Got my slurpee. Got my chili dog. Got my Sociology textbook to study on the way to class. Now just time to merge into traffic. Continue reading
It’s Hard To Shave While Driving…But That’s Why God Made It So Toes Curl Perfectly Around Steering Wheels.
The worst thing about a college social sciences class is not that tests aren’t multiple choice, or the materials are hard, or the fact that you’re teacher constantly confronts you with topics discussing your own mortality. It’s that one kid that sits in the front row and thinks he has a civic duty to answer every single question the professor asks. Continue reading
This is not the tale of “Society sucks so I made a funny story”. This is the tale of the near-death experience.
When you’re not in a relationship you get hit on by all kinds. I’m not talking a guy asks you for your number at the bar, you say no, then three weeks later you spot him across the street with a pair of binoculars. Or you take a girl out for lunch one time and the next day she sends you thirteen text message pics of wedding dresses she likes. Nah, all that’s just some normal healthy flirting. I’m talking about the erotically charged conflict of man vs. electricity. I’m talking about the sweet, sugary sensation a heavy summer rain brings and the simultaneous fear it invokes when rain’s attention-whore cousin begins flashing its streaks about the sky. I’m talking about lightning bolts. Continue reading
Remember the Ice Cream Truck Man? Bet You Don’t Remember His Cigarette Ash-dangle and Grease ‘Stache.
One of the fondest childhood memories is the simple euphoric joy of hearing that chimy jingle rumble down your suburban block. The ice cream man.
His glorious white truck of milky vanilla goodness glints in the early evening sunlight. His bell echoes across the land like the mystical cries of a thousand yawning church bells. Yes, in the land of barefoot nine year old peasants, the ice cream truck man reigns as king. But who is the ice cream man really? Continue reading
As a nation of rich history, enduring grit and humble perseverance, we’ve got a lot to be proud of. We came over here, fiercely battled for our independence, settled millions of acres of beautiful, uninhabited land. Because that’s how it happened, right? We were the first ones here?
Oh. Oh, we weren’t? I didn’t know. Jim Bamblowski doesn’t know either, but he wants to. That’s why he’s taking his family on the vacation of a lifetime, the Trail of Tears deluxe tour. Continue reading
You look back on your childhood and remember all those times you got cash for teeth. Nostalgically you reminisce about the gap toothed smile, putting your teeth in a jar, making little tribal aboriginal necklaces out of your kid molars. Alright, maybe not everyone makes the necklaces. But you thought it was all over. You thought losing those beautiful bicuspid pieces of your mouth-soul was a thing of childhood. Then you grow up and it’s time to get the wisdom teeth out. Continue reading
I Smell Leather, and Baskets, and That Guy’s Ketchup-stained Slipknot Shirt Almost Matches His Grease Ponytail. Yeah, I’m at a Flea Market.
I’m a really positive person. I only hate a couple things in this life. I hate crinkling potato chip bags. I hate Pea coats. I hate people who pop the collars on their pea coats. I hate the way people on reality shows always look sweaty even when they’re inside. I hate dogs that stare weird. I hate it when people stare like dogs. I hate it when people stare like dogs that stare weird. I hate…alright, I’m not that positive; I hate a few things. But there’s one thing I hate more than anything. Indoor flea markets. Continue reading
There’s only one thing worse than having customers in your place of business. Lingerers.
The lingerer. A soulless beast who picks things up and puts them on other shelves, a Golem long known to spend hours in front of a single item and not buy a thing. The sorceress creature is even known to spend an entire afternoon pawing through fresh fruit, checking every single apple and peach to see which ones are ripe. Continue reading