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…

An Open Letter to Dr. Manny about zombie culture

Dear Dr. Manny Alvarez,

I stumbled upon your column this week, titled "America's obsession with 'TheWalking Dead' is hurting our society." After reading it several times to fully understand the point you attempt to make, I will say that every person is entitled to their opinion, and it is now clear that you believe Americans spend too much time immersed in zombie-related media, rather than expanding our minds with, as you put it, “music, education, science or the classics.” Your 435-word piece asks us to hold back on the undead mania, and I'm inclined to listen to you. After all, you're a fucking doctor.

As such, I would expect there to be any kind of study or scientific fact linked in this column—really, any citation at all. But you went a different route and I really have to applaud your lack of sources. It's bold (I'd almost say reckless) to imply that our civilization is crumbling due to our infatuation with these ghouls without a single shred of evidence, only to cap it off with “Give me a break. As a doctor and scientist, I know one thing for sure: when you're dead you're dead.” That's quite the spoonful to feed the American public; after a dozen years at universities, you can say with absolute certainty one single thing, a thing I have speculated for years: the deceased are deceased and they will stay deceased. Thank you for confirming.

I can finally put Nana to rest after holding onto her corpse for three years.

Thank you also for a quick jab at the current administration that has no basis on the rest of the editorial. I have been telling people for years that our government wants us focusing on zombies so they can continue their campaign towards a more “socialized system of government,” but I never had scientific proof until now. People thought I was NUTS! Obama & Co. clearly don't want us “harnessing the tools we need to enhance our lives,” like your previously mentioned music and education, which is why our president hid behind a proposed Turnaround Arts policy last year. I find it cowardly, really, that this administration would use our children's futures to disguise the deplorable fact that they actually want us watching The Walking Dead.

You'd think they'd get better writers for their master plan...

You do have to excuse me while I correct you on one thing, however. You are human (as are, I'm sure, the FoxNews.com fact-checkers), and are allowed make a mistake or two, especially when you are attempting to engage the American public to better themselves. In your column (I keep saying “column” because news articles typically contain sources, whereas opinion pieces don't necessarily need any), you claim that “scientists at the National Institutes of Health have spent time creating an apocalyptic how-to guide on how to deal with a zombie outbreak.” I would like to point out that it was, in fact, the Center for Disease Control that published this zombie guide. I would also like to point out—and this is minor—that the guide was actually a thinly-veiled real-life disaster preparedness manual, letting the public know how to get themselves ready in the event that something plausible happens, like a hurricane or terrorist attack, but in a fun and engaging way. I would like to think that these scientist peers of yours are familiar with your “dead is dead” knowledge, but who can say for sure?

All right, got that out of the way. Sorry about that. I know you're a busy guy and can't be certain that EVERYTHING you publish is accurate. You obviously have other things on your mind, such as doctoring and defining what “entertainment” is. You claim that it is meant to “soothe our brains so that we can ease our minds of some of the stress from our daily lives,” which is why you say that... wait, don't you also say in the same paragraph that we should not focus on “imaginary zombie hordes” and concentrate on important... Eh, another slip. We cool, though.

Finally, I want to say that I am 110% in agreement with your stance on zombie video games. I mean, obviously a person can't feel 110% about anything because that is mathematically impossible, but a scientist such as yourself must already know that. It was a joke, haha! We're joking together! What fun!

Okay, time to get serious, because this is a serious zombie discussion. You're a doctor, after all.

Enough of this Patch Adams buffoonery!

You say that “studies have shown that [violent] videogames [sic] can sometimes condition people, especially young children, to be apathetic towards violence. That’s why they’re labeled M for Mature.” This was a very clever way of insinuating that all M-rated video games have the potential to create an aggressive youth culture, again without any statistics or specifics to back up your claim. A ballsy move if I've ever seen one. I assume you're referring to zombie-violent games like Resident Evil, Left 4 Dead, and Plants Vs. Zombies, which are clearly teaching gamers how to kill each other (and their gardens), despite a dip in the rate of violent crimesamong juveniles. We still need to keep an eye on these gamers, though, as they can pose a major threat to the 10% of boys and 60% of girls who don't play video games.

So, there you have it, Dr. Alvarez. I don't hate you and I won't call you “paranoid or misinformed” because you obviously have your shit together on this topic. As a former zombie freak myself, it's taken a lot for me to “wake up and smell the coffee,”—which is a terrible cliché, but again, you're a doctor, not a writer—and I can't thank you enough for opening my eyes.

I'm not proud, but I did do my own make-up.

I've gone my entire life thinking that zombies were simply a fictitious archetype, like vampires or wizards (which are just as popular with today's youth but are noticeably absent from your editorial), an analogy used in popular culture to symbolize how civilizations can devour themselves and that we are all, in a way, feeding on each other. I have been under the impression that zombies were as much of entertainment as anything else, but cooler. They allowed us an enemy that was like a person, but not necessarily human. Zombies are not gay or straight, have no ethnicity, and do not prefer one political party over another; they are merely shambling corpses of the once-living with only one basic instinct left intact: feast. Even those of us less-educated than yourself know that the undead are not real, which is why people like to participate in events like zombie 5Ks. Am I to understand that you're against people people achieving (macabre) wish-fulfillment while exercising?

Regardless, people who like zombies, or dress up as zombies, are clearly stupid. In fact, I propose we go a step further and get rid of everything fictional! No more Batman! No more Monsters University! Halloween is cancelled, kids! Go home and study the classics instead.

It's probably time we tell you how Santa Claus died, too...

So, thank you, Manny. Thank you for letting me know with your 435-word editorial that I'm not alone out here. These people can't see the truth and because of it, they have been reduced to shuffling, brainless shells of themselves. And you and I are the only ones with a shotgun of truth to put them down.

Aim for the head, Dr. Alvarez. Aim for the head.

Much love,
Chris Slattery

(1269 words)

Local psychiatric hospitals now accepting people wishing for snowy weather

MICHIGAN—Psychiatric wards and other mental health facilities everywhere in the state of Michigan are about to get a lot busier. Governor Rick Snyder signed a bill yesterday prompting a statewide admittance of citizens who claim that they can't wait for it to be cold out.

While Snyder was not available for comment, a spokesperson claimed that signing the bill “was an easy choice for the Governor.” He continued, “It was a no-brainer.”

This bill's genesis began with the publication of the DSM-5 earlier this year, which classifies the new wintery mental situation as “climate mania.”

Dr. Gregory Juniper, a professor of psychology at the University of Michigan, spoke of the recent phenomenon, saying, “In the past month, we've heard of hundreds of cases of people who actually believe that they want the temperature outside to be 30-50 degrees colder than it is right now.”

“Obviously these are the thoughts of someone very disturbed and delusional,” added Juniper.
For anyone suffering from CM, there is hope. “We offer all different kinds of treatments and sessions for the more mild cases,” Juniper said.

One such facility, The Koppen House in Detroit, has already admitted over 260 cases as of this publication. Founder Caitlin Bergeron claims that they've taken in all kinds of patients for the past 20 years but are now looking to become a specialized treatment facility. “We've had drug dependency sufferer, Cotard patients, impulse control victims, and the like. We've even had a guy who thought he was a telephone,” Bergeron said. “But there is something so fundamentally wrong with how these new patients view the world that we simply cannot take on anything else.”

Bergeron added, “I don't use this phrase lightly, but these people are fucking nuts.”

According to the DSM-5, people attributing the following symptoms may have CM:

• Irregular speech patterns, such as “I wish it were snowing.”
  
• Muscle spasms, such as taking out a sweatshirt or hoodie, looking at it, and sighing with nostalgia.
  
• Hearing deficiency, such as playing Christmas music outside of the holiday season and Christmas in July.
  
• Recognition failure, such as seeing snowflakes in puffy dandelions, hailstorms, or the long white beard of a man sitting at a bus stop.
  

“People just need to know before it's too late,” said Bergeron. “This can be a very dangerous mental illness if left untreated.”

It has been reported that only five cases have been put into treatment against their will. Juniper offered a calming response, saying, “It's just so they can't hurt themselves or others. We're not exactly sure what these lunatics are capable of.”

“We are here to help these people because, frankly, no one else can help them,” Bergeron said. “They can't even help themselves. They sit at home and listen to Bon Iver and drink hot chocolate and post things on Tumblr like 'Sweater weather is better weather.' What kind of a life is that?”

There is no way to cure CM at this time, but Bergeron says that there are ways to cope with this mental illness. “We're—what—halfway through September right now? Not even halfway. If these people could just wait until late October, we'd be okay. Just give well-adjusted people at least one month of fucking autumn before we jump into the frigid abyss of Michigan winter.”

No one is exactly sure what cause CM, only that people who suffer from it are just so goddamn wrong. In a state where winter seems to last 75 percent of the year, having an extra couple weeks of summer is a beautiful thing: walking inside and outside without having to add or remove layers, not having to change shoes and socks three times a day because everything is just so fucking wet, and forgetting about the cold The Cold THE FUCKING COLD just for a little while.

“These people don't even seem to know what they are asking for,” Juniper said. “It's dirty road slush. It's consistently wet floors everywhere. It's putting on layers over layers over layers because the windchill factor in this state makes 30 degrees feel like -30 degrees. It's assholes driving 20 mph under the speed limit and then careening off into a ditch or halfway into an intersection.”

“I'm not saying that a light snowfall isn't beautiful,” Bergeron said. “And in the month of December it's fine, but then once we get into January and February, these same people who demanded this Winter Wonderland bullshit suddenly flip and conversely want it to be sunny and warm and need to go swimming in the lake. That's insane.”

“Can we save these sick, sick people?” Bergeron asked. “We don't know, but we're going to try.”

Tweeting from tragedy: activism on Twitter gets things done?

In light of recent tragic events, local Twitter activist Joseph Hills has issued the following tweet:

“Cant beleive this could happen. We have 2 act now!!!!!! #nomoreguns”

Hills is referring to the school shooting in Connecticut yesterday, which has prompted many Twitter users to respond with their own stances on the topic, despite the fact that the only appropriate response at this time should be profound sorrow. Many Twitter users wish to repeal the Second Amendment, which gives every eligible American the right to bear arms. Others want harsher and more stringent gun safety laws, especially in the case of automatic weapons.

Even though he has never publicly expressed any opinions on firearms or gun regulation before, Hills—whose Twitter handle is HillzKillz69 (10,456 tweets, 22 followers)—claims that he's always been passionate about the issue. “I may have never done anything about gun safety before, but it's time for a change!”

Hills's change? He tweeted, “Guns dont kill people? Than how do bullits get fired?!??!!?! we should get rid of all the guns so we stop killing people” Ignoring the obvious truths that outlawing guns will not end gun violence (or violence as a whole) and that no steps were outlined so as to achieve this end, Hills—a 17-year-old with no job and a paltry knowledge of any news or current events—is clearly a reformer on the rise.

Claiming that he cares about important issues “24/7, all the time,” Hills's recent tweets were preceded by Instagrammed pictures of food and a declaration that he was “soooooo drunk last nite!!!”

For anyone who finds themselves affected by this serious and unfortunate tragedy, Hills has some advice. “Get on your smart phones now and just share your feelings. If you put enough exclamation marks on it, someone in the government will probably see it and change the law.”

Hills, who apparently has never taken a single social studies or government class, then added, “If Rosa Parks were around now, she'd probably tweet about sitting in the back of the bus rather than actually doing something about it.”

Reactionary tweeting has become fashionable with many Twitter users in the past few years. Researchers attribute the rise in popularity to the passive means by which people can appear socially and politically active. Rather than continuously fighting and rallying for a cause like an adult with conviction, reactionaries tend to wait until they find it “safe” to express any beliefs.

A dictionary would define the word“reactionary” as “responsive, after the fact.”

While scientists find there is nothing wrong with sending thoughts and prayers to those affected by the unthinkable atrocities as any sane human being with a heart would, some argue that capitalizing on a national tragedy to soapbox your political opinions could be construed as insensitive.

“Why should I give people time to grieve?” asked Hills. “It's more important that I say what I want on Twitter, so that things like this never happen again.”

By press time, Hills had moved on to his next platform. “hw over xmas break?!?!?!! happy bday jesus not!lol”

The victims' families wish to thank Hills for turning their losses into a hashtag.

Not #1

Okay, okay. I get it. You win, world. I’m not the best. You’ve convinced me.

The notion has recently occurred to me that I am not better than anyone. At anything. I think it’s safe to say that there is a YouTube video or Guinness Record book somewhere out there to prove that so many people are better than me at so many things. At everything, actually.

I’d like to think of myself as a man of many talents, a jack-of-most-trades, if you will. I can write a good story, solve a Rubik’s cube in a small amount of time, play a number of musical instruments, balance on the hind wheels of a wheelchair, skateboard, play Mario Kart 64, and have sex with a girl—most of these with one hand tied behind my back (don’t read too much into that). And while those are only a fraction of the abilities I possess, I can prove somehow that other people do them better, quicker (or longer, depending on which is desired), and more assured than I could ever hope to myself.

It’s not that I want to be perfect in any particular field—that would be boring and, in all fairness as a 23-year-old, ultra-lame—but the unabashed maleness in me aches at my inadequacy. This realization corresponds with a diminishment of my manhood; if I can’t be “top dog,” I might as well be a “bitch” instead. The recognition that I am not the best at playing ping-pong has utterly deballed me. I am ballless.

That triple-l is very intriguing…

Focus. Goddamnit, keep your head in the game, Slattery.

See, this whole concept of “not being the best” should have been instilled upon me at an early age. In fact, my parents are not to blame at all for my narcissism. There was one night when I was about 8 years old and I was in the kitchen with my mother. She was doing dishes after dinner and I was keeping her company by singing whatever songs came to my head (Disney jingles and boy band ballads were commonplace at this age). Finally, stroking my own ego, I asked my maternal guardian, the protector of my pride, the only infallible woman I knew at the time, if I would ever be a famous singer. And without ceasing her scrubbing, without looking at my reflection in the darkened window in front of her, without so much as pausing to consider the possibility, she said, “I doubt it, sweetie.” In a world where parents incessantly informed their offspring that they can be anything in the world they want to be, I was denied the future that I wanted for myself in that particular two-week period.

My mother may sound cold for telling me that. She may sound rude and uninspiring, but I have to tell you it was good for me to hear. It was a wake-up call, a slap in the face of my self-esteem, essentially saying, “What makes you so special?” Above all, this was an entirely true statement—I was not a good singer.

I will not be the best vocalist in the world, nor will my love-making abilities drastically improve, unless something happens outright Kama Sutric before I settle down. My handwriting is how it will always be, sloppy. I can cook, but not noticeably well.

Thoughts like these add up in the container in my brain labeled SELF-LOATHING until the needle jumps from “Okay with it” to “You Don’t Impress Anyone” to “Go Cry About It, Worthless Ass.” It’s stupid, childish, petty. Obvious. I understand this about myself and about the world, the fact that it is damn near impossible to be the best at anything. Maniacs spend their entire lives training to be #1 at any random thing, destroying friendships, jeopardizing their health, and missing out on Breaking Bad. And for what? To be the person only known for their ability to swallow more glass than anyone else?

Yes, I want to be that guy.

The whole process of humbling myself is fruitless, though, because as soon as I calm myself down—you’re not the best and that’s okay you’re not the best and that’s okay you’re not the best and that’s okay—I inevitably consider the other people out there who could handle this immaturity so much better than I could.

Back to square one.

So, what do I do about this? A common suggestion is to consider the positive; at least I’m not the worst at anything.

Fuck that. I hate that I can’t be the best at failing, too.

Do I just live with this? Everyone else seems to have come to peace with this suggestion, going about his or her business in unexceptional bliss. How do they do it? I may never know, and I guess I have to suck it up, admit defeat, and join the ranks of the mediocre. It’ll be a difficult psychological transition but perhaps it will be good for me to finally let it all go. I could stop caring so much and wear mismatched socks or grow a beard. Lord knows that my facial fuzz is a sure sign of my insufficiency in the most basic of human skills—I can't even grow hair correctly.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have the word “ballless” to study.

In my defense, maybe you don't know what “retard” means | By Ann Coulter

I know what you're thinking. I've been looking at all of the press I've generated from my tweet last night, calling President Barack Obama a "retard." People have been saying that my tweet was irresponsible, that I am simply an instigator for unnecessary controversy, and that I am a cuntwhore hellbent on destroying American liberties (their words, mostly).

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Let me be clear: I was not simply looking for attention—I meant everything I said.

In other words, I firmly believe the President of the United States is retarded. He is a retard and is retarded. I mean this using the most lexical definition possible, specifically that I don't really like Barack Obama and think he's a little weird. (I mean, birth certificate, amiright?!)

That's what "retard" means, people! I didn't mean it derogatorily towards mentally-handicapped individuals; that would be insensitive. What I could have done, possibly, is call "No-bama" (hahahaha!) what conservatives have been saying for this entire election: "an inept political figure with bad ideas and a deplorable track record." Trust me, I'm Ann Coulter; I know all about that subject. However, Twitter has an unfortunate 140-character limit, and as we all know, "retard" just rolls off the tongue better.

I don't agree with my detractors who say that "retard" is offensive. In fact, I'm a little confused. Who would be offended by the word "retard." I mean, besides retarded people, obviously. It means "stupid," which is exactly what the President is. He's so stupid that he probably doesn't know big words, such as "compassion," "solace," or "empathy." I'm still working on learning what these words mean myself, so the President has got to be completely clueless!

Hold on, I'm getting a call from the Westboro Baptist Church. Aw, they wish to congratulate me on such an insightful tweet. What gentlemen...

Anyways, let's rewind the clocks for a second, back to 2007 when I called John Edwards a faggot. (Well, I didn't actually call him a "faggot," but I alluded to the fact that I was thinking it.) This is pretty much the same thing, and I'll say what I told the press then on Hannity & Colmes: "'Faggot' isn't offensive to gays; it has nothing to do with gays. It's a schoolyard taunt meaning 'wuss.'" Just because "the gays" have been called "faggots" for centuries doesn't mean that my usage of the word was in reference to the disease of homosexuality. I was using it like a child uses it, as I suspect my logistical cognizance has not matured since the third grade.

So to any of my followers who may have thought I went the teensiest bit too far, I want to assure you that I know exactly what I'm doing. In the coming years—nay, hours!—this nation will see that I was correct in my usage and my attackers will see the retarded error or their ways.

Until then, I could use a hug. God knows I've never been loved before.

Ann Coulter is a columnist and political commentator who should be ashamed of herself (for a lot of things she's said).

Muffins, She Wrote...

On Fridays, I get the opportunity to stock one of the convenience stores on the campus of the university that I attend.  A C-Store is what they call it.  Each week, I arrive with cartfuls of food and beverages, balancing and in bulk.  Trays of Wild Cherry Pepsi.  Crates of chocolate milk.  5 tons of Chex Mix.

But one of the most-purchased items in the store are the muffins.  Moist, and the size of a Big Mac, these muffins are the best that $2 can buy.  But wait, there’s more! With the added bonus of— (sorry, I’ve been studying non-stop for my advertising final tomorrow).

Because the muffins are so popular, they run out very quickly and I frequently have to restock the entire shelf.  But a few Fridays ago, I interacted with a man who shook my very foundations of what I thought sanity was.  He only spoke one sentence to me.  Well, I may have been two, but I sensed a semicolon in there, joining two related clauses together, so I’ll just say it was one.  Maybe this isn’t even the proper use of a semicolon, but the guy didn’t exactly appear "punctuation literate" so I let it go.  I mean, maybe he found the semicolon to be aesthetically pleasing and was like, "Hey, use that!"

Anyways, this was what he said:  He was standing by the empty muffin rack, and upon my approach carrying a box of muffins, he said:

"Thank God you have muffins; I thought I’d have to kill someone."

And at first, I chuckled.  What a ridiculous thing to say to a complete stranger.  "Kill someone…"  What a joke.  Oh, the humors of hyperbole…

But as I handed him the muffin out of my cardboard box, something in me began to raise doubts.  What if he wasn’t kidding?

And I stood there, pondering, while the guy purchased his item and walked out the door.  He didn’t seem like a bad guy, yet I still toyed with the notion.  What if he killed someone because he didn’t get a muffin?

The thought ate at me all day, and I asked myself some very serious questions:

1. Would it have mattered what kind of muffin?  He seemed pretty adamant about reaching for the blueberry one I had.  If I had just brought over banana nut, would that have sent him over the edge?
2. Did he have a specific target in mind?  This question would have been cleared up if he had just said, “Thank God you have muffins; I thought I was going to have to kill Derek.”
3. He seemed eager when I walked in the door.  Did he know that I was the muffin man?
4. What is the ‘murder’ to ‘muffin’ ratio?  Is it one person per muffin?  What if he wanted two muffins?  Or, God forbid, a dozen?
5. Seriously, WHY THE HELL WAS IT A MUFFIN?

I began to think of the guy talking to his pointer finger, croaking, "Niffum.  Niffum!"

I think it’s because his quote is not the same thing as saying, "I’d kill for a muffin right now."  It’s a common expression, which everyone understands as an exaggeration.  And even if it’s not, there’s no specificity—it could be a reference to killing anything: "I’d kill this butterfly," "I’d kill this zebra," or even "I’d kill this six-pack in 20 minutes."

Somehow, inferring a single person, one individual, makes the situation all too real.

"I thought I might have to kill someone."  Was this guy psychotic or was I just overreacting?  I mean, it seems silly to assume that Otis Spunkmeyer just prevented a small-scale genocide.

I think it was the extremism of the statement.  There was no lesser punishment for the lack of muffin.  He wouldn’t have beaten anyone up or threatened them verbally.  No muffin?  Homicide.  Assault is for pussies.

Or perhaps he assigns different levels of violence to different low-fat grain food products?  Popcorn is a hit-and-run.  Nurtigrain Bars constitute rape.  But fortunately, Sun Chips only count as indecent exposure.

I want to keep the store stocked full, just in case.  The last thing I want to do is inspire the latest "ripped-from-the-headlines" episode of Law & Order: Special Muffins Unit.  So now, I make sure I bring extra cases of muffins.  The store clerk always gives me confused looks, as if I’m demented for overcompensating our supply of muffins.  It would be too much work to explain to her that I am her knight in plastic wrapping, so I just tell her:

"You may never fully understand, but you’re welcome."

Then I disappear, someone’s secret muffin savior.  I don’t expect to receive any thanks.  It’s just better this way.

The Pinkest Eye

Last Thursday was a long day.  I was getting railed by my Spanish class, and I occasionally lost vision in my right eye.  Y’know, a typical Thursday.

On top of everything, “The Office” was a rerun!  (And it wasn’t even good enough of an episode for me to want to see it twice.)

You see, Thursdays are my typical social night, when my friends come over to watch TV, consume beverages, and see what other mayhem we can get ourselves into (which generally consists of breaking something in my apartment).  During this week’s process, I became worried about the loss of 50% of my eyesight and did what any well-educated college student would do—I flicked my eyelid repeatedly, using a method that I had learned from “fixing” poorly-wired headphones.

I flicked and rubbed at my eye and began to pick out large specks of crust until silently excusing myself from the festivities, where I checked my face in the bathroom mirror.  Not only was my eye inflamed and pink, but my lashes were coated with a gooey yellow syrup that I was certain no one would find attractive.

I had the virus.

The world seems to have a problem with pink eye.  A real problem.  And while my biggest beef has to do with the name—really, “pink eye”?  Are you coming down with a case of “pansy nose,” too?”—society has decided it pertinent to make people suffering from pink eye feel as ostracized as possible.

It sucks big time because I don’t own a pair of sunglasses, so my eye acts like a scarlet letter on my face (“I”), notifying everyone around me that I have been infected… and I am contagious as hell.

Conjunctivitis is one of the worst infections to have, because no one ever has any pity for you.  Obviously, the symptoms themselves are not pity-worthy (a slight itching sensation and a bloodshot eye spewing tablespoon after tablespoon of sludge), but people get downright frustrated when a pink eye sufferer comes near.  At least with cancer, people get sympathy (sometimes even empathy), but with pink eye, you get treated like a leper, or even a communist.  Every person you encounter interrogates you from a considerable distance: “Are you, or have you ever, touched any of my things with your bare hands?”

It’s an ocular infection, people; not exactly the red scare you should be worried about.

My biggest problem was my work schedule required me to go into the store the next day after self-diagnosing my ailment.  While I didn’t want to spread my bacteria to the entire GVSU campus, I also felt hesitant about calling my boss in the morning to tell him that I couldn’t stock today because my eye was a tad itchy.  All I wanted to do was fly away to somewhere where no one would judge me, but I was worried that taking the red eye anywhere at this point was too ironic.

I did my duties with my gaze cast at the floor the entire time, which likely gave off the impression that I had been crying all morning, rather than picking out eyeball grit with my fingernails.

It suddenly hit me today that it has almost been an entire week that I’ve been consistently denying that I’ve been smoking pot or that I haven’t been getting a decent amount of sleep.  These are ridiculous accusations, as I have been sleeping like a (stoned) baby.

So even though my conjunctiva are still shot with blood and I still have yet to look anyone in the eye through fear of infecting them via my sense of sight, I keep my spirits up.  Because now, all of my friends have pink eye, as well.  We have a lot to talk about.