect me to completely cut myself off from conversations involving the workplace or current events. That would be irresponsible. Communication is the foundation of success, and a lack thereof amongst co-workers puts your business at an incredible disadvantage.

The more you know.

Upon reading more of my material, you might come to the conclusion that I'm just some guy who has nothing else better to do than to use the Internet as a medium to complain about stupid things and stupid people.

Even though that's clearly what the Internet is for. Oh, and porn.

While on the surface it might seem as if I'm complaining, I'm really just trying to bring awareness to the people about the stupidity that surrounds them every day. The more people know about the stupid, the more they can do to prevent themselves and others from succumbing to it.

I'm like a human resource. Hey, isn't that one of the positions I applied for? Sounds like the question of whether or not I'm qualified just answered itself.

All I'm trying to say is, don't judge a book by its cover (or its slightly deranged, sometimes impossibly low-brow material). I have everything you've always looked for in a new hire; minus related experience, proficiency in Photoshop, InDesign or anything Mac-related.

To hell with experience, that's what training is for.

Hire me. I guarantee you've never had a guy on board so willing to sacrifice his sanity and personal identity to be molded and shaped into the best soulless corporate hack you've ever seen (please, don't do this to me) -- all for the sake of a decent paycheck.

And a comprehensive benefits package, including health, dental and eye insurance, 401(k), paid vacations and sick days, quarterly bonuses/raises, profit sharing, room for advancement and my own parking spot. You know. The usual.

And just to clarify, my resume states I can type 83 words a minute. Let's be honest. You and I both know that's a bullshit number I used to get your attention. I just want to start off on the right foot.

Which, incidentally, is very difficult when you don't have a leg to stand on.

Thank you for your time and consideration. I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Sincerely,

Jeff

Hasbro unknowingly created the Content Unrelated card game.

2010-10-27T01:48:00.000-04:00

There's this new game out on the market. It involves words. When I saw the commercial, I pretty much challenged every member of my household to said game.

"The game is words! I win already! I studied communications in college. I pretty much majored in words, people. I majored in kicking your ass."

Because sometimes I can be a prick. It's okay, though.

I'm good at that, too.

Not about to let my challenge slide, someone decided to buy the game. I found it on the kitchen counter and immediately started to salivate at the idea of wiping the floor with the tears of my competitors.

Only cards you'll be dealt are unrelenting shame and agonizing defeat.

In an attempt to get a better idea as to how the game is played, I turned the box over and found myself a wonderful, potentially vulgar surprise.

Let's take a closer look, shall we?

A game based on the use of four-letter words? It might as well be called Content Unrelated: The Game. Ninety percent of my vocabulary is words of the four-letter variety. I can't lose.

"[Y]ou never know where it'll go with SCRABBLE SLAM!"

On the contrary. I know exactly where it'll go.

... FATE could become FACE. FACE to FACT. FACT to PACT. PACT to PACK. PACK to PUCK. PUCK to FUCK.

... And FUCK to DUCK. DUCK to DOCK. DOCK to COCK.

But wait! There's more!

... And COCK to POCK. POCK to PICK. PICK to PICS. PICS to PISS.

... And PISS to PITS. PITS to TITS.

I hear small children crying.

... And TITS to TOTS. TOTS to TONS. TONS to SONS. SONS to SUNS. SUNS to PUNS. PUNS to PUNT. PUNT to, well, you get the idea.

My parents are so proud.

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For more words of the four-lettered nature, follow me on Twitter, or get updates via Facebook.

Things that Suck: In Brief

2010-10-19T20:33:00.001-04:00

I'll make this quick.

Yeah. I know. I know.

That's what she said.

Let's just get that out of the way right now. Get it all out of your system.

You good? Good.

Welcome to this little mini-sode of Things that Suck. In Brief isn't much different from the original. It's just smaller and easier to digest.

At least, that's the excuse I'm going to give you. In Brief really means Not Enough Material to Justify an Entire Things that Suck Post But I'm Going to Do it Anyway. So There.

I bought a DVD today because A.) I don't have enough money to be throwing around on Blu-ray discs and B.) Shut the hell up.

Anyway. Some major retailers like to put unnecessary stickers on their DVD cases, which normally I wouldn't have a problem with because it's on the plastic part I'm just going to rip off anyway.

But some DVDs come with cardboard covers. Shiny ones. I like those covers. Lets me know that, even if I can't afford high-quality picture that Blu-ray has to offer, I can at least enjoy a snapshot of it on the goddamn casing.

This is what normally happens when retailers put those fucking stickers on my beautiful, shiny cardboard covers.

See? Shiny.

So leave the stickers off my damn cases. I'm not going to call you out on it this time, ~~Walmart,~~ but you know who you are.

Now pardon me while I spend the entire length of the movie peeling off sticker residue while the rest of you sit there and judge me for A.) Bitching about a damn sticker, and B.) Buying Predators to begin with.

Content Underrated Awards.

2010-10-19T01:50:00.000-04:00

Allow me to take a break from the regularly-scheduled bullshit for a minute. Everything will be back to its four-letter-word goodness in the next post.

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There are over 50 million blogs currently on the Internet.

Some cover the news. Local, national, world. The good, the bad, the funny, the depressing and heartwarming.

Some are about sports. Trades, predictions, recaps.

Others are about the everyday life of the writer. Hilarious things their kids say, douchy shit their boss does on a daily basis. Dumb-ass co-workers. Lazy husbands. Nagging wives. Loving families. Hysterical day-in-the-life stories.

Many people will write beautiful poetry, brilliant fiction, nail-biting horror, short-stories, side-splitting comedy.

Most of them don't get nearly the following they deserve. Some go completely unread.

This brings me to the reason for my post.

I've noticed from time to time that there are "blog awards" that circulate around the Internet. These are given from one blogger to another by way of a mention and a 300 by 300 JPEG.

I like that idea. I think it's time a new award got entered into the mix.

I present to you the Content Underrated Award.

To accept this illustrious award, here are the rules:

1. Give it to other people. As many or as few as you'd like. Pretend it's your college degree and wipe your ass with it. I don't care.

With that, I give you the first group of Content Underrated recipients, in no particular order.

Mental Poo
The Chronicles of Rico
Neon Green Blathering
Badass Geek
On the Brink of Something Beautiful
Red Means Go!
Opto-Mom
Ramblings of an Emotional Idiot
Simple Dude in a Complex World
The Adorkable Ditz' Missteps
The Rant (Sports, Sports Cards, and Dan LeBatard)

Keep doing what you do.

The Internet is invading your TV, Part II

2010-10-11T02:10:00.001-04:00

As you've been made painfully aware, cable TV is completely out of ideas for potentially successful series, sitcoms -- all that.

To recap from the last post, the Fall season started out by giving us William Shatner-fronted sitcom $#*! My Dad Says, based on the popular Twitter feed of (almost) the same name, @shitmydadsays. But we have to bleep out the "shit" because it's on network TV; and on network TV, it's okay to stab someone in the throat, as long as you don't say "shit" or show boob in the process.

From left to right: 1.) The reason your parents quit letting you watch the Super Bowl.

2.) The reason your parents won't let you buy the CD you want. 3.) Nothing serious.

Do you know how much porn I had to sift through to find that first picture? It was grueling.

Then, news broke of another (popular?) Twitter feed getting its own sitcom. Some guy tweets the actions of his jobless, drunken roommate. It's going to be called Shh ... Don't Tell Steve (@shhdonttellsteve on Twitter). I think for Steve's roommate though, the cat's pretty much out of the bag on this one. I'm pretty sure Steve's been told at this point, so you might want to consider a name change. Maybe something like @SteveFoundOutNowHesTryingTooHardToBeFunnyAndItIsntWorking

That wouldn't work. Sixteen-character limit.

Finally, the latest bit of news from the ABC camp that they're going to develop a show based on the look-how-weird-my-relatives-are site Awkward Family Photos. I still have no idea how this is going to work.

Oh! And how could I forget this:

Not just a Web site, but an entire multi-million person network was the inspiration behind this flick.

So that got me to thinking. What would happen if other sites and feeds got their own shows (the death of TV)? What would the premise be (nothing worth watching)? Would it be any good (I think we all know the answer to that question)?

Below are five Web sites/Twitter feeds that I'm wondering not if, but when they'll be gracing our eight o'clock Thursday nights.

The Show: People of Walmart

The Source: peopleofwalmart.com

Genre: Documentary

Premise: The show has a film crew follow two hosts as they travel from Walmart to Walmart, exchanging witty banter about the types of people who typically shop at the popular retailer. As a documentary, there will be frequent interviews with the unkempt, the old men in bicycle shorts and army boots, and people who take their kids to shop there after midnight.

Network: Probably TLC. They love shit like this over there.

Length: 30 minutes. Any more and we'd just start to feel bad for all of them.

Survival Rate: High, because TLC has no shame. Though, I feel like if they got their hands on this show, they'd focus mostly on vertically challenged shoppers, those with six or more children, and shoppers who go to the bakery and make ridiculous special requests for custom cakes. And people would love it.

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The Show: Texts From Last Night

Source: textsfromlastnight.com

Genre: Reality

Premise: Teens, young adults and twenty-somethings get sucked into high school and workplace drama via some stupid text messages that were exchanged from the prior evening. In one episode, the shit hits the fan when Bobby's girlfriend heard about a suggestive text he sent to her best friend via another text that was forwarded to his girlfriend from her other best friend's sister's ex-boyfriend's older cousin.

Network: Fucking MTV, but only if one of them gets pregnant.

Length: 30 minutes, because that's all anyone could fucking take of this shit.

Survival Rate: Low. I'm confused already.

"...and then Jimmy told his girlfriend's sister Sally that Maria was a dumb whore because
she did the deed with his best friend's ex-girlfriends sister..."

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The Show: Craig's List.

Source: Duh.

Genre: Dramedy.

Premise: Craig and his roommate have a lot of weird shit they don't want anymore, and they'll do whatever it takes to rid themselves of all their useless crap -- be it by selling or trading -- using the Internet. Each episode will allow for increasingly strange encounters with action figure-seeking 40-year-old virgins, fetish-happy dudes looking for a decent pair of used boxers and prostitutes who post under the guise of "massage therapists" and "housekeeper, very flexible, doesn't mind getting dirty. Really dirty."

Network: F/X, because there're prostitutes.

Length: An hour.

Survival Rate: Moderate. F/X would really need to pull out all the stops to compete with the other ~~totally fucking awesome~~ morally reprehensible shows on their line-up.

--

The Show: Yanswers!

Source: Yahoo! Answers.

Genre: Daytime Talk.

Premise: Five hosts (a panel of comedians, probably) who are barely qualified in anything take calls from viewers who have legitimate and sometimes very serious questions (that should normally be answered by professionals) about everything from relationship advice to tips on how to lose weight, questions regarding health concerns, pet care and lawn maintenance. Internet users will be able to E-mail Yanswers hosts with pictures of themselves, asking if "this is a good hair color for me," or, "Do I look fat?"

The five aforementioned barely qualified comedians will then attempt to answer the questions given to them by way of sarcasm and utter douche-baggery. They will endlessly ridicule callers for resorting to such a stupid medium for answers to their trivial, moronic problems. Alcohol will be provided for the hosts. It'll be funnier that way.

Network: Comedy Central. You know, because of the comedians.

Length: Who cares? I could watch this shit all day.

Survival Rate: Very high, because laughing at the expense of others has never, and will never get old.

---

By reading this, you hereby agree to pay royalties to me if you take these ideas and create successful shows out of them.

Have any other Internet sites or Twitter feeds you thing would make ridiculous ideas for TV shows, books or movies? Let me know in the comments. Or, just comment anyway. I don't bite.

Be sure to follow me on Twitter and Facebook, neither of which are a hit TV series. Yet.

The Internet is invading your TV.

2010-10-08T10:35:00.001-04:00

You may or may not have heard recently that ABC is starting to drink from the Internet-to-TV cup, producing its own show based on the website Awkward Family Photos.

"We're gonna be on TV!"

What?

They're making a show from a collection of ridiculous family pictures?

How?

Have people run so completely out of ideas for television that they have to resort to the Internet?

As you already are aware; this television season CBS thought it would be a good idea to raid Twitter, find one of its more popular feeds, and make a sitcom out of it.

It's called Shit My Dad Says. You may have heard of it. It's some guy who tweets the, well, the shit his dad says. Apparently it's hilarious.

But only hilarious on Twitter.

According to my one-stop for 80 percent accurate information,Wikipedia, the pilot episode had some pretty mediocre ratings despite its almost 12 million viewers.

More than two million of them failed to show up for the second episode.

"And you motherfuckers better come back. I know where you live."

I haven't seen it. Maybe it's funny. I don't really know.

Or care.

But regardless of this possible television bomb, it hasn't stopped CBS from making another sitcom based off of someone's Twitterings. It's called Shh ... Don't Tell Steve, and follows one person's quest to chronicle his drunken, jobless roommate's actions, 140 characters at a time.

Shh ... Don't Tell Steve has roughly 13,000 followers.

Thirteen thousand.

At least Shit My Dad Says has over a million, and Awkward Family Photos has, from what I can tell, a few hundred-thousand.

But 13 thousand?

If that's all it takes to get a television deal around here, I'm going to start promoting my shit like crazy. Guys, help me out. Get me on TV. Get me a book deal. Tell everyone you know. All I need are 12,948 (somewhere around 12,825 on Twitter) more people to follow me and I'll be in the running for a prime time spot on a major television network.

If this happens, every single one of you will be in the credits of my show.

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Content Unrelated is on Twitter and Facebook. Not yet on TV, but I'm working on it.