Monday, October 31, 2011

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I've been running this question through my head for a few weeks now when people started clamoring about me doing a podcast. After some serious pondering, I determined it would be awful. I definitely still want to do it, but the logistics are simply terrible. Here are some issues that will undoubtedly make this fetus of an idea bad:

1) My voice sucks: It's like Frankie Muniz from those late awkward seasons of Malcolm in the Middle. I don't know if the bass has come in yet or if I have some sort of pituitary issue, but something is definitely afoot.

2) Topics: I've revealed my method of blogging and that shit ain't pretty. Sometimes I just go on CNN, close my eyes, and point to an article. Then I pray that it's something I can spin. Imagine that with podcasting. I'd be radio silent 15 seconds out of every minute and have you wondering whether your internet fucked up.

3) My roommates: Every one of them is an asshole. Obviously I am too, which makes it work, but in a scenario where I need a bit of solidarity and structure, there is not a worse group. We'd just be arguing and saying VERY offensive things for about an hour and then I'd get arrested by the FCC.

4) Production value: My house has some of the worst/strangest acoustics imaginable. My room is at the top of the house and I can hear a conversation between two people sitting in the living room two floors down better than I can hear if they were sitting 5 feet from me. Again, this may be a pituitary issue, but either way that's not a good look.

5) What would it really be about: What is this blog about? I literally made the tagline: "It's like everything you wanted to say about everything" hammered drunk. It shouldn't be a surprise because it's really stupid, but it sticks and is kind of representative of what this blog is about. That said, I post about absolute NONSENSE that has no connection to anything previously posted.

So there you have it. It's going to be a bumpy ride, but let's face it, WMD is essentially the website-equivalent of drunk driving.

Friday, October 28, 2011

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^Come on. There's blatantly a razor in that lollipop.

As a little kid I remember sitting in my room getting super hyped about Halloween festivities and Trick-or-Treating. I had my non-stereotypical Red Power Rangers suit on, an ill ass jack-o-lantern candy bucket, and a mother with a camera full of Polaroids. Everything was a go. Then 15 minutes before we left the house, the news came on and explained the "Halloween Epidemic" known as razoring candy.

My mom FREAKED out. Nixed all plans for candy acquisition and popped in a fucking non-Halloween related VHS like nothing happened. Obviously, I cried and prodded her until she made a few phone calls to the mother's coalition and determined what houses didn't have razors in their lollipops. Granted as a 5 year old, my mom had every right to unreasonably snap, but let's think about the logistics here. At the time I wasn't smart enough to explain it in a concise/articulate way, but in my gibberish I was trying to say that the overall idea/logistics of someone injecting a lollipop with a razor blade is borderline impossible. In the .000001% chance that someone at the factory had the wherewithal to hail mary a razor into the vat of corn-syrup and by some stroke of goon magic have it miraculously get inside the lollipop, a lollipop is fucking see-through. It's your fault if your jugular is lacerated.

If you gave me 10 scientists, unlimited Hersheys/Butterfingers/Snickers, and one year of time, I guarantee you that I won't be able to correctly insert a razor blade into any of those candies. It's just too difficult. The consistency of a Butterfinger is literally the most unforgiving thing on a planet, there are too many peanuts for a razor to get comfortable in a Snickers, and Hershey's are far too thin and boring to possibly have a razor in it.

If people are still effing with razors in a time where rat poison is so readily available, then we truly have a problem in the criminal/psychopath sector of our society.
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So we have this thing at work called 'Candygrams.' They're little baggies full of candy for Halloween, and you pay $1 to have one sent to a person of your choice. A Halloween Valentine, if you will. I thought of them as nothing more than a harmless little fundraiser put together by the 'Morale Committee' (Yes, we have a committee specifically designed to keep up morale. Makes you wonder why morale was so low in the first place.).

Today, they passed out these Candygrams, and let me tell you, all hell is breaking loose. As they were coming by to hand them off, the lady dropped a respectable two baggies onto my desk. I let go a sigh of relief. Little did I know they were from my manager and my trainer….aka Pitygrams. Which is almost worse than no candygrams. I reluctantly ate a mini snickers and got back to work (aka checking my fantasy team).

About ten minutes later, I got up to go to the bathroom and saw that other people's desks were littered with anywhere from eight to ten of these diabolical little baggies. Smiling jack'o'lanterns and tiny bags of skittles surrounding me on all sides. As everyone around me danced in their sugar fueled euphoria, I was left face to face with the soul-crushing reality of my interoffice irrelevance.

Not a good way to start the weekend.

Also, Connecticut is supposed to get 6 inches of snow tomorrow. WTF. It's October. Could use some of that global warming kicking in right now. If this is any sign of things to come, I'll be spending my Saturday night shelled up in a bathroom with a box of Franzia.

I always thought of Halloween as a judgement free holiday. Leave it to the Morale Committee to ruin that.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I just found some Gobstoppers in one of my bags. Things are looking up.

Thursday, October 27, 2011

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Who knew Emus that? I most certainly didn't. They're noodly as all hell and quite possibly, the most evasive creature I've ever seen.

I don't even think we can consider this a fight. That kangaroo was just getting his swerve on hopping around trying to tackle that branch. I don't even think he was trying to eat it. Then a gaggle of Emus unreasonably felt their turf infringed upon, because I'm pretty sure emus love branches. What happened next is anyone's guess.

What it boiled down to was a bunch of emus posturing at this confrontational kangaroo for a hilarious 2 minutes. Tons of dodges, dips, dives, and fake outs. Love their moves, but that kangaroo no doubt would have fucked them all up. When I'm undoubtedly confronted for my Steve Urkel costume tomorrow you best believe I'll be getting my emu on evading downtown douchebags like a motherfucker.

PS. When the emus turn and run away is premium-level comedy.
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Yup, Steven Q. Urkel. This mindfuck of a costume has been in the makings for a long time.

Family Matters filled the void that "The Fresh Prince of Bel Air" left when it went off the air. I craved the black family sitcom that knew how to joke around, but also taught me lessons about: handling firearms, not taking illicit drugs, rape, pregnancy, and other issues that were WAY too much for a 10 year old to digest. The show also featured an outlandish nerd named Steve Urkel that most certainly suffered from Aspergers Syndrome. No one seemed to address that, but there was definitely something wrong with him.

Now this costume took me years to do strictly because of one thing: laziness. I have to be one of the Top 5 laziests dude on the planet at this rate. I cook one big meal and just consistently pick at it throughout the week. I laundry ONLY when I run out of underwear. It's bad. So yeah, it basically took me a collective 14 years to muster up enough energy to buy suspenders and a set of "nerd" glasses with tape in the middle. The main issue that has developed aside from the ass that I'm not going to get, is the fact that shit is exposed in this costume. Like you can see all of my nether regions vividly and my suspenders make it virtually impossible to walk. It's ok though because this costume is essentially me proving a point to myself. Just a practice in letting myself know that I'm capable of actually...doing things.

All in all, the Steve Urkel costume is less about the people than it is about me. A test on whether I'm a productive person in society while being an alternate test on whether I can pull a girl while wearing this get-up because that'd be stupendously baller.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

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Did anyone honestly know what was happening on Beavis and Butthead whenever you sneakily watched it? I couldn't understand anything they were saying. I guess that was the funny part? I'm not sure.

I asked my Mom the other day about why kids weren't allowed to watch it? She brought up some bullshit about swearing, scantily clad women, and "unsavory themes." Are you kidding me Mom? What the fuck is an unsavory theme? So obviously I popped it on a few times and couldn't come close to figuring it out. It was just a bunch of Nirvana videos and weird laughs. Then it would go to commercial, come back, still no plot, more weird laughs, another Nirvana video and the credits would roll. I'd go into school next day bragging about how I watched it and dudes would freak out asking me what it was like. Since I legit had no idea what was going on, I had to lie. So I would tell them it was just tons of boobs and explosions. As a 9 year old that was all you needed to say to spark a near fucking riot at the jungle gym. Like 8% of kids knew what "boobs" were too, so that made it even more hilarious. "Dub saw BOOBS on Beavis and Butthead!!!!" It was just a matter of time, but I eventually got found out. 4th grade dudes were disappointed as hell when they saw zero breasts and left with more questions than answers. Borderline got beat up, but kids were so disappointed/sad they didn't have the spirit to attack me.

What I'm trying to say is that those same 9 year olds DID NOT grow up and begin signing petitions and shit begging for this trashbag show to come back.

Easily the ugliest cartoon characters in the game.
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Candy corn is fucking gross. Sure there are apologists out there that'll defend it, but they're idiots. You can't tell me that you'd prefer some waxy high fructose corn syrup over any other candy out there. Seriously, I'd rather eat a MARS Bar than 1/10th of a candy corn and I literally have no clue what a MARS Bar is. Not even confident in the capitalization of "MARS."

I had a notebook that I used to blacklist places in my neighborhood that regularly distributed candy corn. Shit was insulting to my existence. I'm trying to bounce off the walls from pixie stick sour grains and Butterfinger minis getting cavities and what not. As a responsible 24 year old, I feel that I can host some trick-or-treaters this year and you best believe I will have the greatest lineup of treats for those little bastards. Crunch bars, Snickers, gummy bears all day, and maybe, just maybe some Sour Patch Kids if I'm feeling like breaking the bank.

Candy corn are the Peeps of Halloween. Peeps suck.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

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You're saying she taught kindergarten? Well that explains why she took an ENTIRE bottle of wine to the face. Kindergartners are some of the worst people on the planet.

I remember sitting in class sometimes and just screaming for no reason because there weren't any real repercussions. The ability to take advantage of kindergarten teachers is extrordinarily easy. You'll get maybe a "stop that" or a "settle down", but you weren't really in any danger until they threatened to call your Mom. That's when you shut the fuck up, grab the crayons, and dig your face in the coloring book. But sometimes there were those badass kids that have no fear of the Mom call and kept on causing chaos. So I get it, teach. While the kids are in size-place order waiting for chicken patties, pop open that Pinot Grigio and slug it back in the supply room. I don't know if you should have drank the whole thing, but I certainly like your style.

Tommy kicked over Susie's blocks? Doesn't matter because you're shit faced and look as if you're stroking out, which is kind of a problem I guess? Yesterday I addressed "casually stealing a remote" drunk and it appears today we are introduced to "you resemble a person having a stroke drunk." The latter seems exponentially worse, but it got you kicked out of school which was the ultimate goal right?

--One time my kindergarten teacher was inches away from calling my Mom. I immediately panicked, instantly finished my coloring, picked up every block on the ground, and apologized to like 5 kids for no reason in a span of 30 seconds. A top 3 life achievement.

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^75% of the time, pressing the left arrow when you look at someone's Facebook photos produces an entirely different person.

2005. That was the year I and probably most of you hopped on the Facebook bandwagon. It was a big year for me personally. I was transitioning from high school to college and had the entire world in front of me. Now I'm blogging in ripped boxers, sipping a Capri Sun. Funny how things change, huh?

Facebook started the "Photos" feature a couple of years later and that's when everyone (almost exclusively girls) made the fatal flaw of tagging literally everything and everyone they saw. A Nikon Coolpix camera was like fucking catnip in the dorms. Chicks were getting ready at like 6:30 for a party at 11 just so they can take 100s of pictures from a variety of angles and with every possible friend combination. Sure, it was fun and most certainly paved the way for me to become the creeper that I am today. But what everyone didn't anticipate was that those pics were going to remain online for internet-forever and create a weird flip book of life destruction.

Let's get interactive:

Press the left arrow on one of your friend's photos. Do you see bright eyes? A lot of happy friends? A fit body? A hint of aspiration?

Now press the right arrow. Do you see a forced smile? Is there a Bud Light or a Gin&Tonic present? Not too many friends? A look of befuddled desperation that can only mean it's almost last call?

I'm going to take a stab and say that you probably wish you weren't too cool to untag pics.

Monday, October 24, 2011

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This song is making a mockery of the phrase, "shelf-life." As a surveyor of everyday societal actions, I specialize in knowing when shit is on the way out.

From a young age I was able to decipher when it was time to get in and get out of fads. Ever since I made the fatal flaw of missing out on the primetime of Pogs, I made it my goal to never let such a thing happen again. Still can't tell you what a Slammer is. Anyhow, I cruised through Yo-Yos, made a mockery of Tamagotchis, and entered/exited the Pokemon phase like a boss. Now it appears we are fully entrenched in the "Party Rock Anthem" era and it's fucking awful now. Look, the shuffle was a good time--we all sweat a little too much and elbowed a girl in the face once or twice. But this ornament show was simply too much on so many levels.

Ornaments suck. There's no defending that one. Tons of work with no real reward. This video is the absolute pinnacle of ornament decoration and it is looks like hell.

Someone call ADT Security systems and set up a fool-proof device to make sure the authorities are called if "Party Rock" even sniffs a 300 foot radius of my home.
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*Crawled out of birthday weekend with a majority of my dignity gone and a few tendons in my hamstring potentially torn. Thanks for all the birthday wishes everyone.

On average I'd say a typical dude "loses" the remote twice a week. And by lose, I mean that shit is absolutely gone. Most likely it's in some weird purgatory between the couch springs and the floor that is literally unreachable. Unfortunately the Y-chromosome causes us to treat a lost remote like a tragedy comparable to a missing baby. So we go through some weird internal dialogue saying, "Odds are my arm will get stuck and/or torn to shreds reaching for this thing, but I think it's kinda worth it" and "I'll just change the channel manually." Both ideas are unrealistic and outrageous. The one thing that we can always count on is the fact that the remote, like a mildly loyal cat, will always return. Except when your fucking friend gets black out drunk, puts it in his pocket and goes home.

I almost called in a terrorist alert I was so hysterical. Screaming out the window at random people asking if they've seen my remote. We've all been drunk, but have you ever been "casually steal a remote" drunk? Bizarre.
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So two weeks ago, I ordered the iPhone 4S. Figured it was time I step it up from my flip phone game and join the masses. Nothing like good ol’ conformity. I had it delivered to my parents’ house back in Philly, so I couldn’t get it until this past Friday. Also, about three weeks ago, I ordered a new wallet that I also had sent to parents’ house.

Now, it may seem like I’m just here to gloat about my new purchases, dropping bills left and right, but these were two upgrades that needed to be made. I pushed them off as long as I could. My flip phone’s space key only worked 50% of the time, dropped about half it’s calls, and died after an 8 hour work day. And my wallet, I had to tape it up because my credit cards would routinely fall through the rip in the bottom of it. It was time.

But the fact that these two upgrades happened on the very same day left my pockets completely unprepared. My phone went from a Squirtle to a Blastoise without even so much as a hint of a Wartortle. One day I’m using Bubblebeam against Brock in the Rock Gym, NBD. Next day I’m busting out Hydropumps left and right. It was unprecedented.

My left pocket (where I carry my phone) was just sitting at a lowly $6 value before. It was chilling like a college intern, browsing YouTube all day and collecting modest paychecks. Then graduation hit and it somehow landed a real job. Now the pressure’s on. The lazy days are over. One little slip up and that pocket is out on the street, hoping to find some keys, maybe tissues, or even some measly hard candy to house. Anything not to be out of a job.

And my right pocket (I carry my wallet in my front pocket. A questionable move depending on who you talk to, but I recommend it. It balances out phone weight in the other front pocket, prevents back problems, and leaves you less vulnerable to attacks from behind.) has to make the under appreciated switch from trifold wallet to bifold. This is no easy task, mind you. It’s like a right tackle switching from protecting a right-handed quarterback to a lefty. Winston Justice switching from protecting Kevin Kolb to Michael Vick, if you will (Gratuitous Philly sports reference. Couldn't resist). This move may fly under the radar, but if that pocket slips up, your quarterback may end up with concussions, cracked ribs, all sorts of stuff. Er, your wallet, that is. So your wallet…is your quarterback? And if your quarterback gets sacked…that means…you lost your wallet? Now I’m confusing myself.

In summation, I’m carrying around Winston Justice in my right pocket and a gainfully employed Blastoise in my left. And I’m confused as shit about it.

Hydropump going off in your pocket: not a good look.

Friday, October 21, 2011

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^doing completely fine on my 22nd birthday.

Get your motherfuckin' popcorn ready. Leave me blog related gifts such as comments and Nigerian royalty money laundering earnings.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

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^(this was a real video game by the way)

Is this the first instance of "white face" in the history of racial face imitation? And white knuckles? I can't imagine things went well with this one.

Execution. Anirog Kong appears to have ignored that term and just winged it. Someone saw Donkey Kong and said, "Hey, let's copyright infringe the shit out of this and see what happens." Probably hit the sauce, got out some crayons, and had at it. Came up with Popeye the Sailor hitting an exaggeratedly large presumed ape with a mallet in the stomach. You know, because that's how you get things to release princesses. Actually, hold up. That's 1 million % a prostitute. How about thinking this one through before you hit him with a mallet Popeye. This weird looking ashy gorilla potentially made an hourly "transaction" and has all right to grip that hoe.

Two other issues. When you make contact with the mallet, bananas come out? That's wildly unrealistic and really stereotyping of gorillas. And did that trick drop her umbrella? Why is there an umbrella on this game cover? That said, I spent 45 minutes searching for Anirog Kong and an accompanying Telstar Colortron on EBay.

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I hope this picture does a good job at answering that question.

There's a magic formula to every successful girl costume. Show 65% of the skin on your body and you can literally be whatever the fuck you want. Check this pic right here. I would pounce this girl and serve 5-10 up in a correctional facility while completely neglecting the fact that she's dressed as a electric anime rat. She followed the formula and had herself a successful costume that was worthy enough to get put on my website without her permission. I'm fairly certain you can go to any bar for Halloween in the clothes you wore to work out. Add in a few strategic rips, sprinkle some glitter all over shit, and kablam, you're in the top 5 for the bar's "$1000 Sexiest Costume" giveaway.

You ladies have it easy. As guys, we have to be witty, topical, creative, all while maintaining the ability to drink and have real conversations. I typed "Sexy Girl Halloween Costumes" into Google, and once I sifted past all of the porn, I stumbled upon: 1) Sexy Tootsie Roll, 2) Sexy French Fries and literally 3) Sexy Shit (seriously, click that link. It's a girl dressed as shit..and she's kinda pulling it off). That just goes to show that you guys have the cheat code to Halloween. Follow the 65% formula and even, Hitler, Bin Laden, or a Klansman are probably in play.

Meanwhile I'm putting blood, sweat, and fucking tears into finding a decent establishment that sells suspenders for my costume.

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

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I can't tell you how pissed I would be if one day I said, "Today's the day I learn how to make an appropriate salad and eat healthily" and saw a fucking bear cub stomping on all the lettuce and tomatoes with his dirty feet. You can't just come out the woods with dirt and ants all over you and waffle stomp the produce.

So today was a banner day for animals huh? Ohio wildlife kinda went HAM today with 100s of dangerous animals terrorizing the entire state. Teddy the rollerskating cockatoo is still doing his thing somewhere. And now we have bear cubs trying to up their quality of life by pillaging grocery stores for carrots and shit. I'm not mad at his game either because hey, Dub J may take WMD to the woods one day and blog from a cave or some shit. We can let bygones be bygones at that point bear cub.

PS. Bears sound like goats, huh?
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I haven't stopped laughing at this since I saw it at 7:45am today when this commercial came on during the Today Show.

The commercial comes out swinging for the emasculating fences. It starts with a dude looking depressed as fuck sitting on a couch watching football. Then it awkwardly transitions to him getting up, turning off the tv, and looking out the window at a limitless meadow. That's never happened to any dude ever. Next, it shows a dude playing basketball and inexplicably subbing himself out and just leaving the gym. Yet another event where that shit just never happened. Then James Earl Jones, or some dude with an absurd voice comes on and asks, "Is It Low T?" and the dude shakes his head yes. This was a lot to handle at 7:45, but for the slower readers, the "T" stands for testosterone. Apparently, there are dudes out there that have no interest in football, give up during the middle of a basketball game, have no interest in sex...and they're not gay. My brain isn't allowing me to believe that.

Sure there may have been a Cleveland Browns-Seattle Seahawks game that I cut off, maybe there was a pickup game that was going nowhere and we all agreed to stop, and I won't even get into the sex scenario because that has literally happened zero times. But damn, do I have low testosterone? Looks like I'm done with career aspirations, hot chicks, and rec. league championships.

Probably should have watched Colt McCoy duke it out with Tavaris Jackson rather than have my balls shrivel up to my diaphragm.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

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Obviously we have hologram computers. I'm pretty sure I saw a 5 year old playing a very savvy game of Texas Hold'Em on an Ipad during my morning commute, so I'm the least bit surprised that shit's getting weird.

Welp, looks like Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing is going to be eradicated off the map completely. That's unfortunate, because there aren't too many strong black women lead computer typing programs left anymore. I recently tweeted (WMsDiary) that I couldn't grasp the texting capabilities of the Iphone because my fingers are fucked or something. Imagine the calamity it'd be trying to tackle a hologram screen. Blogs would take weeks to write and be even more illiterate than they are now. I can't even imagine the Facebook fallout that would occur. Dudes thinking I'm gay because I randomly poked them, chicks getting real weirded out because I liked all 97 of their profile pics and left "mmmm" comments on a couple of them.

On a real note, what's this going to cost? This shit can literally range from like $10 to $500,000. Just can't get any sort of read on anything that's going on in this video.
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So the follow up to my first post about urinals has been delayed indefinitely due to unforeseen creepiness/unwelcome sexual undertones. Expect it done right around the time when Detox comes out.

But fret not, teeming masses. As a malnourished, poorly socially adjusted white kid, I’ve got plenty more to gripe about.

First things first, can we talk about this picture? Lab goggles, a cat, some weird-ass looking gun, 9 squashes, and one lonely cucumber...all I can say is why?

On that note, I just recently adopted a kitten. I didn’t really think much of it at the time, because I’ve had cats in my house my whole life, but this is the first cat I’ve officially “owned.” Someone brought it up to me that I’m now officially a “cat guy.”

Now, the term “cat guy” is not to be confused with “crazy cat lady.” A crazy cat lady is a lady who hoards cats because they’re all she’s got. She drove everyone else away with her heinous smell and constant screaming of obscenities. Go figure. A cat guy is generally someone who is male, single, neat, and likes to keep various different body parts from his murder victims sealed up in his freezer. For an example, refer to the above picture.

I’ve been mulling this over for a little while now. I don’t think I’m a cat guy just yet, but only because my cat is still a kitten. So that means I have, what, 3 months left? After that, a female will probably never touch me again. Looks like I’m going into wife-finding turbo drive. Otherwise I’m looking at a lifetime of masturbation and filing my taxes on time.

On the plus side, a “kitten guy” is the complete opposite of a cat guy. Ladies are powerless against a kitten. In fact, who isn’t? Not even Adolf can resist a kitten's purr. They sound like tiny little lawn mowers. Better make these 3 months count. Winnie Cooper, I’m coming for you.

P.S. Legitimately considering investing in some kitten mittens.

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So I have a week off the first week of December and the kid needs a spot to catch some R&R (Rum and Rumps). I also need a ton of friends that mismanaged their vacation time too, but that's another battle. I've been hitting the web hard for a solid 7 minutes and just when I thought I found the ideal spot, some voodoo infused doll babies had to be surrounding the outer circumference of the island.

You'd think a guy could plan a simple, run-of-the-mill vacation without encountering black magic and lynched, disfigured dolls overhead, but I guess not. I would love to make a "If I had a nickel for how many times demon dolls ruined my vacation..." joke, but this is literally the opposite of a joking matter. Any of you readers own one of those "My Buddy" dolls that looked exactly like fucking "Chucky", but your parents just didn't connect the dots? I did. I'm convinced one night while I was asleep that asshole hopped out of the closet and tried to kill me in my sleep. Or my dad played one of the wackest, immature jokes of all-time.

Either way, you can understand why I instinctively teared up when I saw that first picture.

Monday, October 17, 2011

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Did I just plug in my N64 and pop in Mario 64? Because I haven't seen the phrase "Mamma Mia" used so egregiously since that misguided plumber was traversing Mushroom Kingdom looking for his main chick. I'm a little offended since I feel like this is inches away from some sort of "Awww Shit" Cornbread mix that'll send race relations into a frenzy.

While that glass looks crisp as hell, I can't get on board with a beer that is making it's best effort to recreate tomato sauce and mozzarella cheese. It took YEARS for Bud Light to create a lime formula that it felt safe enough to release to the public. That's a fruit that's routinely featured in alphabetical (EDITORS NOTE: I don't even understand why I typed alphabetical here instead of alcoholic. That's not a typo as much as some crippling, deep seeded mental handicap) beverages, not a personal pan from Pizza Hut. Also, Bud Light Lime is absolutely disgusting to the point that I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. So hey, chill out Mama Mia. Maybe take your talents to a brick oven, deposit those extra bottles you were going to use to make beer, and take an L.

Obviously I'd be mad if "Awww Shit" Cornbread mix existed, but like 4% of me would find it absolutely hilarious.
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Think about it before you knock any of the people getting chased. How would you react if you were on your way home after a tough day and 100 Japanese people popped up around the corner and bum rushed you?

Japan tends to kick things up 4 notches for no reason. People were fine with regular flash mobs. Sure they were a little annoying, but they certainly weren't dangerous/borderline terrifying. Like what became of that dude the mob caught? Was he beaten up, repeatedly tossed in the air, and left for dead? That's definitely what it looked like. Just a lesson to all of us that we shouldn't play our Ipod too loud because you run the risk of getting physically assaulted by dozens of salty, wildly bored Japanese people.

That last move they did with that lady, pretending something was falling out of the sky was absolute high comedy.

thanks DCtoBC
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I usually don't have an irrational hate for somebody I haven't met, but good lord, I never hated a person so much.

This asshole reminds me of one of those hipsters that hits the Urban Outfitters "jackpot" and has the ironic t-shirt that all of the other hipsters want. Like that fucking purple penguins shirt that every other dude in skinny jeans is rockin' nowadays. Remember when the phrase, "Where's the Beef?" meant someone was going to get shot? Back when Biggie and Tupac had "beef" dudes were dying and families were torn apart. Not ten years later, this mop top up here is making an absolute MOCKERY of the term and Wendy's is cashing in. Before I get nominated to the Playa Hater's Ball, I'll give the dude some credit. For someone that looks so insufferable, it looks like he's killing it. If I'm going to transition WMD into some sort of awesome future things are going to have to change.

Guess my idea of showbiz was a little off. Apparently you have to look mad ambiguous, have 7 really stupid looks/glances in your arsenal, and be completely ok with it to have a chance these days.

Friday, October 14, 2011

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It's not bad right? I'd go with lazy/irresponsible over bad any day. My dad actually taught me how to shave years back after a pretty ridiculous facial rash incident that I'm going to explain for some reason.

I was like 7 and some idiot relative bought me one of those Fisher Price fake shaving kits to make me feel like a man. After seeing my dad dominate shaving and look badass whenever he cut his face, I figured it was my time to step in the ring despite being 7. Took out my plastic shave kit, put some very questionable substances on my face, and went to town with a plastic razor for like 40 minutes. Needless to say, Dad comes home, I'm crying and Mom's confused as fuck as to what happened. After some over the counter antibiotics and tough summer days where I didn't make contact with other people because I literally had a rash on my face, my dad decided to teach me. Shit was not how I imagined it at all. Razor sharp blades, burning alcohol, blood everywhere, and the knowledge that you have to do it again 3 days later. Told myself that day I would never shave. Dad got me an electric razor before high school and I thought that was the end of that.

Flash forward to Wednesday. Electric razors kind of suck---pinching cheeks, not really accomplishing what they're supposed to, and bothering anyone in a 50 feet radius. I've been pussyfooting around with consistent stubble for like 6 years and have been in denial about it, so it was time for a change. I'm not kidding when I say it took me 45 minutes in the razor aisle at CVS to buy a razor. How many blades is too much because I'm pretty sure that 3rd blade starts making it's way into the epidermis. And what the FUCK is a cartridge? Why do some of them include a single AAA battery with no place to put the battery? Questions. Went with my gut and after spending way too much time assembling the razor/razor blade, I got after it.

Moral of that long winded, borderline pointless story, I'm a bitch. The actual shave took roughly 35 seconds and it was as quick and efficient as a 1992 Tyson fight. I'm embarrassed that I wrote about this and you read this.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

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Macaroni & Cheese air fresheners? Really? Literally zero demand for this. It's like that same dickhead who got fancy with Jelly Bellies is at it again with this nonsense. Not one person thought a meatloaf flavored jellybean was a good idea bro.

Just picture yourself on a hot summer day inside of a musty ass car with no air conditioning. Then add the Easy Mac freshener. I challenge you not to throw up on your keyboard from this daydream.

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My roommate opened my eyes to quite possibly the weirdest thing I've ever seen. I knew the dirty south was a pretty fucked up place, but this is just disgusting.

First of all, did anyone know Catfish grew to be 70 pounds?! That shit's outrageous enough, let alone the fact that people "catch" them with their arm. Let me introduce the term "Noodling." It starts with being an idiot and living near a creek. Next step, have an unreasonable love for the taste of catfish, which until recently I didn't know was edible. The last and most important step of the have to be ok with getting like 1/8th eaten by a fucking catfish. Yup. These wild assholes are fishing with their arms for a potentially inedible fish because that's the thing to do in under the Mason-Dixon line.

Honestly, I thought the term "noodling" strictly involved a spectacularly fun time with pool noodles. Your standard splishy, splashy water whistling good time. Spoiled by reverse catfish enemas. Gross city.
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In an ongoing effort to be baller as hell, it's a given that I need to be doing my business in this toilet/trash compactor/telescope machine. Let's talk perks:

1) Heated seats: I don't believe it took until 2011 for us to get heated seated toilets. An unexpectedly cold booty has to rank in the top 10 worst feelings you can have. Almost as important as fire and electricity.

2) Music: The. Game. Has. Changed. Nothing like turning a routine bathroom trip into a seedy bar basement playing nothing but Top 40. Pitbull, toilet paper, LMFAO, and air freshener. Your mind won't know what happened.

3) Automatic Lid: Pretty damn convenient even though I leave the toilet seat down like 60% of the time. I think I'm at my peak aiming ability, so it very rarely hits the toilet. Definitely going on a tangent. I can see this malfunctioning and lifting people up at inopportunely hilarious times. A Youtube dream.

4) Remote Control: Don't understand the need, but one of the underlying definitions of baller is: unnecessary. Imagine organizing a dance party with just your toilet and a remote.

If I'm not oneing and twoing in a lap of warm luxury, listening to Rihanna, and accidentally lifting the seat by tomorrow night, life just won't be worth living.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

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A friend messaged me about the LA Bloggers Conference and asked me if I had my tickets booked because apparently, it's next month.

This is awkward. Guess Dub J didn't get that invite in the mail. I'll blame that on the United States Postal Service because that shit is busted. I mean you can't have a Blogging Conference without the best up and coming blogger since blogging started. Just shaking hands and kissing babies whilst sipping champagne with my pinky out dripping of blog swag--which is easily the lowest form of swag. The part that hurts the most is that my future wife is most definitely going to be there. Probably writes a hilarious bizarro blog similar to mine like "A Working Woman's Diary." Constant 2-3 paragraph tidbits of slice of life subjects and an overly cocky demeanor.

Let's be honest, this saves me an arrest and Google removing my blog from the internet because "some guy that kept calling himself 'Dub Jeezy' was very drunk and started aggressively dancing with everyone while screaming about some blog he wrote when he clearly didn't have an invitation."
// //

24 robotic fingers, using water, and their own discretion when washing my hair? Sounds like a great fucking idea. Let me stick my hand in the garbage disposal while I'm at it.

Did anyone catch what that guy said? Dude said, "hopefully there will be robot hair stylists and exclusively robot salons." Do you know how weird a black robot barber shop would be? Even worse for a salon. It's hard enough dictating how you want your hair cut as it is, let alone inputting it into a touchscreen robot with a digital lisp.

You know what I could have done without? The dude telling me how clean hair makes you a cleaner person. Word? Didn't know that I'd be cleaner if parts of my body were clean brah. I'm tired of getting condescended upon via the internet. Can't have the world wide web telling me how to live my life or else I'd be knee deep in robot induced concussions and cats taking dumps all throughout the toilets in my house. Not a good look internet, not a good look.
// //

Imagine opening the bathroom door and seeing this thing staring at you. There's no way you can have a good day at that point right? A cat bodied you off the toilet and you ended up pissing in the sink getting urine on your plates and bowls.

So what's the deal with these multi-colored wheels that contribute to the: "ready", "steady", and the confusing "go...hooray"? Looks like we're putting a lot on the cat here. Like expecting it to fully grasp the concept of a three ring contraption that needs a DVD and a 5 language instructional manual sounds like a stretch. The most that'll come out of this is a few wet butted cats that are too traumatized to be fun anymore. And best case scenario, you have to consistently flush cat poop down the toilet because this box didn't really tackle the flushing concept. Nothing worse than seeing an unattended cat turd chillin' in the toilet after a hard 8 hours at the office.

The word "kwitter" makes me so fucking angry. You can't take the Mortal Kombat concept and pair it with a cat dumping in a toilet. Mockery.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

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I'm going to list out a few choice quotes from this "story" and you can be the judge:

--Chiappini told The Express-Times of Easton, Pa., the bear ran away after she first screamed at it. But Chiappini says the bruin returned while she called 9111 and began chasing "Gus (the llama)." (You call "9111" to really send a message. The extra 1 means "a bear is eating my llama")

--Chiappini told the newspaper she got between "Gus" and the bear and stood her ground. (It's VERY up in the air whether I'd consider getting between a bear and any of my unborn children/future wife.)

--Chiappini is treating the llama with antibiotics. (Neospirin's a helluva drug)

--Chiappini says she broke her toe after she kicked the dead bear out of frustration. (That's the funniest thing I've heard in months, by a lot. If there isn't video of this by tomorrow we've failed as people and the internet might as well kill itself.)

Tell me this shit doesn't have "The Onion" written all over it. I desperately hope this loony broad is on The Today Show tomorrow freaking people out.
// //

I'm so removed from important issues, it's almost embarrassing. I barely know what my job is at this point. So this hashtagOccupy bullshit must be serious if I actually heard of it. Whenever I go on CNN or any relevant news site, I dart to the "Lifestyle", "Entertainment", or "Health" sections and make a concerted effort to avoid any real news.

That being said, I still have no idea what this really is. A bunch of people just hanging out in patches of grass with Crayola crayons and some posterboard? Is that it? I have so many questions about what's going on it's boggling. If I'm sitting on my couch, am I occupying it? I thought about having someone take a picture of me sitting down and sending it to the FAQ section to get to the bottom of this. Also, why am I encountering the number 99 and the number 1 so often? The cause would probably move forward if there were more reasonable numbers involved. EVERYONE believes a cause with one group being 75% and one group being 25% regardless of what it is. I'd be there with a crudely designed picket sign too if I felt that I was in the 25% group. Complaining like a motherfucker how WMD doesn't have any sponsorship and how I'm being oppressed by imaginary businesses and causes. I don't even know what jokes are played out, so this entire post could very well be terrible.

This shit is hurting my head. I'm going to "Occupy" some girl's facebook wall and look at 99% of her pics with 1% remorse.
// //

We've all been there moose. Waking up in a strange place surrounded by police is a standard night for the typical drunk asshole.

Sometimes the night takes over, you get a little rambunctious and order that extra long island iced tea because it's cost efficient. One thing leads to another and all of a sudden you're treading water in a local suburban swimming pool like a fucking seal. If I see this happen to one of my friends, the best course of action is to let them figure their way out of the situation. Odds are, this moose would have ascertained that the pool steps were roughly 10 feet behind him and just walked out. No need to tug of war his ass out of there.

Don't you hate when people overreact to a drunk person? Like, "OH MY GOD if they don't get water in the next ten seconds, they are going to DIE!!" Shut up. Let them stumble home, get robbed by a bum and learn a lesson. Or in this case, let a moose drown in the pool to teach any other alcoholic moose in the area a lesson.

Monday, October 10, 2011

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Actually scratch that. You can't fucking take a nap on that pillow without accidentally blasting the volume or turning on that A/V channel that no one can figure out how to change. It becomes completely useless as a remote and immediately becomes an unnecessarily large obstruction that no one wants to use at the risk of looking like an asshole.

WHY does it still have a VCR button?! I'm almost at the point where I have no recollection of what a VCR is anymore. Vague memories of the acronym VHS pop in my head, but it's real hazy. As a remote aficionado, erroneous buttons are red flags for me. Space eaters that end up creating issues for my fingers and can lead to eventual carpo tunnel. Plus ya'll know a brotha needs an easily accessible "Go Back" button. Those crazy nights when no one's home and something really "intriguing" comes on Skinemax, you want to be pretty dextrous when you hear that door unexpectedly swing open. I give this a remote a C- overall, but an A fucking plus for effort. Can't knock an item for a man's man.

VCRs were literally the least practical creation ever created by modern man. Went through like 3 "Lion King" tapes because the black ribbon in the back would get fucking corrupted or something nonsensical.
// //

I've received roughly 4000 emails from Groupon about every possible thing I want nothing to do with. They should ask "race" in the preferences section because they'd know right away that I have no fucking interest in "Hang-Gliding" or "Whale Watching." But most of all, they'd know that all black people, at some point in their life become lactose intolerant.

Obviously I'm not on some "I take Lactaid when I smell ice cream" stuff, but I definitely experience some..unrest. But leave it to Groupon to stare me down, analyze my tastes, and make the educated assumption that I'd be interested in breast milk from the Indiana Mothers' Milk Bank (IMMB). Might as well offer the president of the KKK a Blu-Ray of Tyler Perry's "Diary of A Mad Black Woman" and see how well that goes over. I'm not saying I won't take a deal from a bevy of generously breasted women of Indiana. I'm just saying I'll be farting on the game like Terrance & Phil in one of those episodes of South Park you definitely can't watch with a girl.

I'm just waiting for that one bombshell Groupon offer that encompasses everything I'm about. If they took $0.50 off my bar tab on any given Friday night I will Yelp the shit out of Groupon with positive reviews.
// //

Like I said before, I'm not much of a "do anything for myself" type of guy. I called my dad the other day to ask him a shaving related question. I'm 23. Wanted to know the best method to tackle the bristles--he hung up. So it's not much of a surprise that my only means of eating food on a Sunday is if my computer is plugged in. If there is an issue with connectivity or the WiFi is on the fritz, I'm in the fridge concocting something that will probably give me food poisoning.

That's where comes in. When I need a website to play the role of "mother" for me it steps up and borderline saves my life. Granted the term "saves" is used pretty loosely because I'm ordering exclusively, pizza, rangoons, and bacon cheeseburgers, but still. I found this site in college when I was violently hungover and barely had the strength and wherewithal to type my credit card information and remember my address. They were there for me. Especially when my main food spot is literally a 2 minute walk from my house and I honestly don't want to get on the phone and speak with a real person in that situation.

Spoke with one of my older coworkers today about the process of ordering food online and I think they uttered the term "floppy disk." I looked at her in silence and she just walked away. Probably told her kids to get off the phone so she can dial into AOL and type in keyword Foodler. Old people...

Saturday, October 8, 2011

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Forget what you did last night. Definitely forget about that swamp creature laying next to you taking all the blanket. Get in the shower, reflect for 45 minutes to an hour about how you're an idiot, and get ready to do it again tonight. But this time you're actually going to have fun.

People ask me all the time, "Where are you partying/getting weird at tonight Dub?" and I always forget to answer. Well today I'm doing my due diligence and telling you all I'll be at LANSDOWNE PUB tonight in Fenway because my favorite band (and 75% of my roommates) is performing there from 10PM-2AM. Like a 7 hour show of jams, good times, and chicks potentially getting naked. I'll definitely be de-clothed before the clock strikes 12. So if you want to meet me/have a good time/watch good music, feel free to come down. Cheap ass cover too. 5 bucks is only 5 McDoubles guys.

PS. Your boy might get on stage to help with a couple rap covers as I am their only black friend.

Friday, October 7, 2011

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Doesn't life suck if you're a farmer? You're constantly sweating, pointlessly digging dirt, and getting that weird wife-beater tan for just about zero dollars a week. You got to deal with the locusts, flies, gophers, and rabbits pillaging a year's worth of work. Then you build a terrifying scarecrow that ends up scaring you more than the rabbits because rabbits are 6 inches tall and can't see that disturbing grin you stitched in it's face. You definitely can't sleep on the fact that you live 80 miles from anyone else and your house is the prototypical horror movie/serial killer stomping ground. Just when you think things can't get worse, a fucking whale "appears" in the middle of the pumpkin patch.

I'm not even going to dive into the whole "how'd it get here" routine and look at the facts. This whale is an asshole. Just stick to plankton man. Your job is to open your mouth and absorb food. The easiest means to eating food in the world. But nope, you had to get creative and literally search for greener pastures. You marched your fat ass onto the beach, hitchhiked your way to a field, overestimated your ability to breathe human air, and died. Don't feel sorry for you one bit.

Once I found out the Free Willy whale was a vicious killing machine orca, I just typecasted all whales as dicks.
// //

Before I get to part two of my urinal post, I thought I'd mix it up first. Two urinal posts in a row would be a little much. I don't want to be a one trick pony.

So I found out the other day that all six seasons of The Wonder Years are available to stream on Netflix. And now, two days later, I've almost finished off the first two seasons. Not really sure how that happened. All I know is that growing up is hard, especially in the Arnold family. And especially with a girl like Winnie Cooper living across the street. Cross-street glances full of hormones and nostalgia coming at you left and right.

Speaking of glances, someone pointed this video out to me. It's 100% accurate. If you took the narration out of the show, it's literally just people staring at each other for 22 minutes and calling it an episode. Filming this shit must've been awful. Nothing but silence and showing emotions through facial expressions.

Also, just did some googling, and Winnie Cooper got HOT. She might even give Carissa Rae a run for potential wife candidate of the year. Props to Kevin Arnold for locking that shit down since elementary school. He has a rare combination of wisdom and game-spitting ability. Just picking up bitties and teaching life lessons. Dude's gonna kill it as a grandpa.

God DAMN Winnie Cooper got hot. Someone who Ned Hepburn follows reblog this quick, she needs to be on bonerparty. robotindisguise:  suicideblonde: Winnie Cooper all grow’d up (Danica Mckellar by Jeremy Goldberg)

I also respect the hell out of the casting director for spotting a dime like Winnie when she was like 9. Odds are he's a pedophile, but you gotta give credit where credit is due. He and the guy who casted Emma Watson as Hermione should team up. Could be the greatest/creepiest casting collabo in history, taking the middle school girls scene by storm. Mothers across the country wouldn't even know what hit them.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

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As you can see, I haven't exactly "dominated" the holiday of Halloween. Panicked junior year of college and went as the Scream guy that was popular in 1996. 100% threw up in the mask after getting a little overzealous with some $10 vodka. Then senior year, I unintentionally dressed as a Q-list reality TV star that potentially had a drug problem. Then un-pictured, I was dressed as Sisqo the homosexual pop star that, ironically was known for a song about female underwear. Had silver hair spray dripping off my face like a herb. And last year when all spirits were drained, I went as the Old Spice guy and wore a towel and drank alcohol out of a Body Wash bottle. Pretty sure I got sick from it, but that's beside the fact.

I NEED a good costume this year. Thought I wasn't going to do the "begging" post, but I'm politely asking. I already got a couple great suggestions from the comments and the fan page. It's currently a dog fight between Rainbow Dash and a tattooed Mike Tyson. Help.
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This would be dead on if it was a "Red-Headed Brett Michaels in a Tom Brady jersey" doll, but unfortunately it's not. While I'm a huge Jets fan and Patriots denouncer, this shit is just embarrassing for all involved. I'm insulted as an NFL fan that one of the leagues most popular players was typecast as a redneck NASCAR fan.

I've never seen such an outrageous misstep in all of my days as a surveyor of dolls. Whenever you play a videogame and create a character, they give you that "default" dude who's as basic as it gets. 5'11 white guy with brown hair and brown eyes with almost zero vertical leap. Like roughly 85% of the dude population in America. But hey, to be popular you have to push some envelopes around. This company decided on "option 37" hair style with the ginger mullet and what I think is a black fucking soul patch--for the top quarterback in the NFL who has neither of those things.

This is either a terrific/horrible omen for the Jets this weekend. Most likely horrible.
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^I would...obviously.

Clearly Svedka fucked up and is too stubborn to back down. I'm pretty sure we are rounding the bend of the year 2011. So if my math serves me correctly, I may be in a steady off and on relationship with an attractive robot with an unrealistic ass in a little over 21 years. And let's be honest, that's not the worst life I could live. Until she kills me at least. But enough about my robot side-chick, let's talk Svedka's insecurity. Like how nervous is Svedka going to be when 2033 rolls around? I can picture a bunch of old dudes sweating at a big ass board table at 11:59pm on 12/31/32. Clock strikes 12 and Grey Goose and Ciroc are still shitting on you and your robot bitches cost you thousands of dollars.

Remember when The Jetsons predicted we'd be in Hover Cars by now? We have some hybrids, a couple electrical cars that plug into outlets, and a few drawings of prototypes. They fucked up and the creator died so they technically didn't. Looks like someone's CEO has some cyanide pills to take...

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

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^if you're dressed like Gumby you probably don't have a party to go to or friends to hit a bar with.

That being said, I still don't have a costume. I've asked readers what I should be in years past and received absolutely nothing, so I'm not going to go down that road again. Instead, we are going to figure out what to do on that faithful night where literally everyone is trying to get some.

It comes down to house party vs. the bar--an age old battle that has no clear cut winner. As any great location should, the ratio has to be on fucking point. Nurses, school teachers, naughty angels, and general skanks not dressed as anything should be running around everywhere while you're swaggin' in your really creative costume. House parties provide a little more intimacy, a little more control, but probably not as many people (read: skanks). Bars are a lot hotter, louder, but have more variety. You just have to pick what you like more.

My answer: house parties. I'm perceived as cooler/funnier within a confined, established residence for some reason. Back in college, I went to the a party dressed as a "pirate", but actually looked like "Real" from "I Love New York 2" on VH1. Somehow I fucking killed it. Still don't understand how, but solely because of that night I'm a house party dude through and through. If you don't have a party though, the bar is a solid alternative. You do run the risk of paying the $50 cover and ending up chillin' wall to wall with mad Gumbys and fat chicks dressed as Snooki and Lady Gaga.

PS. My options are: Steve Urkel (for like the 8th straight year), Coffee Black from "Semi-Pro", Timon from "Lion King" (have no idea how the fuck to pull that off), a black dude from the 70s (just buy a 'fro). Halloween is very hit or miss.
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There's stalking and then there's what I'm going to do to Carissa Rae.

Nothing criminal, just persistent, almost constant check-ins on her relationship status and whereabouts. But seriously, if you're a red-blooded male that likes chicks, how does this girl not set off all the marriage switches in your brain? It's like all those romantic comedies say, "When you know, you know." Maybe my guidelines are a little unreasonable because I specifically need a girl to be a 12 out of 10 and be able to BELT out 90s television theme songs, but cut me a break.

Oh yeah, I definitely need to kill this dude. Just eradicate him from the planet. Because there is no doubt in my mind that they are dating and wildly in love. Their chemistry during the "Saved By The Bell" theme almost brought me to tears in the most manly, love struck way possible.

I could have done without those little blurbs during the video, but a girl like Carissa gets infinite strikes before I am anywhere close to upset.
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As I'm sure you have seen by now, a new blogger has made his way onto the WMD scene. Apparently he goes by the name of a bushel of oblong fruit and likes male-specific toilets. To each their own I guess. Let's see if he can cut it because I've seen a lot of good/talented people falter under the pressure of writing for the 6723rd best blog on the planet. Takes a thick skin. I'm looking at you Dick Palmer, G, and...Craw?!

Quick question. True or False: Did I sign Pears to the Working Man's Diary team when I was blacked out drunk?

Quick answer: True. That's not discounting Pears as much as pointing out that I'm possibly an alcoholic. I saw his talent on another site and wanted to bring him over. It's almost exactly like when Pat Riley signed Chris Bosh with the one difference being that Pears doesn't cry when I criticize him like Bosh does. This by no means suggests that I will post less because perusing the internet for interesting shit is my #1, 2, and 3 favorite hobby, but I can appreciate a little help.

Welcome aboard bushel of oblong fruit.
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New WMD blogger here. Name’s Pears. Glad to be on board. Thanks to Dub J for bringing me on.

I’m from Philly originally, but right now my stomping grounds are the mean streets of Hartford, CT. Known mainly for being the insurance capital of the US and for it’s high per capita murder rates, people often overlook the brighter sides of Hartford. I’ll let you know when I figure out what they are.

Also, I’m an unashamed Philly sports fan, so excuse me if gloat at all about a certain team filled with Golden Gods of October.

And yes. The Eagles are 1-3. “Who’s the dream team now?” I get it. Let’s move on with our lives.

So I’ve seen some pretty weird topics discussed on WMD in the past, so I figured I’d start off with something maybe a little risqué, perhaps a little taboo, but it’s something that’s been bugging me for a while, and I need to address it. Today, I’d like to talk to you about urinals.

Before I start this rant, let me just say that I love urinals. They bring a lot to the table. No faster option if you’re trying to make a quick get-in, get-out men’s room stop. And if they have auto-flush sensors on them, you can even make a successful bathroom trip without touching anything. Can’t beat that.

What I do not love about them, however, is the social situations they present. Nothing worse than when you stride into the bathroom ready to blast a steady stream against the back of some porcelain, and just as you get ready to let loose, someone walks up the urinal right next to you. Suddenly this dream scenario has taken a turn. I have nightmares about the moment that occurs next.

Silence. What we have here is a stand off.

You can’t look at each other. No chance. But can you see each other? Damn right you can. Peripherals all up in that shit, showing you way more than you want to see. And one thing’s for sure, he can see you too. And no one is happy about it. Don’t even think about looking down.

So what do you do next? You listen. You don’t want to, but in that deafening bathroom silence you can’t help it. You can’t just turn your ears off. The worst part is, you know he’s listening to you too. And you can bet he’s just as unhappy about it.

So you stand there, and you wait. Wait to hear the gentle trickle coming from the urinal next to you.

A few things can happen from here. Ideally, you both just pee and go on with fighting your way through the work day, but it doesn’t always go so smoothly. More on this in my next article, when I’ll talk about all of the different variables that come into play at this stage, as well as give a personal account of the worst urinal experience of my life.

You’re excited. I can tell.

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

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Worst. Crawler. Ever.

Is it just me or did this robot toddler not gain any fucking ground during that entire video? Embarrassing. Don't really get what the point of this thing is. Obviously it's terrifying, but I don't really see the point of attaching a plastic face to a poorly made K-Nex set.

I've been putting a lot of nightmare inducing videos up recently. My bad.
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If you're normal disregard this question, but if you're a guy/girl like me that gets super weird on Friday and Saturday then you know exactly what I'm talking about.

There's nothing worse than hearing all of your roommates start laughing and saying things like, "Dub looks like shit!" while you're laying in your bed. Puts you in a situation where you don't want to look at your computer or go on Facebook, but you're just delaying the inevitable. Get ready for an awful inner monologue:

--Oh great, you're pointing your finger at the camera again with one of your eyes closed.

--Who had a camera last night?

--Lots of pics with...just the guys.

--You haven't been tagged, but you're definitely in the background doing some STRANGE shit on the dancefloor.

To answer the question, I'm very nervous. I'm a devious combination of too prideful to untag, yet too drunk to take good pictures. Creates situations where I have crop out Jack&Cokes/Bud Lights to put up a decent profile pic these days.

Takes a big man to realize he can ruin an entire Facebook album with one unprovoked "thumbs up."
// //

I ain't mad atcha random creeper who found the blog via weird question. Despite the fact that there is a very real possibility you are one of those "Red Blips" on Family Watchdog, you are also one more pageview. I'm in no position to turn those down. In fact, I'll embrace it and remember the very weird year that was 1999 back when it was only mildly inappropriate to type "A/S/L" over the internet.

Chat rooms. Where young creeps honed their craft and the finest vagrants learned how to spit internet game to (presumed) chicks. If you read half of one post on this blog, you can immediately pick up that I 100% fit into the "Creep and/or Vagrants" category. That said, I frequented a few thousands of chat rooms in my day, a lot of which I'm not proud of. They started out with legitimate intentions. Like, hey maybe I'll talk basketball with fellow fans in an NBA chat room. Then as puberty set in, I said maybe I'll poke my head in a couple "Hot, Single, 20s" chat rooms. Being 12 years old, I needed to come up with an alias so Mom couldn't trace that shit back. Also being 12, I was a fucking idiot.

Thus Kenny Jackson was born. Kenny was a 22 year old male from Orlando, Florida, who was a huge Orlando Magic fan. He was also known as 22/m/FL. Basically his life mimic'd Penny Hardaway, but that's besides the fact. I used that alias to get into chats with some of the "hottest", "single", "20s" in all the world. Funny story, those hotties consisted entirely of 12-15 year old dudes trying to get their rocks off in the weirdest way imaginable. Not a worse realization in my life was when I found that out. RIP Kenny Jackson.

It's 2011 bro, how about you poke a few girls on Facebook that you aren't friends with and call it a night.

Monday, October 3, 2011

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Just sitting here shocked right now.

I make a blog living (which is not at all a living) off of making fun of kids like this. Straight hiding behind my keyboard being a legitimate internet bully. This overweight, fake thug, Yo-Yo'er seemed like a virtual layup. But one minute went by, then two, and then the video was over. What followed was a weird string of events.

1) Was inches away from calling my Mom to see if my Duncan Yo-Yo was still in the toy chest and if she can send it by Friday so I can practice really hard and join the U.S. Yo-Yo circuit by next Tuesday. 2) Youtubed several other Yo-Yoing videos 3) Asked some friends on G-Chat what they'd think about me becoming one of those Yo-Yo guys 4) Searched various rules, guidelines, and regulations on "How to become a professional Yo-Yo person" 5) Shut my computer and dunked my head in a sink full of water. Ok #5 didn't happen, but it definitely should have.

Samm "with 2 M's" Scott, it appears I've judged a book by it's cover for probably the 1000th time on this blog. For that, I apologize.

-thanks SR
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Yikes. One step forward, ten steps back with you goats huh? Just when you think they are about to dominate with their tree climbing and what not, they pull this shit.

I'll call a spade a spade. This goat sounds exactly like Peter Griffin when he goes on one of those rants about getting injured. And don't think I didn't catch the blatant Russian tag on this video. Putin, Gorbachev, Stalin, and now this motherfucking goat. Hopefully this shit is fake and I'm in the wrong, but I'm definitely not happy about finding this video.

One of those, "hope the video writes the post for you" posts.
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You know what I told myself this morning? This Monday is going to be different. Woke up with a pep in my step, a forced awkward smile on my face, and a respectable outlook on life for potentially the first time in 15 years. Figured I'd get mentally prepared for work by dominating the WSJ weekend crossword I stole from the office on Friday. Nothing prepared me for what I saw after a few pages.

What the FUCK is that? A honeycomb puzzle? This shit looks like it has tens of thousands of possibilities in every corner. Rows? Blooms? Just another case of a crossword puzzle designer getting too fancy with it. Patrick Berry just completely left his comfort zone and tried to go for the pizzazz. That extra umph that would make people say, "I never knew how much I hated crossword puzzles until I saw this wildly complicated/borderline impossible alternative." I would respect such a grind, but I spent too much time trying to conceptualize what a "bloom" could possibly be. Still don't know. You're like that guy that tries to go into a dance circle and do some next level shit. Krumpin'. Just stay home Patrick and snap your fingers while moving from side to side.

Monday fell apart quickly.