Friday, September 30, 2011

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There's everyday frustration and then there's dealing with the antics of a fitted fucking sheet.

Every night when I go to sleep I make sure the bed's in good order. Pillows arranged and fitted sheet tightened like a boss. But when I wake up, the bed is barren and I'm suffocating in a cocoon of linen hell. There's nothing more awful than waking up from a nightmare in the middle of the night only to be trapped in a king-size linen sheet. So I ask you readers, what's really good with fitted sheets?

Have we not reached an alternative? At the very least something way more practical and efficient? On top of that, I may go an entire lifetime without folding a fitted sheet correctly. I just concede and ball that shit up. Pretty sure only mothers possess that skill-set. So I'm dealing with a wrinkled ass bed that virtually swallows me every night and tons of unanswered questions. You guys are pretty weird if you consistently read this blog, so if any of you know a "Made-For-TV" product that I can sub in for this monstrosity, I promise to send you a prize.

"Prize" being figurative/SoCo lime shot/make-out(if you're a chick). Get to it everyone!
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What's wrong with sleeping on the toilet? I do it at least twice a day, 10 times a week and there's nothing wrong with me. Sure I may be a little creepier than the next guy, but that's not a result of anything that happens in the bathroom.

So I ask everyone that sits on an ivory tower/high horse this, what do you do when you feel really tired at your desk? Coffee? You can only drink so much before you freak out, crash, and make a hasty trip to the bathroom because coffee is a diuretic. Do you walk around? Walking is legitimately one of the worst things in the world. For all I know, this may be better than sleeping on a toilet, but I'm too cool to find out. The only solution is bathroom napping. Sure people may suspect that you constantly suffer from IBS, but there's no better place where American freedoms are recognized then a work bathroom stall.

Today I took like a 7 hour lunch and went a little HAM on some beer and sandwiches. Needless to say, I was dragging elephant ass when I got back in. The average person would have "toughed it out" or got an XL Iced Coffee, but not me. I marched right into the ever so spacious handicapped stall, leaned back, set a phone alarm for 20 minutes, adjusted my arm on the wheelchair rail and nodded off like that baby laying on the pillow in front of the toilet. Full proof. My only enemy during nap sessions is myself. I have only two horror stories. 1) Started snoring and the echo of my snore woke me up. Something like that can make you reflect how you're living your life. 2) Caught a vicious leg cramp and was hovering above the ground with my ass cheeks out. Not a good look.

But aside from snore attacks and the lack of oxygen in my leg muscles, this is probably the best idea I've ever had.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

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Ah, I felt like this question was on it's way.

I don't necessarily "mail" it in as the week goes on, but my creativity certainly PLUMMETS. Like if you read this far, you're probably waist deep in a god awful post. Repetition, even more of a lack of proofreading, and the increased use of videos is what defines 2nd post Wednesday-last post Friday. Secret: videos do most of the work for me, and the actual blog doesn't have to be funny.

Granted, I come into week spitting magma-lava early on, then slowly pitter to inferno, and eventually bow out glacially cold. Hence the struggle that each word is to type this to you right now. Literally perspiring like crazy at the fact that I'm only a paragraph and a half into the post right now. Thought I was at least a page deep single-spaced. But to answer the question, I 100% mail it in as the week goes on. No one should be reading a post on a Thursday night and you should be too zombie-like/hungover to find this post anything less than informational on a Friday morning. And no one gives me any type of credit for the barrage of Friday posts I blast out there for the weekend when you're beyond bored and accidentally click your bookmark of Working Man's Diary.

This can all be changed with, I don't know, ADVERTISING or potentially SPONSORSHIP, but I'm just spitballin. Maybe groupies? I'm an easy sell.


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So apparently I'm a super minority now. I'm black AND I'm like the only dude in the world that likes Trix. I was convinced that everyone loved that shit. Just look at the choices you have. A straight up myriad of outrageous artificially flavored fruits to choose from. Every bite is never the same while being borderline overwhelming at the same time. If your cereal doesn't "overwhelm" you, then you're not doing lazy breakfast right.

My roommates picked the obvious and unoriginal Cinnamon Toast Crunch as the best cereal. It says a lot about a person when they say they like CTC. In fact, if you break it down every cereal pretty much says something about your personality, hopes, and aspirations.

Cinnamon Toast Crunch: you don't like to stir the pot or ruffle any feathers. You're on the straight and narrow through and through. Sure you tried a cigarette once, but you did NOT like it.

Lucky Charms: that jingle is catchy, but not catchy enough to rope you in for a bowl. It goes with the Trix strategy of using different instruments (marshmellows) to distract, you, but they all taste the same. You're also probably stupid.

Kix: you don't live with you mom anymore, but mentally, you kind of do. I'm also going to assume not many friends. I bet your house looks awesome though, loser.

Cocoa Puffs: you're completely in it for the chocolate milk at the end. I got nothin' but love for that.

Wheaties: you were the Pop Warner quarterback, starting PG, and pitcher in the FIFTH grade. Dream's over brah.

Mini-Wheats/Regular Wheats: you have no idea whether or not to go to Business/Law/Grad School or stay at your pretty solid job. Each day it's weighing on you, but hey, the $2,500 you spent on LSAT, GMAT, and GRE classes will eventually prove their worth

Fruity Pebbles: you're on the right track, but your lack of concern for the sogginess is a problem. Can't have that shit.

Trix: you are awesome, groundbreaking, and an incredible spirit. You're handsome, smart, and so many fucking girls like you, it's crazy.

And that's the definitive cereal-personality test, brought to you by Working Man's Diary.

::bows head::

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

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The internet does a lot of good and bad for all of us. There's the obvious pros of social networking, the constant flow of information, and of course, porn. But then things like this happen. Sometimes you dig a little too far and end up in hell.

As an up and coming blogger, I try to find unique stuff that the more popular sites didn't post. This process leads me down some DARK paths. Whether it be that cat with two faces that I refused to post or this seemingly sweet old ladydude that ended up being the devil, my will to keep surveying the internet gets tested. Good luck with this video tonight, because this lady is about to go HAM all throughout my nightmares.

Old women and little girls are the scariest things in the world right?
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Look closely at this picture. I'll answer two questions for you so you don't have to think about it. Answer #1) That's a centrifuge on the desk. Centrifuges separate blood. Haven't seen one of these since high school chemistry and even then, our teacher told us to stay away from them. My roommate is not a chemist. Answer #2) Rubber ducks. Like 9 of them just chillin' on the ground under the centrifuge.

I didn't want to come into this bashing my roommate, but this shit makes me nervous. Dude lives directly next to me and I don't know what's going on. What possible science experiments can you accomplish with rubber ducks and a blood separating machine? I'm not saying that I'm alerting the authorities about this shit, but I'm definitely saying that I have an email drafted to info.help@fbi.com.

Yeah, those ducks are wearing stethoscopes. I'll be dead by midnight.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

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This baby panda reminds me a lot of a young Dub J during nap time. I don't know how kids were able to pass out on those hard ass wooden desks at the drop of a dime. I couldn't get in a groove and just stared at shit to pass the time. Definitely freaked teachers out, but ain't nothing wrong with keeping your head on a swivel.

This goes out to all the preschool readers out there: you can nap during snack time, eat during nap time, and play with toys while your teachers is talking about alphabets or some bullshit. That's how YOU become a mediocre/average/iight blogger.
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Ladies stepping up to the plate on this one. I see ya'll coming in hot with a question I straight up can't answer, but I promise you that I will bullshit my way to leaving you guys feeling slightly resolved.

Us men are a simple breed. We like hanging with our friends, eating, napping, and chasing women. That's it. I can't name anything else that a majority of the gender likes to do. It may sound easy to insert yourself in there as the girl we chase and just hang, eat, and nap with us, but God was up to his tricks when he made you guys. He gave all of you multiple wants and needs that reach far past laying down in the king size bed all Sunday with boxes of pizza and reruns of The Office on. In the full spirit of half-assing this, I'll tell you how NOT to get a guy to actually like you.

It starts at the point of attack. If you're at a weird bar on a Friday or Saturday night, it's not exactly painting you in the "wifey" category from the get go. If we talk to you, we are undoubtedly screaming in your face while we slyly put a hand on your hip because "we can't hear you that well." You're typecast as that bargirl right off the bat. And if you're on the basement dancefloor, there's just about no chance for a relationship. Your ceiling is late night hookup at best, because frankly, that's what everyone around you's ceiling is. I didn't make the rules. Your only chance is to post up somewhere relatively not loud, look cute, but not whorish, and have a decent conversation with a decent guy. Keep in mind, decent guys don't frequent where you are. These are the seedy places you can find Dub Jeezy and Craw lurking, trying to buy you SoCo Lime shots and get your phone number. Your best bet for a lasting relationship is...I have no clue. Grocery stores? I'd recommend a nice, classy bar in a happy hour/after-work setting where no one is threatening and people are looking pretty good. Plus people will want to talk about anything but work so conversation will pop off immediately. He asks you out, you'll have a blast, start dating, move in together, get married, have kids, and name your first child Dub. Like clockwork.

Put your lifestyle magazines away girls: Working Man's Diary>Cosmopolitan

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I don't know what a brotha has to do to receive a free pizza anymore these days.

You know why I need this? I'm so damn tired of cooking. I've put in so much time making the same 23 year old dude meals it's stupid and I definitely plateaued. Still walking around grocery stores unintentionally creeping out girls like an asshole. You know what I'm going to eat tonight? Neither do I, but I can tell you it's either going to involve chicken or ground beef, pasta or rice, and a piece of fucking garlic bread. The options are literally endless. Or 8, I think. Permutations? I'm still unsure of words such as "skewering" and "broiling." It's not baking, but it's not grilling? That shit's like the purgatory of cooking terms. But yeah Papa J, how about you hook me up with a large supreme before I eat another poorly made cheeseburger and die of salmonella. I'm not even 2% sure that's the correct disease associated with that meat. Dub J, dead with a case of "some gross disease that made him shit himself to death" at age 24.

If I don't have my free large pepperoni by kickoff Sunday people may die, WMD may go into a dark place, and I may mark all of your future emails as spam. No one likes a tease.

Monday, September 26, 2011

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Somehow my friends and I got an invite to a house party this weekend. I don't know how, but this is obviously not an opportunity to squander--some code blue/red alert shit. As a 23 year old dude, house parties are few and far between. It's either that our friend number has plummeted since graduation, we've developed a reliance on the bar/club scene, or that no one wants to invite us to their houses because we are for the most part, assholes. I'm going with all of the above on that one. This very well could be the last party I get legitimately invited to in my entire life. Scrounging around crashing parties and getting escorted out is most certainly in my not-so-distant future. One positive that surfaced in our excitement is that Craw dropped the illest quote I've heard in awhile.

"There's only so many knights on the chessboard"="My group of friends consist of alpha male douchebags, so the less dudes, the better" I couldn't have said it better myself. Once we all realized this party was happening, we started crunching numbers. The key to any self-respecting party is the ratio. How many girls versus how many guys show up. Ideally, you'd like to be there with a good amount of girls and a few of your friends. Can't make it too lopsided or else the dudes will get overwhelmed with "OMGs!!!" and be completely ignored/forgotten about. And obviously there can't be a sausage fest because people end up depressed and beat up at those. It's borderline a delicate chemical equation. Add one wrong element, shit explodes, chicks are crying and your nose is bleeding. So please refer to the chessboard and take a look at the pieces. Not everyone is a giant horse head.

PS. It literally took my dad like 2 years to hammer the explanation of the knight piece into my head when I was little. Little Dub was an idiot.
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I have GOT to stop taking these cellphone pictures directly next to people. My tactics aren't remotely smooth and it's just a matter of time before I get waffle stomped in the face. 95% of the pictures on my phone are of funny looking homeless people, so each one is a terribly dangerous risk. Lucky for me, this poorly monitored baby in the hiking bag falls in that other 5% which is pretty much a hodgepodge of weird shit.

I've said in past blogs that baby holders are literally the only thing guaranteeing that I'll eventually procreate, but I guess the ante has been upped. It appears that the "caring" aspect of babies is plummeting rapidly and people are just stuffing them in backpacks like a damn Kindle. Hell, at least I've got a protective case for my E-reader. This baby is just dangling in a strapped sleeping bag with the least supervision imaginable. I could have come up behind this guy, grabbed his baby, and replaced it with like 7 apples. I know fatherhood is tough, but this is a gross lack of effort.

The other day I went to the grocery store and accidentally put bread in my bag and when I sat on the train it got squished to the point where it was unusable. I'm not saying this guy is going to forget he has a baby in his bag and sit down when he gets on the train, but I am saying that it's REALLY hard to get a seat during rush hour and you can't pass up the opportunity if you get it.

Friday, September 23, 2011

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I'm not one to wish extinction on anything (except fucking mosquitoes), but these tree climbing goats look way too limber for their own good.

I'm positive that some of these dudes are balancing on one hoof up there. I can't balance on one foot right now if you asked me. Just making a mockery of that tree and the art of climbing at the same time. I was under the impression that goats were pretty worthless. Their only contribution to the planet being some wack ass milk and a Top-5 worst noise of all time. All in all, a non-factor animal. But this absurd picture changes everything. I was checking for all the signs of photoshopping. Looking at branch sway, angles, and other smart people shit and found nothing. It was like the opposite of looking at a Khloe Kardashian Maxim spread.

Nothing can "all of a sudden" develop the ability to scale a tree perfectly. I've been walking for 23 years and barely know how to do that correctly, so I'm pretty sure these assholes have something up their sleeve. Maybe two months from now they'll be like, "Whoops, my bad. Didn't mention that we can fly now and breathe fire." and humans are donezo. Goat dragons everywhere. This is just the tip of the iceberg.

Can't lie. I'd LOVE to stumble upon roughly 34 goats chillin' in a tree eating berries one day.
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To be brutally honest, I haven't had an answer to this question since like '06. Given my 5 1/2 year lack of response rate, I'd say it's pretty impressive that I get a fair share of these on a Friday afternoon.

Once I realized that all of my friends (including me) are consistently in some sort of alpha male hierarchy battle where everyone wants to be asked what the plan is, but refuses to come up with one is when I just stopped trying. Clearly a fucked up dynamic. Two weeks ago, I went to the same bar Friday AND Saturday night. And no, It wasn't in my neighborhood and it wasn't anything close to special. That plan just remained in my "going out" queue for some reason like a Netflix movie you really, really like.

My response to the "What's/Wat's/Whts Going On/Good/Happening Tonight/2Night/toKNIght?" question is usually the same. First prong of attack is the riskless, "same shit." Some people just leave it at that and feel stupid for asking in the first place. Others dig deeper, completely ignore my response and say some BS like, "are you going out?" At this point, I'm borderline insulted. Of course I'm going out. I have Monday-Thursday to run my Playstation's ass into the ground. Prong 2 of 2 is me giving them the God's honest truth. The, "I'm going to get weird and make frivolous, yet ultimately unsuccessful attempts to get with girls, and probably go to the pizza shop at 3am. Don't know where it's going to happen, but that's definitely going to happen." After that people either don't respond or block me on G-Chat. On some, "YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH" shit for real.


PS. I'm probably going to tweet shit while out, so if you're in Boston and want to get weird with me or get the play by play of shutdowns from the opposite sex follow @WMsDiary.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

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Most of the time when I write about people or objects, I rarely feel bad for them. I usually say some real caustic and hurtful stuff and proceed to go about my day. But in the case of this robot dog, I kind of do feel bad for it. I kind of exaggerated about the dog struggling, that was a knee jerk reaction. This motherfucker is absolutely killing this trek. Each step seems to have a purpose and is borderline inspiring.

Obviously, this is the scariest thing I've ever seen and it's almost a guarantee I'll have a violent nightmare about it in the coming nights, but it's a good video to see before the weekend. Like, you just got to keep trudging forward through the brush even if that girl denied you several times already. Don't let the fact that you can't see, walk correctly, and being controlled by a human bring you down.

Adversity. Spirit. Mechanized terror. "One Shining Moment"


NEXT DAY UPDATE: Upon rereading this blog and correcting blatant grammar errors, I've determined that this is a Top 5 worst written blog.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

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I'm your run of the mill, slightly above average boyfriend. I try to make sure you're happy, say some dumb shit here and there, and occasionally get drunk and pretend I'm in a hospital when I'm actually in a teleportation device at the back of the bar. Pretty much like every dude out there. Feel me fellas?

Why do girls dislike the idea of guys going to a bar with their friends so much? Don't you remember how we hit on you? We were kind of attractive, wildly obnoxious, and badgered you consistently until you broke down. That's who you're dating. That's the guy who's not swooning women out of their clothes while his fingers are a covered in BBQ wing sauce. The fact that Argentinian scientists had to spend man hours and tax dollars making a teleportation device that recreates ambient noise so girlfriends would get fooled is fucking outrageous. Some bonkers level stuff. And it's not our fault ladies. When fellas get backed into a corner we do weird shit. A lot of times it's going to be dumb and potentially dangerous, but sometimes we stumble upon girlfriend fooling, sound averting teleportation devices that will probably cause a wild increase in cheating.

The karate class sound was absolute genius. If a girl can spot you lying through that one, you either have to marry her or break up with her immediately.


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About god damn time. Going shopping with a girlfriend is the worst x awful. As soon as you get into a store, she disappears immediately. Peaced the fuck out and left you chillin' in the handbag section like an asshole. It's no one's fault. Girls love that shit and guys simply can't navigate the treacherous terrain of anywhere other than a Best Buy or a Champs Sports. We'd stand no chance in IKEA without the genius invention of the "Man Cave."

Videogames? Hot dogs? Yes fucking please. Read us like a book IKEA and I ain't even mad atcha one bit. I'm completely fine that our gender existence is summarized with a Foosball table, a Playstation, and some Ballpark franks. I'd be breaking IKEA 400 piece dressers and 58 piece beds like it's my job because I need to get back there and avenge my Halo loss against that other miserable boyfriend. I remember I went into the Coach store a few years back with an ex and I legitimately wanted to try to steal a bag so I'd get arrested and thrown into jail. No $4000 bags that all look the same in Rikers. Hey Coach, how 'bout you throw an off-balance foosball table and a sketchy Arabian dude serving me hot dogs out of some lukewarm water and I'll be set.

My mother bought a three-piece garbage can from IKEA my freshman year of college. A THREE piece garbage can.
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Add me to the list of all your friends and family that are complaining about the new Facebook changes via some form of social media. I wasn't initially pissed because it was clear that I could still creep at optimum efficiency, but now it looks near impossible to navigate.

Say for example I finish this post, get it up on Twitter (@WMsDiary! 50 49 followers? For how many people actually read this blog that's embarrassing.), and then proceed to come up with some C-grade trash line to accompany the link on Facebook, how do I post it? I don't even see a fucking area to write a status. Honestly, I don't even know how to get to my profile page. It's like the internet went to war with Facebook and amidst the rubble, the "poke" button crawled out bloody and scarred.

Maybe this is a sign that I'm getting too old for the changing times. I sneezed last week and am convinced I tore something in my knee. And I fucking called tech support the other night about something. When you're calling tech support that's a very bad step towards getting old.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

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We are all witnessing the collapse of the alligator species. I can't open an internet page these days without reading a story about alligators fuckin' up. About how a 800lb gator got reeled in by a god damn fishing pole. Designed for fish. How wack of an alligator do you have to be to get reeled in with a bass pole? That's like me dying from a mouse trap.

Then we have the second pic showing four bros stylin' all over this alligator's existence. No rubber clamp on it's mouth, not an ounce of urgency, and certainly no respect. This is like the animal equivalent of the '08 market crash. 15 foot alligators getting beat up in the street by teenagers and turned into shoes by nightfall. Does anyone remember Lake Placid? SyFy channel may have to stop running that one after this negative publicity. It's funny to think gators ran shit not but 13 years ago and now they've been downgraded to modern day pests getting accidentally hooked and killed by fishing line. Shit's embarrassing.

It's like watching the decline of Shaquille O'Neal. One day dude is breaking backboards, next second he breaks both his ankles going for a rebound. I'm rooting for you alligators.


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"To deal with the extra pressures, some women "latched hold of alcohol as a coping mechanism because it is readily available and socially acceptable"

I'll start with an apology. I definitely could have found a better picture than a dead prostitute chillin' on a bench. It's just that when you type "drunk girl" into Google Images with safe-search permanently off, you can get taken to a very dark place. I feel this dead chick may have been the most appropriate picture. Moving on...

So ladies, it appears the tables have turned. I've been waiting literally 23 and 7/8ths years for this day. No more being nervous and stumbling my words. No more weird requests for phone numbers. My only job now is to stand there, look pretty, and put up diva hands with my friends when Katy Perry songs come on. I can go out at night with a sole agenda just to dance. Pressure is completely off. I'm ready to have binge drinking girls awkwardly start dancing behind me after creepily staring at me for 10 minutes and asking me if I want a Kamikaze shot. Also can't wait to legitimately have to worry about being roofied by a chick.

Time for guys to live the life of luxury. Free drinks, skipping lines with the fellas, and the all-mighty feeling of giving out a fake phone number are so close I can taste it.

Area code, Five-Five-Five-One-twenty-three-forty-five-sixty-seven bitches.
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Went to B. Good today to expand my burger palette and see what all the hipster hubbub was about. Everything seemed legit right up until I saw my man Frank staring me down as I got to the register.

My first thought was, "Is that dude smoking a cigar AND wearing a stethoscope?" but then I start thinking about the matter at hand. This irritable man had a very real hand in making my french fries. Like, do you want to sell fries B. Good or scare people off? Frank looks like he's definitely seen some shit in his lifetime. Almost 100% certain I was dealing with some blood potatoes. And what's good with the name "Swaz" for a potato farm? It's a little too aggressive and makes me think of 1942 Germany. Just way too many negative thoughts about blood and Nazis for me to order the fries off the menu.

That being said, I didn't understand the menu at all and ended up ordering the fries anyway because I was nervous as hell. All in all, great fries. Kept the skin on and with the perfect amount of salt. Frank's just a misunderstood mobster/Nazi/med-student with a heart of gold.

Can't judge books by their covers anymore.

Monday, September 19, 2011

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Now I'm not saying we are apocalypsing right now, but we are all probably going to die relatively soon. Thousands of birds dying in Arkansas, BP oil spill, earthquakes while I'm taking a bathroom nap are one thing, but fucking pumpkins are growing in pear trees now?! Might as well just cinderblock myself into the nearest river and avoid whatever's going to happen. I mean if I can't walk under trees without worrying about getting crushed by a god damn pumpkin, what can I do anymore? My American rights are being infringed like a mofo by these things.

Shit is going to be a struggle during the zombie apocalypse. Ground shaking, birds, pumpkins, and hurricanes falling from the sky, and zombies on my ass is not a good look for death.

Odds are I'll slip on some BP oil, bust my lip and bleed out.
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I feel you potentially dead dog, I feel you.

Every time I get into that "How was your weekend?" chat it always goes the same way. It's at the point where I should have a template for that shit that I send to everyone. Tell them I got blacked out Friday and Saturday night and kind of crawled to the finish line Sunday night. Standard fare. Obviously I'm judged because let's be honest that's no way to live. But aside from the expected judgment, people are hitting me with fables of weekend "activities" that don't involve drinking or creeping out girls. What the fuck is an activity first of all? Does it mean "doing something?" I'd feel a LOT better and less confused if it meant that.

Let me breakdown a run of the mill Saturday morning afternoon for you. For starters, your boy is undeniably struggling something fierce. Bumping into walls and shit. Next, I make the move to check my cellphone to A) see if there's still time for McDonald's breakfast and B) check how unfortunate my outbox is looking and see who got the infamous Dub Jeezy 2:03am "wtas upp" text. Once that's squared away, I proceed to not do shittt. Literally just lay there with no intentions of sleeping, going on the computer, or turning on the TV. I call it reflection time. Then comes the comical internal question of, "Should I eat and/or shower?" It's comical because we all know the answer. If you're keeping track at home, HOURS have gone by without me eating, bathing, or interacting with 1 of my 4 roommates. It's bad. Basically, I'm not a human being. Just an alien that doesn't need food, water or social interaction. But just as soon as all hope seems lost, 7PM rolls around and it's fucking ON. Xfinity on Demand DJing, gross amounts of Polo Blue cologne, and a renewed sense of getting weird. It's called recharging the batteries assholes.

But yeah, stick to the apple orchards, pumpkin patches, and pear peninsulas. I'll be chillin' in my bed being too weak to click "confirm purchase" on an online food order.
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Man. I can say with confidence that I'd react very poorly at the site of a couple of eccentric techies turning my living room into a personal PC store. The last thing I want after a hard days work is to stare at some more desktops in the comfort of my own home.

So you threw a few PC's in here but what did you do with my TV? Where's my rug? I'd love to flip the script here and lose my mind. Just kick em out before they have any chance of moving what they put in. Nope, leave it all...just please get out. Gain a few grand for being an asshole. Try and make a commercial out of that.

Friday, September 16, 2011

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First and foremost, that may be the best nickname of all time. You realize how devastating I'd be at the bars if someone called me shouting, "Yo Snoballimus, do you need a beer?"

There aren't many times that a coconut/marshmallow coated chocolate ball made from entirely artificial ingredients can be made appealing, but this is a must eat pastry. Hell, I'm not even a fan of the Transformers franchise after Michael Bay took it and well..Michael Bay'd it. You can replace Optimus Prime with Piglet and while it would make MUCH less sense, I'd still want it the same. I'm a sucker for well placed advertising and the name Snoballimus will get me every time.

On an entirely serious note, what is that filling? Can't be vanilla, that's too plain. Probably not strawberry, because I don't think Hostess knows what strawberries taste like. Best bet might be cherry? I'm not sure. All I do know is that this shit looks disgusting and I desperately want it.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

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Is this thing fucking KIDDING me with that mini-Segway right now? I've never wanted to root harder against a mini-robot more than this asshole. Looking like Buzz Lightyear with that ridiculous get up on.

Dude is cheating like crazy too. "Three Versions" of yourself for each different competition? A week to finish the course when humans get like 18 hours? Ridiculously unfair. Where are robots going in this world? One second they're dominating Ken Jennings' wonky ass on Jeopardy, next second they're in need of dire assistance to complete a triathlon. I don't get you Segway Lightyear. If you're cheating, why not really cheat? Sprout some wings, electrocute all other competitors, shoot some lasers, I don't know. The fact that I'm thinking of these things and you're not is a little concerning.

Also don't get what you're trying to prove with this little stunt Japan. You're trying to prove that a robot that doesn't breathe or experience muscle pain is better at endurance than us. What? That's like me making a mockery of dog because I can open a door with poseable thumbs. Or something.

Yikes Japan. Yikes.
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THE NEW:

THE OLD:


The days of shitting your pants when you see the blue screen of death are over. Instead of panicking and wondering what to do, you can instead be left just kinda confused as to what happened to your computer.

No more aggressive flashes of cryptic Courier-New lettering that feature such buzzwords as: "stop", "problems", and "damaged". Now we live in an age where all issues can be resolved with a simple "My Bad" sad face. Windows kind of flipped the entire script with that one. Just went from too much information to literally no information at all. Can't help but respect the effort to cut costs, but at least add a nose to that smiley. Just half-assing it out here with the lack of hyphen as the nose. How can I trust a 1/3rd stick figure face with my computer? Oh well, better than the hardass that was in charge of that first blue-screen. Dude must have designed that with 3 sticks up his ass or something.

That fine print under that the new screen must say some real devastating shit.
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I feel like I stumbled upon some artifact from feudal China or some shit. This relic was dropped on my desk with a sticky note that said, "Can you fix this for me?" You might as well leave a sticky asking me to go ahead and fix a Boeing jet. Are you kidding me with this thing? The bottom right says, "oil occasionally." It's 2011, we shouldn't have to consider oiling anything. If it's in bad enough shape that it needs oil, it's in bad enough shape to get tossed in the trash. Also, what are we talking here? Goya Vegetable oil or some of that Valvoline NASCAR stuff? Either way, there's no chance I'm fucking with this thing. Looks like a 500% chance I'll cut/smush/maim my fingers the moment I even consider "fixing" it.

Even if this was you who left me the sticky note hot temp worker, it's simply not worth the risk. No way I'm going toe to toe with the prototype-beta version of a 3-hole punch.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

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Oh my god. I might as well kill myself now, because that's no way to live. When I'm too old to use a certain type of technology (Ipad) I just won't use it. I'll be stubborn like my Dad. I swear that dude has like six Ipod boxes just lying around the house that he refuses to open. I know I got him one. He just has me make him like 54 CDs when I come home for the holidays because he "doesn't" burn CDs. Tryin' to be cool bro? But whatever, that's bliss. I respect that. Never going outside the box because you can get burned, like these raisins up here.

At the 1:13 mark, did that dude almost die? That wasn't an ordinary burp/vomit noise.

Don't even wanna know what was happening at 1:56.
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I challenge you to name me a more unreasonably dangerous item in the office. I'm so intimidated by staple removers, it's stupid.

I've been treading this topic very lightly the past few weeks via Twitter (@WMsDiary) and was looking for answers to the tough questions. Naturally, none came. Basically, I'm extending an olive branch and trying to find if there are better options. Maybe a safer, more plastic alternative that leaves me with no doubt that my jugular won't be severed when I'm unstapling a document.

Today things came to a head. Normally I make extensive efforts to avoid using these office monsters and use either my fingers or a strategically morphed paper clip. Both options take a stupidly long time, but in the end I'm left with more blood in my arteries. That said, my manager came over to me and started to small talk my face off. Hit me with an unexpected "Good morning, how's your day?" out the corner of my cube. Enter nightmare scenario. She spotted a document that shouldn't have been stapled that she was in need of and asked me to unstaple it and give it to her. I wanted to tell her that I'd get it to her later, but there was no time. Fight or flight kicked in. My palms were sweating on some B. Rabbit shit and I knew I had to remove that staple the "correct" way at risk of getting straight fired for being a lunatic. Then I said, and I shit you not, "But how is YOUR day going?" It was either the smartest or craziest thing I've ever done. We were both flabbergasted. Like two people that shot a gun at each other and realized there were no bullets in either. Then she told me she was planning on going to the Cape and literally walked away. Honestly, I still don't know what happened.

They fucking made Avatar! If we can make the movie Avatar, there is no reason that we can't make safer staple removers. If you can make 4D blue creatures that I'm very attracted to, you can definitely make a staple remover without four razor sharp teeth and flimsy holders. Dammit.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

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You mean aside from balancing Kim K. on my back outside the pool? But seriously, what a meathead question (that I secretly wanted to answer) to ask. Oh well, things are gonna get creepy.

First things first, you HAVE to set up that workout playlist on the Ipod. What reasonable person can dominate a workout without listening to "Nookie" at least 4 times? Once that's settled, I "scan" the cardio machine area with a confused look on my face. This is solely to see what female talent is around. I wish there was a graph that showed how many reps I lifted when a cute girl was around versus how many I do without a girl. Shit would look like the '08 stock market. As far as working out goes, I do straight vanity muscles meaning, I only do the muscles that have a chance to be seen by the outside public. Back? Pfft. Legs? Please, I have previously installed fast-twitch muscles, don't need to ever lift legs. Summer=more abs, not summer=less abs. Simple math for a simple dude. I'm no beefcake bodybuilder, I just do what I need to get done to be able to compete at 1:36am on Friday and Saturday nights. Vanity workouts include: curls, bench, that tricep pulley shit, pec flys, incline bench, gone. If I do more than that, I fucked up. Or there are several hot girls around at once.

My last play is to do one more speedier, less creepy scan and give at least two half-hearted smiles/glares to girls of my choice. You know, let 'em know who I am.

Lastly, I NEVER do cardio. It's stupid. What do I need to tighten up? My ass is awesome. And it's not like I need endurance for anything, because I sit at a computer 25 hours a day. As I said before, I have the prerequisite black fast twitch muscle, so I'm fast without doing anything at all. And don't tell me, "I do it for the runner's high." I ran track, that shit doesn't exist unless you mean throwing up and collapsing in the grass.

PS. It brightens my fucking month when a girl says I look like Reggie Bush.


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There are only a few things that could push me to the brink. Loud chewing, badass kids, and the morning commute.

Every morning I've asked myself, "Is today the day you snap?" Could it be the fact that the driver stared me down for literally 100 yards as I sprinted towards the train and pulled off when I was at yard 99? Maybe it could be that 30-something chick that REALLY thinks I'm going to give up my seat for her. I'm not sure, but I am sure that if 1/1000th of what happened in that video happened to me, you best believe I'll be murder-suiciding it up. That's rock bottom. A fucking city official pushing me via my ass onto a dangerously packed train? Are you kidding me? I get upset if I get brushed by one of those backpack assholes that carry hiking edition North Faces on their way to the office. I can't imagine what would happen if I was in China at 7:45 AM and there were 13 people lodged between my legs. Hell, I'd probably get someone pregnant AND get sexually assaulted at the same time without even taking off my clothes.

Can't knock that Chinese efficiency though. One child policy, baby girls "lost" in the Yangtze, and a AAA credit rating is pretty much where it's at.
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There's cute and then there's looking ridiculous. Boo, you look fucking ridiculous.

Your dome piece is serious. Like that shit is coming out of the screen and making it difficult for me to type right now. Sure, to the untrained eye you may look cute because I can't deny that you're killin' the tongue out, beady-eye look, but I have to say that it's overkill. It's like when you turn on "America's Next Top Model" expecting to see at least one hot girl, but all you see is a bunch of chicks with bowl cuts trying too hard. That's what I think is going on with you Boo. You're putting that extra umph in there that no one needs. Just be a dog. Do dog things instead of inflating your head. Oh, and being "able" to get inside your carrying bag isn't exactly a trick.

Sidenote: It's a shoe-in that I'm World's Cutest Blogger right? I mean the competition isn't exactly fierce out there. I'm pretty sure that I'm competing against a LOT of basement dwellers and dirty hipsters, so my odds have to be decent.
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Honestly the most entertaining part of last night's Pats Dolphins game was seeing Will Smith, Marc Anthony and D-Wade hamming it up in the sky box. Clearly making it a point to let the public in on the false rumors between Jada and Marc, the singer invites the Fresh Prince to watch his team play alongside Wade to ensure all around good times.

Have you ever seen a more powerful trio? I'd say this assembled group ranks third to The Expendables and our latest Presidents. Nothing like blaring your own song throughout your stadium at your own teams event. Also note Smith's Muhammed Ali t-shirt. Made millions playing his character a few years back right? Thought so.

Power.

Monday, September 12, 2011

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Saw this today at CVS and was puzzled that such a market existed for Halloween cards. No clue who you'd give this to and when you'd give it to them.

As a little kid, I'd be absolutely pissed if I got a fucking Halloween card. Just another card with no possibility that there'd be money in it. Plus this shit's offensive as any card can be. No one wants to get mooned by a copyright infringed Goofy character on October 29th. It's bizarre, twisted, and borderline mean to give someone this. I can only see one demographic that's capable of keeping this portion of Hallmark alive--the empty nest syndromed parents. And even that's a stretch. Maybe it's because I was a mediocre kid and C rated kids don't get holiday themed cards. That's definitely it.

Could barely find my mother a fucking birthday card, but I had my choice of thousands of Halloween themed cards playing the theme song from the "Twilight Zone." Ridiculous.
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This goes out to all of those confused office workers that wonder why their production drops substantially between 1:30 and 2:30 P.M. And this especially goes out to the person that decided to be ambitious and get the large sub instead of playing it safe with a regular.

It was the 4th grade when it started to happen to me. One day after lunch, I just didn't have it in me to "do" recess. You ask, "How can a 9 year old, otherwise active kid not do recess?" Because it was obviously chicken patty day and you don't just get ONE sandwich on chicken patty day. Kids were wondering if I lost a step in tag and if I just wasn't fun anymore, but I soon realized that whenever I ate I became impossibly sleepy and an overall liability on the asphalt. The term wasn't laid out to me for years, but it was basically defined as "black-people"-itis, give or take a racial slur or two. As years went on, I thought it was an exclusive con of the melanin, like Sickle Cell Anemia and Can't Catch A Cab..emia, but I slowly started seeing more and more my fairer skinned brethren complaining about being unreasonably tired after especially hefty meals. To this day, I still receive random messages like, "Yo man, had some BBQ for lunch today...it's a wrap" and "Ate Indian. Honestly might leave work early." For that, it has officially become just the "Itis"--it's a national affliction that affects anyone regardless of race, class, or gender.

Bathroom naps. They solve just about all itis-related issues. Your first thought is coffee, but for some reason the itis is immune. It has AIDS-like potency and your only hope is a 10-15 minute nap. 1) Find a stall, preferably handicapped 2) Look for a good lean spot, if one is unavailable put your elbow on your knee and place your head in your hand 3) Do anything you can to prevent snoring because this could be a disaster for reasons I need not explain 4) Set a phone alarm depending on the meal you ate 5) Have a job where they don't notice if you leave for 20 minutes on end.

Don't judge me.




Friday, September 9, 2011

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Incredible scene from last night's incredible game.

Patriotism and the NFL. Can't beat that. 9/11/01
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Let's cut the bullshit, it's going to be VERY depressing when I secretly buy the emo-phone and completely stop going out on weekends.

"Nah guys, I'm good. I'm just going to chill here with my Samsung Fascinate and watch some Project Runway." I can see it now--whipped by my phone during the first week of our relationship. It'll probably ask me stupid, inane girl questions like, "Why don't we hold hands in public?" and "Why do you keep turning me on silent?" But hey, it's a relationship. That's what you sign up for in the fine print of the "Terms and Conditions" at the AT&T store.

On a positive, yet weird note, I definitely won't have to call my phone on the phone. I'll just talk outloud and if it doesn't hear me, it's not my fault. Not my problem you have a 14-hole speaker system and not a fully developed ear canal. And I think texting is a just a part of the "physical" experience I share with my emo-phone. So hey, you guys have fun out there this weekend talking, dancing, and inevitably arguing with your human girlfriends. I'll be chillin' at the crib getting air kisses on my cheek and having the ability to press the OFF button whenever I start losing an argument.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

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Anyone else catch this thing? Am I the last one? As the captain of this ship I probably should have taken a look at this a little further at some point.

For those of you that don't know, this logo was the brainchild of co-blogger Craw and an unknown amount of hours of Microsoft Paint. I'm not mad at it, because this has been our identifier for the past 1.5 years, but I'm definitely at a loss at what's really going on here.

Is it just me or is it some sort of hybrid human-spider creature that graduated from a top 50 business school and now works as an entry-level accountant pondering what he should get for lunch? Now that I think of it, this logo is perfect for the blog. Just represents what we're about over here. Minimal effort for a solid product. Despite the "total hours" Craw spent making it, I bet there were a couple snack breaks, a bathroom run, and a few trips upstairs to see what everyone is doing. Basically spent like 4 minutes cycling between the paint bucket and the eraser to come up with a pretty damn good/weird logo.

Kinda like how every blog is made. Here's my "Secret Blog Formula": Come up with a weird idea/scan the web for a weird idea, vomit words on Blogger.com, absolutely don't proofread, publish post, blast that shit on Facebook and Twitter annoying people, and go about my night. Process takes about 4 minutes. Not saying I'm doing it well, but no one can knock that efficiency. I'm like a robot that somehow managed to get drunk and forgot how to spell some words.

So if you really think about it, the logo is anything you want it to be. Or a spider-dude sitting at a desk.
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^can't tell if this pic is racist, but I'm with it.

Last night while I was disastrously sick with some form of one-night-AIDS, I decided to ignore recommended dosages and just slug back some NyQuil. And some assorted cold medicine pills. I wasn't in dangerous territory, but I was kinda treading the Heath Ledger line. One of those moments where you knew you were fucked. Similar to those days in college when you thought it was a good idea to chug that bottle of Rubinoff and inevitably threw up on your shirt and passed out in front of your door because the 3-digit code was far too complicated. This time was like a very bad/disturbing episode of "That 70s Show" though. Life in a kaleidoscope.

20 minutes after my Amy Winehouse experience, I literally got up, walked in the bathroom and STRUGGLED to brush my teeth. Just couldn't connect the paste to the brush. Loopy doesn't even describe what was happening. Bouncing off walls, giggling for no reason, and I honestly thought about putting up a blog just to see what would happen. It'd probably be written entirely in WingDings and have a picture of an ostrich or something outrageous. Didn't want you guys to go through that. What I'm trying to say is, I get it Lil Wayne, I get it JaMarcus Russell. That shit was awesome. I reached levels of swag that I previously thought were unreachable. My Facebook chat game was on point (I think) and I slept like a fucking drug infused baby. Hell, I may even consult Wikipedia and get the 3 Six Mafia on the horn to figure out how to blog on sizzurp.

Way more respect for JaMarcus Russell. Throwing a football is borderline IMPOSSIBLE drunk off that 'Quil.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

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Egads.

Maybe stick to being Joey Fatone, or whoever the fuck you were during the VMAs because actually trying to be a pretty girl failed miserably. Oh yeah, sick barcode tat. Let me scan your bicep with my cellphone and get taken to a website that hopefully makes me to kill myself.

When I have to consider hooking up with you in a bar, you know you're bad.
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"I'm in the car, he's on the ground, wondering what the fuck just happened?"
-Jamie Foxx


Jesus Christ Rhino are you out of your mind man? You see that warthog over there? He's dead. He's fucking dead. All for a pile of hay bro? Not even a legitimate kill that you worked for. Just a pile of hay laying in the middle of random pasture. So random that, hey maybe other animals can partake in it. Some of the most passive warthogs I've ever seen. Are you even aware that Pumbaa was a god damn warthog man? You just tore my childhood to shreds you Rhino asshole. Imagine how less fun "Lion King" would have been if during the middle of one of those delightful songs, Pumbaa just gets impaled and tossed 15 feet in the air?

By the way, I've seen better hay in a petting zoo. Way to class it up. You have a fucking horn made of pure ivory and you're eating hay with warthogs. Jokes on you.
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The internet is running circles around me right now and there is not a god damn thing I can do about it. Night in and night out I've knocked on the internet's door and just barged the fuck in to pillage the fridge for a weird internet video or a funny picture. Tonight's not the case. In fact, I think my life got Rick Roll'd today.

I'm pretty sure that when I sneezed today I tore my meniscus and chipped a tooth. Borderline started crying at my desk. Maybe I went a little too hard during Labor Day weekend, but that's still no excuse to acquire fucking West Nile Dysentery Snake Bite Cholera. So many diseases and ailments are just mashed into me. Each one keeping me alive, just so it can break me down some more. My immune system is getting put through hoops and the internet is taking advantage. Just not giving me anything. I'm going to my usual sites and getting weird responses. Like CNN's refusing to present any news. What? ESPN is vehemently against giving me sports information. Even Facebook was like, "SHE HASN'T POKED YOU BACK, GO AWAY." Chill Facebook, get off your high horse.

One of those nights where I have to go back to my roots as a blogger and just talk about straight bullshit top to bottom. Word-vomit.com/dubjeezy

PS: Not a real website.


Tuesday, September 6, 2011

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Not that I'm pessimistic or anything, but there is almost a 100% chance I'm getting a divorce. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. I'm just going to get divorced on and it's something I have to live with. Whether it be me playing one too many videogames or still writing a blog called "A Working Man's Diary", my future wife is going to get tired of the antics. With all of that said, I want to go out with a bang. Not the sexual kind, but the baller heartbreak diamond ring that'll let everyone know how much of a boss I was/wasn't.

Some may say that for it's purpose, it's wildly overpriced at $3,200. Others may say it looks like something you can find at the bottom of a pretty nice Cracker Jacks box. These things are such a mindfuck. I have no idea what the rules are either. Do I wear one if I was the divorcee? It seems like the only logical move at that point right? When I reignite my game back at the bars, I want my new fancy divorce ring to spit all the game for me. I'm fully expecting to just stand there and do the Beyonce "Single Ladies" dance and have my pick of the desperate woman litter.

Seriously, how bad is it that there is a fucking DIVORCE ring in existence? Faith in all things good is plummeting rapidly.
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Stepped outside my house to go to work this morning and turned right back around due to my blatant summer attire. Looking all suave and shit in my fresh t-shirt rockin' shades...only to realize that suddenly it's 50 degrees out and raining. Forgot that after labor day weekend things take a drastic turn in regards to sickness and overall promising times.

When the sun first showed itself back in May I had so much shit planned. Said I was going to get a golf membership. Only hit the links once...turned in my score card and started drinking beers at hole 12. Never tossed a Frisbee or put together any sort of wiffle ball game. Purchased a grill. Grilled once. Trips were highlighted by the Bahamas, Florida, Myrtle Beach, Maine and upstate New York. Seems as though I should really seize the day if September presence itself with a few pleasant surprises. Enjoy school kids.
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^shoutout to Toysldrs

This graph is the truest/funniest shit I've seen in awhile. It's also scary because this is literally what I go through every year at this time. Guess I'm not alone. It's like harvesting season when you see tons of squirrels going HAM with acorns and shit. Dudes and chicks alike looking to get scooped up before the harsh winter breeze flows through.

"Are you drunk right now?"
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Had this little monster on Friday afternoon and I felt like I was a member of FEMA doing a poor job tending to a disaster. Sending out newsletters and shit like, "We have the burrito under control, please understand that we are doing the best we can."

I'd like to consider myself a burrito connoisseur. One that can recognize and adapt to the intricacies of a burrito. As you can see, I kept the foil on and wasn't playing any rookie ball bullshit. But this picture proves that even the best can falter. Sometimes you can't overlook those small holes that have a couple grains of rice poking through--they quickly turned into large holes where there is simply no return. You may ask, "Dub, did you grab a fork and just concede defeat to the burrito?" Answer: fuck no. I'm going out fighting even though I'm staring down the barrel of a messy face, multiple napkin runs, and the ridicule that comes with eating a depleted burrito like a jackass. I'll say it, I was ashamed of myself. I know I'm better than that, but I also know I have to work harder to make sure it doesn't happen again.

PS. I'm pretty sure that the next girl that can actually watch me eat a burrito without being utterly disgusted or making fun of me will be my wife. There's no clearer sign of love than catching someone wipe their sour-cream/salsa covered hand under the bottom of the chair and pretending not to notice.


Thursday, September 1, 2011

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I almost threw up at the 50 second mark. Looked like a million rats scurrying around with no sense of direction. Gross. The real question here is, rabbits? You picked rabbits?

Rabbits are the definition of mediocre. They rank at a solid C+/B- on the scale of ownable pets. Toss a piece of lettuce and fill up their water bottle and it's God's work from there. If it dies, it dies and it's not on your hands as long as you provided that lettuce. I can live with that. It's not like a dog or a cat where there's clear emotional attachment and I'm having uncomfortable conversations about why the litter box is gone and there's no more cat food in the cupboard. Then there's fucking Brenda. Brenda completely flips the script as far as societal norms go. Just letting rabbit after rabbit come into her home to fornicate, shit, and vomit everywhere. Frat party central, rabbit style. But there's no beer pong, flip cup, or hot sorority girls. Just faceless, nameless rabbits tearing a family apart.

"My mom's never been like this"--What? No one goes from zero to owning 130 rabbits just like that. This shit was calculated, assessed, and reassessed. You were probably too busy downing cheeseburgers to notice the small rabbit outbreak happening around you tubs.
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I hope no one's disputing this because that's literally the oldest thing I've ever seen. I've seen some sequoia trees, antique desks, and ancient turtles, but my girl Maria looks like hell. Weathered beyond belief. On some, "she might be dead" shit for sure.

Plus, doesn't it look like she just ate the illest Lemon Warhead of all-time? Something so diabolically sour that her face basically imploded on itself. Looks like a crumpled up plastic bag. Based on this picture alone there should be no debate about her age, so everyone should back off and let her fizzle to dust naturally and in peace.

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