“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.
Why do we have to continue to suffer with acne, even when we’re out of high school? I have a monstrous red bump on my chin that will not go away, no matter how hard I try to get rid of it.
At 0300 hours, I launched Toothpaste Warfare on the enemy force occupying my chin. After sleeping on it, I found that the toothpaste mission had failed. There were no survivors. Except the pimple. Which I didn’t want to survive. Okay. I think I’ve made my point.
I then turned to commercialism to solve my blemish woes. I watched a couple of commercials to see which act of false advertising impressed me the most. All I got out of it were these two messages:
Proactiv: “Oh em gee, I’m a celebrity! I have a teeny tiny pimple on my face but it’s sooooo bothersome! So I use Proactiv to get rid of it! Exclamation point!”
Neutrogena: Appears to be only for teen girls. I’m no longer a teen, and I’m a tad too old to be part of the High School Musical generation, so I wasn’t really feeling the airbrushed-Vanessa Hudgens thing. Vanessa Hudgens does nothing more than make me want to move to a secluded cave and forget modern pop culture. She can’t sell me acne face goop.
Both commercials use celebrities to help pitch their products. Neither convinced me to buy their products.
Back to World War Toothpaste, then.
I feel bad for these guys’ kids.
One time, I was carrying a little overnight bag of mine that I’d accidentally left unzipped. My toothbrush holder, which looks like this, fell out and landed in front of my mom. “Ohhhh, I know what that is…” she said. I was very confused until it dawned on me that my mom thought my toothbrush holder was a dildo. I don’t profess to be a connoisseur of dildos, but c’mon, really? Toothbrush holders are being mistaken for masturbation tools?
Some things in life are really f*cking creepy, but no one seems to notice. They’re everyday, innocent-looking little things. Why aren’t more people creeped out by these? Because of the government, of course. I’m going to tell you what they won’t about the following creepy objects:
Bobble Heads: You get a bobble head for your desk at work. At first, your bobble head seems like your friend, nodding “yes” to everything you say, providing a listening ear. But as your relationship grows, you realize it nods “yes” to things like, “I forgot to turn in my expense report– I’m such an idiot!”, “Do I look fat today?”, and “Have you been talking shit about me?”. As it turns out, the bobble head you thought was your BFFF is actually your best frenemy and a social climber. The bobble head relocates to someone else’s desk and nods “yes” while that person points at you and snickers. What a bastard of a bobble head. Just when you get over feeling hurt, you work late one night and see that the bobble head is on your desk, watching you, constantly nodding. Every time you look away and look back at it, it’s inched closer to you. Finally, it bobs one last “yes” and attacks you with a chainsaw. (more…)
In the spirit of the popular twitter feed whose name I ripped off of when creating my blog, I thought I’d provide you with some phrases from my very own dear ol’ dad. Here’s a small dictionary of his phrases:
“German Abortion”: One’s wife’s dying Mercedes convertible.
“The Slime That Slime Would Spit On”: An asshole who drives recklessly or cuts one off in rush hour traffic.
Used in a sentence: “You’re slime! No, you’re the slime that slime would spit on!”
“D-E-D Dead”: The traditional meaning of the word “dead”, but spelled aloud incorrectly.
“Retard School”: An imaginary school where stupid people go and are treated like those with intellectual disabilities. In this school, the students are required to wear helmets at all times.
Read this. It is right in every way (except for #11, a personal favorite/guilty pleasure of mine).
In Farmer’s Branch, TX, there was a man who went (and still goes) to Vegas seven times a year funded only by money he made begging. After waking up in his nice bed in his house in the suburbs, he’d dress in tatty clothes, smear himself with dirt, park his Ford Explorer five or six blocks away from the day’s designated street corner, and pretend to be an injured homeless man. His injury switched every week. One week his leg was broken, the next week he had a back brace, then the next week his arm was in a sling.
Another “homeless” man made roughly $300 a day begging, or $100,000 a year, tax-free. With a “salary” like that, why would he ever stop begging? Easy work for a decent living? Why would anyone say no to that?
Oh, right. Because normal people have consciences, or at least, I hope we do.
Call me callous, but this is why I never give money to people on the street. If I’m going to give money to people in need, I want to make sure they’re actually in need. That’s why charities are ideal establishments for donations, as opposed to an allegedly homeless person’s coffee cup that I can’t be sure came from a trash can or Pier 1. Homelessland isn’t an every-man-for-himself anarchy. Many charities and shelters exist to help real homeless people, or at least pretend to help them, and at the end of the day, isn’t that all that really counts?
Remember when Mom used to do stuff for you when you were a little kid? Then she taught you how to do it yourself and everything went downhill.
Meals—now you have to cook for yourself, and it sucks. It can be fun, but everything burns and explodes and soon you’re homeless because you tried to make chicken parmesan and everything went wrong.
Bills—not paying bills is awesome, but then your power gets cut off and you find yourself squatting in an abandoned Circuit City fighting with some random hobo over a half-eaten tuna sandwich.
Work—from 9 to 5, your day is grueling and your boss is a douche. Expense reports? Fax machines? Coffee pots? Sexual harassment? No thanks. You remember the days when your parents worked and you didn’t have to. So you skip a day, then another day, then another, and soon you have no paycheck to support your apartment and you’re back to your next WWE showdown with the hobo next door, er, next cardboard box.
Clipping Toenails—and on that note, hygiene period. Now I know that most of us, if not all, were taught to clean ourselves at some point in our lives, whether that be showering or licking ourselves like a cat. But as you get older and you have to do all this other cleaning-type stuff—laundry, vacuuming, washing dishes—who has time to do menial self-cleaning-type stuff like clip their toenails? Yesterday, I looked down at my bare feet and saw Freddy Kruger’s hands. One might say, why not clip your toenails while doing something else, like when you’re watching TV? To them, I say, “Pfft!”. If your eyes are on your feet, then you can’t see the TV screen, and if you can’t see the TV screen, how will you know what happens with Serena and Dan in this week’s episode of Gossip Girl?! Then, suddenly, you’re homeless again.
Basically, getting older means getting homeless.
You know how naggy moms tell you to be home by midnight, because nothing good happens after 12:00 a.m.? Well, I disagree with that entirely.
Plenty of great things happen after 12. Sex, drugs, alcohol, late-night burritos and burgers– All these things are very healthy. What you really need to watch out for is what goes on past 7 a.m. No good happens between the hours of 7:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m. Here’s why:
…Unless you count DayQuil.
1. I sang to my boyfriend’s cat, Shadow. I sang him a ballad entitled “Shadow” to the tune of Frère Jacques. The lyrics consisted of “Shadow, Shadow, Shadoooooooow”.
2. I performed a questionably seductive* dance with a small bottle of apple juice in the middle of Kroger.