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Archive for the tag “friend”

You’re so Superior

I was reading an article about the trend of people marrying themselves.

The article detailed how the people who marry themselves, find it a truly empowering and liberating act.

It explained that even though it isn’t legal to marry yourself, people are having symbolic ceremonies with all trimmings of a traditional wedding.

You’re probably thinking marrying yourself is the act of a weird, delusional, and self-absorbed person.

You’re thinking it’s an act of desperation by person who’s had a complete break from reality.

Maybe you think it’s just a twisted and elaborate plan to get wedding cake.

Shame on you!

I’ll bet you’re one of those judgmental types.

I’ll bet you think the only difference is between marrying yourself and being completely and hopelessly alone is absolutely nothing.

You simpleton.

You’re probably one of those backwards people who also thinks it’s weird when people eat urinal cakes.

Urinal cakes are minty, crunchy, goodness; they wouldn’t put cake in the name if they weren’t delicious.

You probably think it’s abnormal for a person to keep hundreds of pet banana slugs and name them after Dickens characters.

Mr. Pumblechook is the best friend I’ve ever had; he’s plump and yellow and perfect. Banana slugs are very good listeners; they almost never interrupt.

I’ll bet you’re one of those super self-righteous people who think it’s wrong to be a cannibal.

You probably think it’s “icky” to eat another person.

You dullard.

I’m not saying that I’m a cannibal, (mostly for legal purposes) but wouldn’t it be nice to have the option.

You’re so superior: you’ve probably never spent a quiet afternoon licking toads and staring directly into the sun.

You’ve haven’t lived until you’ve spent a quiet afternoon licking toads and staring directly into the sun.

Sure, you may functional eyesight and undamaged taste buds, but at what cost.

I don’t care what you think; I am going to marry myself.

Mr. Pumblechook will be my best man and after the ceremony we’re going sit around eating urinal cakes, licking toads, and staring directly into the sun.

And you’re not invited, weirdo.

Mr. Pumblechook always gives the best advice.

Murder and Cheese Dip

Party table
What a lovely looking party…it’d be a shame if somebody ruined it.

What if murder wasn’t illegal?

What if murder was just a thing considered rude–something you wouldn’t do at a friend’s party?

Imagine you were invited to a party at a friends house. While at this party you have a bit too much to drink.

During the festivities you question the host’s taste in decor. You toss out phrases like: garish, glitteringly obnoxious, tasteless, and the truly unfortunate phrase: just plain butt-ugly.

During this party, you cause a perfectly nice couple to storm out after you ask them if they named their daughter Liz because she bears an uncanny resemblance to a lizard.

At some point during the night, you murder a guy named Mitch with a waffle iron.

And through an unfortunate accident, you ruin the cheese dip.

Now imagine the thing your friend is the most upset about is the cheese dip. In fact, everyone is mad at you because the cheese dip was really good.

“Did you have to hit Mitch in the back of the head with a waffle iron?” your friend yells at you. “You made him fall face first into the cheese dip…now no one will eat the cheese dip.”

The next morning you apologize profusely as you make your friend some pancakes. (You’d make waffles but the back of Mitch’s head ruined the waffle iron.)

You apologize for the remarks you made about the decor. The decor is perfectly lovely if you’re colorblind, or just plain blind.

You phone that nice couple and apologize for implying their daughter looks like a lizard. (Just because it’s true doesn’t mean it needs to be said.)

You apologize for insinuating that your friend’s wife dresses a tad slutty. Then you remember that you never actually said that out loud, so you apologize for that.

But most emphatically, you apologize for the cheese dip, because the cheese dip was truly delicious.

What you don’t apologize for is Mitch, because Mitch was a dick. Besides, it’s not like murder is illegal.

cheese dip
The cheese dip, prior to Mitch’s dead face.

Things Couldn’t Possibly Get Worse

couldn't get worse

There has never been a phrase so inviting of its own contradiction than the phrase “things couldn’t possibly get worse.”

The mere utterance of the phrase is a virtual guarantee that things are about to go horribly wrong.


You’re hiking through the woods with a friend. You’re beginning to think you’ve lost your bearings and are uncertain about where you are. You have increasing suspicions that your friend’s cartography skills were exaggerated.

You transition from being uncertain of where you are to complete certainty you are lost. Nighttime is approaching, a thunderhead is gathering overhead, you’re friend has just stepped in a giant pile of bear crap (which, as much as it amuses you, is a tad alarming), and you’ve come to the conclusion that your friend’s cartography skills were wildly exaggerated.

As the first streak of lightning burns across the sky, your friend turns to you and says, “well, things couldn’t possibly get worse.”

Without saying a word, you retrieve a stick from the forest floor. You study the stick for a moment, then pull out a jackknife and whittle the stick into a fine point.

You turn to your friend and pause for a moment as he anticipates what you’re going to do, then you jab your friend in the eye with the stick.

“Things are worse now, aren’t they,” you say triumphantly.

Your friend is angry, but you were trying to prove a point…plus, it really irritated you when “Mr. Map Expert” referred to the contour lines on his topographical map as squigglies.

You crash through the forest in the darkness and pouring rain for an interminable amount of time, hopelessly lost and almost sure you’re being stalked by either a bear or bigfoot.

Luck finally smiles upon you as you come across a country road, and there’s a vehicle approaching. Your friend jumps into the road, waving his hands to gain the driver’s attention.

Your friend mistimes his leap into the road and is struck by the car. As it turns out, being poked in one eye with a sharp stick seriously reduces your depth perception.

“I guess things couldn’t get worse,” you finally concede to your friend as he lies on the road in a whimpering mass.

The words barely leave your lips when a bear lurches from the trees and mauls your friend. Bigfoot just watches.

After a lengthy recovery period and extensive physical and mental therapy, your friend is fine.

On the plus side, with all the scars on his face and the eyepatch, he looks like a real badass.

You would tell him that if you were still on speaking terms.

My Sincerest Apologies

sea monkeyA few months ago I detailed how distraught I was after discovering I had missed National Toothache Day.

This pales in comparison to that oversight.

Yesterday was National Sea-Monkey Day.


What the hell? It feels like I just woke up on December, 26th and thought to myself: it feels like I missed something yesterday–why do I crave eggnog?

Sea-Monkeys have been such a huge part of my life and this blog. I even wrote an entire post about how Sea-Monkeys are preferable to my aunts and uncles.

(But to be fair, a rotting bloated corpse infected with Ebola is preferable to my aunts and uncles.)

I’ve laughed with Sea-Monkeys. I’ve wept with Sea-Monkeys. I can’t think of a single important event in my life of which Sea-Monkeys weren’t an integral part.

(Except maybe when I lost my virginity–there were no Sea-Monkeys involved with that–I’m not a weirdo.)

Sea-Monkeys are fantastic companions:

  • They’re great listeners.
  • They almost never interrupt you.
  • They don’t hog the bathroom–they go right in the bowl.
  • They never take the last beer.
  • They laugh with me, not at me.
  • They hate mimes as much as I do.
  • They never touch the remote–they’re happy with what I want to watch.
  • They never get anchovies on the pizza–anchovies are their natural enemies.
  • They’re really into William Blake.
  • And if for some reason they do act up a little, I can just leave a bottle of cocktail sauce by their bowl. They’re brine shrimp–they get the picture.

I want to extend my deepest and most sincere apologies to all of the Sea-Monkeys out there: I will never let you down again.

Final Note: There is absolutely no truth to the rumor that I once guzzled a bowl of Sea-Monkeys on a drunken dare. It is a heinous fabrication of the worst kind. A vicious, nasty, horrible, deliciously salty lie.


The anchovy–natural enemy of the Sea-Monkey.


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