Achening for an Awakening

It's time to wake up and smell the coffee, people. Although this time, instead of Folgers, it's Faux-lgers. Nothing is as it seems, and no one is trustworthy these days. Everyone is lying to you: politicians, Brian Williams, the so-called “media” (if that's even their real name). And I hate to break it to you, lonely and vigilant friends, but your dating sites are lying to you too.

Tinder: We use anonymity and location-based matching. But we're totally not for hookups.

Not only are there no hot singles in your area, but if there were, it's unlikely that any of them would agree that the New World Order is upon us. Thankfully, for those of us who have woken up and are DTF (Down To Findoutthetruth), a new dating site has popped up, fittingly titled Awake.

It may surprise some people out there that I am a thought criminal, so let me get you up to speed. First of all, I hatehatehate the term “conspiracy theorist.” A “theory” implies that what I say might not be true. “Gravity” is a theory. The government's involvement in the Oklahoma City bombing is carefully researched and cherry-picked fact, okay?

Pictured: The goddamn truth

Secondly, my unplugging from the Lie Machine occurred immediately after I watched an early version of Loose Change 9/11: An American Coup in high school. If there's ever an age to research the intricacies of global economies and architecture, as well as question the very fabric of government and democracy, it's when you're 15 years old. Sure, I wasn't even allowed to vote in our country's sham of an electoral process for another three years, but of course I had the wherewithal to recognize controlled explosions in footage so grainy and shaky, it makes the Zapruder film look like a Steadycam shot in a David Fincher flick.

As such, I am single and ready to tell everyone that GMOs give you shingles. Or so the saying goes.

Don't believe me? See for yourself. I never rely on what anyone tells me. That's why I only put my faith in people with a remedial understanding of iMovie and who share my skewed ideas about how global warming is simply a giant scam to get us to buy more ceiling fans. I can't trust any documentary that looks like the budget was over $20. It's the same reason why my browser has bookmarked tabs of countless “anti-mainstream” news sources that appear as though they were all designed by the guy responsible for the Space Jam website. High production value means money and money means Rockefeller, and we all know what Rockefeller means: chemtrails.

That's why this dating site is such a big deal. There's finally a place for us skeptics to talk amongst likeminded individuals without fear of sleeping with the enemy, so to speak. Sure, reptile people have secretly permeated the highest levels of our government, but who could possibly infiltrate a website of free thinkers that only requires an email address to join? I finally have a safe space.

"You're telling me you're not a school teacher from Vermont?!"

If it's not blatantly obvious by now, I should tell you that I'm already a huge hit with the ladies. They're after me about as much as Barack Hussein Obama is after our guns. Any evidence to the contrary is simply Big Brother attempting to sell you the bullshit that I am not a grade-A pussy magnet.

Fact: I have so much to offer a woman. Sure, my Alex Jones shrine might unease those of a lesser awareness, and I don't have many material things due to an unwillingness to participate in our consumerist culture. But what I lack in stuff, I make up for in conviction, condescension, and a warm personality. Jet fuel may not melt steel beams, but I can surely melt your heart.

On the flip side, here are some things I'm looking for in a potential mate:

1. Good sense of humor
2. Someone who enjoys running
3. Preferably an Aquarius because Jesus Christ is a made-up sun idol based on Egyptian mythology, but zodiac signs are totally legit

You see, the problem isn't that people find my brazen attitude and outlandish claims off-putting. Instead, it's that I'm too aware and these ignorant sheeple can't see the obvious realities of the world. You'd be amazed at how often, when confronted with a single, refuted eyewitness account about how Sandy Hook was a hoax, girls will immediately ask for the check (on a first date, no less!). Sorry for dropping a truthbomb, honey, but I'll be damned if I'm paying for your shrimp poppers.

"Look, all I'm saying is that you've never actually seen a Holocaust, so how can you be so sure?"

Ultimately, I want a lifelong partner. I want that forever kind of something. I want a family, and as such, I'm only interested in a woman who also agrees that feminism is an instrument devised by the Illuminati to raise taxes and depopulate the entire planet, which is somehow flat and hollow at the same time.

Now, I know what you're thinking. “Chris, do you use a tinfoil hat as a condom?” Ha ha ha. I get it. It's hard to be so enlightened. I'm sorry if the truth is just too inconvenient for conversation, but there's no need to be a dick about it. Similar to where you find your so-called “facts,” I used to look for love in all the wrong places. Now I've discovered Awake, and I have to tell you, I can't wait to be an Insomniac (or what I assume we call each other on such a site).

Dating these days is becoming so niche anyways, so it's refreshing to know that the Jews behind Hollywood aren't the only ones who get their own dating site (along with farmers, Christians, and a word I can't say due to the inevitability of a race war).

Charles Manson: The face of a man you'd expect to understand racially disparity.

With so few people in today's society as awake as me, you could almost assume that my blatantly intolerant beliefs are wrong. Almost.

Look, there are a lot of scary things in this day and age: people dying, empires falling, the Antichrist promising to make America great again. But instead of accepting the fact that the universe requires an inevitable change in order to survive, doesn't it make more sense—or rather, isn't it more comforting—to hold, like, ten people accountable for all of the world's problems? It just doesn't compute that everything can be so bad “just because.” That's why the government employs crisis actors. That's why vaccines cause autism. Despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, Beyonce is using her Illuminati-based music to bring demons into our households. And all of this, ironically, helps me sleep at night.

Put on your bedtime hats, kids.

I have two words for you: Water. Gate. We can all agree that at least one conspiracy theory was true, about as much as we can agree that Watergate is actually one word. Shit like that has happened; it was documented. Following this line of logic, the government is obviously using dress colors on the internet to distract us from Stanley Kubrick's fabricated moon landing. Just because these often-conflicting ideas permeate everything I believe, is that enough of a reason for me to sleep alone?

People like myself finally have a fighting chance to just let go and be ourselves, to trust in something real for once. After all, love is clearly not a social construct perpetuated by corporations to sell diamonds and wedding halls. No, love, an undefinable and intangible emotion based on chemical reactions in the brain, is pure. That's why multi-billion dollar industries use catchy sounds and flashy images to tell us that the only thing we need to be happy is L-O-V-E. As someone who would never in a million years trust another human being with any information that I have not thoroughly researched myself, I can certainly take the concept of love at face value and assume a few things:

1. That no one would/could be profiting off my feelings
2. The idea of soulmates is rock solid, because of course there is only one person in a sea of 7.4 billion people for me. Clearly, waiting for “another half” to make my life whole is not the same condescending deception that makes, say, organized religion so comfortable
3. I could use a good roll in the hay

Serious inquiries only.

A Big Announcement

Hey, everyone. Been a while, eh?


Ever since I discontinued Original Content Thursdays (some of my favorites can be found here, here, here, and here), people have been asking me what I've been up to or what I've been working on now that I have more time on my hands.


(Actually, no one has really asked anything like this, but if you could humor me for a second (like 1/6 of a funny Vine), I'd appreciate it.)


Some people may know I've been doing stand-up sporadically, which has been great fun. I've also been writing songs and trying—really, desperately trying—to get a grip on writing short stories again.


But the truth is that all of these dwarf in comparison to my recent accomplishment. After many, many years of work, my memoir is going to be published this coming summer. Titled “Chris Slattery Is An Asshole,” this work of total nonfiction charts all of the mistakes I've made over the years and compresses them into easy-to-digest 120-page chapters of self-indulgent, rambling vignettes. It'll be like an episode of “Girls,” only I have less sex and people won't hate my characters for misguided and hypocritical reasons.


While I haven't actually written the book or found a publisher yet, I have experienced so much in my 24 years of life. As a result, literary people will totally give, like, hundreds of fucks about what I have to say because I'm just so interesting and full of conflict (“Should I microwave my chicken pot pie or use the conventional oven because I get off on culinary blue balls?”). I have a blog, for crying out loud!


I know what you're thinking: “Chris, you still have a lot of steps to go before you start telling people anything remotely like what you're announcing. This seems irresponsible and misleading at best. At worst, you'll... I dunno, murder Neil DeGrasse Tyson or something. I guess. I didn't really put much thought into a worst-case scenario with this. In fact, why the hell are you still quoting me? You're reaching Family Guy-esque levels of beating a joke into the ground here. Like, seriously, dude. Cut it out. F'real. I'm not even existent; I'm just a hypothetical devil's advocate and you're putting a lot of words in my mouth. Screw this, I have to catch up on Game of Thrones, you lying, deceptive fuck.”


To that, I say, “Nay!”


Who cares if I don't have a publisher or an editor or an agent or a single paragraph completed? I've got heart! I've got a laptop! I've got a liquor store down the road that sells Writers' Juice (whiskey)!


Still don't believe me? Here's just a taste of all the different stories I plan to include:

• That time I called my 3^rd grade teacher “Gorilla Face” but I really meant my 4^th grade teacher.
  
• That time I wrote a eulogy for my cat before she died and then she lived for another five years, like “wtf, dude, you wanted me to die or some shit?”
  
• That time I accidentally spit in the face of everyone in Arcade Fire.
  
• That time I masturbated at least 11 times in one day but my webcam was on the whole time.
  
• That time I had a guest spot on “Scandal” and showed up in flip-flops because I thought it was a show about sandals.
  
• That time I accidentally beat the shit out of Ray Bradbury.
  
• That time I referred to the X-Men as DC but then I immediately caught myself and said, “Wait, they're Marvel. Why did I say DC?”
  
• That time I drank eight bottles of prescription-grade mouthwash just to feel something.
  
• That time I spent six years as a Westburo Baptist Church member.
  
• That time I accidentally cheated on my girlfriend with her identical twin's boyfriend.
  
• That time I cried for three weeks straight because I found out his name wasn't actually Dr. Seuss.
  

I'm not proud of these stories, but they're human. They hold a mirror up to the foibles and ugliness of humanity, and that can be a hard pill to swallow. These kind of imperfections are what make us alive, and that's exactly the message I want to get across with my book. That, and the fact that I have screwed a lot of people over.


Certainly more details—such as a concrete release date and who would publish such a book—will be available after today. But for now, phew, I am just so exhausted from punching out this 800-word promulgation. I hope you're all as excited as I am for this 100% real thing to come out. Just be patient and know I'm not a failure.


Love,

Chris “Asshole” Slattery

Local man turns himself in before Valentine's Day, claiming assault charges

Grand Rapids resident Chris Slattery turned himself in to the Grand Rapids Police Department earlier this week. Sources claim that Slattery admitted to assault on multiple females. According to a press release, Slattery had told a friend that “Valentine's Day [was] coming up” and that he was “totally beating girls off with a stick.”

Thus far, no victims have come forward and Slattery refuses to give away any names, only citing that “most of them live, like, in Canada.”

The stick in question Slattery used as a weapon is still missing.

After interrogation, Slattery's roommates could not offer any evidence of wrong-doing, claiming that he “spends most of his time making shapes macaroni and cheese and watching Netflix.” One roommate, who asked for anonymity, said, “If he's gotten physical with anyone—anyone at all—he sure hasn't done it at home.”

In fact, Slattery's roommates provide several alibis for his alleged streak. On a specific night Slattery described as “just a blur of banging and stuff,” sources claimed to have heard early Death Cab for Cutie music coming from his bedroom, followed by the crack of a beer can and some light sobbing.

Slattery denies all this, calling it “bogus.” He holds fast to his abusive nature. “I'm hitting on girls like all the time,” he said. “I'm laying [out] chicks pretty much once or twice a week.”

With little evidence to properly convict him, it is likely Slattery will be released soon. All the police have to go on is a discoloration Slattery's neck, which looks like a curling iron burn despite his claim that some girl gave it to him.

He requested to remain detained until next Friday, “but not as an excuse or anything.”

It's still not entirely known what caused the violent acts, but Slattery attributes them to an anniversary of sorts. “It has nothing to do with Valentine's Day, all right?” said Slattery. “It's just that the middle of February kind of sucks when you're alone. It's no one's fault, really. But when you develop a pattern, year after year, of solitude and self-pity, it can drive you a little crazy.”

Slattery's next target was described as a “knockout” from work. When asked why he turned himself in before pursuing, he mumbled something about it not being that right time and that she was too nice for a guy like him.

“Strategy is everything,” Slattery said. “All I ever needed was the quick one-two punch of my looks and personality.” It is unclear whether “looks” and “personality” are the names of his fists or a lie that he tells himself to boost his confidence.

Regardless, Slattery may end up with additional murder charges, describing himself as a “ladykiller.”

“Look, even though you can't see it right now, I've had blood on my hands, if you know what I mean!” said Slattery.

While this case may not make it to trial, one thing is for sure: Chris Slattery is a disgusting human being.

I Have Spent My Life Acting In Films In Order To Host This Episode Of Saturday Night Live!

Thank you! Thank you. Oh, thank you so much!

Thank you.

Ugh, it is so great to be hosting Saturday Night Live!

Listen, there is a monologue that the writers worked on for me, making some jokes about my early less-than-popular roles in bargain-bin films, leading up to a small dance number in the style of my most recent movie, “Underprivileged Youth Can Achieve Anything With Music.”

Thank you, thank you.

However, instead I'm going to go off-card because I want to talk about how surreal it is to be hosting SNL. I mean, this is why I got into acting!

I hear some chuckles, but I don't think you fully understood what I just told you. I seriously got into show business so that I could spend an hour and a half performing live sketches in the middle of the night. This has been my dream since I was eight years old and I caught a rerun of “The Best of Will Ferrell” on E!. Watching the likes of Alec Baldwin and Christopher Walken change costumes and play different characters and celebrities looked like a dream to me, and it was a dream I knew I could achieve with hard work, dedication, and a string of Golden Globe nominations.

I can see the people behind the cameras right now looking around and Keenan Thompson off to the side in a tutu, waiting for his cue to come out. It's not coming, Nickelodeon. We're too far off-script now. You can go get changed for What Up With That.

Anyways, hosting comes with a lot of great little bits: filming promos, which you've been watching all week; spending time at the Weekend Update desk as some strange character; introducing the musical guest. I mean, I get to introduce fucking U2! Can you believe that?!

Needless to say, I am supremely excited for tonight. It's nice to know it all finally paid off—the improv classes, the six years at Julliard, the endless networking to mercilessly claw my way from the bottom. I eventually worked with Martin Scorsese, Stephen Spielberg, and Clint Eastwood. I have two Oscars under my belt, the youngest person to do that. I have performed in over 60 films, from cameos to leads. I even guest starred on “The Mindy Project” to help out a friend. And now I'm here.

Look, they don't give hosting duties to just anyone! You have to be famous, and not just a little famous—you have to be one of the most recognized faces in the world! Take Edward Norton for example: damn fine actor. Loved “American History X.” Eh, I could take or leave “Fight Club.” Regardless, he had quite a track record, and yet had never hosted Saturday Night Live. But as soon as he teamed up with Wes Anderson for a couple of flicks, BOOM! Instant host.

Lorne Michaels is coming down the aisle way now, so I had better wrap this up so we can get the show on the road, as I'm sure they might say here. All I have to say is that the next hour and 20 minutes are going to be a literal dream come true. Seriously, I've had reoccurring fantasies about this night for close to 19 years now.


So stick around, we've got a great show for you. U2 is here! We'll be right back!

Love Me Tinder

Is it better to have loved online than never to be fucked at all?

I signed up for Tinder last weekend. I could say that I gave it a shot because I've never done online dating. Or, inversely, I could lie and say I did it ironically, dismissing the notion that I need any help in meeting new people. But the fact of the matter is that I did it because my roommate wouldn't shut up about it.

I had never known of Tinder before 2014, which is unsurprising. I've heard about Grindr before, strangely enough, which seems to be the gay equivalent to Tinder (or perhaps it's the other way around, seeing as how Grindr launched almost three years previous), but it was not something that could be useful for my needs (e.g. not gay sex). With Tinder, though, your Facebook page feeds into your Tinder profile and it displays other users in your area, occasionally matching your Likes and Mutual Friends. It's like small talk without the whole “communication” rigamarole.

The problem I have with downloading this app is that I'm simultaneously fascinated and disgusted with it. Having never previously participated in online dating, the sheer number of viable mates around me was a little overwhelming. But it turns the out the internet has not been lying to me; there are hot singles in my area!

1. NOPE!

Despite this revelation, Tinder brings out my worst qualities—the judgmental, shallow, hedonistic version of myself that bases a girl's worth on her attractiveness. As a user, you always start out with one picture of a girl which you can then tap to open her profile. The dickhole that I am, I've malevolently swiped past countless girls simply because their first picture didn't meet my standards. Of course, none of these females will ever know how quickly I dismissed them, but I still feel a deep sense of shame for judging these girl-books by their picture-covers.

And I continued to do it. While I could say that I grew to accept that these girls are much more than just their Instagram-filtered faces and an affinity for How I Met Your Mother, I proceeded to wave them off as if these fellow human beings were not worth my time. I'm aware that I have no room to talk—I'm no looker myself—but I keep rationalizing that no one wants an uggo, and I can't be held responsible if my heart doesn't flutter at every girl in the greater Grand Rapids area. Just because someone uses a low-cut top to initiate an online conversation doesn't mean I'll take the bait. I find certain people attractive and certain people not. However, my ratio is very unbalanced. Maybe 5% of the profiles I see, I like. The other 95% get rejected in one of Tinder's cruelest features: if you pass on a profile, you swipe the person's picture left, after which a giant stamp prints across the rejected match's face “NOPE.”

In a world where body image issues are staggering, the fact that anyone is putting themselves out there is unquestionably inspiring. But I can't imagine feeling great after opening your heart to the possibility of finding someone special (or just someone to fuck) only to have a giant dismissal stamped across your face.

I estimate that I've NOPE'd at least two hundred girls in my area.

2. About Me: [nothing]

Tinder provides a space for users to write a small description of themselves, and my About Me section is a mess. For a person who talks about himself as much as I do, I can't ever make a point of selling myself. I live in self-deprecation, which in and of itself is a quality women aren't exactly running over each other to get at. It's not that I don't believe I have good personality traits (they're there somewhere). It's more the fact that everything I write ends up sounding either narcissistic or contrived—I'm either too full of myself or I'm lying. I understand that some hyperbole is acceptable when creating an online profile looking for a mate, but even simple descriptions sound forced to me. Am I vain or dishonest when I call myself “fun”? I'd like to think I'm fun, but who am I to say how other people perceive me?

This is why I believe that your roommate should always write your dating profile. They know how other people respond to you. They've likely noticed patterns in your relationship history and know what you're looking for. They could do a better job at describing you than you would, with more honesty. It's better than you constantly knocking on their door with your smartphone in-hand, asking questions like “Would you describe me as a 'music-lover'?”

Sadly, I authored my own profile and it resembles an awkward mixture of 2nd-string high school basketball player/obvious catfish/recently-divorced father of five. It took at least 45 minutes and several different drafts to write 76 words and it still turned out horrible. I can't imagine a single person reading it and going “Well, he didn't seem that great until he described himself as 'shy.' What a catch!”

One could argue that I shouldn't care what other people think, that I should just write whatever's in my heart and the right girl will come along soon. The people who gravitate toward this mindset have obviously never been single because a totally direct About Me section would be just as disastrous:

“Hey, um... Look, if we go out, I'm probably going to try to get into your pants. I jump the gun quickly because I wasn't really a ladykiller in high school so I overcompensate for that. I fall hard, fast, and often. This doesn't mean I won't cuddle or make you breakfast (cereal) or watch a bunch of movies with you. This doesn't even mean we need to have sex; I simply prefer sleeping with my arm draped over a girl's waist. I don't have a car, I drink excessively, and I rarely have any pride in myself or my accomplishments. I'm full of unjustifiable jealousy and I've ended every long-term relationship I've ever been in. I've developed a pattern for taking off my shirt at parties and have very serious opinions about Ocean's 12. Kthnxbye.”

I've since deleted my About Me section.

3. Start a Conversation with a Real Person!

What I like about Tinder is that you only know if someone Likes you after you Like them. Rejections don't register; they simply and subtly remove the other person from your list and the other person will never know. But if you see an interesting profile and hit the little heart icon, and they do the same to you, a chat window opens up and you can start a conversation. Thus far, I have had two exchanges, which means that two girls looked past my pictures and strange self-descriptions and thought, “Meh, I'm drunk enough,” which is all I've ever wanted from anyone anyways.

Both conversations were brief because, as it turns out, talking to girls is not my sharpest skill in the wheelhouse. People as a whole terrify me, so talking to an attractive person basically shuts down any cognitive functions, forcing me to start spouting words in the hope that they form semi-coherent sentences. I'm not even looking for charming or smooth; I'm simply working as hard as I can to respond.

And that's why man invented alcohol.

[Quick side-tangent about me, technology, and alcohol: as an introvert, there's a calamitous transformation that takes place when I'm drunk and have access to my phone/the internet. I'm like a superhero fueled by tequila, whose mild-mannered alter ego has qualms about any public displays of affection (kissing, hand-holding, eye contact) but soon turns into a confident, chest-puffing douche who says things like “I want to mount you like Rushmore.” (I'm not sure if that is a reference to the presidential monument or having sex with a Wes Anderson movie.)

You usually have ~5 people that you've sworn to never speak to again. The mention of any of their names incite a riotous “Fuck them! Why were we even friends with that dumb cooze?!” But get a 12-pack of Rolling Rock under your belt and suddenly the only logical course of action is to rip open old wounds in a terribly misguided attempts at reconciliation. No one is ever satisfied by the results of drunk texting. No one has ever woken up from a blackout to a phone full of apologies and plans to get lunch next Sunday. It's typically a button-mashing effort at what appears to be a one-sided sexting conversation.

And I can't apologize enough for that...]

By the time I got to my second conversation, I thought I was doing pretty well; the amount of girls interested in me just doubled! I didn't think anything could go wrong this time. I was more prepared, a little buzzed, and admittedly kind of horny. Seen below is the entire exchange between Bernice and myself. Out of the four things she said to me, maybe you can spot trouble before I did:

Bernice: heya

Chris: Hey there!

Bernice: Hello .. have we spoken before?

Chris: I don't think so. Where are you from?

Bernice: i'm sorry...i get to be forgetful at times! how are you?

Chris: I'm good! How are you?

Bernice: Just got out of the shower...long week been working a lot! but i am feeling arroused! [sic] so what's up... wanna have some fun?? =)

To be honest, part of me wanted to respond just to see what a sexy conversation with a spambot would be like. But I was more disappointed as I reviewed Bernice's profile again to see that we had zero common interests and that her distance from me fluctuated between 800 and 5000 miles. Don't get me wrong, I like a girl who travels, but I also prefer them to me less fictional. I was duped by a couple of cute pictures taken at Dutch angles from a company looking to phish information out of me. Meanwhile, there were hundreds of girls I passed up who had far less nefarious intentions. I like to spend money on people, of course, but I would prefer to actually meet a person rather than punch in my credit card information for a “private show,” regardless of how soon they got out of the shower.

(Of course, I've played with the notion that Bernice was a real person, that there was some wet, naked girl out there that I straight-up ignored after she confessed something very personal: she had a sickness that only Chris's sexual healing could cure. Then I laughed and drank even more.)

Matches are special. It's a mutual act, something that says “I think you seem interesting and you think I seem interesting.” There's nothing worse than putting yourself out there and being rejected. (Well, there are a couple of things that are worse: genocide, homophobia, the series finale of Dexter, etc...) And even though Tinder is doing its best to avoid the feeling of rejection—seemingly by placing one in the role of the rejector—it still feels nice when the flame icon pops up and says “Congratulations! Someone kinda had a positive reaction to your face!” (Paraphrasing, but if Tinder is looking for someone to update their text for a more realistic audience, I'm available.)

It's possible that I could get more matches with a new About Me section (something I've thought about adding again). I've considered the idea that girls might be passing me by because I haven't given them context to go with my pictures, something that says “I'm more of a winning-personality kind of guy.” Instead of taking it seriously this time, I brainstormed some witty one-liners or maybe a small list of my interests. I thought about this for much longer than I should have before doing nothing.

4. Conclusion

I have to get gross for a second, partially for the metaphor but also because I want to be honest with the reader. I was sitting on the toilet (were a lot of Tindering has taken place) and I pulled out my phone to see if I could view any new profiles. And as the loading screen pulsated, I asked myself, “Why?” Why was I doing this? What was I even looking for? Easy pussy? A conversation? Or had I devolved to the point of playing Hot Or Not for my own amusement? None of my answers really rang true, as I evacuated my bowels. There really wasn't a point, I decided. I wasn't happy with the results of my little experiment. I didn't even have a complete profile for others to peruse.

The more I Tinded (or whatever the verb is, meaning “to be on Tinder,” past-tense), the more normal it all seemed. I felt less bad with every girl I swiped left because of a slightly-larger chin or a description that read “Only listen to country!! [five horse emojis]” Was I becoming less sensitive or was I beginning to realize that it's really not that big of a deal? Or was there a worse question I wasn't even asking myself yet?

I think I can get away with hiding my shallowness deep inside for now. I will always value a girl's appearance—I think it's a little crazy not to—but the less I'm aware of it, the better I'll feel about finding people I like, and the methods I use to select possible mates. I overanalyze everything anyways, and I don't need any technology that aids my busy brain's processes.

When it came down to it, I wasn't getting anything real out of Tinder. I have about as much luck picking up girls at bars, and in that case, I get to know them better, quicker. It might be a tad analog, but my broken techniques aren't so broke that they need fixing. This isn't to say that conversations with other people over the internet are artificial (unless they turn out to be an algorithm hundreds of miles away. This isn't a Spike Jonze film, after all). Rather, it simply doesn't make anything easier for me. I have just as many anxieties in creating my online identity as when I buy someone a drink. At least in real life I feel less cheap, instead of hiding behind the almost anonymous divide of the smartphone app. I'm often lonely, sure, but browsing profiles of local singles on my phone doesn't curb that loneliness. If anything, it shows how many girls are out there and not sleeping with me—percentage-wise: 100%.

But maybe I should look at that more as a positive. For the first time in a long time, I have photographic proof of just how many 21-to-30-year-old fish there are in the 10-mile-radius sea. The possibilities, while not endless, are pretty damn good.

Happy Boxing Day! from America's Great Companies

USPS:
It is with our greatest pleasure that we wish you and your family a very happy Boxing Day! We know you may have a lot of questions for us, so let's answer them upfront:

Q: Why would the United States Postal Service be wishing anyone well on a holiday that is not typically celebrated in the United States?
A: Great question! We at the USPS are looking to start a campaign that celebrates more universal festive days. And what could be more festive than a holiday celebrated in the United Kingdom, Australia, and Canada?
Q: Is this merely a promotional gimmick?
A: Of course not! The USPS is dedicated to providing great customer service and if that means acknowledging other cultures' holidays, we're more than happy to oblige. We're also happy to remind you of our Flat Rate boxes—if it fits, it ships!
Q: Are there any special deals that come with mailing something on Boxing Day?
A: We cannot offer reduced rates at this time.
Q: Do your employees get this new holiday off?
A: No.
Q: Does the awful and possibly privacy-invasive service of email celebrate Boxing Day? Or is it still the cold, heartless fad without any concern for anything outside itself or stamps?
A: No. And yes.

See? As a firm believer in respecting other cultures, the USPS recognizes that there is a world far outside of our typical sphere. We want to encourage our (dwindling) customers to celebrate Boxing Day any way they want. Might we suggest sending a package? Nothing says “Let's celebrate the day after Christmas” like a big box of stuff. Doesn't matter what. Doesn't matter to whom. All that matters is that you use the United States Postal Service to ship it.



Pay-Per-View:
Two men enter! One man leaves! Thousands of men watch!

The big fight is happening, and only on Pay-Per-View! Watch as the two heavyweight champions of the world exchange fists in the most brutal match of the year!

Anywhere else, and this would be considered assault! Only here, where adults are paid millions of dollars to beat the shit out of other adults, is it totally legal! You can't get this anywhere else!

This is a once-in-a-lifetime fight and it's happening on December 26^th! Celebrate the day with two men debating with their fists, because debating with words is for pussies!

Holy shit! I just got it! I just realized why this is a big deal! It's Boxing Day! Like, Boxing/boxing! The guys are fighting each other, and it's on a holiday called Boxing Day! Whoa!

Whoever put this event together should get an award or something! Or what if they didn't know?! What a crazy coincidence that would be! Huh...

Tune in at 9!


Classical Composer Figurine Company:
The sweet, poetic sounds of Johann Sebastian Bach are timeless. Much like Frank Sinatra and Christmas, classical music has been a staple when it comes to Boxing Day for centuries. And what better way to commemorate the occasion by showing someone you care with a 1/10 scale replica of a classical composer? Give your loved one a figurine they'll cherish forever. Maybe a Beethoven? A Bach? Better yet, make it two. Yes, two Bachs.

We'll even package your figurines and send them to you, set to arrive the day after Christmas. Two Bachs in a box on Boxing Day? What could be better?

Relive the beauty of Violin Sonata No. 1 in G Major with multiple Johann dolls added to your collection. It makes perfect sense: acknowledging the life of a German composer during a holiday celebrated in select African countries and other random Commonwealth states.

We're glad you chose us for such a special day. We'll get your box of Bachs ready.

In My Defense, Haven't We All Thought About Pointing a Firearm At Our Girlfriend At One Time or Another?

By George Zimmerman

So, it's been a crazy week for me: I finally started Breaking Bad (not impressed so far), I stubbed my toe on a table, and—oh yeah—I allegedly pointed a shotgun at my girlfriend during an argument on Monday. You know, typical George Zimmerman stuff.

While I'm denying publicly that I ever aimed a possibly-loaded firearm at Samantha Scheibe during our little spat in which I supposedly broke her glass table and locked her out of our house, I think we can discuss privately the fact that I pretty obviously treated her like a Duck Hunting game.

However, in my defense, who hasn't done that? Is there anyone out there who would never dream of threatening their spouse or partner with a powerful weapon? If so, I want to see those hands raised. That way I can point a shotgun at the people who disagree with me, which—I can't say this enough times—is a totally sensible response.

I'm not comfortable disclosing the nature of our argument (Sam's a private person and I'm not a monster who would divulge her secrets like that), but needless to say we both got upset and I reportedly broke her glass table with the shotgun before taking aim at her. Like any reasonable person would do.

I've always hated that stupid table. Always in the way. Didn't even even compliment the sofa or anything. It was just dumped there with no forethought about where I'd be walking. So if anyone was upset about my action of smashing the table, I can't really apologize; it had it coming.

Look, we all have conflicts in our relationships. We try and be with people who challenge us and want us to be a better person. But sometimes these challenges get heated and we begin pointing guns at each other, like the civilized and levelheaded human beings we are.

I mean, if anyone knows of another way to resolve conflict, I'm all ears.

Now that I'm not allowed to own or handle any kind of firearm or ammunition, I feel a bit lost. Of course I've always felt safer knowing that I could pull out a gun at any moment and draw a bead on my fellow man. There's something called gun control in this country and I love that concept—using a gun to control a person. You don't say “no” to the barrel of a shotgun and you don't say “no” to me, George Zimmerman.

To be fair, I likely started the argument as I'm wont to do. Sam was unarmed, so the next logical step was for me to take a deadly weapon and aim it at her face.

Maybe this is the time where I should make it clear that I had no intentions of firing at my girlfriend. I was simply standing my ground and it turns out that Florida is totally cool with that. Huh, come to think of it, what was holding me back?

George Zimmerman is a-- y'know what? There's really nothing to say. Jesus…