I know. This is something we’re not supposed to admit. I say “we” because you do it too.
Cyber stalking. Cyberstalking. Is it one word or two? I’m going with one from here on out because… um… regardless:
Cyberstalking: America’s pastime (like it was ever really baseball anyway).
I used to think the biggest consequence of cyberstalking was being thought of as weird or creepy, or, more rarely, having the person you’re cyberstalking catch you in the act and having them ask, “Why is my name in your Google search bar?” and you’re like, “Uhhhhh I was just testing my search engine to make sure it worked” and they’re like, “I don’t believe you” and you’re like, “Well you shouldn’t be looking at my computer screen anyway” and they’re like, “That’s my computer and this is my house and how the hell did you get in here?!”
Ahem. Anyway, since I openly admit I am both weird and creepy, the stigma of cyberstalking someone (usually someone I’m attracted to) rarely keeps me from doing it. Not anymore though. Never again.
Or maybe always again.
That probably doesn’t make sense to you. Allow me to explain: (more…)
“No! Don’t go in there! There’s poop!”
“What?” I asked.
“That’s The Poop Spot!” Dante screamed over the whir of his chainsaw.
“What?!” I yelled.
Dante shut off the saw and took off his goggles. He was covered in wood chips. “Kevin,” he said, “don’t go in that cave. That’s The Poop Spot.”
Today, as you fire up the grill and pop open that thirteenth beer, you may feel like reflecting on American history and saying a little prayer of thanks to the founding fathers. Don’t. The Fourth of July isn’t the holiday you think it is. I’m here to tell you the top secret history behind the Fourth that the government doesn’t want you to know.
As you may know, Benjamin Franklin was a man with syphilis who lived in America and sometimes ate dog treats. His face is on the $100 bill and he was well known for attempting to steal kites from children. But here’s something you didn’t know about Benjamin Franklin: he’s out to steal the Declaration of Independence.
Guess what, folks? Something amazing happened to me, aside from the free ounce of froyo I got at Yogurt Story the other day because I found a spider in it. (I put the spider there. SUCKAAAS!)
I got a Mac laptop!
As everyone knows, Mac is actually an acronym that stands for Magical And Cakewalk, which doesn’t make much sense, but the bottom line is that this computer is the shit (or should I say, the shit my cake says? Har-dee-har-har).
But how I came to acquire this beautiful piece of hardware is a tale of tragedy and terror.
Yesterday (or today, depending on how you look at it, since I’m writing this at 2:34 am Texas time) was Oprah’s last show. Her last hurrah. Last shebang. Last housewife lovefest. Last time to gaze at herself longingly in her dressing room mirror, which is the size of my house.
Actually, no, she’ll probably still be doing that last one.
I say good riddance, but many people are in mourning. I’d like to remind you of my past Friday the 13th post, in which I predicted the outcome of the world after this catastrophic event (hint: the outcome is destruction).
Go buy beans, batteries, baby dolls, or whatever else you’ll need to survive underground while housewives everywhere rampantly destroy the world. The Y2K stuff you never put to use will do.
You’ve been warned.
A couple weeks ago, I got a bruise so nasty it made Oprah’s face look like something that’s not disgusting. It happened when I was at work. I was outside telling my boss something (she was in her truck on a smoke break), and for whatever reason, when we were done chatting, I decided to run across the parking lot to get back into the building. I should probably mention that I was running on 4 hours of sleep for the past 48 hours. Sleep deprivation, clumsiness, my arm’s suicidal tendencies–whatever the reason, I rammed my arm into a brick column outside my workplace. And it hurt.
So that was how Shelby and I ended up walking home together, taking the back roads from the school to my neighborhood. Turned out that she didn’t live very far from me, only a few blocks away. With all the things I knew about her, I couldn’t believe I didn’t know that. Her house’s distance from mine created so many opportunities to… no, no. I was not a stalker.
Because I was the sexiest man alive, I managed to knock myself out twice in one day, and because I did this, I couldn’t drive. I had to wait for my mom to come pick me up while I watched everyone else in my class leave in their cars. Just call me Captain Lady-Killer. No… the ‘captain’ made me seem like a murderer instead of a sarcastic, self-deprecating dork.
I made this video for a school performance event (it was silent film-themed, sort of) to tell the audience to get the hell outta the room and go do something else for ten minutes, because it was time for intermission.
This season of Parks and Recreation has brought us many adorable, sexy, and romantic character relationships. Andy and April, Ann and Chris, and lastly, the most obvious one…
…Tom and DJ Roomba.
Today, I’d like to talk about something very serious. A health epidemic that has been sweeping the nation for years.
Just in case you’re in the 10% of the world’s population that has yet to see the travesty that is “Friday” by Rebecca Black, allow me to educate you.
If you thought that song “Justin Bieber’s Girlfriend” was bad, just wait until you see this—er, the thing you already watched at the top of the page. “Friday” is a song that gives old folks in their 20s like me insight into what the kids are up to these days, and apparently, 13-year-olds are up to no damn good, especially on Fridays, which, according to Rebecca, come after Thursdays (even though we all know that Thursday is actually in between Monday and Brednesday).
Shelby’s pre-cal class was about five feet from where we were standing, so the walk to her class was not a long one.
“Thanks for walking me all the way to my faraway class,” she said.
Loser, I thought to myself. What were you thinking? “Hey, Shelby, want me to walk you to your class that’s only a Verne Troyer and a half away from where we’re standing right now?”
“Look, what I was going to ask you earlier is if—”
“’Sup, Shelby,” Todd’s voice boomed, interrupting her. He put his meaty arm around her waist, and she immediately slinked away. He looked at me. “’Sup, Queer.”
I gulped so intensely I knew she could hear it. Stupid Adam’s apple.
“Hhhheh,” I croaked. That was loser for “hi”.
“Hi, Cavan,” she said. “I—”
“Shelby! What happened to your nose?” Emilio asked.
“Cavan punched her,” Andy said, French fries dropping out of his mouth.
After fourth period, I met up with Andy and we walked to lunch.
“Andy!” Christie screeched from down the hall. Andy cringed.
See, Christie was this annoying cheerleader who’d had a crush on Andy since, like, fourth grade. She was part of the Rice Kristies, a horrible pun and a group of three girls named “Kristie”—Christie, Kristie, and Criystee, the last of whom had parents who apparently never learned how to spell. All three members of the Rice Kristies (God, it pains me to even say those words) were cheerleaders, but Christie was the only brunette and, frankly, the only unattractive one. Kristie was dumb but hot, and Criystee defied her parents’ legacy by grasping the concept of phonetics. She was also cute and ranked number two in our class. Then there was Christie, who was both marginally ugly and painfully stupid, and boy did she love Andy.
A while ago, I made a list of a few bizarre search terms people used to find my blog. After seeing more weird words pop up over the last month or so, I selected my favorite search terms and categorized them by Misspellings, Monica Lewinsky, Questions, Creepy Fetishes, Whatever This Is, and Miscellaneous.
“Bye, Sweetie!” my mom cried over my sister’s Miley Cyrus music as I stepped out of her car. Then she drove away to drop my sister off at her school.
Since oh-so-many people seem to find my blog via classy variations on the search term “boobs”, I decided to pay homage to this one little word that has brought me so much porn-seeking traffic…
It’s a tale as old as time, true as it can be. Or rather, a question as old as the birth of McDonald’s. Who’s hotter, Grimace or the Hamburglar?
It’s my birthday. I’m 21 years old today. Therefore, I expect 21 birthday cakes on my doorstep by the end of the day, or else I’ll burn down Australia. You’ve been warned.
Here are some examples of acceptable cakes: