The Fourth Judge
Whenever I peel the sticker off an apple I put it on the rim of my kitchen sink. You might think I’m lazy, but really I’m a product of evolution. Humans have a hard-wired impulse to get sticky shit off their hands as quickly as possible. When’s the last time you walked around with a sticker or a piece of tape on your finger for 15 minutes? People who do that kind of shit don’t live long enough to pass on their genes. It’s science. Any asshole worth his weight in Nerds Rope knows where a sticker’s going before he puts it on his finger, and if something sticky sneaks up on you all bets are off. Time to get wild.
I mean, obviously the best place for the sticker would be the garbage, but have you ever tried to throw a sticker in the garbage? It’s fucking agony. You grab it off of one finger only to get it stuck on another. Then you try to roll it back and forth between your thumb and pointer, which is a total Sisyphus situation. Then you stand there shaking your hand like an asshole, praying to ODB that that fucking piece of shit son of a bitch sticker will fall the fuck off already.
The next step in this brutal dance is to place the sticker directly on the garbage bag, but that involves touching the garbage bag, which is a horrible idea that usually ends in botulism, scurvy or worse.
So yeah, my current system is imperfect, but it works for me. The stickers all disappear eventually. How, I’m not really sure, but I’m assuming they get carried away by cockroaches and fashioned into state-of-the-art pre-k learning centers for their children.[[MORE]]
Sometimes I find pregnant women sexy and I’m not going to apologize for it. They’re curvy, they’re experienced, and I can’t help but imagine them gladly taking a hot load of my semen in their vagina. What’s not to like?
The other day I got on a really crowded subway car. It was the kind of crowded that causes some asshole behind you to put her massive shopping bag directly inside your anus (and a little to the left). After everyone had filed into the car a man sporting a track suit and dreads came out of nowhere and crammed himself in between me and the end of the car. Using what little free space he had (none) he immediately started dancing to whatever was playing on his ipod. Then he started air drumming. Then he started rapping and singing.
I came up with the brilliant line, “Hey will.i.am, get it started somewhere else” but I got cold feet because I thought it might sound racist. We all know the classic racist-old-white-man meme is to address the black man in question by the name of whatever famous black person he can think of at the time, even if it doesn’t make any sense.
“Hey Tiger Woods, turn that music down. I’m trying to watch Man vs. Food.”
This guy really looked like will.i.am though, and he was singing and dancing to what was undoubtedly a shitty, Black-Eyed-Peas-taste-level song (his track suit was tacky). The comment made sense. I wasn’t going to say it because he was black, I was going to say it because he was bugging the shit out of me on a crowded subway car and he looked like motherfucking will.i.am.
It’s tough being white sometimes.
I went to New Orleans for a bachelor party this weekend, and since it’s hot as dick in New Orleans right now I went to the store to pick up a pair of shorts before I left. I went to five stores in Manhattan before I found one that was still selling shorts. It was July 28, there had just been 3 days in a row of 100 degree weather, and only one out of six stores I visited was still carrying shorts. The rest had started selling their fall lines.
Why am I not allowed to buy clothes for the season I’m in while that season is happening? I know this is an old meme and everything, but give me a fucking break. I don’t plan my outfits months in advance. Sometimes I use aluminum foil when I’m out of clean underwear. The whole system is broken and nobody gives a shit. We all know there’s a problem, we joke about it, and yet nothing is ever done to remedy the situation.
The other day I was on my way to jerk off (10 foot walk from my couch to my desk) when I realized I had to blow my nose. I thought about using the same tissue for both purposes for about 1.5 seconds, which is 1.4 seconds longer than I’m comfortable admitting.
I ultimately decided against it. I’m not a fucking monster.
On the way down to New Orleans we had to re-rout and land in Baton Rouge briefly due to storms over the New Orleans airport/God’s hatred of everything I stand for. The delay meant I wouldn’t get to eat when I thought I was going to, so I started to get pretty hungry. A kind gentleman sitting next to me offered me a bag of Sun Chips. I couldn’t believe my good luck. I actually said this to him. “You mean these are for me? You don’t want any? Really? Seriously? You’re not joking? OHMYGODTHANKYOUSOMUCH!”
Then I opened the bag and tried a chip. I’m not sure when Sun Chips started doing business, but I know this bag was from the inaugural batch. I fail to see how my limited ability as a writer will allow me to adequately express what a horrific experience it was to eat one of these chips. Every time I opened the bag for the rest of the flight – to throw out my gum, for instance – a gaggle of freegan banshees came roaring out and ransacked my nostrils/sense of place in the universe.
It left me in an uncomfortable position. How do you tell a stranger who’s trying to be nice that they just handed you the most revolting piece of shit you’ve ever had the misfortune of putting in your mouth? Do you grin and bear it?
Luckily I had the problem solved for me when I handed a chip to a friend in the row in front of me, who proceeded to curse me out loudly for 5 minutes about giving him “a fucking Spencer’s Gifts joke chip.” I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to tell my friend that it came from the man sitting next to me, so he quickly learned the score.
The dude even offered me a bag of pretzels to make up for it, to which I politely responded, “No fucking way, man. Thanks, though. I know you mean well.”