You ever notice those funny little preferences that are actually pretty insignificant but about which we feel strongly? Well I decided to ponder a few of those in this short but let’s face it hysterically humorous accounting.
For example, some insist the toilet paper must be placed on the holder such that the paper rolls over the top coming away from the wall, while others insist that it should actually be slung back toward the wall and then clutched from beneath the roll.
Or, let’s take eating a cob of corn. Some folks are quite positive the best way to go is “typewriter” style, where you chomp, chomp, chomp your way down the cob then ‘ding’ rotate and repeat, while others prefer the pure rotation method which entails maintaining a single left to right position, rotating the delectable and potentially butter drenched ear in a clockwise or counterclockwise position, and only when a full mouth sized ring has been completed does one scale down the cob toward the other end and engage in another rotation of chomping.
It’s always hard to watch someone you love get tossed about the rough and tumble seas of life—particularly when influenced by insidious others, substances, or forces. Think of the budding terrorist, the alcoholic, or the online chat lover. While there is always a neighbor or two available to confirm he “saw nothing out of the ordinary” and that the neighbor in question “was just a regular guy,” there are always too those left behind who blame themselves and only then recognize the missed early warning signs. It’s no different with young Republicans and Democrats. Below, the top fifteen signs (in no particular order) that your loved one may be on the brink of becoming a full-blown left or righty.
Donkey-esque Democrat Symbol: It Does Take Moxie to Adopt as Your Mascot, LITERALLY, an Ass
Elephant-esque GOP Symbol: Accurate in That Many are Old, Slow, Plodding, & Have Long Memories of Own Bad Policy Decisions
This is the third in what I hope becomes an entertaining series of adolescent recollections. You see a lot of stuff when you’re young–some good, some bad, some happy, some sad. Some involve pushing the girl you like onto the ground because you don’t know what else to do.
One fateful third grade day, in the chaotic moments just before class ended and students were allowed to gather up their belongings (i.e. manically stash all their shit in their desks), Mr. Saddler, chrome-domed and four-eyed “teacher” extraordinaire, took it upon himself to plunk his ample Montgomery Wards’ slacks-clad bum on the desk next to mine, scoop up my unguarded yearbook (I had, in the commotion, momentarily stepped away) and peruse it as if it were his, not my, personal property.
Combing through our class’ section (the annual was organized not just by grade but by teacher), he noticed the heart I had carefully and affectionately drawn (with my best blue pen, I might add) around the lovely image of my beloved, Jennifer Drury. Seeing this, a wholly private expression of intense, longing emotion, old Saddler-bags himself slovenly sat there chuckling and giggling. CHUCKLING & GIGGLING! This drew the attention of one Eric Marcaccini, who I knew to be fleet of foot but only then realized was snakelike too, who peered around the chubby, shiny headed, cheap-loafer wearing “educator” who was illicitly enjoying my intimate secret (I hadn’t yet revealed my “like” to Ms. Drury or anyone else). Is it me, or is that, like, a serious breach of teacher protocol? Continue reading →
I thought the pit of despair was literally, like, just a pit. Now I know that’s just fallacy—there is much more than the pit of despair—there are also the chair of despair, bed of despair, shower of despair, toilet of despair, kitchen of despair, and barstool of despair. This unemployment shit? It’s a bitch, yo.
Look, we all know it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there (or as my sister says a doggy-dog world). The only question is which dog ends up with a happily engorged belly and which becomes Alpo. Lately, I’ve been feeling like the latter dog. At my age, trust me, there is no joy in being jobless.
Arby's Roast Beef Sandwich = Reason to Live
When you’re young, of course, a stint of unemployment is like damned sunshine in the sweet sweet summertime. No rules, restrictions, curfews. As long as you’ve got enough bread for a sixer of Special Export, an Arby’s roast beef sandwich, and a little gas in the tank, it’s smooth sailin’, Jack. But when you’re older, this crap gets old after about…oh, five minutes. Continue reading →