So this fucking story had to sit with me for a while before I could even attempt to help you relive it appropriately…
I was driving down Girard Avenue approximately 7:45 PM last Thursday night and approached a person standing in the middle of the street. As anyone from Philly can tell you this is nothing unusual. You see, people who wait for the bus like to stand in the middle of the street waiting and watching, thinking it will arrive faster. Now, this bus riding little asshole will not move for random gun fire let alone your passing car. You have to practically mow them down if you’re making a turn at their pick-up corner. Right before you’re about to score 10 points they shimmy to the side and give you a dirty ass look like, “what da hell mang!” Pretty standard stuff really.
Having said that, last Thursday was different. As I approached our individual (lets call him “Ping” to authenticate my story) he walked further into my lane, essentially blocking me from crossing the intersection. Normally I would go around, but to my left was a median with a 3-foot guard rail and car to my right. I pulled within 20 feet of Ping and honked my horn. This normally does the trick. After “hearing” my gentle honk Ping slowly stumbled closer to my car. Well this is defiantly unorthodox, what do I do now? I proceeded to move in for a closer look. I super-slowly took my foot of the brake and glided towards Ping. As he stood five feet from my bumper I noticed he was holding a beer can and his eyes were practically sealed shut (more than usual). Okay, so we have a drunk guy here, no problem. He must need some longer horn action. This time I give him a slow and steady master horn press. Like a good South Philly HHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNKKKKKKKKKKKK!
To my chagrin, Ping didn’t even fucking flinch! I mean he didn’t even look in my direction. I swear he might as well have been a zombie. He was totally unresponsive to all my vehicular sound assaults. So I did what most road rage fueled Americans would do-I depressed my brakes and slowly started to approach our walking coma. I mean if he doesn’t hear my horn he HAS to see an SUV attempting to squash him like a bug.
As I gently rolled my 3 ton automobile towards the 4 foot Asian man he didn’t budge…I just kept going. Yep I didn’t stop until I tapped him with my front bumper. He has to get the picture now, right! Wrong. I do believe his eyes rolled back in his head and he used my truck as a crutch as he make love to my bumper. What the fucking fuck! The only thing left to do was a combo horn and bump maneuver. I started bouncing my truck on this guy like a basketball and held my horn extra hard. Bang, bang, bang with a steady HHHOOOONNNNKKK!
Not moving I only had two options left. Hit the gas and bowl him over or gently guide him to safety. Unfortunately, I selected option two. I positioned my truck and was able to bump his ass to the corner. Then just like that, I continued to my destination. I couldn’t help but feel somewhat dirty from the situation because it left me filled with so many unanswered questions:
1. What the fuck just happened!?
2. How fucking retarded can you be to not feel an SUV trying to drive over you? (I’ll have what he’s having!)
3. Did I just commit a hit-and-run? (As I looked around to see if anyone saw me)
4. Man this status update is SO not gonna fit on Facebook…
5. Why couldn’t this↓ have been our damsel in distress? Oh, hey deaf girl begging to get bowled over by my SUV! You’re gross!
Sorry its taken so long for a post. I was on sabbatical.
So I’m sure most of you heard by now that Armageddon has taken the form of a tornado menstruating lightning bolts scheduled to make love to the east coast some time today. This raises an interesting question; why is everyone and their mother giving a prediction on when and how bad this bitch is going to shake the shit out of us like Chris Rock handles an out of control girlfriend? “Oh yeah its suppose to start around 5PM and not be that bad” or “The tectonic plates are shifting and el-nino is supposed to ride a lighting bolt to the polar ice caps and fuck global warming in the ass.” The weatherman can’t hit the temperature within ten degrees, WTF makes you think you can track a fucking hurricane. I hope a barn full of pregnant cows falls on your head.
If you happen to listen to the over dramatized media or any of these previously described assholes you are probably running to the store (as we speak) to stock up on white bread, toilet paper and batteries for your flashlight. HEY ASSHOLE, shove your flashlight up your ass and rotate (not sure what that means but I’ve always like saying it). YOUR HOUSE IS NOT GOING TO BLOW DOWN, unless your hiding three rouge pigs and a wolf knocks on your door.
You’re obviously going to need some food, but why the hell does everyone buy up all the white bread in the supermarket? It being 2011 and all, isn’t there a shit ton of options better than a loaf of wonder bread? For fucks sake, it’s not like you’re going to be stranded on an island for the rest of your life; this is just a day with really bad rain and some thunder bolts (fingers crossed). That also means you don’t need to hoard all the freaking toilet paper! Is this storms wake going to include a tsunami of liquid laxatives causing the world to shit more than usual? If the storm gets REALLY bad you may shit yourself in fear, but if that happens, you will float away anyway. In which case, you can kiss your shitty ass goodbye. For the love of Christ, just have enough food for a couple of days, some booze, and some Xanax. REMEMBER, If things get really bad you can always order some Chinese food because you know those slanty SOBs will be riding their bikes in anything.
I’m really looking forward to fall, which is weird because my favorite season has always been summer. I normally get a little sad at the end of August thinking I have to wait 8 months to see live girls in bikinis again. Am I getting old? Maybe, but I think it’s a combination of my age and my full-blown fantasy football addiction. Football has always been something I look forward too but never was it an overwhelming disease that cripples my Sundays like a man with spina bifida trying to climb a ladder. With the inception of the red-zone channel and personal devices becoming more intuitive this has become an intervention-worthy problem. Not only is this a predicament for men but the women that love us also suffer greatly. Hopefully my take on FF will help ease the pain for those women that get ignored like a redheaded stepchild on Sundays.
You can track my disease all the way back to my childhood. My first introduction to gambling happened when my mom allowed me to participate in her company wide football pool. Why wouldn’t she think it was a good idea to include her children in the illegal gambling ring being held at her place of employment? It was a straight pick-em pool, 20 dollar entry fee, best record take all. To my surprise, I ended up taking first place out of 100 peeps. I guess you could say “The rest is history.”
Thanks mom for teaching me how to gamble at age 12. Surprised I’m not living the good life in my one room studio apartment in a Las Vegas gutter with my roommate Stanley.
Because of mothers responsible decision I now take part in a pick-em pool, suicide pool, two seasonal fantasy leagues and a hard-core dynasty league. My participation in these pools literally creates a FF command center in my basement every Sunday, impenetrable by any one with a vagina. I surround myself with laptops, televisions, cell phones, and remotes to keep myself updated on any sudden score change. My FF-Fortress of Solitude also requires a twelve-hour, empty caloried feeding frenzy of which I consume nothing but grease, carbs, meat, corn and hops. The only reason to get up is to drain the Purple-Helmeted Yogurt Thrower. The longer I sit in my filth consuming nothing but junk the quicker I start to lose my mind. One Sunday I discussed a potential conspiracy theory with a cheese doodle I found in the couch. Well hello Mr. Doodle. How’d you get under there? How long have you been hiding from me? Who sent you?
FF has become a multimillion-dollar industry that has turned men across the country into mindless drooling vegetables. Bottom-line, men look forward to Fantasy Football Sunday’s like women look forward to getting their hair did. For sixteen straight weeks we wake up on our holy day, run downstairs like its Christmas morning and turn on the pre-game show like Raymond Babbit getting ready for another episode of the Peoples Court.
One minute till Wapner.
Early August and the start of training camp is when the excitement seed gets planted for the upcoming season. We get to see the current draft class on the field, which causes us to start thinking about our potential keepers (in a dynasty format). When the seed roots and takes hold we start looking for a good resource to feed our enthusiasm. The Internet has become flooded with hoards of information making it a challenge to sift through and find something useful, therefore, we turn to the magazine to encompass valuable information. Does this magazine double as a security blanket? All I know is I wouldn’t go into battle without a shield.
Now normal magazines will run anywhere between 2-3 dollars were a FF magazine will run between 5-10 dollars ($15 in Canada). Men won’t bat an eyelash paying top dollar if we find exactly what we’re looking for. Relax ladies, this is our only outstanding FF expense since we play for the respect of our peers. I’m sure you assumed we wager money, but as gentlemen we accept nothing more than a handshake and/or trophy.
Now back to the magazine.
Every guy has different criteria when choosing his hand-held holy grail. Me personally, I pay extra for glossy paper and color pictures throughout (Makes me feel like I’m putting in the extra effort). Screw that black and white newsprint garbage. Nobody ever won a championship being cheap! Some standard requirements are as follows: a top 200 cheat-sheet, strong rookie evaluations, each position ranking and each position sleeper ranking.
Men will stand until our legs cramp looking for just the right combination of hints, tips and sleepers. A good comparison for this selection process is when you women go shopping for greeting cards. Finding just the right message can sometimes take a while but when found, it simply melts the heart. You know the one that makes you shed a tear right there in the store? Yeah, it’s just like that.
DRAFT DAY, HELL YEAH!!!!! The sun rises with a smile as men everywhere welcome this day with open arms and hug it like their grandmother. What’s not to love? All your work and preparation is about to pay off! A common strategy for a FF draft is having a first round target and a plethora of middle-to-late round sleepers in your back pocket. As long as you’ve done your homework the rest should fill in systematically. You should feel unstoppable heading to your draft. OH YEAH! I’m a high-speed, Coors Light silver-bullet train and nothing can derail me; my confidence is sky-high. I got this! I’ve been training all month for this day and when it’s my pick I’m going to FUCK-SHIT-UP! I get there a half hour early, grab a beer and a prime seat for the festivities. After everyone arrives and its greeted accordingly (depending on last years finishers) its down to business. The draft order is determined by the numbers in the hat routine. “Who wants to pick first?” “I do!” C‘mon pick number 1! I choose pick 7. FUCK! I didn’t prepare for pick 7.
It’s too early to take a quarterback and all the backs and receivers I’ve been targeting are gone. *Panic ensues*
“Give me Miles Austin” WHAT!? And just like that your day is ruined. NICE PICK ASSHOLE! THANKS FOR THE DONATION DOUCHE! Everyone knows Austin is a mid-to-late second rounder at best. You spend the rest of the day trying to rectify your mistake.
The rest of the draft moves rather quickly and is usually filled with friendly banter throughout. We like to repeat quotes at nauseam from commercials that we’ve seen over and over on our favorite sports station. This year between all the screams of “Championship” and “T.J. who’s your momma” I noticed we do something that is completely unorthodox in all non-gay males circles; we compliment each other. The more I analyzed this the more I realized it’s about the ONLY situation a group of 10-12 men will sit in a room and be supportive. “Ooooooooo nice handcuff!” or “Savvvvvvy value pick.” Of course as I proved earlier the compliments are intertwined with insults and sarcasm but we compliment each other nonetheless. Hmmmmmm, what other scenario has a group of men sitting together, drafting other men to achieve a high “scores” while showering each other with compliments?
You’ve checked your starting lineup 10-thousand times comparing matchups and stats. You’re still left with one receiver or running back dilemma that keeps you up at night. Whichever way you go it’s inevitably the wrong decision. The guy you start will have 2 receptions for 26 yards and the guy on your bench will blow up for 100 yards and two touchdowns. You vow to never sit your stud again, and all he does is suck balls for the rest of the year. The good news is, when you shit the bed, it’s always best to have an accident week one since you get the first pick on the waiver wire.
There’s one guy in every league that submits the most ridiculous trades ever. “Ill give you a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon and Chris Henry for Aaron Rodgers?” No? Okay I throw in Donnie Avery’s ACL? It’s always the same guy that sends you about 10 trade proposals on the same day. His tactic is to flood the market and see who bites, then take THAT interest and annoy you into submission. I’m not a trade master and unfortunately lost two leagues last year because of my boneheaded decisions.
In conclusion, I could go on forever but feel the need to stop here to protect myself from myself.
It’s only a matter of time before women jump on board with this phenomenon by starting a “Dancing with the Stars” or “American Idol” fantasy league.
I won my dynasty league last year by beating my twin brother in the championship game because he didn’t start Brent Celek. Loser. Is there anything sweeter? Actually, YES there is…He bet a future 2010 11th round pick that he lost in our head-to-head, mid-season match-up (that has since stirred a lot of controversy, thanks Scott (nice team)).
The cou’de gras, my brother called begging for his pick back. His tactics were as transparent as a wet t-shirt contest.
He will never admit it, but losing the championship game will eat at him like a leech attached to his testicles.
The Grid Iron (keeper league): 1st The Grid Iron Guru
Glenside Pub: Did not make playoffs because of a horrible trade
Freight House: Came in third place because of another horrible trade
The Grid Iron (keeper league): 3rd Place
Glenside Pub: 1st Championship Bitches!
Freight House: 1st Championship Bitches! I drafted this team while driving and appropriately named my team “Drafting while Driving.
The Grid Iron (keeper league): TBA
Glenside Pub: TBA
Freight House: TBA
Street-cred is a level of respect gained from experience or knowledge in any urban environment issue. Two ways of earning street credentials are wearing pants around the middle of your thigh to expose underpants or speaking in something loosely resembling the English language called ebonics.
Here is a fine example I found online:
Ebonics: “You gots to git those Benjamins so you cin git dat bling-bling fo yo ride”
English: “You need to get money so that you can get expensive accessories for your car.”
Putting rims on anything immediately increases street-cred. After sinking every penny into tires and ridiculous looking rims, you should drink a 40 oz. in celebration and drive around all night drawing attention to yourself.
While there are many things that increase street-cred one of the most annoying is leaving trash on a newly purchased item. I say trash, but to some, this little sticker is flaunted like a street badge of honor. Or perhaps maybe, just maybe, its to visually announce “THIS HAT IS NEW PEOPLE!” Who knows. For those not familiar with this practice please see my outline below ↓
Just for shits and giggles lets apply this Einesteinion logic to other fun scenarios. YAY!!!! Here we go…
So remember, you can go from an irrelevant suburban boy to a gang-banging street thug in less then 3 seconds by simply not removing that sticker. Damn son, you GANSTA!!
There are people on the internet that want to screw you for no reason!!!!!
I was able to thwart a potential hostile takeover just last week when trying to sell a couple Phillies tickets.
Still waiting for a response.
In hindsight, maybe I should have slow-played my hand a little longer.
*MEANWHILE, off in space the rebels are about to make their assault on the Death Star*…
Lando Calrissian: We’ve gotta be able to get some kind of a reading on that shield, up or down.
Nien Nunb: [speaks in Sullustese] pop-pop, eeeep ting-ting, ah-la. *Sigh*
Translation: I’m upset my face looks like a butterflied, morbidly obese, hot pocket (vagina). *Sigh*
Lando Calrissian: But how could they be jamming us if they don’t know… if we’re coming? *pause* Wait one cotton-picking minute!
Lando Calrissian: Break off the attack! The shield is still up!
Kitty Leader : I get no reading. Are you sure?
Lando Calrissian: Pull up! All craft, pull up!
To be continued…?
With all the natural disasters, the month-long periods of ran, and the 20 degree temperature shifts does anyone else think our national weather conditions are starting to feel like the movie “The Day After Tomorrow?”
I also would like to beat everyone to the finish line that will suddenly transform into CAPTION OBVIOUS METEOROLOGISTS using Facebook as their doppler-radar breaking news platform…
If you’re this obvious add something amusing or maybe use a funny analogy. What kind of status update is “It’s so hot out”? Oh that’s right, it’s not an update, stupid!
The other Tuesday I did a Google search for “Panda Bear” (don’t ask) and made a magical discovery. Apparently, the Giant Panda has a “distant” relative that is MORE raccoon than bear. YOU DON’T SAY!? Intrigued by my findings, I researched the shit out of this bastard. Digging just a tad further I unearthed the unthinkable…Without further ado, I give you the bad-ass honey badger’s red-headed step brother, the fucking GINGER BEAR! Thats right people; I’ve discovered the ginger of the animal kingdom…
Dwarfed by the black-and-white giant that shares its name these red pandas a.k.a. Ginger Bears typically grow to the size of a house cat (yeah, if your cat were a ring-tailed, fork-tongued, red pandacoon born in the seventh circle of hell), though their big, bushy tails add an additional 18 inches (relax ladies).
The ginger bear shares the giant panda’s rainy, high-altitude forest habitat, but has a wider range. Red pandas live in the mountains of Nepal and northern Myanmar (Burma), as well as in central China. Thank god, if this anomaly tried cutting me off I would squash him into a gourmet pandacoon pizza with my pumas (20 years bad luck to have a ginger bear cross your path).
These animals spend most of their lives in trees and even sleep aloft. When foraging, they are most active at night as well as in the gloaming hours of dusk and dawn in hopes to avoid other woodland creatures that will ridicule them unmercifully. “Go back to the circus freak!” “Your momma is a whore!” Things of that nature are commonplace in the young ginger bear upbringing.
Hey look, is that a raccoon or a fucking ginger bear?
Red pandas have a taste for bamboo but, unlike their larger relatives, they eat many other foods as well—fruit, lions, acorns, bat guano, eggs, whale blubber, buttons, cheese doodles, gazelle testicles, roots, honey bees, unicorn horns and elephant tusks. Like giant pandas, they have an extended wrist bone that functions almost like a thumb, which aids their grip in all masturbatory purposes (Jesus knows these vermin aren’t getting any). This appendage can also extend outward for the obligatory “thumbs up” used for positive feedback or hitchhiking after a long night.
They are shy and solitary because of the years of torment suffered during childhood. Females give birth in the spring and summer (when lucky enough to get knocked-up), typically to one to four runt-rehtards that are very susceptible to sunburn (wear your sunblock!) and look like a litter of irritated buttholes. Getting knocked-up is not abnormal since the mother’s panty dropping instincts are passed from one generation to the next. These red bear-whores will spread her paws for ANYTHING in the wilderness.
Young gingers stay in their nests for about 90 days, during which time their mother cares for them by nourishing them with her milk. Suckling mommas teet, when it’s not being occupied by other random passers-by, can sometimes cause the youngsters to stay longer then the allotted 90 days. If the cub gets hooked on mommas milk she has no choice but to close shop and gently whisk her offspring into the wild.
We have recorded footage of one of these heartwarming interventions; lets listen closely…
Momma coon: “I’m all dried up! You kids and Ray Ray the orangutan from down the way suckled all my shit dry!”
Baby bear: “But momma I’m hungry.”
Momma coon: “You think dis milk grows on tress? DO YAA?! LORD JESUS!! Don’t choo start crying you little asshole. MOMMA GONNA GIVE YOU SUMTIN TO CRY ABOUT!”
Baby bear: *sob-sob* “But momma I love you.” *sob-sob*
Momma coon: “I’ll slap da taste out chor mout! Say I won’t?! *slapping the little bear repeatedly upside the head* Your momma got babies to make. Schiiiiiit I’m done wit yo scrawny red ass.”
*Meanwhile, in the distance.*
Ray Ray: Dats right bitch! That be Ray Rays sweet nectar!
And just like that the poor little ginger gets jettisoned into the wilderness to fend for itself. (Males take little or no interest in their offspring. True dat!)
The red panda has been classified as a relative of the giant panda, and also of the raccoon, with which it shares a ringed tail. Currently, red pandas are considered members of their own unique family—the Ginger Bear.
So in layman’s terms, once upon a time this shit happened…
And den you know dis shit happened…
“Red Pandas, Red Panda Pictures, Red Panda Facts – National Geographic.” Animals, Animal Pictures, Wild Animal Facts – National Geographic. Web. 13 May 2011.
Riddle me this? How the fuck do I transition from the sun soaked island of Aruba with white sandy beaches, crystal aquamarine water, Miami vice with an extra shot of rum, random rouge iguanas, cool ocean breezes, pulled pork sliders with the tiny fried onions, a bottomless cup of Balashi brew, talking parrots, accompanied by 150 of my oldest and newest closest friends to…
an overly fluorescent lit, air-conditioned office with retards I wouldn’t extinguish with my pee if their assholes caught fire… and NOT want to kill myself???
Recovery from my childhood death trap known as the Icky Icky Poo has been a long and arduous process. Our good friend TIME has inevitably allowed me to once again become a big fan of the horror. Of all the classic genres, zombie movies are my favorite. Why? Do I enjoy watching people eat people? Do you remember the movie “Alive”? The so called climax of the movie is when some Italian rugby player is “forced” to cut a tuft of skin from his frozen teammates ass and eat it like a piece of butt-jerky. Yeah, that didn’t do anything for me. Now contrast some dead, flesh-guzzling zombie whose only goal is to chew your eyeball like a sac of Big League Chew. Much better!
Perhaps a slightly deeper appeal of a good zombie jaunt is the survival aspect. Every time I watch a corpse-reanimation tale I can’t help but daydream what would happen if people started to turn. What would I do? Would I rise to the challenge? I’ve had dreams-o-plenty on handling myself in these times of extreme panic. In one dream, I become the leader of a south Philly survival clan and use my impeccable sense of direction to navigate my neighborhood to the local stronghold contained inside Lincoln Financial Field. We get there and realize the Eagles entire 2010 defense was the origin of the outbreak.
Another dream includes saving non-pregnant Natalie Portman from impending doom only to barricade ourselves in my home. There we decide to fight zombie Armageddon with marathon sex. Even though Natalie is a Harvard graduate I’m able to convince her that multiple orgasms are zombies only weakness. Orgasms=zombie kryptonite. Just go with it!
Whatever my path, it always eventually involves arming myself with enough firepower to make “Commando” look like a big fat, five-mile-pussy. When push comes to shove, who doesn’t want to commit some serious zombie mutilation?
My main piece of inspiration was recently apprehended when my brother decided it was finally time to go back to school. It only took him a shade under a decade to figure out big-boy school (college) is important. Good job brother! As part of the orientation pack they included a list of all after school activities.
REALLY?? ZOMBIE SURVIVAL CLUB!!!! Where the F do I sign?!
What could those zombie nerds be talking about? I have given this topic massive amounts of thought and this is the shit (lesson plans) I would bring to the table…
Bottom line- Kill by any means necessary; denial will make you lunch.
I apologize in advance for this one…
Do you think the club also discusses the opposite? Probably not, I will take artistic liberties.
Lets imagine zombie genocide happened yesterday morning. If you are less then observant such as myself, you will go about your day just like any other, missing the local news because you’re too busy watching reruns of “Seinfield” or “Family Guy.” The emergency broadcast system? What a pile of poppycock.
The next day in the office Tim the IT guy moans his way into your cubicle and turns your arm into a mid-afternoon slim-jim. OH YEEEAAH!!!! Wounded as shit, and pissed he’s all bitety, you stab Tim in the fucking face with a dull number 2 pencil. What the fuck Tim, I thought we were cool man!? HOLD ON JUST ONE MINUTE (after noticing Tim looks like 170lbs of ground meat)! Tim is a fucking zombie; now I’m a motha-fucking zombie. WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO NOW?
The likely answer to that question, “Blow your brains out!” Right?
Now, after giving this some serious thought, I’ve decided to happily let the incubation process take. Yes, thats right, I welcome zombiehood! I wouldn’t go outside all willy-nilly offering myself as an appy, but if it happened, wouldn’t you almost have to embrace it? You’re darn tooting! There is a shit-ton of people I would be psyched to eat clear down to the bone. In fact, I’ve made a list, containing names and address’ (so I can use some zombie GPS) of people I would eat during the zombie apocalypse. It is properly named “You are SO fucking fucked if I become a zombie” list.
I’m sure you can guess what happens next?
We have sex, than I “eat” her!
Did you ever do something so dumb that you actually ask yourself, “am I mildly retarded?” Last weekend the perfect combination of DRUNK and TIRED caused me to ask myself this very question.
SOP (standard operating procedure) for making a phone call from an iPhone doesn’t seem very challenging does it?
1. Open the green phone app located at the bottom of your screen. It has TWO childlike identifiers- the app says “phone” and also has a little “phone” graphic on it. Nothing new here.
2. Select “keypad” when dialing a number not located in your contacts.
3. Enter phone number and push the green “call” button to connect (notice a pattern; green means go!)
Pretty basic stuff.
1. Select the calculator app which is nearly 1/16 the size of the phone app, located in the complete opposite direction. Its practically invisible.
2. Enter the phone number ignoring both commas (I’m calling my yearly earnings!).
3. Fail to notice that the calculator holds a maximum of 9 numbers (Most calls in the U.S. require 10), assume it just fell off the screen.
4. Push the “=” button to send call.
5. Place phone against ear and wait for an ungodly amount of time. When it doesn’t connect make a scene by cursing AT&T complaining about their horrible service and how you can’t wait to upgrade, etc.
6. When realizing you’re trying to make a phone call with a fucking calculator punch yourself directly in the face because you are a dumbtard just like me!
When is Easter? I remember thinking mid March, “Did I miss Easter?” After doing a little research I discovered the date changes dramatically every year and is celebrated anywhere between March 22 and April 25. NO SHIT!? I really spent 32(practically 33) years of my life not knowing this? That being said, “When is Easter?” is not an easy question to answer.
Person: Good day sir.
Me: Good day!
Person: Do you happen to know what day Easter falls on this year, sonny?
Me: Not off-hand gent but let me fashion you with an equation to figure it out.
Divide the year by 19, obtaining a remainder (0 through 18). Add one to the remainder, giving you the Golden Number for that year (1 through 19).
From the Golden Number, you can determine when the Paschal Moon (or Paschal Full Moon) is. This Paschal Moon has nothing to do with the real moon. It is just a date, after the first day of Spring (approximately March 21), which you can determine from this table:
|1||Apr. 14||6||Apr. 18||11||Mar. 25||16||Mar. 30|
|2||Apr. 3||7||Apr. 8||12||Apr. 13||17||Apr. 17|
|3||Mar. 23||8||Mar. 28||13||Apr. 2||18||Apr. 7|
|4||Apr. 11||9||Apr. 16||14||Mar. 22||19||Mar. 27|
|5||Mar. 31||10||Apr. 5||15||Apr. 10|
Easter is the next Sunday, after this Paschal Moon date. In other words, if the Paschal Moon is a Sunday, then Easter is the next Sunday.
Or you could just look on a fucking calendar.
I hope this helps to explain why I’m wishing you a Happy Easter on April Fools day.
I’m fairly certain there is something wrong with my brain. It functions pretty normally, aside from the ADD, there are only a couple situations that make me feel dumber than a learning disabled fucktard with “the nothing” where my “Grey’s Anatomy” should be. One of my MANY areas of concern is my total failure to have any awareness of my orientation in space (sense of direction).
Now you’re thinking, what about getting a Global Positioning System (GPS), stupid? Yes, my life is much easier after getting some GPS but this handicap doesn’t just affect me in the car, this shit hinders me before I ever get behind the wheel! I can’t tell you how many times I’ve misplaced my car in a parking lot. I’m talking SO lost I convinced myself it got straight-up jacked. Thankfully, I have yet to call the police. Could you imagine that shiiiiit?
Me: Officer, some SOB stole my car!
Cop 1: What’s the make and model young man?
Me: It’s a black on black Porsche 911 turbo (seriously!)
Cop 2: Hmmmmm, that car over yonder seems to fit that description.
*Confirm ownership of car by hitting keyless entry device*
Me: Wow, Um well, Ha ha ha *nervous chuckle* I’m sorry to have wasted your time officers.
Cop 3: *After the roars of laughter die down* Do you think we should put this poor bastard out of his misery sir?
Cop 6: Hey sarge can we at least take this big giant pussy to jail so they can use his ass like a turnstile?
Sarge: Hey now, we to need to see some information, license and registration son.
Cop 25: Unless you misplaced it?
Before this glorious invention I used to print out countless pages of MapQuest bullshit to help me navigate out of my comfort zone (2 mile radius). Do you remember this horse-shit they called a website? It felt like hitting the lottery if you actually got to your intended destination. Not that I know what hitting the lottery feels like, but assuming it feels good, just like that.
AssQuest always sent me on a wild goose chase with five hundred handouts better suited to wipe my ass with. To add insult to injury, I would always leave the leftover printed material in my car to accumulate like a landfill; the pages a constant reminder that a sack of potatoes has a better direction sense than me. This website and weather people are the only two things in history that can have a success rate of 50, and not be terminated. F you both. Not you Cecily, you can report hailing dinosaur testicles and I would still be happy.
And her polar opposite, Glen “Hurricane” Schwartz, on location at some charity event.
This guy can’t nail down a promising photo-op, you expect him to get the Doppler Radar weather forecast correct!?
Phew, enough about weather people, back to the issue at hand.
Although GPS has become a required tool in my life, it hasn’t solved all my problems. I remember using it to go 100yds in a straight line to find a high school. You know you have issues when you use GPS searching for a landmark you can see from space.
I once used GPS to locate a restaurant on a first date. Boy, was that a bad idea. After picking her up I had the challenging task of processing data from two women talking over one another.
Me: So where are you from originally?
Date: Well, I was born in New Jersey but grew up in Philly.
GPS: *at the same time* Remain on the current road for 2.5 miles.
When two women are talking at once they completely cancel each other out. I made the next left and said, “Oh yeah, what part of Philly were you born in?” So not only did I sound like a total idiot my date goes “weren’t you supposed to keep going straight?”
Me: THERE IS ONE TOO MANY WOMEN TALKING, PLEASE SHUT YOUR PIE HOLE UNTIL WE GET TO THE EATERY! Maybe you can start thinking about what you want for dessert?
GPS: Recalculating route.
Another troublesome scenario occurs when I’m forced into the mall during the holidays. Walking around trying to avoid the kiosk people is hard enough, let alone overcoming my brain when its goes into full-blown retard mode. Retard mode is the very moment I exit a store and find myself standing there like I just teleported into the center of a Labyrinth. Fuck me, was I going right or left? Both directions look the F-ing same!
This happens often because I spend a large part of my visits backtracking. Perhaps this is why I save mall trips for December? Nothing gets me more psyched for the holidays than getting “turned around” like a dreidel and having to wander around the parking lot like a Neanderthal.
P.S. YES, there was a second date!
Brad we would like you to meet 30 bachelorettes looking to find love.
Wow, I am the luckiest man on planet earth! I’ve come here to find “the one” and have thirty beautiful women all hoping for a chance to love me. America, please don’t judge me from my bushels of money and because I have better abs than Mario Lopez. My modesty is only over shadowed by intentions to find someone I have a *true* mental, emotional, and physical connection with.
A swell time for me is making my 13 bean soup and running it down to the local shelter so I can personally spoon out to the “less fortunate”, excuse me “friends” on a Friday or Saturday night.
I have never cheated in my life just like most rich, super good-looking men my age. To say, “I’m a one-woman kind of guy” is an understatement! Golly gee, I surely hope one of these gals is my perfect match so we can ride off into the sunset on my trusty steed, Lord Noble Aristocrat.
Wow, thirty single ladies that believe in “happy endings” are here to meet their Prince Charming. If Prince Charming means womanizing, narcissistic, degenerate then I’m your guy! This really beats my standard weekends of doing 8-balls of blow off sweaty Vegas strippers and banging them till I go limp.
Let me see if I fully grasp the concept of this show. “The Bachelor” will provide expensive unrealistic dates, trips to exotic/remote locations, food from the finest chefs, and a castle to rest my head and all I have to do is laugh at some jokes and say words like “connection” or “special” or even “spark” like 37 times an episode?
I’m still a little confused; lets take this concept a step further. So what you’re basically saying is the show will lie for me by providing impractical ideas about love while whisking us away to settings that would make any woman fall harder than my dick is at this very moment?
Okay, its all starting to finally make sense! I get to openly cheat on these women, which will result in them wanting to have sex with me more?
I’ll have to beat this 25-year-old, mid-western punanny off me with a stick (my stick that is). When I say “connection”, of course I’ll mean connecting penis to vagina.
Hmmmmm, I wonder if I can have sex with each one of these gals. I’ll save the “I’m falling for you” line for the broads I want to do in the butt. The only one that will benefit from this wonderful situation is ME! YAAAAAAAAYYYYYY!
Every time I’m running late I get stuck behind the person in the “express” line that doesn’t know how to use a calculator, let alone one of these state-of-the-art devices.
For these people, I give you a little information that might help speed up your day (doubt it).
How many times a day do you send or receive an LOL? Once, twice, maybe three hundred? Whatever your number, this little acronym has become a vital tool in all forms of digital communication. Without it, we would be lost. How else would we decipher the difference between a serious statement or a witty one-liner (excluding those smily faces, shat directly from Ursula the Sea Bitch’s bunghole )? Everyone and their grandmother uses this little device when Facebooking, emailing or texting. This and cotton are now the fucking fabric of our lives. From the over LOL’er who uses it after every freaking sentence to the hesitant user like myself, who delays a text while debating if an LOL is necessary.
1. If you’re talking with a girl and question an LOL, use it. Believe me, its WAY better to play it safe then having to explain your jokes.
2. If your taking with a guy, who gives a flying fuck.
Who the hell was the first person to use an LOL? Hmmmmmm I wonder. My guess is some scrunchied up teenybopper somewhere was watching an episode of 90210, discussing Brenda Walsh’s virginity with her friend in the next town via text. She probably wrote something like “OMG If I was dating Dylan McKay I would drop my panties faster than his movie “8 Seconds” was in the movie theatre” (appropriately named). Her friend who was undoubtedly “laughing out loud” and painting her nails some fluorescent pink color while thumbing through a seventeen magazine quickly responded with “LOL”. With that, a monster was born. I’d be willing to bet my ridiculous government salary that “LOL” was the evil spawn of “OMG.” Imagine if “OMG” had an evil kid, and that kid, took over the world by raping, burning and pillaging every word in its destructive path. That would be “LOL”. Thank you teenybopper, for single handily annihilating all intelligent conversation throughout the entire world.
Should she get residuals or something? She would be richer than Oprah in a matter of days.
As most of you already know “LOL” is not the only acronym in play. Now when your message gets received with a written laugh it implies that you just sent something funny, the degree of *how* funny is now measured by the following acronyms you receive back.
1. HA* Gosh, that was a funny comment you just made.
2. LOL (Laughing out Loud) I am laughing loudly at work and drawing unwanted attention to myself. Time really flies when you’re sending me messages, jokester!
3. BWL (Busting with laughter) I have a pain in my side from laughing so hard. You should honestly reconsider a career choice and maybe become a stand-up comedian. Tosh.O has nothing on you!
4. LMAO (Laughing my ass off) Your jokes are so contagiously entertaining I can’t stop laughing. If laugher is the best medicine, you just cured cancer amigo. If my ass could laugh, you can bet your sweet tits he would partake in this great fun!
5. ROFL (Rolling on the floor laughing) Is it possible to hurl someone through mid-air by overwhelming laughs caused by another? The answer is YES my friend! That last gem hurled my body off a chair and down some stairs. I may have 3 broken vertebra and be paralyzed from the neck down, but my mouth still works so you’re golden Pony Boy. KUDOS!
6. LMAOROFL (Laughing my ass off rolling on the floor laughing) Holy shit, because you are the Mother-fucking Teresa of funny I need to include two “L’s” in my written laugh! Every time you leave one of your hysterical comments a starving kid in Ethiopia inherits his own Boston Market. Then when he’s nice and fat, Sally Struthers comes along and eats every last morsel of that over nourished Ethiopian boy (Someone has to keep the population down). Without you, none of this would be possible. Thank you, the one who saves through laughter!
7. BAWHWAHHAWHAWH (Not an acronym but used often) OH MY FUCKING GOD! If Eddie Murphy’s “Raw” and Dane Cook’s “Vicious Circle” were Siamese twins, sharing the same butthole, “they” could hike up to the peak of Mt. Everest, take a shit, and that frozen dookie still wouldn’t equal your level of funny.
*More than one “HA” (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA) has the same effect as “BAWHAHAWHAWHA”, your funny bone is now your cock, making you a cocksmith of funny.
1. HA – If Corky from “Life Goes On” and Steve-O had a kid this motherfucker would be ten times dumber. I am sending this “ha” because I feel nothing but regret and pity for exchanging numbers.
2. LOL – I have to respond with something after that sorry attempt at a joke. Hopefully “LOL” will end this stupid thread so I can get back to work.
3. BWL – When receiving that last comment I threw up in my mouth a little and squidged in my pants at the same time. Why is this idiot talking to me?
4. LMAO – I must exaggerate my true feelings of his last comment in hopes he becomes compelled to stop typing thinking he can’t outdo himself.
5. ROFL – That last comment has me seriously contemplating marching myself five stories and throwing myself out of a window. When the concrete breaks my fall I will roll into traffic and have a moving vehicle finish the job. This sounds like more fun then all of our previous correspondence.
6. LMAOROFL – I have never felt the need to use such a ridiculous acronym. Is there something so funny that the previous five examples are not sufficient?
7. BAWHWAHHAWHAWH – see #6 then swim with sharks.
Acronyms in all caps are greater than lowercase. Ex. LOL is much more endearing than lol. Who wants a piddly ”lol” when you can have a mighty one?!
In conclusion, just so everybody knows I’m joking LOL!!!!!!!!!! Or am I…
When I was young and dumb driving very aggressively was standard practice. My attitude problem combined with my appetite for confrontation was a recipe for disaster. A week wouldn’t pass without me verbally abusing an old woman for driving 16 MPH on the highway or waving at someone with my middle finger in a parking lot.
I’d like to think with age and maturity I’ve somewhat learned how to holster my temper and shrug off occurrences on the road. This sure as shit hasn’t been easy because on my daily highway commute I usually encounter at least one asshole per day. My everyday asshole is habitually one of two people.
1. Tailgating Fuck-Wad – the person who speeds up, stops two feet from your rear bumper, and then rides your ass for miles.
2. Ignorant Fuck-hole – the person who drives 20 MPH under the speed limit in the left lane, ultimately holding up traffic by not letting anyone pass.
Both are equally disturbing.
Now, even with my new outlook on driving I will not avoid the opportunity to send a potential road rager into hysterics. For example, if the ass-riding fuck-wad shows up I will purposely drive extra slow in hopes they will start flailing their arms like an orangutan in heat. Nothing gets me fired up like watching a good rear-view morning freak out!
When I’m not instigating deranged people, occasionally I will fall victim to a vehicular incident that defies the laws of sanity.
Let me preface my story with this definition:
Easterner: a native or inhabitant of the East; especially : a native or resident of the eastern part of the United States, and as a species, we are fucking nuts. (Dictionary.com)
We are wound a little tight and are always running late. These two characteristics alone don’t normally equal problems, it’s when you mix in a little “stupid” you got yourself a party. Put a dumb motherfucker with no patience, late for a happy meal, behind the wheel of a speeding iron missile and you got yourself something special.
And were off!
The other night while driving home from work there was some traffic on I95 South. When there is heavy traffic I’ve found a common maneuver that people commonly make use of that is quickly becoming a problem. Motorists will use off ramps as an excuse to cut other people off right before the lane splits, thus causing a cluster-fuck that will hold up traffic even longer. While I’m fairly certain this same maneuver has been flawlessly executed by me (only in emergencies), I can’t stand the role reversal. If I happen to pull off this patented move I will at least give a courtesy wave (the endearing hand gesture is on the endangered species list).
Guess that makes me a hypocrite? Oh well.
Sooooooooooo, as I was saying, the other night while driving I was on the phone with my mom and some douche tried to pull my merge-move against me. That’s like using the “It’s not you, it’s me” line on George Costanza.
You’re giving me the “it’s not you, it’s me” routine? I invented “it’s not you, it’s me”. Nobody tells me it’s them not me, if it’s anybody it’s me.
To prevent such an unspeakable act I swiftly sped up not allowing this fuck-burger to cut me off. Well, he acted like I just murdered his entire family in front of him. The guy went bonkers! He slammed on his brakes cutting behind me to the left, moving three lanes in one fell swoop. As he approached my driver’s side window I expected nothing more than a heated exchange of words. I placed my mom on hold (didn’t want her to hear anything unpleasant, hi mom!) by dropping the phone between my legs and prepared for the verbal attack. While anxiously rolling down my window a couple of responses came to mind…
1. “I’m sorry sir for not letting you cut me off”
2. “Merry Christmas” (hoping he was a sensitive Jew)
3. Maybe I should play the “what” game? You know, pretend to be deaf by repeating the word “what” after every thing he says. I could throw in an ear-cup for dramatic effect. That would really piss him off.
Before I could say anything this jackass was all-up-on-me like stink-on-shit, screaming obscenities in another language (possibly Hebrew). Having no clue what this imbecile was saying I shrugged it off until I took a 2 second look into this gentleman’s eyes. If looks could kill he just raped my brother’s cat (Kitty NOOOOOO!) and murdered me twice! Dude was straight scary. With that, the jittery Jew started rummaging through a paper grocery bag that was resting on the passenger seat next to him. What the hell is he looking for? Cautious he might be looking for a weapon I kept my distance and stayed focused on the bag while I peripherally checked how much road was in front of me, just incase the hammer needed to drop. Traffic was tighter than a duck’s butthole, so for now, no escape.
After 15 seconds of chaotic searching his hand resurfaced with a shiny object that he began waving violently in the air. It took me a second to identify his weapon of choice. Holy shit! This dude was wielding a canned good and he wanted to throw it at my head/car! Let me be clear people, this wasn’t one of those quarter sized cans of tuna either; it was one of those big hulking cans of a preserved food product.
My mind immediately defaulted on string beans for some reason, but it wasn’t that. Was it lima beans? Oh HELL no! No ones throwing a can of dirt-beans at my car!
What? If you were being held hostage with canned goods wouldn’t you want to know what food it was? I was on a mission. Everything seemed to slow down as I stared at that can with my x-ray vision ignoring his screams, my mom waiting anxiously on the phone, even traffic.
I become obsessed, so obsessed it pissed off our canned hit-man so bad he started faking throws towards me. In retaliation I calmly extended my arm so I could thwart any potential toss. Since it was almost impossible to identify the cans contents, I needed to imagine what this particular product might be, out of principle alone. Then it hit me, cranberry sauce! This motherfucker was a canned cranberry sauce, katana wielding, ninja Jew-assassin.
Terrified but calm, I turned and said look DOOD, “If you throw that at my truck you’re a dead man.” Most of you should know by now I’m hardly a fighter but if someone has the balls to throw cranberries at my car you can expect repercussions. I also said this knowing next to my seat lie a 5 lb mag-light for such an emergency.
He continued faking throws and laughing like the Joker. WTF! This guy might actually do this. He might start catapulting cranberries. I quickly formulated three plans.
1. Remember the scene from “Big Trouble in Little China” when Lo Pan’s throws his knife at Jack Burton, he catches it mid-air and deposits it right back into Lo Pan’s forehead? I would do that, catch that can of cranberries and hit him square in the face and yell, “You forgot your tasty Thanksgiving side dish, BITCH!”
2. If plan #1 didn’t come together I would again clearly catch that can, then because I love cranberries so much, celebrate by opening it during my Christmas feast and regale my family with my lighthearted fable entitled the “The Jew who Catered Christmas.”
3. Smack both his headlights and tail lights out with my mag-light while singing the Adam Sandler Hanukkah song. (This would have been the most fun!)
Put on your yalmulka, here comes Hanukkah
It’s so much fun-akkah to celebrate Hanukkah,
Hanukkah is the FESTIVAL OF LIGHTS,
Instead of one day of presents, we have eight CRAZY nights.
When you feel like the only kid in town without a x-mas tree, here’s a list of
People who are jewish, just like you and YOU:
The can guy faked throwing at me a couple more times then called me a “pussy”. Hmmmm, if I’m a pussy then what does that make you?
As my exit approached I graciously bid our freak a dew by waving my middle finger and took off. That’s more than enough insanity for one day.
Mom: “What the hell just happened?!”
Me: “I was just held hostage with cranberry sauce.”
Mom: “WHAT!? Are you serious?”
Me: “Do you think I could make this shit up mom?”
Mom: “Well I heard you yelling something, I’m just glad your okay.”
Me: “Yes I narrowly escaped with my life, its a Christmas miracle!”
Oh look its Santa’s little helper! Happy Festivus people sorry for the delay…