Guys, Seriously? STOP Making Fun of Rebecca Black…She’s My Cousin and She’s Like Super Upset All The Time Now

Cut it out, guys. CUT IT OUT. I know you’ve all heard it and a lot of people are talking about it and mainly people are talking MAD CRAP about it but SERIOUSLY, guys. You’ve GOT to stop making fun of Rebecca Black. She’s my cousin, and ever since this video (THAT SHE WORKED REALLY HARD ON, BY THE WAY) came out, she’s been SUPER bummed out about it, like, all day everyday. She was JUST putting out a song that she thought everyone would like, because you can’t deny it: it’s super catchy and you can’t ever get it out of your head until you go to a death metal concert and take a nap under their woofers or something. IT’S THAT GOOD.

“Gotta be fresh, gotta go downstairs/Gotta have my bowl, gotta have cereal.” Preaching to the choir, Becky.

Look, what has she done that’s SO wrong? I mean, she’s 13 years old. She’s singing about what she knows and frankly, IT’S TOTALLY RELATABLE. Do you guys remember the TGIF shows on ABC? TGIF was the best thing on TV and I doubt it would’ve been that way had it been on Thursday or something stupid like that. I doubt there’s ever been any television or entertainment that anyone simply MUST see on Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday. So what if the lyrics are a tad simplistic? SHE’S LEADING A SIMPLE LIFE RIGHT NOW, YOU GUYS. I mean, my Uncle Jim and Aunt Denise are going through a little bit of a rough patch right now, stuff’s still up in the air with who’s getting which kids, but they’re for sure not staying in that big house she grew up in anymore, because Jim lost his jobs, but SO WHAT IF SHE’S JUST LOOKING FORWARD TO SEEING HER FRIENDS ON THE WEEKEND?

Don’t we all just want to ride around with our friends every now and then?

I mean, who HASN'T been here before?

She’s just been really, really sad lately. You’ve got people at her school who are making fun of her, and the students are making fun of her, too! She used to be really popular and had all these friends and stuff, then she did this music video and now, JUST BECAUSE EVERYBODY LOVES THIS STUPID GLEE SHOW, people throw slushies in her face. That’s expensive clothes, ya’ll! Cherry doesn’t even come out of some of the shirts, and a couple of them her dad threw in the dryer and now the stains are permanent. It’s really not fair that not only are her friends bailing on her, even the Girl Who Eats Her Hair up there, but now, EVERYONE IN THE WORLD knows who she is and writes really stupid comments up on her Youtubes.

I mean, not cool! Props to Blonde-with-Braces for being super cool and NOT bailing on Becky. My mom says Aunt Denise really appreciates it and – I don’t wanna spoil it – but you might get to go to Disney World with my family. YAY! DISNEY!

Disney World Dance!

So, seriously. You guys. Lay off Rebecca Black. She’s got her family and friends supporting her, she really doesn’t need people like you saying “She is missing half her brain,” “I wish I were deaf,” and “This sounds like Somneone trying to rip the piss out of bill bailey ripping the piss out of teenybopper songs.” One, she’s not missing half of her brain because she aced Spanish this year and that’s a WHOLE OTHER LANGUAGE. Two, ummm, not cool because MY OTHER AUNT, STACEY, TEACHES AT A DEAF SCHOOL, and three, uhh, I don’t even know what that means, because a.) who’s Bill Bailey? b.) I LIKE teenybopper music and 3.) you can’t rip piss because IT’S LIQUID.

Just be cool. If you’re cool, I might be able to see if she can come in town and do a little concert or just hang out or whatever.


Witnessing the Raw Humanity of an Illinois Flea Market

"Can I get some proof that these all haven't been in someone before?"

Here’s the scenario: You need something random for your house or apartment.

“Need” is a little strong. You want something for your abode, but it’s nothing that you’re actually wanting to spend any sort of significant amount of money for. Pier One, Crate and Barrell, even places like Target can get pricey. You’re looking for a full-length mirror on a stand, not a $75 investment. There is only one place you can turn, knowing that you can get something that has character, use, and shouldn’t be too expensive: A flea market.

This gypsy station is home to numerous vendors and outlets selling any number of objects that most people would say “I couldn’t possibly SELL this, could I?” And by “numerous” I mean literally countless. It is their nomadic lifestyle, these haggling carnival-types, to get the best possible deal for the most obscurely coveted objects known to man.

My quest for a full-length mirror on a stand took me to an Illinois flea market, and it was a harrowing experience I hesitate to take you through. The sheer humanity of it all may be more than some of the younger viewers here can take, so be careful. Most of these can be classified into a few different subsets, I’ll try and be as precise as possible.

1.) Who Would Ever Want Anything Close to This?:

"Fabio: Rockin' That Cleavage" (VHS)

There’s a wide assortment of VHS tapes at flea markets. And by “wide assortment” I mean “Every VHS ever made is now somewhere in a flea market.” It looks to me like these people are convinced that somewhere down the line, it’s going to be discovered that DVD’s and BluRays cause instant cancer, and when the market shifts back to VHS’s, they’ll be ready to pounce. All of them are about $2.00 now, but you can bet they’ll be close to $3 or EVEN FOUR DOLLARS when that whole DVD-cancer thing explodes.

"How can Jimmy cut Superman's Indestructible Hair of Steel?" asked absolutely no one, ever.

Comic books, like baseball cards and Nazi paraphernalia (more on that later!), are coveted for some strange reason, but to each their own. I like superheros and all that jazz, but seriously, a “Superman’s Pal” feature on Jimmy Olsen? The ONLY reason I might consider even looking through this, let alone purchase it, would be that I know Jimmy Olsen is a news photographer and there might be some hilarious hijinks in store as he tries to cut people’s hair. But not Superman’s, because apparently it’s indestructible? Doubtful.

Ahh, fake wine glasses, the oldest trick in the Get-Me-To-Drink-Fire-Handbook.

Ever want some romantic candles without the aesthetic pain in the neck that most candles come in, like jars or slightly decorative glasses? Well, think again! Now, YOU can have all of the allure of a passionate candlelit dinner with all of the class of someone who always has two full glasses of wine on their table, at all times. This looks like something that some redneck dreamed up when he was fastening his clip on tie and thinking “You know, I don’t really wear this enough.” Other consideration points: WHAT IF YOU WANT TO DRINK WHITE WINE?


"You couldn't possibly make a salt 'n' pepper shaker racist!" "CHALLENGE ACCEPTED."

/Covers face in hands
//Rubs temples
///Deep breath
These are relics of the past. As we all know, it was a very different time. A very different, and very racist time. In fact, it was so different, and so racist, that nowadays, the absurdity of it makes us laugh and laugh and laugh. This is one of those occasions. Go ahead and get it out. I’ll wait….alright, you done yet? No? Okay, a little longer…Now? Great. So these are standard salt and pepper shakers. I don’t know why anyone would’ve ever wanted them, but apparently, they were in high enough demand that this isn’t the only pair I saw at the flea market or have ever seen. As I was taking this picture, the vendor – who looked like a really, really nice guy, by the way – said “You wouldn’t have to take a picture of it if you buy it!” Right, but then I’d have two racist salt and pepper shakers sitting on my kitchen table. So…no.

"What am I going to have to do to put YOU in a Nazi armband TODAY?" - Used Nazi Arm Band Dealer

I don’t necessarily fancy myself a history buff, but I do enjoy WWII history and such. I know there are a lot more rabid history buffs out there, who, while not wanting to be hateful or whatever, and actually wear these armbands to assemblies and whatnot, might just want them as collectables. I tried to explain it to my friends, who were slightly more baffled than I was. I related it to the St. Louis Cardinals winning the World Series back in 2006. If you had a whole history room or shrine dedicated to the Cards and their Championship, you might have a Sports Illustrated or two featuring the Detroit Tigers, the team they beat in the World Series. Maybe even a hat or two. The argument kind of falls apart once the Detroit Tigers start religiously persecuting and murdering several million people, but…I guess you see what I mean. 

Republicans vs. Gays: Est. 1922

So this isn’t racist, or homophobic even. It just made me laugh. Something something, blah blah blah, GAY JOKE!

3.) Troublingly Devoid of Any Value Whatsoever:

The Ghost of Gloria Lang

I’ve really got nothing to say here. I think this woman may be the vendor (although there was no one manning the station) and is hoping that her kind demeanor in the late 40’s and 50’s may be just the bargaining chip to seal some deal on a ceiling mounted toaster or something. But I doubt it. I think she was just lonely. Or dead. Probably dead. 

You know more than one deer died in the making of this four-legged lamp.

I’m from Arkansas, and the South in general has a much more tolerant perception of the use of dead animals in the field of interior decorating. In high school, I went over to a girl’s house that had a couple of different bears, an elephant head, and like ten antlered-animals I didn’t even know existed, all mounted in the living room. The house I grew up in had no less than three ducks on the wall, and a deer head above the mantle. I get it. I don’t get making a lamp stand out of the hooves of a deer though. Because there’s outdoorsy…and then there’s mild sociopathic tendencies.

And by the way, never found that mirror. So, yes, I could very well be venturing into this venue again next month, when the gypsies return from their voyage into Indiana and possibly beyond. I guess all of that walking is what gives them their healthy appearance, healthy, of course, considering their almost entirely 100 percent pretzeldog diet.

How To And How To Not Compete And WIN Beauty Pageants

Two words: WEAK SAUCE. Like the Mom said, if beauty pageants weren’t about beauty they wouldn’t be called beauty pageants. Little girl needs to GROW THE EFF UP AND TAKE THAT SCALDING HOT WAX LIKE THE GROWN WOMAN SHE CLEARLY ISN’T. Those eyebrows that were removed? UNSIGHTLY. I guess. I don’t know I couldn’t really see them, but I’m not a trained professional judge. THOSE GUYS ARE THE KINGS OF DISCERNMENT AND THEY WILL CATAPULT YOU AND THAT BERT AND ERNIE UNIBROW OF YOURS LITTLE GIRL.

I’m confident this girl will be crowned champion one day. She’s got the drive and determination to be a proven winner, and, if she does happen to falter, has a mother who’s willing to belt her into the winner’s circle against her will. GREAT family hustle.


Watching this live was something of a game changing moment for the rest of my life. You’re watching someone from your home state, and thinking to yourself, “My God, there’s a chance for my state to be special, to rise up from the ashes of getting made fun of for banging our cousins, and really be able to stand proud as an Arkansan.”

Then she brought out two puppets.

Needless to say, I was concerned. “YOU GOTTA BE EFFING KIDDING ME, ALYSE!” I bellowed. “NOT ON THIS STAGE! THIS ISN’T AMATUER HOUR, THIS IS MISS AMERICA FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.” But that’s why Alyse competed in Miss America, and I was sitting at home. She BLEW AMERICA INTO TINYBITS OF LOVE AND HAPPINESS AND PLEASURE. Ventriloquism: Really hard to pull off well. If your dialogue is good, and you don’t look like you’re just talking through your teeth, but the rest of your mouth is moving (LOOKING AT YOU, JEFF DUNHAM), it can be somewhat entertaining. Yodeling: Best part of “The Price Is Right” was the yodeling scale, in which the total number of dollars in which one was over or under for a given item was added up, and if there were too many, the mountain climber would descend to his death. Okay, Plinko was still probably No. 1, but you get it. Yodeling is very entertaining, but, many would say, beneath the decorum of the venerable and hallowed halls of Miss America.

Ventriloquism and Yodeling is nothing short of the Lord coming down, blasting my body with a rainbow bazooka, and having me give birth to a formidable team of baby koala medical doctors. In a word: MIRACULOUS.

So that, little miss my-eyebrows-hurt-but-not-enough-to-not-literally-lick-my-lips-at-the-mere-sight-of-candy, is how you WIN MISS AMERICA place second in Miss America.

But there’s always next year (or if new 17 Year old Miss Nebraska should find her way into a controversy) to win.


You’ve got some nerve interrupting a perfectly fine afternoon by asking me if I’m watching When Harry Met Sally. Some nerve! You know my girlfriend isn’t here right now, she’s at work, so why would I, working from home BY MYSELF, be watching what is regarded by anyone with a brain functioning between their ears the Greatest Film Chick Flick of All Time. It just doesn’t make any sense for me to do that. I watch ESPN, “Law and Order,” and Die Hard – all of them – exclusively throughout my day.

I don’t know which of those three I’m watching right now, but it’s certainly not When Harry Met Sally. No way it’s that.

I don’t know what it is you heard, but it wasn’t the ICONIC scene at Katz’s Delicatessen in which Meg Ryan’s character, Sally Albright, convinces Billy Crystal’s Harry Burns that women fake orgasms all the time by hilariously faking an orgasm right there in the middle of the deli! It was probably someone celebrating a touchdown pass they caught or threw or whatever. I WON’T have what she’s having. PS – Did you know the elderly woman who utters that famous scene-capping line was director Rob Reiner’s mother, Estelle Reiner?

I didn’t know that tidbit either, BECAUSE I’VE NEVER SEEN When Harry Met Sally‘S SPECIAL FEATURES.

Frankly, I don’t even watch that much television or film when I’m working. When I’m working, it’s time to work, NOT time to watch classic and historic pieces of cinema that stir the heart, soul, and mind into a compelling and thoughtful laughing fit. Or WHMS (WHMS is the agreed upon acronym and abbreviation for When Harry Met Sally, I…I guess). Nope, I keep my nose to the grindstone, and would never watch such a silly, girly movie like WHMS. I’d be, you know, like, so annoyed and have to turn it off. Then I’d have to get up and take it out of the DVD player, dust it off to make sure that it stays in nearly mint condition, put it back in the protective casing, then put the protective casing in its own protective casing and put it back on the shelf, then I’d be thinking about that movie (and how much it sucks!) for the rest of the afternoon, and it just wouldn’t be conducive to good work.

No I don’t OWN WHMS on DVD, it was on TV! Not that I was even watching it. It was something else completely. On the TV.

Again, I can’t remember what that was I was watching. I would have definitely remembered seeing WHMS, or having been made to watch that ABSOLUTELY against my will. I usually remember doing things against my will. And I ALWAYS remember watching WHMS. LOGICALLY, I must always be forced to watch WHMS. And like I said, I wasn’t being forced to watch WHMS. I was probably watching something totally masculine, because, as you might be able to tell, I’m totally male.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got another 50 minutes or so left in this movie you interrupted. No, I did NOT realize that it’s almost 50 minutes exactly after the orgasm scene to the end of WHMS. That is a coincidence.

Can’t Say My Entire Perception of Male Cat Owners Isn’t Shattered By The Godfather Owning A Cat

Cat Fancier

When I moved into the apartment I’m in now, I had the understanding that a single man had occupied it previously. It had been uninhabited for some time, so while dusting behind the stove, under the dishwasher, etc., I was very disturbed to find what can only be described as a grown-man’s-dumpsworth of uneaten cat food bits.

It reinforced a long understood axiom of mine that grown men should not own cats. Not by themselves anyway.

I get it. Cats are tidy. They keep to themselves. A good litter box and they’re reasonably low maintenance, perfect for a guy who’s always on the go, traveling for business, or just bedding a lot of strange women at their place. It makes a lot of sense. Dogs you’ve gotta take out, walk them, feed them, give them at least 60 seconds of attention: all things you don’t need to do with a cat.

But the main reason you get a pet is for companionship, and cats, while pragmatic, are soulless creatures that would rather kill you than look at you.

My family has a cat back in Arkansas. We got him around third grade or so, so he’s led a full, nice life. He’s like a dog, this cat, Smokey. You’ll be sitting on the porch, and he’ll come up and nuzzle and cuddle with you, just like your best Golden Retriever or Labrador. But I don’t think for a minute that if Smokey were vested with the power to grow to the size of a lion, or the brain power to operate heavy machinery, that he wouldn’t rip me and a friend or family member of mine that he’d ever come across into as tiny of bits he could manage just to see us BLEED. You can see it in his eyes. YOU CAN SEE IT IN THEIR EYES. I’ve seen what they do to squirrels.

This perception has been a cornerstone of my upbringing, and, as I watch The Godfather on this afternoon, I am shocked to realize something I hadn’t ever before: Vito Corleone, the best Godfather of them all, owned a cat.

It wasn’t his wife’s or his grandchildren’s cat. It was in his office with all of the other important people in his inner sanctum, answering the requests asked of him on the day of his daughter’s wedding, REQUESTS HE COULD NOT REFUSE. This was an integral part of the ENTIRE COSTA NOSTRA. It wasn’t just roaming the house like an idiot. Barzini could’ve just nabbed him and made the little sucker SQUEAL. He got Abe Vigoda, after all.

So maybe there’s something to cats after all. I mean, if the Godfather can have one, why can’t anyone else? Why shouldn’t I be able to get a little feline critter if I see fit?

Quite simply, I’m just not that guy. The Godfather can pull off a lot of things I can’t, liked slicked back hair, cats, and cotton balls inexplicably being jammed in my mouth. Plus, I think my awesome, 95 lbs. dog would destroy a cat in whatever hilarious fashion he saw fit.

Because dogs are awesome, you see.

Quick, I Need Injury Stories To Tell People Instead of Telling Them I Pulled A Muscle Sneezing Too Hard

This glowing redness is NOT sneeze related, RIGHT? RIGHT.


I pulled or tweaked or otherwise injured a muscle in my back, like right in the middle on the left side of my back. This has made even the most menial leanings-over to get off the couch or bending over to pick up a slice of cheese that fell on the ground when I was making a sandwich. It hasn’t really hindered any sort of breathing yet, but I’m sure if I ever needed to run for a certain amount of time, it’d give me grief. And that’s the thing about getting mugged: You never know when you’re needing to sprint away.


I don’t think I broke a rib. I sneeze pretty freaking hard. Like HARD. You know how people will release an audible “guhh” when they release everything out of their nose? I sound like those soldiers from 300 when Leonidas asks them what their profession is. All 299 of them. Right here in my barrel chest. If I broke a rib, that’d be some weak, weak sauce. I’m embarrassed enough that it might be a tweaked muscle. Nothing sounds more feminine than anything something being “tweaked” unless you did it climbing a mountain, getting tackled playing football, or some other awesome story that will captivate people you want to forget that you had tweaked something.


I need a great story to tell people when I’m hobbling around with this injury mild pain of mine. Something that’s going to make me seem way more masculine than a snot-related hindrance would seem at first glance, which is, of course, not at all. I need something that commands respect instead of the indifferent scorn such an incident will evoke when I, ya know, try to stretch my back while I’m at the bar or something. Here were some of my preliminary thoughts:

Saving Baby From Burning Wreckage: So there’s a lot of snow today. Everyone’s assuming there’s going to be a lot of auto accidents, some of them QUITE POSSIBLY INVOLVING FIRE. And everyone knows babies can’t be driving themselves around to their numerous appointments and meetings. The calamity would be catastrophic.

I’m betting I can convince people that I strained my back pulling a baby out of the fiery wreckage of a wintry collision. “Well, the doors were bent shut, and I couldn’t just sit around and wait for the Jaws of Life to get there, I HAD TO ACT FOR GOD’S SAKE.” People might not believe that I could rip the doors off of a car, but if the doors were already well damaged, or partially ripped off already, or oh! Better yet! It was a SmartCar! I was able to rip the roof right off of it.

No one would believe that I’d escape that heroism without, at the very least, a slight injury to some part of my body. This isn’t that movie, Unbreakable.  I WOULD HAVE CERTAINLY TWEAKED SOMETHING, WOULDN’T I?

Some Sort of Lat Pull Down Working Out: So maybe I, AT FIRST GLIMPSE ONLY, don’t seem like the type of guy who would rush into an auto accident, putting myself in danger to save someone else from their own danger, or the type of guy who would be outside when it was so snowy. I get cold!

But I’m not in that bad of shape. I look like I could find my way around a gym alright. I used to be something in high school. Why, I could bench press roughly 315lbs during my senior year! Yeah, I might’ve lost a step or two, but when you see me, you see a person who isn’t out of the daylight of their physical peak just yet. Yes! Perhaps I decided to do YET ANOTHER set of lateral pull downs, flexing my dorsimus, upper dorsimus, and middle dorsimus to the point of utter exhastion and CONTINUING TO DO WORK. Clearly, I have the look of a man who, when he sets out to do something to better himself or others, by God, he finishes the job. Maybe the ole back got a little worn out. Wouldn’t be the first time. Working myself out so regularly for so long and so hard, I WOULD HAVE CERTAINLY TWEAKED SOMETHING AT SOME POINT, WOULDN’T I?!

Surgery To Remove Long Embedded Shrapnel: Maybe the tale can come from long ago. Perhaps my car broke down next to a city development or construction site of some sort. Maybe I was walking around it, looking to see if there were anyone still working, or perhaps had left a radio or walky talky behind. Yeah, and while walking around, I inadvertently set off one of the grinding machines or whatever construction workers use to…construct. This created a TREMENDOUS EXPLOSION setting the development of my tiny hometown in Arkansas back a few more years and sending rock, metal, and wooden shrapnel out of the machine and bringing the entire site down on me. Of course, I heroically rose from the wreckage like a Caucasian Phoenix, but not without sustaining HIDDEN INJURIES.

And many years later, in 2011, I had that hidden injury removed and the result was a slightly sore back for a few days, but nothing serious. THAT WOULD CERTAINLY RESEMBLE A MINOR TWEAK, WOULD IT NOT?! IT TOTALLY WOULD.

I dunno. Those are my best guesses. I can’t believe I sneezed so hard I injured myself. Is that masculine at all? I mean, I’VE GOT THE SINUS POWER TO INJURE MEN! No? Alright. Feed me stories, friends. Trying to salvage some dignity here after all.

What To Do This Weekend: Gotta Gotta Get Up To Get Down

I don’t know what it is about me, but every Thursday evening to Friday afternoon, I get asked “What’s going on this weekend?”, even by people who live NOWHERE NEAR ME. Maybe it’s my sterling track record of competitive dance-offs. Maybe it’s my sharp dressing (Air Force Ones ONLY…and suspenders sometimes). Maybe it’s because when you look at me, you KNOW I know the nearest place to get food, because I’ve likely already been there twice this week.

I don’t look like this for nothing folks. I look like this FOR YOU.

Anywhozzle, there’s plenty going on. There’s also plenty not going on. There are things to do and there are things that most aren’t doing and shouldn’t want to do. Truthfully, I was trying to decide whether or not to make a list of things To Do or Not To Do, but I was like, screw this, I’m just doing both. So there.

TO DO – Go To A Department Store In Your Bathrobe: Department stores are weird. Usually when I think of stores, I think of places that I need to go, like Wal-Mart, or Schnuck’s, or The Internet. I’m there for a specific reason. But Department Stores have salespeople on the floor, who earn a commission for every set of designer shoes, vial of striking cologne, and/or ill-fitting (for me) shirts.

This means they will bend to your every minor whim. Such exploitation is a luxury one ought to indulge  – for FREE, mind you – at least once or twice in their lifetime, or in my case, per week.

Going to these department stores in your bathrobe shows them what they already know: You are the boss of them. It’s my experience the cheaper the better. Me? I rock this awesome plaid bathrobe pretty much everyday. Am I wearing it now? It doesn’t matter when you’re reading this, the answer is YES. Now, they may be hesitant to approach you, being that you’re in a bathrobe and not wearing pants (PS – Don’t wear pants). So you’re going to want to talk up all of your affairs. Say words like “monocle,” “affairs,” “France,” “vestibule,” “diluted,” and “absolutely.” Affairs is really good, because it means a whole lot of things, most of them involving leather and dark wood.

Just order these people around. Then, purchase nothing. You have no idea how long these people are going to retrace their steps through this potential sale, second-guessing just what went wrong. It makes for a great weekend story because those people? They’re so weird!

DON’T DO – Sing “Who You Finna Try”: Unless you like getting slapped in the face with cocaine.

PS – Unless that’s just a regular going-out shirt for this lady, she looks like a nurse. Another “Don’t Do” would be go to whatever hospital or doctor she works for without knowing the exact name of the physician you’d like to see. Because then she’d ask “Who would you like to try?”, with her enunication totally throwing you off guard. And in that split second you were thrown off guard she’d go “AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!” and her male friend would slap you in the face.

TO DO – Ride A Public Bus: This will be good for anyone who’s really, really bored. That type of bored where you’re all uppity and like “Oh my GOD I just want to get OUT of this HOUSE!” Yeah, that warm lodging you can afford really sucks doesn’t it? It’s a shame how warm it keeps you in January. And how dry are you in a rain storm? SO DRY. What a punch in the wiener.

So just go wait by the nearest bus stop the next Saturday night you’re climbing the walls looking for something to do. Get on and just watch.

City buses are moving plains of land that are both uncharted and unmarshalled. You know those signs that say “No drinking/No Smoking/No Masturbating” or whatever? Those are the equivalent of road signs some frat guy puts up in the chapter room that say “Roads Are Slippery When Wet.” There’s no road to be mindful of in the Phi Delt house, and there ARE NO RULES ON THE BUS. Spend an hour on that bus, pray you don’t get an airborne STD, then go home (GET OFF THAT BUS HOWEVER YOU CAN), take a shower, cry, take another shower, and then watch whatever is on TV or that you’ve got DVR’d.

You’ll love it. After that, it’ll be the best night of your life.

DON’T DO – Work Out: Because that stuff is lame.

I like working out as much as the next guy, but I hate going in there and seeing the guys who don’t do anything BUT work out, because they give you THAT look, the look that says “My experience overwhelms you, Zack; tremble at my might!” I’d tell him that he’s contributing nothing to society by being able to rip now-obsolete phone books in half, but then he’d stuff me in a mailbox or something. One of those big blue ones on the street.

Frankly, this guy had it coming because a.) he owned a cat and b.) way to properly put your guitar on a stand, dork. Looks like your weekly clumsy strumming of Incubus’ “Drive” will have to be put on hold for a while. Dozens of girls you’d go to jail for dating will be devastated.


Christmas time. It comes every year, and it really is the best time of the year. I love the merriment, the new cold (not like that February cold, where it’s been cold for so long that you’re ready to wear shorts as soon as it’s in the 50’s and would murder multiple people if the ground would just thaw), and crooning music being played on Top 40 Stations.

I’m no Grinch (see what I did there? Took a classic villain of Christmas and made him me? I’m too much!), but not all is well with the Christmas season. Not all is well.

  • Christmas Letters That Come With Cards: (/rubs temples, /rubs face with hand) ALRIGHT, it’s not that I don’t care about you, your family, or what’s been going on in your life in the past year. It’s just that I don’t care about you, your family, or what’s been going on in your life in the past year. If I DID care about any of that stuff, I’d already know about it. In fact, if I don’t know about something around when it happens (“Oh man, did you hear about the Mollen Family? Can’t believe there was a live grenade buried under their house like forty years ago! Talk about bad luck, huh?”), I probably don’t need to hear about it until I run into you at the grocery store, homecoming, or better yet, never. Oh, you ran a half marathon? ORIGINAL. New job? Fantastic, give me money. Just got married? I KNOW, I HAD TO SIT THROUGH YOUR BORING, ALCOHOL-LESS WEDDING. DON’T REMIND ME.

    Keep it to cards featuring sweaters and a dog or something. At least that’s like a trading card I can put up to show how many people like me. The answer: two.

  • Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire: Have you ever SMELLED  a chestnut roasting on any fire, open or otherwise? It smells like one of those Fancy Feast, long-haired cats got thrown into a garbage fire. Not for me, friend.
  • John Lennon’s “So This Is Christmas”: I don’t mind most Christmas songs, stupid suggestions of burning foul-smelling nuts aside. But there are some I loathe. And there is one song in particular that seems to hunt me down every time I turn on any music device: Lennon’s “So This Is Christmas.” What an AWFUL, TERRIBLE, BARFTASTIC song. I can’t ever seem to change the channel fast enough. One time I changed the channel, and it was on another station too, causing me to drive right into a bridge embankment. I hear it every, haunting morning as my alarm clock, and I don’t even have a clock radio alarm, it’s just my cell phone. It’s a song so gut-wrenching that despite their contributions to music and pop culture and whatever, I wish the Beatles hadn’t even existed in the first place.

    That. Song. Sucks.

  • Lifetime Movies About Finding The True Meaning of Christmas: I’m sorry but there are only a few different meanings of Christmas. Jesus being born, Cherishing Family and stuff, being Thankful (BECAUSE YOU MIGHT HAVE FORGOTTEN ABOUT IT SINCE YOU LAST GORGED YOURSELF LAST MONTH), and enjoying peace in a world that doesn’t often encourage it. All of these Christmas movies about Jennifer Love Hewitt, Jenny McCarthy, or anyone else who has a name starting with J-E-N, struggling through the first 11 months of the year only to end up “finding the true spirit of Christmas…and a little bit about themselves” shouldn’t be revolving around Christmas at all. They should be revolving around…okay, they shouldn’t be movies at all, but if you’ve GOT to make movies, Lifetime, SPARE THE HOLIDAY SEASON.

    Now, Fred Claus? Elf? The Santa Clause (although, not 2 or 3)? Fine holiday films. I don’t need to hear how Tammy is going to get out of the sticky situation of a couple of failed marriages whaling on her emotions around Christmas. Send me a Christmas letter that I can feed to my dog instead.

    By the way, that’s a true story. Came home yesterday to Newman the Invincible having  DESTROYED such a letter. Proves two things: One, my dog > all other dogs, due to the fact he can read, and two, EVEN DOGS HATE THOSE STUPID LETTERS.

Other than that, guys, have a Happy Holiday season. Wait, Hanukkah’s over, right? Okay, Merry Christmas and Happy Festivus.

The Haunting Incantations of This Hipster Sorceress Is Definitely Not The Reason I’m Buying A Hyundai Sonata

Commercials are whack.

Political commercials get me the most. They over-saturate the market so much that, frankly, defeat their own purpose. “This guy voted to HELP RAPISTS!” “Well this guy voted to HELP RAPISTS WHO MURDER!” And so on. And so on. The back and forth is stupid, although I’d like to imagine there’s one very uninformed person out there whose brain is being sawed in half by the political banter. “Well, I’m not voting for that guy! He stomps on kittens’ faces until he’s covered in kitty litter!…But I can’t vote for that guy either, HE’S WANTING TO BRING BACK CATAPULT EXECUTIONS!” Then, boom.

Anyway, this holiday season, Hyundai rolls out these commercials featuring this hipster band, Pomplamoose, with the intention of driving gooey-brained schmucks to their lots to purchase the new Sonata,  Accent, or Elantra or whatever it is they’re pushing. I mean, do they REALLY think that just because there’s some sort of fair-skinned siren singing one of everyone’s FAVORITE Christmas songs that we’re just going to come sprinting to the nearest Hyundai dealership?

Psh, yeah, right… I’m going because $200/month?  2.9 percent financing? SIGN ME THE F UP.

Sure I hear this woman’s voice every time I turn on the television. And I mean every time, on every channel. They’re such a totally accessable band, you could play them during football games, fashion shows, and ESPECIALLY during all of the sweet holiday specials going on this time of year. But seeing that woman prance around playfully – JUMPING IN THE CAR WINDOW, OF ALL THINGS – is definitely NOT the reason I’m getting a Sonata, definitely NOT AT ALL.

These cars are sleek, don’t you think? I like the shape. And I hear they run well.

This enchantress is not penetrating my dreams or anything. I’m not closing my eyes and seeing her porcelain skin spinning vertically, but never breaking eye contact with my inner soul. That doesn’t happen that often. I don’t hear the constant ringing of “Up on the house-top!,” sung so pristine and clear, LIKE SOME SORT OF FIREY ANGEL, in my ear drums like a storm siren going off during a calm Wednesday afternoon, slicing through the silence of my everyday existence and molding it to its will. I hardly even hear those sirens anymore! Do you? I mean, I do, but that’s because I don’t really go to work anymore, I just sit at home, wear my flannel and thick, horn-rimmed glasses, and listen to Pomplamoose’s albums – on vinyl, of course – and try to get something other than “DOWN WITH THE CHIMNEY FROM GOOD SAINT NICK!!!” off of the walls of the inside of my skull by any other means than scratching them off with my bare, worn fingernails, because I’ve already tried, ALREADY TRIED THAT AND IT JUST HURTS.

Hyundai cars are AWESOME on their own. That hipster lady isn’t telling ME to get anything. They’ve even got them in Red! Which is my new favorite color!

 Happy holidays, everyone. See you on the roads. In my NEW SONATA!!!