Wednesday, November 30, 2011

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If you're not following me on Twitter (@WMsDiary) you're missing out because this fashion show sent me into a god damn tailspin.

I had no intention of watching because of the accessibility I have to any of these chicks with a quick Youtube search. Ohio State-Duke was on, I had a nice spot on the couch, and I couldn't find the remote. Things weren't looking good for the angels. Then I took a quick bathroom break and Ohio State was up like 200 points, so I figured I'd pop on this fashion show and see what all the fuss was about. Keep in mind, I never watched one before, so I didn't know what to expect. My mind was fucking blown to bits. Then someone found those bits and lit them on fire with magma.

This shit was the most cut-and-dry program I have ever seen on television. Literally everyone involved in production deserves a Nobel prize. As soon as I turned it on, it was a spectacle of lights, boobs, butts, and that song Jay-Z and Kanye are over playing. I'm still trying to get perspective on what actually happened. Here are some "notes" I took down while I tried to un-mush my brain:

-None of those chicks can speak proper English. Not even the American ones. I guess that's the one perk of having a hot daughter as a parent, you legit don't have to teach them ANYTHING and they'll end up successful.

-I started thinking about Adrian Lima and how many homeless people I'd kill before my conscience started weighing on me. 11 is the number.

-Kanye is going to have his pick of the fucking litter from these girls.

-Adam Levine, Jay-Z, and Orlando Bloom were killing the "I know I'm dating/married to an absolute dimepiece" look. Some real alpha shit that I'll never understand.

-"N****s In Paris" is going through Rigor Mortis. Sad to watch.

-As I was watching, I realized that despite what I think, I've never actually hooked up with a hot girl. I thought I did, but this shit slammed that door shut. On my hypothetical fingers.

-Nicki Minaj looked like a troll-gremlin out there next to the angels and she's really hot.

-When all the models and singers were on stage hugging with the confetti falling...I could have died right in the middle of that.

To summarize: I was consistently laughing when I'm pretty sure no funny jokes were made the entire show, I thought I was going to cry midway through when I accepted I'd never hook up with that caliber of a girl, and finally, I got mad at myself for tweeting so much. RANGE of emotions.

Follow that Twitta.

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A tradition as old as time itself. As a guy, it's in your genetic makeup to hate your closest male friends' romantic happiness. Doesn't matter how great the girl is or the improvements she made on your friend's life. As your closest confidants, it is our responsibility to make you feel absolutely terrible about the prospect of having a girlfriend and experiencing true, unrivaled joy.

I've been on both sides of the fence here. Been the shitter and the shittee. Actually scratch that, that's probably the grossest thing I've ever said. I'm one of those weak types that can dish it with the best of them, but can't take it well. Back in the day when I was wifed up, I took a beating. Some of the most elaborate, well-conceived disses were thrown my way whenever I considered sleeping over at my girlfriend's. Mental tears like crazy. On the other side, whenever my friend goes to visit his girl, I make sure to thoroughly berate him before he gets on the road for the weekend. No "have a safe ride" or "tell her I said hi", just borderline hatred. It's because we're too fucking cool to admit to losing our wing man. Literally the gayest part of heterosexual male friendship is the fact that we can't deal with losing the friend to a chick. Because face it, our jokes can't compete with her sex. We turn to cheap middle school tactics of mental destruction to get you to avoid turning to the "dark" side. Ridiculous on all counts.

Short answer: we're assholes.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

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I'll tell you what's never been on my radar: leaves. Never cared about them, never tended to them, and was never really bothered by them. A pure non-factor feature of my life. Saying that everything has completely changed would be a DRASTIC understatement.

If I'm not out in the fake-mini yard in front of my house double scooping leaves with my rake hands, I may straight up become depressed. There are obviously some glaring issues like, "how do you put the leaves into the garbage bag?" and "how much of an asshole will I look like in these?", but once you got rake hands none of that matters. Life moves a little bit slower, the flowers smell a little bit better and each morning is a little bit brighter.

I'd be like the Edward Scissorhands of leaf raking. I'm completely aware that I'd be on the Neighborhood Watch list, but sometimes it's like they say, "You have to pay the cost to be the boss."
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Durex South Africa coming in hot!  Honestly, I haven't heard anything good come out of South Africa since..ever?    Pretty sure they're reading the wrong book on how to successfully run a country.  Last I checked, apartheid, Mandela, and hard-hitting misogynistic tweets are never the best strategy to get people to think you're a nice place visit. 

I mean, I can almost relate to Durex here for a second.  While I'm just a blogger and not a international condom distributor, I recognize that I've made some pretty aggressive jokes in my past.  I routinely kick the homeless while they're permanently down.  I'm pretty sure I hate little kids.  And for some reason, alligators take an absolute beating on this site.  Don't know why, but they drew a bad straw.  What I'm trying to say is, I take some shots joke-wise.  I'm  constantly on Facebook/Twitter devising some of the cleverest/funniest statuses and jokes to get at least a chuckle, maybe a "like", and by God's good graces a "retweet."  So I can see exactly what Durex was trying to do.  It's just that their Twitter handler is an absolute idiot.  Hail Mary on 1st and 10 dumb.  Take it the fuck easy and make one of the other 9 billion non-offensive dick jokes out there. 

I LOVE the backtrack on this failed joke attempt.  Within a minute, a dude was fired, an apology tweet was sent out acknowledging the fact that the Planet Earth checked them, and one of those serious black&white PSA style banners was created to reflect their mistake.  Say what you want about their contraceptives and jokes, but Durex knows how to fucking damage control.
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Yikes, Turkey. That's desperation right there. Granted he played well, but 21.8 points and 6.8 assists aren't necessarily jersey-retiring numbers. Maybe a plague or a trophy at best.

This is the international basketball equivalent of being that creepy overzealous dude with a girl. You know those guys that are just so happy to be there, they buy a girl a diamond necklace after the 2nd date. Got to play it cool Turkey. Maybe get to date 25 before you start springing 1 month salary gifts on the guy.

So this has to be the most efficient 3 months in the history of professional athletics huh? He went over there, made bank, got treated like royalty, created an international fanbase for himself, and got his jersey retired, all while moonlighting as a writer on Kind of puts things in perspective for ol' Dub J here. I think my biggest accomplishment in the past 3 months was learning how to marinate steak. I'm dead serious. That's some sad shit.

Monday, November 28, 2011

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Introducing Kenyon Martin, one of the most unsavory dudes the NBA has to offer.  Almost a negative one billion % chance that China can stop him from doing whatever he wants for more than 6 minutes.  This outlandish tattoo assures me that he will be out of China within the week (potentially the hour) and will be on an NBA roster with no questions asked.
J.R. Smith, while not being AS unsavory as Kenyon, is right up there.  He's one of those dudes that will miss multiple shots on purpose just so he can get the rebound and record an asterisk-laden triple double.  He's also one of those dudes that will stick his foot under you after you take a jump shot and make sure you tear your ACL.  Good guy. I'm sure he'll be in China jail until like 2031.
Wilson Chandler is a real wild-card.  He always seemed like a quiet, relatively nice dude, but I always worried a bit about how many tats he had on a relatively tat-less Knicks team.  Then I saw this picture and all opinions were changed.  Is that the fucking juggernaut enshrouded in flames?  First off that's awesome.  Secondly, he was traded to Denver and played with both J.R. and Kenyon, so he's undoubtedly been turned into a bad person.

PS. He's averaging 43 points per game.  Having a blast out there.
Poor Aaron.  Poor, poor Aaron.  Dude got some bad intel and got himself stuck in a pretty awful situation.  Mr. Brooks is just your standard, big-headed, third-tier, moderately tatted point guard trying to find his way out there.  Bet he got duped into going to China by some weird spam email that he was just gullible enough to fall for.  C'mon Aaron.  You can't let Nigerian princes convince you to lose your human rights by playing basketball in communist China.  That's rule number 1 of big-headed NBA point guards.  Actually it's not, I just wanted to stress how BIG this man's head is.

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This certainly ranks in the Top 5 of cold-blooded Black Friday deaths.

Clearly this is a very sad event and I feel for the family, but what's good with all of these old people consistently getting in Black Friday death lines.  Every year you hear about some 60+ year old person getting trampled/left for dead when they get bulldozed by the younger, more determined crowd going after $2.99 wafflemakers.  Let's be real, that is a hell of a deal.

Granted, it's literally the most irresponsible/despicable gesture of all time to leave an old man dying on the ground when, in the grand scheme, you're just trying to grab a 32" Samsung HDTV.  I will never eff with Black Friday (or as I like to call it, Friday) because of shit like this.  Here's a list of things that are less dangerous than Black Friday: shark attacks, black widow spiders, cobras, falling coconuts, and wildfires.

RIP Walter Vance, but you most definitely should have stayed home.
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Ever see the movie "Outbreak" with the monkey that bit that dude and that dude subsequently infected the entire world with the super-flu? This is almost EXACTLY like that except there is no monkey and the super-flu is...marriage.

What happened to the classic phrase, "hold your horses"? Come on now. I can't log into Creepbook without being bombarded with "(this person you don't care about) is engaged to (this person you don't know, but if you did you probably wouldn't care about them)." Gone are the days where the only worthwhile relationship news was when that hot girl you didn't know became "single." I'll say it, I'm a little nervous about this development.

There's no number that can measure how far away from marriage I am. I got my hand in too many questionable things to even be considered dateable. My DVR is unpredictable and potentially offensive. I write a blog where my moniker is "Dub Jeezy." I have so many creepy pending messages floating around cyberspace/text-message land that I can be arrested at any minute. And might I add, I'm blogging in my boxers right now. It's at the point where I'd immediately un-engage any girl that had such poor judgment as to accept my proposal because that's irresponsible of her.

On a completely serious note, I'm very nervous that when it's all said and done, I'll end up being the first man that can be classified as a "crazy cat lady."

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

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^What the fuck is going on here?

Facebook and Twitter are abuzz with some of the most anticipated, overzealous, guaranteed to be disappointing statuses about drinking and getting wild tonight. The whole, "Let's hit up (local bar we know everyone's going to be at) and get wasted tonight" spiel is running a bit dry. I saw three separate statuses that said they were shitfaced prior to 4pm. What? Isn't Mom cooking? Doesn't your family want to see you and spend some time with you? Call me a loser, but I don't get it. I'll be hungover on literally 364 other days, but the day before Thanksgiving is something that should be left alone.

I guess the shit's contagious because I threw out a couple friend requests to a few girls I didn't even talk to back in high school. What's weirder is that I'm not even in my high school town to capitalize on said Hail Mary friend requests, it's just the atmosphere this day creates. It gives you a feeling that it's ok to take a couple errant shots with girls that may or may not be 3-5 years younger than you and tell your parents not to sleep too soundly because they may be getting a call at 3:17 a.m. from you desperately seeking a ride outside of that girl's house you didn't end up hooking up with. What's almost worse than the girls you'll try to get with because you were cool as fuck in high school are the dudes you're going to have to talk to because you were cool as fuck in high school. Rehashing that 37 yard punt return, that girl you made out with in the woods, and that time you swore at the teacher in Stats weren't that cool to begin with, but on this night, they'll devour 30 minutes of conversation.

Look at your Mom right now. Guarantee she's fucking pissed. She knows she raised a creepy, horndog of a jackass who is just aching to get out and sneak a girl back into her basement while the turkey is still in the oven. Obviously, that's an awesome feat to accomplish if you can, but let's be real, that girl doesn't like you and you're not a ninja so you'll probably make a ton of noise if you try to bring her back.

Leave Mom alone and watch Happy Feet 2 with the fam or some shit.
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I don't know why, but every year I decide to take the Greyhound home on Thanksgiving. Every time I'm like, "Wow, that sucked. Definitely taking Amtrak next year" and always just forget. It's mind-boggling because in just about every other life situation, I would pay premium price to avoid any sort of contact with ugly people.

The bus terminal is a haven for borderline homeless people, confused college kids, loud/intrusive foreigners, and people that consistently fuck up their travel plans. I fit into the last one. There is also a greater subset that about 95% of the people in the terminal fall into, and that is UGLY as all hell. It's hard to establish any footing when everyone around you is less than up to par in the looks department. You'd be surprised how well you can go about your day when you're surrounded by average to above average looking people all of the time. Shit becomes problematic when you start hitting the extremes of the attractiveness scale. I'm damn near paralyzed when a ridiculously hot girl is within 20 feet of me. I basically treat her like the T-Rex in Jurassic Park. On the other side, when you're around ugly people you're just grossed out to the point that you lose the will to do anything. I threw away my Big Mac halfway through eating it when I watched an obese, unfortunately gross couple making out 3 spots ahead of me in line. Wasn't worth throwing up for a couple of MonStars.

I'm not trying to toot my own horn, but I was essentially the Statue of David out there. People staring, giving me a "What is HE doing here?" type of look. It was flattering, but also depressing. I'm no prize piece (I'm a 10 by blogger standards), but amongst that crew I felt like the rat king. Nothing special, but a lot better than all the rest.

Thanksgiving break posts are going to be SUPER weird.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

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I’m currently in the process of dipping my toes into the whiskey game because it’s socially acceptable to drink as a 24 year old. Don’t get me wrong, I will still do work on BL Smoothies aka Bud Lights like it’s my job, but I enjoy giving off the impression that I’m respectable. If it looks, smells, and drinks classy, there’s a good chance it is classy. No sugarcoating. I’m just trying to trick people.

Fake whiskey throws everything off though. Girls sipping faux Jack and Cokes letting me hit on them for 15 minutes of fruitless courtship is downright cruel. Talking to a sober girl at a bar is one of the worst experiences in the world. Especially if she’s hot. Her high horse and holier than thou attitude becomes magnified by how drunk you are and creates a string of embarrassing, “I don’t drink.” “WHAT?!” exchanges. Then it’s 1:54 a.m., you’re blacked out and you starting to buy into the fact that you may be an alcoholic.

So ArKay, chill the fuck out with your smoke and mirrors tactic. I have enough issues out there without these fake whiskey shot smokebombs you’re throwing at me. Bringing a god damn gun to a knife fight.

Monday, November 21, 2011

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In a hypothetical world where I actually talked to girls, you best believe I wouldn't tell a deep secret to one. If I talk to a girl at a bar for more than 5 minutes, there is a pretty good chance I find out some pretty personal information about one of her closest friends. It's just how you guys roll genetically. No one's fault, but completely your fault.

No offense, but girls hate other girls. It's just a battle each and every day with you guys. Back in the days when I had a girlfriend, you can just as easily see a girl hang out with another girl all day, come back home and tell you that bitch has herpes and she's failing all of her classes. That basically happened to me. I just had to walk around campus with the burden of someone's darkness sitting in me for no reason. I guess her 32 minute clock expired. That's like a fucking episode of "It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia." And once the credits roll, it becomes a real life, "The 'Gang' aka You Find Out Your Girlfriend's Best Friend Most Certainly Has Herpes."

Guys are the polar opposite with that shit. I've held so many of my friends' "fat hookup" stories in I'm basically a credit union. A guy friend is virtually a savings account of all the fucked up shit you get into whereas a girl is like a loan shark. Minus the broken thumbs.

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^if by "superstar" you mean "one that got irrationally drunk during a children's game and threw up mid-argument with your roommates" this picture nails it.

Every once in awhile my roommates try to switch the Friday/Saturday night routine up a bit. We usually settle on crushing drinks and watching music videos, but sometimes we try to get a little creative. Our definition of creative lives and dies with the N64. Ironically, we've outgrown beerpong, but devolved into loving video games from 1999 again. We usually keep it limited to sports and fighting games, but those are too hand-on to create a genuine drinking atmosphere. Mario Party on the other hand, is the Monopoly of Mushroom Kingdom. Games go on WAY too long, you don't care if you win or lose, and everyone is pissed at the end. A perfect drinking game on paper.

Bear in mind we did this once before and it did NOT go well. Basically we were all blacked out before we even left. I distinctly remember dry-heaving while spraying cologne on, trying to convince myself I was ok. You'd think that would make us not want to play again, but you forget we're idiots. So we thought, "Hey, maybe we should tone it down on the shots and replace it with beer." Reasonable on paper, but completely ineffective come game time. Rules were as follows:

Lose coins/Lose a mini-game=sip some beer
Get a star=give out a shot
Lose a star=take a shot

Seemed simple enough, but the problem is the game goes so slow, you're casually sipping the entire time. Before you know it, you're kind of buzzed on the 3rd turn and haven't even come close to winning anything yet. Needless to say, everyone more or less blacked out at the end and our night was ruined. We got to the bar way too late, sobered up waiting in line, got in and got drunk again, got too drunk, left the bar, tried to individually kill each other, began hurtful name-calling, attempted reconciliation, I threw up, continued the attempt, then I went upstairs to pass out with my clothes on. A+ night.

Saturday morning, in a hungover pre-McDonald's breakfast stupor, I stared the N64 down for 10 minutes weighing the highs and lows of breaking a video game cartridge in half at age 24. By the way, I'm single ladies.

PS. I see you Toad, shredding that banjo like a motherfucker

Thursday, November 17, 2011

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Looks like you have a pretty good shot at finding the girl of your dreams somewhere in there
I don't like to make fun of questions because they fuel these blogs and people seem to like them, but this is the dumbest fucking question yet.  It's Black Friday, or as I'd like to say, Friday.  It's pretty clear that women are at their worst during this God forsaken day.

For the past 12 years, my Mom wakes me up at some absurd hour asking me if I want to go with her.  Or so she claims, because I have yet to respond to someone when they spoke to me before 7am.  Unless it's cool 7am where anything goes.  Cool 7am is when you're so blacked out, your body skipped the pass out point, and went straight to fight or flight and is struggling to keep you alive.  Only then is it ok because you're probably trying to save my life.  But aside from that, chill Mom.  So for starters, if you want to be eligible to even pick up this girl you want, you have to wake up at the ass-dick of dawn.  

Say you wake up, put on the guise that you're genuinely trying to find good deals, and get out there, then what?  You're standing there in a cramped irritable line with cramped irritable ladies trying to get a Sing-Along Elmo for their badass kid.  I mean, if you're into past-their-prime married women with children I'd like to call this the jackpot scenario, but I'm assuming you're not a serial killer/degenerate.  If you're stuck in this spot, I'd recommend looking behind you and praying that you see a girl with the same creepy agenda as you standing alone.  Maybe, just maybe you'll have a shot in that scenario.  Don't even consider trying to find a girl once the store opens because people fucking DIE on Black Friday.  I'm pretty sure more people die from Black Friday than snake bites and let me tell you, that sucks for snakes.  No deadly animal wants to be outdone by shopping.

To answer your question: no you can't pick up a girl during Black Friday unless the stars truly align jackass.  Just sleep till like 3pm, text your Mom that you want turkey sandwiches even though you're in the same house, and play video games all day because you can.  It's the Dub Jeezy Black Friday policy and if it's not broke, don't fix it.
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If you played "One Shining Moment" throughout this video, it could win a Pulitzer or something.

At first, I was checking to see if this was fake, but the sound of these kids' laugh gave off a distinct Russian vibe.  As we all know, Russians do NOT fake videos.  It's snuff film city when you catch yourself in Russian Youtube.  So I'm not sure if this girl thought she was doing anything wrong.  Her grit and determination halfway through this death walk hints at the fact that she thinks she's in the right.  Like she's on a faulty escalator or something.  I have to give it up to the people on their way down for not saying a word.  If you find someone who made it 50% of the way from the opposite end of the escalator, you let them go.  It's like messing with a perfect game or something.  If you say something, you risk them being so embarrassed/shocked, they just die on the spot.

If this video went 10 seconds longer, I guarantee this chick threw up everywhere.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

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Welp, another year, another loss.  I sat by my phone all day just hoping I'd get that call from People, but nothing happened.  I was doing that desperate grab-your-leg-because-you-think-your-phone-is-ringing-but-its-not move all day looking like an asshole.

Seriously though, why am not even in consideration?  Who's Bradley Cooper?  Crabcakes and football.  I don't see Sexiest Man Alive mixed in between those.  What I do see is a certain "About" section of a certain WMD fan page that reads: "I'm easily the most handsome blogger to ever blog."  Read it and weep People Magazine.  

WHO is that herb with J. Lo?
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No I didn't watch the video.  I'm just looking at this thing with complete judgment, no rationale, and overall confusion.  Granted, I cannot come close to getting a grasp on the female brain, but I have to come at you guys on this.

There is no reason that a mollusk with L.A. Lights on should have 12 billion Youtube views.  I don't care what adventures he gets involved in or how shrilly his voice is.  If Working Man's Diary is going to take off, I'm going to need to attack established media figures.  Kinda like 50 Cent when he attacked every rapper in the industry, except I'm attacking a shell with motherfucking shoes on.  So ladies, what's up?  As an established internet funny man, how do I stand out in the harsh Youtube popularity warzone?  Do I go cute and wear something frilly and give reviews on Gossip Girl episodes?  Maybe go harsh and slander the shit out of this shell so I can piss off all the female readers?

Jokes aside I'm just jealous as fuck.  If I wake up one day and my blog is that new chick "catnip" then I can die a happy man.  I'll finally have groupies, get VIP section drinks, and quite possibly holla at that Indian chick from Fox's "The New Girl."  I'm a dreamer and this shell is my god damn nightmare.
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This pillow could have skyrocketed to the top of Christmas lists everywhere.  It had everything going for it:  1) lazy polar bear, 2) hilarious nose.  Then you had to completely fuck it up and make it molest you while you sleep.  Come on Japan.

Makes me think that someone was trying too hard in the factory.  I once I had a watch that doubled as a water gun.  Zero need to shoot people with water via a Casio.  Honestly, I like Japan's approach.  They saw a problem and made an effort to fix it.  Snoring sucks from every angle.  Some people recommend sleeping on your side, Japan tosses you a polar bear pillow that wet-willies you and punches you in the face during your REM cycle, same difference.

Every item that Japan has made since 2003 can double as a sex toy.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

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^Mario just pleased with himself, farting in the raccoon suit.

Anyone remember Super Mario Brothers 3? Easily a top-5 game of all time. Let's dig into the origin of this costume for a second.

I remember being a dominant Mario player in my youth. Sometimes I needed help from my dad, but for the most part I could hold my own out there. Then the leaf came. For all intents and purposes, things didn't make much sense in Mario games. I'll let the mushroom slide because the game's setting is "Mushroom Kingdom." Fireflower lets me shoot fireballs? That kind of makes sense. Now a leaf that turns you into raccoon..that one doesn't seem right. Not even on one level. Someone in the programming room clearly fucked up and it was brushed under the rug. Last time I was home, I was reminiscing with my dad about Mario 3 and I brought up the leaf. He responded with, "That was the first moment in your life that I genuinely had no answer for you. I couldn't even make one up I was so flustered."

So PETA knock yourself out. Sue the pants off of Nintendo and only settle if they give you a 150 page dissertation on why a fucking leaf put you inside the skin of a raccoon. It's gross, bizarre and as Papa would say, "flustering."
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What looks would you give someone in Google sneakers? I'm a judgmental cat and even I don't know how I'd scan someone rocking these up the street.

On the one hand, these can be the most baller sneakers ever to be created, but on the other, you can definitely see Ronald McDonald wearing these alongside Grimace and the Hamburglar. Grimace will ruin even the sliest dude's swag. Because I have no idea what the kids are into these days I'll rehash a memory of the worst shoes that I have ever worn.

These shit's were GROSS. Every kid that bought these was absolutely delusional. Allen Iverson was good, but he wasn't patent-leather good. None of that mattered because just about every dude in middle school had them. Each guy recognizing their feet looked ugly as fuck. I remember it didn't fully hit me until I tried to be funny and joke on a kid for having a weird gold bubble on the side of his sneaker. When he responded with, "You got one on yours too, idiot" I knew we've been had. It takes a real man to know when he's been hoodwinked/bamboozled, but I realized it with a bunch of other middle schoolers. We all looked at each other, fully realizing a collective bad decision, and forged ahead through the hallways where the girls that ignored us, ignored us even more because we had patent-leather fucking shoes on.

In case you want to buy them, they're $180 and there is a 90% chance you look like a jackass*

*-doesn't apply to hipsters.
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^He's still an Eagle at heart.

I think I’m gonna be taking my image on WMD in a new direction.

You know those little buttons at the bottom of each post? No? With them, you, the reader, have the chance to dub our posts as either “Funny,” “Informational,” or, Tebow forbid, “Unfunny.” You may not think much of these tags, but after a few unfunnies on one of our posts, you’re likely to find us holed up in a corner cuddling a bottle of vodka, using the Uberhood to protect us from the outside world. We spend hours, days even, toiling over our words, trying to get it just right, and with the click of a mouse, you cast your opinion upon us, branding us with your perception.

You judgemental fucks.

Just kidding. We appreciate all of our readers. Don't forget to tell your friends!

But anyway, I realized that with all my posts up to this point, I’ve been trying to rack up all the funnies I could. I put up a few respectable 3s and 4s, and I was alright with that. But it dawned on me the other day, Dub J has a lock down on that shit. Putting up 6s and 7s like it’s his job (which I guess it actually kinda is).

If I want to have any hope of staying relevant in blogger fantasy leagues, I need to switch it up, change my game, cause right now it’s like going up against Aaron Rodgers.

So that got me to thinking. There are 3 categories down there. And it doesn’t have to be all about the funnies. Clearly, you gotta stay away from the unfunnies. Not trying to get any Philip Rivers comparisons any time soon.

But informationals. There’s a void there. Room for someone to step up. Maybe I won’t be lighting up the stat sheets or getting any trade offers any time soon, but it’s a whole lot better than riding the pine. I guess it’s kinda like being the kicker. But hey, someone's gotta kick it through those uprights.

So, with that said, prepare to be informed…bitches.

Monday, November 14, 2011

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Kind of sets the bar unreasonably high for fathers everywhere huh?
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Might as well make me wear a blindfold with a cyanide pill in my mouth on a bumpy road.

First off, you shouldn't ride your bike in the rain for any reason. Put your environmentalist ideals on the back burner for one day and hop on the train. I'm also disregarding the fact that people actually use umbrellas for sunlight, because that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Blows my mind that people actually think polyester fabric will protect them from the largest star in the universe. Next, that pole is the most blatant obstruction of all time. Like, "Yeah we made this bike completely efficient except for the fact you can't really see anything in front of you." Seems like a swell plan if you were into that whole suicide thing.

I NEED to see the behind the scenes filming of these riders because I'll bet anyone $100 at least one of them was seriously injured. Just patch 'em up and edit that shit out. That's the Uberhood way!

PS. Real talk, I sent an anonymous message to the company that asked if the guy talking through this video was ok. Then I included a link to "Hooked on Phonics." I hope I don't get casually sued.
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Great question friend. I've been wondering this myself for awhile and I think I have finally come up with a definitive answer. People just aren't that good at the internet.

It's embarrassing that we're in 2011 and people can't identify a virus from a regular link. Today alone, I opened up my Facebook to see a picture of two guys having sex with the caption "WOW" and another picture of a lone vagina with the caption "You won't believe this!"
Jesus Christ.

I'm just trying to creep on some girls' pics, send a couple pokes, drop hilarious statuses, and get out of there. I only get X-Rated on my own terms. That said, how the fuck does this happen? I may have fallen for one virus back in the AIM era of '98. One of my good friends sent the "You look crazy in this pic (insert random sketchy looking link)" message at me and I stupidly clicked it. It was back in the day when the only pictures being taken of me ran through my Mom and a Polaroid camera, so the idea that a pic of me looking zany was floating around brought about some real concerns. From then on, you just read the situation and react like an internet linebacker. Dude you haven't spoken to in years sending you a message telling you to check out a pic of your ass looking "not bad?" Don't click that. Chick posts something on your wall that shows a picture of just a vagina and says, "You won't believe it?" Probably don't need to dive into that one, especially with the EXTENSIVE amount of free porn on the internet. And I don't care what your sexual affiliation is, no one's trying to see hardcore gay porn when you're innocently, but not innocently creeping on some pics.

The ONLY excuse one could possibly have for clicking a virus was that "Nicki Minaj SEX TAPE" link. Obviously I knew it was a virus and wouldn't click it, but if I was in the market for a new computer and didn't care what happened, let's just say, you miss 100% of the shots you don't take. If you're not intrigued by what could be in that sex tape you don't have a pulse.

Friday, November 11, 2011

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In the social media hoopla that is 11/11/11, I have had to suffer through hearing what today is even though I have a functioning phone. People coming up to me like I've been in a coma for months letting me know how crazy it is that SO MANY number 1s appear in a date. And just when I was slowly recovering, the "11:11, make a wish" coalition started popping out of the woodwork.

Let's get one thing straight, if you're over the age of 10 and still making wishes when the clock strikes 11:11, you need to kill yourself. "OMG, I wish I become rich", then proceed to stick your head in the oven. I knew that shit was a sham the moment my mom preached that propaganda to me one day. Like, "Umm, Mom, why am I not in the NBA, NFL, and WWF right now. And why the FUCK am I still eating broccoli?" Didn't expect a 6 year old to drop that response on you, huh Mom? I was outrageously disappointed the day after my first wish. Had a scowl on my face all day and then started blaming myself like I did it wrong or something. Inner monologue-ing "Nah, you just didn't annunciate the word 'wish' correctly, you'll get it right next time." Nope. I'm not married to that dimepiece Jade from the 3rd grade. Not catching TDs in the Meadowlands or draining buzzer-beaters in MSG. Certainly not Stone Cold-stunning bitches on Monday night RAW. Instead I'm blogging during work hours.

Some ideas are cute and some are straight up unrealistic. File 11:11 wishes under bullshit.
// //

You snort it, it gives you short bursts of energy, and it's addictive. Of COURSE it's snortable coffee. Let's not jump to conclusions.

You show me a zebra, my first thought is a painted horse. I'm not one to make rash judgment without a sound, logical explanation. Sure some people are going to say that this is the most immediate cocaine gateway ever created, but I see it how it is. Just snortin' some dusty beans to get that extra kick to write an afternoon blog. Seriously, I tried writing this post without coffee and I misspelled 4 of the first 5 words. It's a necessity in the blog/actual work I should be doing world. Which leads me into my next point..

I may be the sleepiest kid in the game. Don't know what's wrong with me, but I'm legitimately always tired. There hasn't been a point in my life when I was at full 100% capacity. Whether it be food, a peaceful song, or a slight breeze, I'm unconscious narcolepsy fast. Definitely something to bring up to a doctor when I finally decide to go to one within the next 5-10 years.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

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I'm no criminologist, but I'm pretty sure the moonwalk-dive on a cop car-taunt officers-get crunched into a parking meter strategy isn't the best option in evading the police. Again, I'm no expert.

So this guy had to be on some very extreme drugs, because he's clearly dead. I'm convinced these cops unloaded entire bottles of Mace on a zombie. No living man can stroll out of a police car-parking meter disaster scene and still have jokes up his sleeve.

// //

For some reason, my morning diet this past week has consisted entirely of Butterfingers and Nature Valley Bars. I don't really know why, but for some reason I've accumulated a lot of these recently. What I do know is that every time I open one it's a fucking catastrophe. Crumbs everywhere, no semblance of structure, and the purest feeling of lost hope imaginable. Can someone explain to me what's up?

I've been in the Butterfinger game longer than I can remember. Crushin' those shits well before I can form sentences. And with that experience comes the knowledge that literally every single (excluding fun size) is a disaster before it's even opened. You never expect it either because your excitement to get that shit stuck in your teeth usually trumps logic. Then it happens. You lost half of it without even trying. I'd say 50% of crying in my youth can be traced back to Butterfinger mishaps. It's like the factory worker slammed them against a table for 30 seconds before putting them into the box for shipment. A prerequisite for working at the Butterfinger factories must be, "recently find out your significant other is cheating on you" because those motherfuckers are mad.

Nature Valley bars are a whole new world. They just seemed pompous as fuck to me and I honestly can't explain why. I asked my Mom to get me like 10 24-packs before Freshman year because I wanted people to respect me, but that shit backfired so quick. My dorm room floor looked like a disgusting beach. Infinite crumbs that looked like sand, random underwear, and like 13 hypodermic needles. All because each time I opened one of those things up, a cloud of crumb dust would form and when things settled I'd be left with like a centimeter of Apple Crisp to my name. True story, I invited a girl to my room to "watch a movie" and she asked if she could have a Nature Valley bar. Foolishly, she opened it up on my bed and it was like a slow-motion explanation of the fact that my goal of hooking up with this goal was a failure. Awful, awful stuff.

Weird how even with those lengthy, borderline pointless stories I still eat both of them on the reg and STILL encounter literally the same problems I encountered years ago. Seriously though, does anyone else have this problem or am I just an idiot?
// //

This is probably the most detrimental picture to arise in bull culture in decades. Trouncing all over hundreds of years of establishing a reputation as being bad ass. Can't be badass with a tire on your head bro. DMX ain''t getting arrested for getting caught with a tire on his head. Throw cocaine, mescalin, and Molotov cocktails into the mix and it's a completely different story.

Listen bull, we've all been there. I've personally widdled the Jeezy family name down to virtually nothing with my antics. Sometimes you have a few too many drinks, get politely escorted from the bar, and wake up in a chop shop with a Goodyear around your neck. It's completely normal--almost a rite of passage in this day in age. Sure your pride is a little hurt, but you pick right back up and keep on goring dudes. Matter of fact, you should probably gore the dude that helps get the tire off your face. That'll really get the bull community back on your side. Like, "You see that trick Roscoe pulled? He faked getting stuck in a tire just so he can gore like 3 dudes rushing to his aid. Roscoe's a bawse."

But seriously, that's the most downtrodden bull I've ever seen. Dude reeks of defeat and has a distinct, "Can you help me?" look on his face. Swag at negative 1000.

// //

Instead of posting a picture of a man's ass, I chose a picture of a kitten playing with a parrot. If you're upset about that, then this post isn't for you. Now, down to business. I've got a bone to pick with some recent changes in TV censorship. Nudity used to be the no-no of all the TV no-nos out there, but apparently something changed recently. I guess the FCC is down with showing some skin all of a sudden. Parts of the human anatomy popping up left and right all over your TV screen. But that’s not to say that all body parts are welcome, but instead a very specific part. A small niche of nudity, if you will. And a very unwelcome niche it is, if you ask me. What I'm talking about is…the dreaded Man Ass.

During recent viewings of The League (season 2) and American Horror Story, I have been subjected to numerous shots and scenes of unclothed men. I’m talking full frontal ass shots here. No one needs that. We all see enough incidental man ass in porn already. Both of these shows, especially being geared towards men, have no place for such an atrocity. When I sat down for these 20 to 40 minute reasons not to fold my laundry, I signed up for obscure fantasy football references and over-the-top violence. Not gratuitious exposure to the male physique.

And you know what really grinds my gears? The lack of repercussion. Men prancing around all willy nilly, flaunting all sort of nooks and crannys that should never see the light of day. Yet nary a hint of the female form can be found in return.

What happened to equal rights? Is this the beginning of some strange bizarro era where women objectify men? If this isn't a sign of the oncoming apocalypse, I don't know what is. Also, while we’re on the topic, can we talk American Horror Story for a second? Shit is just a composite of every horror movie ever made. So far I’ve spotted elements from Amityville Horror, The Shining, Frankenstein, Pulp Fiction (think the gimp), and probably a few others I’m forgetting at the moment. I’m going to keep watching it though, of course. Because my fear of actual social interaction forces me to accept any invitation to avoid the outside world. But here’s hoping they don’t decide to take The Human Centipede route any time soon. That’s some man ass I definitely don’t want to see.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

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If you don't think I'm going to dip, dive, and dodge any home decorating duty in the future, you are outside your mind. I'm here for the grunt work like lifting moderately heavy items, holding maps, and telling you "yes" even when I hate where you decided to put the painting. Not equipped for anything involving paint.

I'm embarrassed for the paint company and the dudes that make shit like this possible. They had to hold a focus group asking, "Is 'Mo Money' a good idea as a replacement name for green paint?" and there had to be at least one dude that was pumped and said yes. I weep for this guy. And what fucking meat-head was thrilled when he heard about the "Beer Time" name? That shit is childish. In my extensive history of enjoying beer, I don't think I ever once uttered the phrase "Beer Time' because any time could be beer time. I've drank at every hour of everyday, so pigeon-holing beer into a specific time slot is downright offensive. And 'Mo Money is just ridiculous. Like we're chillin' back in 1995 with shiny suits on and a not dead Biggie running around talking about how many problems he has. Put your borderline racist paint away, chalk it up as a loss, and return to forest green like a reasonable hardware establishment.

If my wife came up to me and asked if I wanted to paint the nursery Beer Time or 'Mo Money, I'd divorce her ass so fast it'd make your head spin.
// //

Put this up on the fan page last night because no one checks the fan page and you wouldn't believe how much backlash I received. For a page that is similar to a barren, lifeless wasteland, this video caused quite a stir.

So last night, it got a little late and I was watching some NFL highlights. You know the standard stuff like crazy runs and big hits. As much as I love some quality jukes, concussions, and embarrassing endzone dances, I was looking for a change of pace. That's where the Drew Brees taking care of his son Vicks commercial comes in. Shit popped up in the "related videos" section out of nowehere. There's no reason this commercial should pop up alongside a "DeSean Jackson gets a concussion" video, but alas, it did. And I watched and watched and watched. I don't know what happened, but it quickly became the cutest video I've ever seen. I don't even like to use the word "cute" because I'm hard as fuck, but sometimes you have to give credit where credit's due. Mix a crying son, an off-duty Super Bowl QB, and some Vapo-Rub and you're going to have Dub Jeezy making wild claims about how "fatherhood doesn't seem like a terrible idea anymore" and "I propose to be a better person." But all it takes is some asshole friends and Facebook fans to really put me back in my place. No reason I should I have watched this video that many times.

On a similar but different note, Vicks Vapo-Rub fucking sucked. Made me disoriented and my eyes watered literally the entire time. Mom used to leave it in the medicine cabinet, so whenever I sneezed I applied roughly half the container to my chest, upper lip, and cheeks for good measure. Plus, I definitely tried to eat some. That shit came out when I was like 11. 11 is WAY to old to consider eating Vapo-Rub.
// //

If you didn't think there were going to be libraries and translucent guitars you were sadly mistaken, because China fucking gets down when they cover American Pop Songs. Don't think a language barrier holds these fine, strangely old individuals back because they are just mouthing lyrics with not a care in the world.

Shit was like a bizarro, slightly more Chinese episode of Glee. Everyone was like 47 years old and didn't seem to know why they were there. Just moderately choreographed Chinese dads sacrificing their golf Sunday to spend some time on stage because the wife wanted them too. That's got to SUCK. I'm most certainly not looking forward to the days where all I do is want to watch football and my wife keeps nagging me to perform an elaborate collaboration of Katy Perry's "Firework." Sometimes a brotha just wants to wake up at a weird hour, make a bacon, egg, and cheese, and plop on the couch for like 13 hours. Reason #1 trillion on why marriage is going to be a god damn grind.

The last 20 seconds of this is pure comedy. I was cracking up the entire time and I didn't know why at all. Everyone was smiling, doing weird shit with their hands, and moving counter clockwise like they were playing "Dance, Dance, Revolution" at the arcade. And there were quietly 300 people involved in this. China is easily 10 steps ahead of us.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

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Peacocks? Word? The hoes, fighting cocks, and bushels of weed are one thing, but TWO exotic birds?

Sounds like there was some fucked up vice-type Noah's Ark business going on here. Grab two prostitutes each, like 14 chickens, a bucket of weed, a peacock and you're all set it seems. Now I've been to Mexico and literally none of this is surprising. The minute I touched down an AK-47 was pointed at my face, I was offered a cocaine-prostitute combo, and offered Jose Cuervo for like 50 cents, so this shit is standard fare. But I just can't shake the peacocks. According to authorities, they were seen as "pets" for the inmates. You mean when they were tired of the prostitutes, cock-fighting, and smoking copious amounts of weed they'd honestly come together in the courtyard and tend to the peacocks? As far-fetched as that sounds, it's fake town Mexico, so that very well could have happened.

*I put that picture up there for reason. Look at the empty prison and read the title of the post. As you read through it, add the "these shouldn't be there" items into the picture. Once you're done look at the picture again and I challenge you not to laugh. You have no soul if you can't picture a scene of chaos with one lone Mexican prisoner with a heart of gold clutching a startled peacock.
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Let's be honest, your boy isn't exactly a relationship savant. Takes a lot for a girl to grow to love a kid that blogs in his boxers and DVRs like 29 shows on a weekly basis. Hell, it takes a lot for me to do that.

A long-distance relationship is a special kind of diseased animal. I'm terrible at it. It requires tons of phone conversation, which I hate. Everything that really needs to be said can be hashed out in a cool 5 minutes. Anything longer is a disgusting concoction of time wasted, "no you hang up"s, and poor signal. I can tell you what happened on a given day in less than 30 seconds. The other 4 minutes and 30 seconds is as bullshit as bullshit can be. So with that, I can confidently say that the long-distance relationship pillow would be a perfect complimentary item in my unintentional quest to destroy every relationship I connive myself into.

Hold up. You have to wear a ring AND a chest plate in order to maintain a fucking signal with these things? Shit weighs like 12 pounds and almost assures an argument within the first week of wearing it. Little known fact about girls with boyfriends: they go to bed ridiculously early. Once that boyfriend elephant is off a girl's back, all of their stress is gone and they go to bed at like 8:30 p.m. It's remarkable. So once that girl goes to sleep and logs in (?) to her pillow, she's expecting you to be winding it down with her. Little does she know, you just cracked open a Bud Light, pulled out your laptop and started a new hilarious post on Working Man's Diary. Calamity. Outrageous phone calls over 5 minutes start, nightly pillow check-ins are mandatory, and that one time you got so blacked out you forgot to wear your relationship pillow ring/chest-plate will get brought up over and over again. That's no way to live. We're through hypothetical girlfriend.

Nuts and bolts, I'm a C-grade boyfriend. I've described myself to my roommates and other friends in NFL terms as a player with 1st round talent that slipped to the 3rd round because of "character issues."

-Thanks ER

Monday, November 7, 2011

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Yup. This is easily the scariest fucking playground I have ever seen.

A perfect combination of desolate and rusty with the requisite creeper house in the background. It's almost a treat to see such an awful scene done so correctly. Wes Craven would shed a tear looking at this place. That being said, you have to be literally the most irresponsible parent of all time to let your kid come within 400 feet of this place. The place just reeks of crystal meth distribution and despair. And let's be real, this playground just features some bad accessories. Some people like the swing. I wasn't one of them, you go too high and then you're relying on another person to make sure you don't die. No sir. I was more a slide guy because that was a point A, point B operation. This playground also features a jungle gym that which by my estimates, seems impossible to even play on. Is it me or does it look like once you get to the top of the ladder, you have to jump to the first rung of the other ladder? That's a lot to ask of a 5 year old. Plus it's being held together by Elmer's glue and 300 year old iron that was made back when they were catching buffalo on the Oregon Trail. Don't sleep on that indescribable object in the top right corner either. This park absolutely crushed it in the most inappropriate way.

If you weren't riding down the twisty slide and frolicking in the sprinkler in the summer, I wasn't fucking with you.
// //

Guys, you want to just go ahead and call me Dub Jeezy The Skydiving blogger? I'll make a video of me jumping off an office chair and inexplicably get like 2 million views because it's cute and unexpected.

Give me a break Halo. You may fool millions of people, but you're not going to get this one past me. That was some of the worst pool I've ever seen. The "I don't have poseable thumbs" excuse can only get you so far when you're not even establishing whether you're stripes or solid. Just willy nilly slapping the closest ball to your paw as hard as you can hoping for the best. I don't want to hate your swag, but I kinda have to because you're like a million times more popular than me and this shit's very embarrassing. If you were called "Halo the dog that snuck on the pool table and randomly made a couple of shots" this video would be awesome and I probably wouldn't have posted it because I'd have to much respect for you.

I like dogs as much as the next guy, but can the internet chill with them for like 2 hours. I can't go a minute without seeing 37 posts on my Newsfeed about a dog that fell asleep in a weird position or a dog eating from the trash and looking guilty. We get it, they're like humans, but not really. Relax.

--Thanks Spellgirl
// //

^the moment I saw this blue panda with headphones attached to its ears, was the moment I knew I was losing Craw.

For those of you that were with WMD from the beginning, you may remember I had a trusty Robin/Supergirl-like sidekick on the blog that went by the name of Craw. We were a blogging 1-2 punch unlike the world has ever seen. He would then inexplicably leave.

Kidding, but not really. He mentioned that he was working on a website of his own and that his posts on WMD were going to be dwindling. Apparently I ignored him and was later confused as to why he effectively quit his job as 2nd in command/COO of the 67034th best blog on the internet. Then he pulled out this ridiculous neon panda and the internet as we knew it effectively exploded. My man Craw was behind the scenes (in the basement) getting his Bill Gates/Steve Jobs on just concocting html code and algorithms like fucking Rain Man. He created A refreshing music site that doesn't throw opinions, ideas, or DJ Kayslay ads at you and features strictly music. Popular songs, accompanying covers, and a place for new artists to get their feet wet and get some exposure. I'd say it's a pretty fucking good concept and I recommend you checking it out.

Sidenote, I have Craw on the fake payroll for like two years and Working Man's Diary looks like absolute shit. Dog poop mixed with manure. The kid stops blogging for like 3 months and creates a God damn visual experience for a website. I'm quietly pissed.

Clap for him.

Friday, November 4, 2011

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Has there ever been a more mind-boggling fashion item than the winter vest? A pure glorification of unfinished work.

Seriously, I wish I got 100% credit for doing 75% of the work. Like, "Umm, here are reports A, B, and C. Sorry, I just didn't have it in me to finish D." Let's not sugarcoat it. A vest is a jacket some dude got tired of making. Except he was smart enough to spin his words to make it seem like he intended to fuck up. The dude that INVENTED the vest deserves infinite credit, but everything vest-related thereafter is absolutely absurd and despicable.

Aside from the fall of 1999 when I was blinded by the savvy advertising of Old Navy and their Performance Fleeces, I have despised vests. Can't get into any sort of rhythm with a vest on. You're either uncomfortably hot or slightly cold and left wondering what life would be like if you had sleeves. What temperature are they appropriate in? No one knows because you're somehow both hot and cold at the same time whenever you wear one. I distinctly remember being on the school bus with my..ahem..Performance Fleece on, sweating with my teeth chattering at the same time. As if my temperature regulation had no clue what to do. I basically almost died.

Plus you look like an ultra herb with a vest on. Like you're trying to be ironic/prove a point/a hipster out there. If you're cold, wear a coat, if you're not, don't wear one. Don't play God.

Thursday, November 3, 2011

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Pretty sure I've been in a permanent "fork in the road" since I graduated college and these car-flashlight slippers may have presented the choice I need to make. Sure I got a solid job, some friends, and write one of the top blogs on the internet, but there's no real direction. No "right" or "wrong" taking place. Just walking around in Adidas sandals everyday faking like I have legit slippers on.

There's almost a 300% chance that these slippers would improve my life. Numbers can't even quantify what would happen if I acquired flashlight-slipper swag. I'd most certainly quit my job tomorrow based solely on the fact that Tyra would call within the week asking if I could judge next season's "America's Next Top Model." There's no credential quite like having the ability to light up a room in the event of a power outage with my big toe and pinky toe.

As each Christmas goes along I want less. Instead of video games and Ipods, I'm asking for shit I need, like dress shirts and pots/pans. It's boring as hell and nothing can match the depression of opening up a 16-piece cooking set from Guy Fieri. This year my top gift is, and I shit you not, an umbrella. Not just any umbrella, but an absolutely unstoppable baller umbrella. I want to be that asshole with the 10-foot diameter 'brella that takes up the entire sidewalk and just laugh in the face of wind gusts. I'm tired of having umbrellas implode the second I step into a wind tunnel. So yeah, as you can tell, things are going downhill at an alarming rate.

If I don't get these Pixar-"Cars 2"-lawsuit-pending flashlight slippers, I'll just die.

// //

"Uhh, yeah, we'll get a guy there on Thursday between the hours of 8:00 a.m. and 10:45 p.m."

Ever hear that? It's the moment when you sacrifice all of your human rights and are at the mercy of the cable company. It's the closest a respectable person can be to imprisonment. Want to grab a bite to eat? The dude will show up as soon as you're just out of ear shot from your place. Want to take a shower? As soon as you turn on the water and close the door, the cable guy will ring the doorbell at a volume one decibel lower than the shower noise--and he'll ring once and sprint away, so you have to sprint downstairs before he's peeling off in his beat up cable van Vin Diesel style.

That 9 hour window they give you makes me feel like I'm running a crystal meth lab in a cop riddled neighborhood. Paranoid as fuck. I'm in my room like a jackass, pacing back and forth constantly looking out the window with the TV volume basically on mute with the closed captions on. Not a way to live life. Ignoring phone calls, Gchats, work emails, and necessities like going to the bathroom all to get my god damn On-Demand working again. I bet Saul would have my cable running in like 30 seconds.

Is it bad that I'm STILL equating large sums of money with McDoubles. $38 billion seems like a lot more money when you think of the racks on racks of McDoubles you can have.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

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I'm so damn tired of Canada. Drake and Biebs are two cats I have grown to hate, but I keep downloading all of their music. Hate-listening like you would hate-eff Flo from those Progressive commercials. Noddin' my head with a scowl on my face and Silky Johnson's Hater of The Year award sitting on my mantle.

In just three days, the kid could come out with a Christmas album, prematurely ejaculate into a fan and have a baby by her, sing the opening number to "Dancing With the Stars", and perform a pretty impressive rap clearly written by Usher on a rap radio station.

I will convert this video into an MP3 and hate-listen the fuck out of it on the way to work tomorrow.
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Yet another case where women are wild'n out for no reason.

For starters, this has to rank as the most impractical item I've ever seen. When did girls need help flirting? I'm pretty sure that if the dress is tight, I'm going to talk to you and if the dress is really tight, I might get arrested. Bingo, bango, you have the pick of the litter ladies. No need for a fucking Technicolor Dreamcoat to get a dude to buy a shot for you.

Plus I don't really get the concept because that video was ambiguous as fuck. From what I gathered, the dress shows some boob when the girl is turned on. Girls show boobs anyway when they're turned on by a guy they like. Don't really see the need to skip a step in the hook-up process. I was doing terribly just fine without your help molester dress. Hold up. Wait a second, this shit could actually be a godsend. Like, the Itunes preview version of hooking up with a girl. Listen to the first minute of the song/see what the girls working with and determine if you want to buy the song/go home with her. I'm doing a 180 and making a bold statement that this is one of the most important items to surface in my generation. Removing doubt and letting dudes know what they're getting into before they have that awkward wake-up next to Splinter.

On a disgusting note, I can't imagine what the dude version of this would be. A button-down that directs your eyes to our crotch? I don't know, I need more time to think about this.

P.S. Studio Roosegaarde? Vowel city.

// //

The blog has been hodge-podge as hell this week if you haven't noticed, because your boy actually has plans to fill the hours in the day.

I'm used to finishing up work, passing out on the train, getting home and literally having 8 hours to myself. Straight chill time where, without a girlfriend, I do whatever the fuck I want. A raw display of DVR domination, online video games, and perusing the internet to make like 3 or 4 people laugh at work the next day. It was an honest living that I was ready to commit to forever, because let's face it, I'm un-dateable. Then this week arrived and I actually had shit to do. Blew my mind.

As you can see, I have no contingency plan. Working Man's Diary is alternative free and if I'm not completely afloat the blog gets weird. In the past when this happened and I knew I didn't have a legitimate readership, I just wouldn't post and sleep like a baby with no regrets. Now that people care about this trashbag blog, I have to MacGuyver blogs together and make sure you can get 1/2 a laugh out of there because I know work sucks without a weird social commentary on something you don't care about.

On a real note: this "productive week" just means I went to a concert Monday and am going to one tonight. Tuesday I watched so much TV it'd make your head spin and made an ass-groove in the couch that your Grandpa would scoff at. I'm just allowing myself to be lazy to the point of worthless.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

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Top Youtube Comment:
Utterly disgusting and ridiculous. The whole country is going to the breeders.

No idea what a "breeder" is, but unless it's racist I completely agree with it. This commercial was worse than any snuff film weird video I've watched in my awful history of internet video viewing and that's saying a lot. Cartoon babies competing in a contest for who can lay the biggest cartoon dump in front of cartoon judges is the definition of absurdity. You could have grabbed me at 2:00am Saturday night blacked out in my Steve Urkel costume, dropped me in a Luvs creative team meeting, and I guarantee whatever commercial came out of there would be better than this. Sure, it would have been a little illiterate, had some awkward pauses for vomiting, but it would have had a more reasonable plot than a baby poop contest. A contest folks, that was judged by the size of the diaper implying that the most unwavering bowels won.

How wack is taking care of a baby? Maybe I'm too new-school, but doodoo is doodoo. Even if you're my kid, you best believe I'm going to find some borderline dangerous way to take care of the situation. Garden hose? Safely dangling you by your feet over a toilet? Making my wife, girlfriend, some chick a maid do it?

The whole process is gross x 100 thousand, trillion.
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It's weird how just the other day I was on the train thinking about cost inefficient methods to tear holes into space. Crazy how the internet works.

But seriously, what's good Britain? There's straight up no need for that. What happened to the days when it was acceptable to laser through rock and maybe a metal door? That was sufficient enough to steel bags of money out of the safes and create B+ movie plots, but destroying space hovers around excessive. On another note, the name of the laser sounds absolutely ridiculous being called the Extreme Light Infrastructure Ultra-High Field Facility. Sounds like bullshit in a can. I say that type of shit when I don't know what's going in an intense argument about science. Start spitting out buzzwords like "protons", "cations", and "balancing equations", just hoping to make it out of the argument alive. So I'm banking that there is a slight chance this fake laser has no chance of being real.

So hey Britain, good luck with the laser that serves no purpose other then blowing us all into a black hole. Dr. Evil kept it real and was like, "I need 100 billion dollars" before he even considered such an outlandish operation, and that dude planned to train sharks to operate complicated lasers attached to their head.

Hey guys, I'm going to rename this blog "The Greatest Collection Of Words, Theories And Super Mega Ideas Ever, Ever" and request $300 million dollars in operating costs. Because that makes fucking sense.
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So here I am, taking off the Urkel suspenders and thick rimmed glasses one last time and I couldn't be more fucking disappointed. Sure, maybe Friday, October 28th is a little early to get after it in the Halloween celebrating process, but don't you dare tell me it's inappropriate to wear my costume through the street on Halloween night.

At 7:30pm my buddy and I were the ONLY people in the streets dressed in costumes. Urkel and a giant penguin looking like absolute dickheads walking around getting stares, causing scenes, and being neighborhood disturbances. I had to check my phone like 78 times to make sure the aurora borealis didn't flip daylight savings time or some shit. I remember back in my day we were in costumes for like 6 days straight. Chillin' in class. Getting lunch. Walking of shaming. All sorts of fun and interesting things were done in Halloween costumes. Now that I'm 24, I guess it's frowned upon to hike your pants up a foot too high and have comically broken glasses on Halloween night. Little kids weren't even dressed up. Acquiring Butterfingers and Hershey Kisses with hoodies and Nikes on some Bush League garbage. Did standards drop? I had to not only be in costume to be eligible to receive candy, I had to be in an awesome costume. A rinky-dink zombie get-up didn't cut it back in '93. I'm absolutely furious.

On a completely different note. There's 95% chance I'm sterile after wearing the Steve Urkel costume for 3 days straight. Just an unnatural amount of suspender induced pressure on the nether regions.

"What do the results say, Doc?"

"Your balls have been riddled useless by what appears to be jean indentations caused by...suspenders"