Comedy Corner

While researching videos for my Why White People Aren’t Scared Of Bill Cosby post, I stumbled across a clip of Bernie Mac’s stand up.  I didn’t watch the beginning because no one really cares about a black person’s family, but instead skipped right to the middle in search of a what-would-a-black-person-do-in-a-white-person’s-situation joke.  And guess what I found!

Watch at 3:52 and end when you realize Bernie Mac is a dumbass.

For those of you who weren’t listening, this is what Bernie Mac just said:

“The word ‘mother fucker’ is a noun . . . it describes a person, place, or thing.”

” . . . it describes a person place or thing“

HEY BERNIE MAC, IT’S ALMOST SEPTEMBER.  GO BACK TO SCHOOL.

Being a massive fan of humor, I have watched many comedians and their routines. From the legends like George Carlin to the rookies like Amy Schumer, I have taken careful notes as to what pleases audiences and what doesn’t. Many people believe that this is what makes me so funny, while others argue this is what makes me so anti-social.

Last night I was watching The Original Kings Of Comedy on HBO, which is where they honor famous comedians for accomplishing the impossible feat of being both black and funny. The comics include huge names such as Cedric the Entertainer, D.L. Hughley, Bernie Mac and Steve Harvey. Together these men were famed for revolutionizing the art of black humor as well as terrifying 96% of the white community. Theoretically no one man is better than the other, seeing as how all of their jokes revolve around the same subject: what would happen if a ghetto-ass black person tried to do what a white person does? In the hour that I watched of the show, I say Cedric the Entertainer joke about black people skiing, Bernie Mac make fun of how white people greet one another (I thought this was especially ironic, seeing the obscene handshakes and gang signs black people throw down), and Steve Harvey comically jest about the death of thousands during the sinking of the Titanic. The theater they performed it was crowded full of eager black people waiting to laugh hysterically at what crazy commotion it would look like if a black person tried to do what a white person does like, for example, paying taxes [Ba Zing]. But when you think about it, these men are no different from today’s black comedians. They make the same jokes about the same subjects; the only reason they are so legendary is because they are older than dirt, allowing them to make the racist jokes first.

Warning: What you are about to read is on the mind of every white person in the entire world at this very moment. While reading this you will think to yourself “this is exactly what I want to say,” the only difference is that I am saying it first, which will hopefully make me as legendary as The Original Kings Of Comedy.

The reason that white people do not like black people is because black people do not bother to familiarize us with themselves. White people, for instance, enjoy the game of hockey. But every time we mention the word “hockey” (i.e. “Last night I watched a hockey game”) around black people they respond with something like this:

Yo cracka you ain’t never gunna see a nigga playin’ hockey. There ain’t no God damn way you gunna get a full grown nigga out on some damn cold ice tryn’a smack a God damn black circle with some tiny ass stick.

The black person will then proceed to turn your innocent statement into an outlandish racist comment leading back to slavery:

The last time a stick was smack’n somethin’ black it sure as hell wasn’t no puck. It was a slave!!!

In situations like this, white people cringe and back away from the black person, who is either joking or growing increasingly mad—both situations could end horribly—and that is why white people generally avoid black people. I think that nothing reflects this more than black comedy, in which the majority of the jokes are intended for black people and are all about how much white people suck. To demonstrate, I have created a list of rules to become a black comedian. If you are black—or even slightly tanned—and you follow these directions, you will become famous.

1. Choose a basic thing that white people do or that involved white people.
Examples:
-Playing hockey
-Sky diving
-Wearing Bluetooth earpieces
-Spending money on something other than their car

2. Substitute what white people would do in that situation with what black people would do in that situation.
Examples:
-Instead of giving their child a “time out” like white people do, black people beat their children.
-Black people would never put a bomb in their shoes because they’re too damn expensive.

3. Make any sort of random movement that may appear comical, regardless of what your previous punch line was or how it relates to the subject.
Examples:
-Flail your arms violently in circles. This may symbolize flying, waving, trying to keep balance, or an Olympic sport.
-Jump up onto a stool, table, desk, or chair. This could show what black people would do if there were mice in the room.
-Fall to the ground and start convulsing. Black people find this hilarious, and would not stop laughing until they realized you were having a seizure.

With those three easy steps, you will get black comedy. To give you an example, I have taken a bit of Steve Harvey’s routine in The Original Kings Of Comedy special I saw last night. Feel free to fast forward to 3:36 to get to the actual example and to avoid some dumbass skit about a retarded nephew or whatever.

And this leads me to my next subject: Why black people can say whatever they want while white people are forced to pussy-foot around racism. As you just saw above, Steve Harvey blatantly made fun of white people (not the mention a national tragedy in which thousands died) and was not disciplined. In fact, his racism brought forth laughter, as most racism does. The only difference is that Steve Harvey made his racial remarks in front of ten thousand people and on television, whereas the racial jokes I hear are whispered to me at a convenience store. So the question is: why aren’t black people penalized for racism while the punishment for white people is—at minimum—the electric chair?

In the past black people have responded to this question by bringing up the act of slavery, an economical strategy that ended in 1865 with the Civil War. This leads to two things:

1. The Civil War proves that white people fought other white people in order to free black people. Just because stubborn southerners enslaved your race for three hundred years doesn’t mean that all of America did.
2. Slavery ended in 1865. That was also 150 years ago. Oh sure your great great grandfather might have been a slave but you sure as hell weren’t. You didn’t have to spend a God damn day in a cotton field; all you had to worry about was buying a new pair of 400 dollar shoes. Oops, I’m sorry, that was racist. I meant to say a new pair of 400 dollar kicks.

Slavery ended years ago, and therefore should not be part of the racism argument. I’m Dutch. In 1943 hundreds of thousands of Dutch people were enslaved by German Nazis. Does this mean that we’re allowed to make fun of German people in retaliation for something that happened 50 years ago? Yes.

But we still shouldn’t. So when black people complain about something that didn’t happen to them specifically, they are being ignorant and pitiful. Why are black people allowed to say the word “honky” while a white man could be possibly stoned for using the N word in public. You see that?! I’m scared to say the word nigger over the internet under a fake identity because I think black people are going to kill me, and all the while black people are insulting white people to our faces. And when white people do bring up a topic like this (which they don’t for fear of a semi-automatic being pointed at their head) they are sued for racism, they are hated by the entire black community, and they have to deal with the bullshit of the Reverend Al Sharpton. Meanwhile black people across the country are using white racism to make millions of dollars!!!

This leads me to my last subject: Bill Cosby. Everyone loves Bill Cosby, especially white people. I personally have 6 Bill Cosby CDs, and I enjoy them now as much as I did when I first hear them. And the reason that white people appreciate his stand up so much is because none of his material is racist, allowing them to connect with it. As a final example, here is Bill Cosby’s skit on going to the dentist compared to Cedric the Entertainer’s skit on—and I am not making this up—parking a spaceship like a black person.

Bill Cosby:

Cedric the Entertainer (skip to 2:18 to avoid his bit on smoking)

Everyone goes to the dentist. And everyone has dealt with the scraping metal hook, the needle in the mouth, the “bottom lip on the floor,” the smoke that comes from the drill, and the vacuum that sucks up your face. These are all subjects that both black and white people alike can agree upon and can find humorous. At no point in any white person’s life have they tried to Parallel Park a space shuttle, which deters from the comedy.

To all the black people who are reading this site (because God knows how many black people visit a 15-year-olds comedy website), give me one good reason why you can be racist and I can’t, and then I’ll consider not being racist. But until then, you can go jump off a cliff.

Oh my God, imagine if a black person tried to jump off a cliff like a white person does? Wouldn’t that be hysterical?!?!

Exactly, it wouldn’t be.

I am sick and tired of people taking retarded pictures of their cat doing every day activities and adding dumbass “titles” to the photo to be funny. And not only do they think that their saying is the wittiest thing ever said by a human, they write it in this illegible spelling that gives me a migraine. Oh cool, your kitten is licking its paw. There is no need to take a picture of it and add “Mii paw hertz lik fyre!!!” Your cat isn’t going to be so cute when I slice it open with a knife.

For those of you who have never experience the trauma of reading immature titled cat pictures (known across the internet as lolcats, which only confirms that fact that they’re not funny at all) I introduce you to two internet sites, the first of which being funnyjunk.com. Funnyjunk, a site I used to visit regularly was once filled with amusing pictures concerning the main subject that guys find entertaining: boobs. In time, however, funnyjunk was slowly corrupted with pictures of lolcats, and nowadays it is what the site revolves around. For example purposes only, I have shown you the top two pictures on funnyjunk involving cats. I warn you, these pictures may cause diarrhea.

1. Cookie Cat
2. Flavor Cat

If you continue to explore funnyjunk you will see more and more cat pictures as your soul slowly deteriorates until you become a witch. And if, for some reason, you enjoy the seizure-causing lines that poison these cat pictures, I want you to a) leave me site and never come back, and b) visit the mother of lolcat pictures: icanhascheezburger.com.

Icanhascheezburger.com started when one person took a picture of their cat. Their cat wasn’t doing anything special, it was just looking like a normal cat looks: puzzled. But the person who took the picture thought, for some reason, that their cat wanted—out of anything a cat might want—a cheeseburger, and found it appropriate to write that in an lolcat type of way. And rather than have the caption of the picture read “Can I Please Have A Cheeseburger?” the photographer thought it would just be hilarious to dub the photo “I Can Has A Cheezburger?” Hence the infamous picture:

Congratulations icanhasacheezburger.com, you’re the antichrist of comedy.

And the horror doesn’t stop there. People actually visit icanhasacheezburger.com and comment on the pictures with their own lolcat saying, the majority of which don’t even make sense. For instance, there is one picture where a little kitten can be seen chewing on its owner’s shoes. When most people find a cat fraying their laces, they discipline the cat with violence (I, for one, would take it outside and shoot its face off). But instead, this guy took a picture of his kitten and gave it a title to look like this:

When I saw the picture I almost threw up because it was so disgusting, but apparently other people thought that they had better sayings for the picture, so they submitted their own. As of this point there are 108 comments on the picture with people leaving their own maxims. Here are a few of those comments:

–Boy Skowt Kitteh is knawt eckspert!! (Boy Scout kitten is knot expert.)

–Kitteh seez invizabul spyder on doze lacez and attackz eet!
No mowr spiderz. (Kitten sees invisible spider on those laces and attacks it. Not more spiders.)

–kitn not need dypur!! wish hyumen bebe used littah bx at 3 wekez ole.
then not spen munney on pamprz. (???)

How does one manage to turn such a basic word like “invisible” into a jumbled mix of indecipherable letters? It’s easy. Instead of typing the letters the first letters of the word like most people do, simply close your eyes and slam your face on the keyboard. Then add four of five hundred exclamation marks at the end of the word and you have your lolcat saying. Now your kitten is no longer “adorable,” but is “udooribalz!!” and you are no longer a nerd, you’re the embodiment of evil.

Because I am in a good mood, I am going to make a few of my own lolcat sayings for you all the laugh at. And if icanhasacheezburger wants to post these up on their site, they sure as hell can NOT.

Today I have an AIM profile quote that my brother emailed me. It was in this 8th grade girl’s profile and I’m not quite sure what it means, but I will tell you a main thing that I gained after reading it: liver cancer.

There are different types of people in this world.
First there are the bitches- they just don’t have a life so they go around creating drama for entertainment.
Then, there are the whores.. pretty self explanitory.
Third theres the liars. These could be possibly a mix of the other two above; and everyone hates liars the most. You could probably name at least one person that you know of who used to be a friend who’s a liar now.
The last type of people are the chill people. These people are your best friends.

Please ignore the misspelling of “self-explanatory,” the improper use of a semi-colon, and the overall headache enforced by this worldly saying. I kind of, sort of get what this girl is hinting at—mainly that everyone who isn’t her friend is a lying bitchy whore—but I do feel that she left out some main categories of people in the world. That is why I have built off of this pathetic profile quote in order to make it the complete list of different types of people in this world.  Please note that if you do not fall into one of the catagories, you are not human.

Mountain Bikers- These are the people who won’t stop bragging about how cool their bike is. Oh wow I get it, you’re bike weight 14 ounces and you once road it up a hill, here’s an award.

Co-Pilots- They just sit in a cramped chair all day hoping that the pilot doesn’t die. The only time they see any action is during take off and landing, and even then they don’t do the real important stuff. The only cool co-pilot was Kareem Abdul Jabar in the movie Airplane. So unless you’re 7 feet 2 inches and won 6 MVPs, you’re job sucks.

Myspace Havers- These could be possibly a mix of the other two above; and everyone hates them the most. You could probably name at least one person that you know of who used to be a friend who’s got a Myspace now.

The People Who Invented Go-Gurts- Congratulations, you made it so that kids don’t have to look like dumbasses going to school with yogurt. That doesn’t mean you’re cool. (okay maybe it does).

People Who Watch Will & Grace- .. pretty self explanitory.

Cocaine Dealers- These are the people who threw their life away, ignored education, the law, their church, and their parents, yet still make more money than teachers, police officers, and priests. Nice life lesson we’ve learned there.

MTV Show Producers- They just don’t have a life so they go around creating drama for entertainment.

Led Zeppelin Fans- Cool, you like the music of the band that plays Stairway To Heaven and a bunch of other drowsy songs. You’re much better than everyone else on this earth and should be worshipped. NAHT.

The last type of people are The Jackasses. These are the people who will do anything for a laugh, even if it results in them breaking a bone or losing a girlfriend. They have no life morals and generally think with their dicks. They can never be trusted and will at any point smack you in the balls. These people are your best friends.

A while ago, I tried to give my loyal readers a better idea of who I really was by giving them snapshots of my past by releasing my most embarrassing baby photos. To prevent rumors about what I was doing in the pictures I gave a quick description of the photos and called them Pictures Of A Genius. I am happy to say that none of these images wound up anywhere that I would regret, and because of that I am going to bless you with Part Two of the series. I found these pictures in an old album buried deep in a closet at my mom’s house. At first I selected over 40 pictures to make fun of, but after much debate—and realizing that I couldn’t post pictures of me naked on the internet—I came down to the winners. So here they are, the pictures everyone has been waiting for: Pictures Of A Genius Part II.

Background:

These first pictures are a timeline of every Halloween I had when I was little, with a few other pictures of me just dressing up and being ridiculous. My friends and I would dress up frequently at my house, seeing as how I didn’t have a Game Cube so it was the only way to entertain ourselves. I even had a “toy box” stuffed with different articles of clothing waiting for us to use (my parents had the guts to actually say to me, “We don’t need an Xbox, we have a toy box!!”  Someone bring me a gun). We would dress up as crime fighting ninjas, planet saving warriors, and secret agent spies. But no matter what we disguised ourselves as, our mission was clear: Spy on the parents.

Whenever I had friends over, the kids’ parents would all sit around the eloquent dining room table and have an intricate meal of roast beef, corn, string beans and mashed potatoes. They would then shove us children into a tiny crammed room and make us eat microwaved macaroni on paper plates. So when we were finished, we would get revenge on them by dressing up and spying on them. My brother and I had the latest technology of spy equipment which were:

1. Sun glasses. We figured that if it became difficult for us to see in the house, they too wouldn’t notice us sneaking around. We also assumed that they couldn’t hear us blindly bumping into the furniture and knocking over toys.

2. A blanket. Everyone knows that once you drape a blanket over you, you instantly become invisible.

3. A rock with a rope tied around it. This was the riskiest tool of all, because it was our major weapon and generally made the most noise. We would hurl the rock into the room in an attempt to hit a parent, and then quickly reel it back in. Unfortunately, the rock would usually slip from the crappy knot we tied around it and would fly and smash a painting. No worries, we would just dive under the blanket.

Are you wondering what I actually looked like sneaking around the house dressed up as different creatures? Then I present to you the first chapter of the Pictures Of A Genius series: Costume City

This first picture is me when I was probably five years old on Halloween. In the first Pictures Of A Genius I provided a black and white photo of this costume that made it look like I got tarred and feathered. But here is the actual shot of me growling ferociously into the camera, showing that I am not just a five-year-old brat, but actually a tank of power ready to burst and unleash a stream of adrenaline that will help me effortlessly tear my helpless prey to pieces before I viciously devour them with my razor sharp teeth. And if that doesn’t work I’ll hit them with my pumpkin basket. My father, shown to my left, dressed up as a glasses-wearing nerd who got beat up in school.

It was at this point in my life that my mother became frugal. I was hoping that that certain gene had skipped a generation in the family (my mom’s dad, my grandfather, once taped a 79 cent fly swatter back together), but it was not so. On this costume, I told my mom that I wanted to be a bat for Halloween. I expected her to go to the nearest costume store, buy a costume for her loving son, and present it to me to try on. Instead, my mom thought it would be cheaper to buy acres of bulky black cloth, wrap it around me, and call it a day. And to make it complete she put raccoon-like circles around my eyes. I specifically remember walking around the neighborhood ringing doorbells and clarifying to people what I was. “What are you, Batman?” they would dumbly ask. “Are you a robber? Are you road kill?” I would then have to explain to them how my mom didn’t want to spend any money and instead preferred to bundle me up in wool fabric. And for those of you who have never been covered in thick fabric before, allow me to explain. It sucks. The heat led to me sweating profusely, which would leak my black face paint into my eyes, which would blind me, which would cause me to aimlessly stumble into the street, and since I was strategically dressed in all black, I was a big predator for those assholes who drive around on Halloween night. Luckily I used my bat powers to dodge the cars; I just wish I could say the same for the rocks kids threw at me.

Oh yes, the infamous wooden sword and wooden shield. This is mainly an inside joke between me and my really close friends, and I don’t have the time or effort to explain it to all of you. In short, I owned that sword for two and a half days, after which my mom took it away from me in fear that I would hurt myself. So I was then just left with a wooden shield, which didn’t help me much in sword fights and certainly didn’t help me gain any respect. “Haha, Boony’s just got a wooden shield!” The kids would taunt as they pushed me to the ground and kicked my face. And my mom wonders why I’m so troubled . . .

In this picture I’m playing a Confederate Fireman who is forced to fight fires with a wooden sword and wooden shield. It didn’t help that wood is extremely flammable; as was my sports pajamas. Thankfully, I was clad in my special vest that gave me magical powers, enabling me to put out the fire with just a swish of my mighty sword. My Confederate Fireman character didn’t last long because my mom confiscated my sword, and no one wants to put out a fire with a swish of their mighty shield.

Now, you’re probably thinking “But Boony, if your mom took away all your swords, why did she let you keep a gun? Surely something that rockets bullets at hundreds of miles an hour is more dangerous than a wooden stick.” And you are very right. My mom seized all of my weapons (cap guns, super soakers, scissors, etc.) when I was young, and the only reason I got possession of this gun was because I was at my neighbor’s house. Here I am attired in another one of my horrible styles (you’ll notice that nothing I wear in these pictures actually matches. I think this is because my parents hated me. Either that or they were too frugal to buy matching outfits) holding a rifle. At this age, my friend and I were OBSESSED with Davy Crockett. We watched all the movies, read all the books, and we would always dress up as him. You can see that at the bottom right of the screen is a raccoon hat. We wore this on our head because that’s what Davy Crockett did. Hell, if Davy Crockett had lived off of earthworms and Gatorade me and my neighbor would have been rooting around in the dirt finding bugs. Well, he would have been digging; I wouldn’t want to get my outfit dirty.

Save a horse ride a cowboy. This is an old costume I loved and would wear all the time. I was a rugged cowboy, living by my own rules and not taking crap from anyone. I would capture outlaws and then ride off into the sunset on my trusty steed “Dr. Prez.” Sadly, like most children, my parents refused to buy me a pony, so my “trusty steed” was actually my living room couch.

Arr, here he comes; the cut-throat pirate. I’m not sure where I got this outfit or why I’m allowed to be playing with a sword (at the age of 15 I’m not allowed to own a water gun, yet at the age of 5 I was able to freely wield a fatal sword), all I know is that I look amazing. As any historical expert will tell you, I stayed very accurate to the roll by wearing strict pirate apparel. A vintage skull-and-crossbones hat, a very lethal weapon, cargo shorts with an elastic waist, and an Amsterdam shirt.

This is a prime example of what my friends and I would dress up in when we spied on our parents. I’m on the left wearing soccer shorts, blue socks, and Velcro shoes. Now, typically a kid who wears something like this would get brutally beat up by everyone who say him. But this horrible outfit immediately turned into a super hero uniform with two essential articles: a silk cape and finger-less gloves. With the power of these two things, I became “Destructo-Boy!!!” On this certain occasion Destructo-Boy is with his sidekick, Alex. My friend never had much of an imagination, so he just dressed up as a cowboy every time and wouldn’t let me give him a cool name. He can be seen to the right, cluelessly gnawing on a bandana.

And finally, a picture of me dressed to kill in what I think is the most kick ass suit known to man. Here I am in my old kitchen dressed up as a knight/cowboy/police officer/Davy Crockett, or as I called him, “Super Suave Warrior Prince.” Here I can be seen conquering a rabid and very deadly stuffed animal. With the help of Super Suave Warrior Prince, my kitchen was free to be cooked in.

In the last series of Pictures Of A Genius I showed you a photo of me and this kid Yoav holding hands.  When I opened up this new album I found even more photographs of us doing gay acts.  When I asked my mom why we were always so close she said that Yoav’s mother insisted that we hold hands, hoping that it would harden our friendship.  Well I don’t know about you, but I’d say that something was growing hard between Yoav and I [Ba Zing].  Yoav is from Israel, and we would take trips to see him every year; which is sad because nowadays I don’t even visit my next-door neighbor.  I haven’t seen him in a while, but I’m pretty sure if I wanted to find him I would look in the YMCA.

Even though I say that I was a deprived child whose parents were too frugal to buy a new fly swatter and I complain that I wasn’t allowed to play with, hold, or look at weapons, I am proud to say that I did have one amazing toy growing up.  I called it The Pimpmobile.  It was an electric car that I could drive around my neighborhood.  All you had to do was push the pedal down and drive around with the wheel.  I would cruise around for hours on my 8-inch rims; picking up 2^nd graders and running through stop signs.  Of course I would need to be back home in 15 minutes or else the battery would shut down and I would need to walk home.

Don’t laugh.  Okay you can laugh.  But no matter how much you laugh I don’t care because this picture makes me feel secure.  It shows that my parents cared about my health.  They were such nice parents that they sacrificed my chances at popularity for safety.  Either that or they were at the store and thought it would be hilarious to buy their son pads that glow in the dark.  I would also like to add that my parents strapped me with kneepads, elbow pads, long pants, and a jean jacket, but still didn’t give me a helmet.  This shows that they just wanted to embarrass me, but couldn’t care less if I smashed my head on the driveway and bled to death.

My grandmother claims that this was my first snowfall, but that doesn’t make sense seeing as how I look 5 years old in this picture.  My guess is that this was the first snowfall I experienced  because my parents locked me in the basement for the first years of my life.  In this picture I appear laughing but do not be fooled; I am screaming for help.  My mother punted me to the ground and left me there to perish.  If it wasn’t for my ninja-like strength I might have died out there.

If you got to know me without looking at this picture, you would never have guessed that I was a Boy Scout. It might be my constant swearing, disobedience towards society, or my “MAN WHORE” shirt that deterred you, but the truth was that I actually was a very loyal scout. But don’t judge me too quickly; even though I was a Boy Scout doesn’t mean I was a good Boy Scout. My troop—Troop 305 REPRESENT!!!—lost a record 27 challenges throughout our Boy Scout journey, and I only received four pins in five years. In time I graduated into an Eagle Scout (they called it an Eagle Scout because “Man Scout” sounds creepy) where I quit because I had better things to maintain like, for example, a social life. In this picture you get a quick glimpse into my Boy Scout career as you see me helping a little old lady stack Mother Goose Nursery Rhyme blocks inside the comfort of my home.

I only posted this picture up because this girl named Becca Penney reads my site and she loved the last picture of me playing my dad’s trumpet. I would like you all to take a minute to note how similar my dad looks to Hitler, hence him being a Grade Nazi. I would think that this is the cutest pictures of me as a child, but they only get better from here. It’s like my loving father always said: Vollenden Sie Ihre Hausaufgabe oder ich werde Sie töten!!!

Cute little face? Check. Loveable Bill Cosby sweater? Check. Massive throbbing ears? Check. It looks like I just passed the test for the best looking child in the world.

In conclusion, this is a picture of me and youth soccer team. As opposed to now when the best of each town plays the best of another town, youth soccer was designed so that all the children in Arlington could join together and all agree that soccer was a pussy sport. Each team was assigned a different color and the name of our team had to be based off of our color (Green Goblins, Yellow Yo-Yos, Purple Pedophiles, etc.). My team was called the Orange Octopuses, even though the plural of Octopus is really Octopi. We were so fucking stupid.

From left to right (starting with the top row) the kids are Aaron Schmidt, Ali MaKeig, Jeremy Bigham, Conor O’Neil, Lillian Cole. Bottom row—Nate Boit, ME, Mike Barbosa, and Alex Geller.  On the far far right is my brother, Jackson.  He wasn’t actually on the team but we gave him a jersey so that he wouldn’t cry.  In this photo he looks like such an angel that no one would know that he is actually a psychotic retarded Goth whose life is a black abyss.

Hopefully more pictures will come, but as for now, I have to go save the world from deadly stuffed animals.  Because I am no longer mild-mannered Boony, I am Super Suave Warrior Prince.

This summer has mainly been a learned experience for me. Over the past few months I have learned all about the beauty of Italy, the importance of education, and that girls have these little things called “feelings.” But as this summer reaches its conclusion, I feel that I should share with you the most valuable lesson of all: Don’t Ever Have Children.

I know that I shouldn’t really be talking, considering the fact that I’m only 15—and I act like an 8-year-old—but all throughout this summer I have been up to my knees in whining, fighting, bitching, drooling, complaining kids. I am going to share my experiences with you in order to educate you of the horror of children. If at any point during this article you grow dizzy or uneasy, then your younger brother is probably crying.

My child experience started out in Italy, where I was reunited with my 5-year-old cousin, Justine. She is, of course, an only child, which only feeds into the fact that she is a spoiled brat who gets her way through force and screaming. I am convinced that if we were to send Justine into Iraq and take away her binky (At the age of five, nearly 70% of a child’s possessions are referred to as her “binky.” Blankets, pillows, stuffed animals, dolls, and even digital cam-corders could be a baby’s binky. This contributes to the difficulty of finding the child’s toy until you pass out from frustration and the child drowns in the pool.), the war would be over.

Justine- I WANT MY BINKY

Terrorists- What is she saying? What the hell is a Binky?

Justine- I WANT MY BINKY!!!

Terrorists- Maybe she means weapons of mass destruction.

Justine- BINKY BINKY BINKY BINKY BINKY BINKY BINKY BINKY BINKY BINKY BINKY BINKY BINKY BINKY

Terrorist- AHHH!!! Make her stop!!! Here, have our weapons and our gold and our wives.

Only a few day trips into town illustrated the brattiness of my cousin. Every morning before the day trip she would get an ice cream. My brother and I? Nothing. When it was lunch time Justine would get spaghetti, but would realize she didn’t like it and then cry until she was bought something else she did like, namely, ancient Chinese sushi hand-made from the Qinling mountain range. My brother and I? Spaghetti. Right before we went home for dinner my cousin would get another ice cream. My brother and I? Well, okay we got ice cream too but hers would always be a bigger cone. When we got home Justine would do basically anything she wanted, and if her parents tried to stop her she would simply activate the Four Stages Of Brattiness. These levels of disobedience are what only children do to get their way. Because I have younger siblings I do not know the exact formula, but I am going to lay out the basics so that if you see a child start to break down, you can hide in your bomb shelter.

Stage 1 (The “I Want That” Stage) - The child decides that he/she wants something, so they ask for it. This temptation can be anything from a new toy in a store to their parent’s attention. Most of Justine’s arguments started with her either wanting her mom’s attention or not wanting to go to bed, so the beginning words would either be “Mommy” or “No.”

Stage 2 (The Broken Record Stage) - If the child does not receive what they asked for, he/she will keep saying it over and over and over again usually in voice loud enough to kill small birds. Example “Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy . . .”

Stage 3 (The Water Works Stage) - The child pretends to cry. Most talented five-year-olds can summon tears whenever they want.

Stage 4 (The Limp Stage) - The child goes limp and relaxes all his/her muscles, causing them to slump to the floor and become difficult to move. If done in public, the embarrassment brought with going limp forces a parent to grant the child his desire.

Most children aren’t forced to go limp because most pussy-ass parents can’t withstand the Broken Record stage. For Justine, however, going limp was a daily routine and helped her receive ice cream, toys, and a longer bed time. Whenever I tried to use the Four Stages Of Brattiness to get my way, my age got in the way and my dreams were crushed. Hopefully at one point in my life I will be able to use the four levels as a way to finally get what I want.

Employer- Well Mr. Boonstra it doesn’t look like you’re qualified for this job. I’m sorry but we’ve found someone else we were looking for.

Me- I want that job.

Employer- Yes I know that but your training just isn’t enough for the amount of responsibility that comes with this type of work.

Me- I want that job I want that job I want that job I want that job I want that job I want that job I want that job I want that job!!!!

Employer- Mr. Boonstra please be quiet, other people are trying to work.

Me- I *sniff* want that job. Please sir *sniff* give me that job. It’s my *sniff* goal in life to have that *sniff* job.

Employer- I know that Mr. Boonstra but you’re just not qualified. Now please get up off the floor.

After two weeks I escaped my cousin’s wrath and came back to America, but my child experiences weren’t even close to over. Back in Arlington, I got a job at a Recreation Club where I looked after kids all day. The good news is that these brats weren’t five years old; the bad news is that they were fresh out of 7th grade.

In 7th grade, everything becomes clear to you. Most kids become Atheist and think they’re different because they don’t believe in God, and that is where social groups become really established. Most 7th graders think that they are different from everyone else (“No one realizes that I’m going to be someone someday!!!”) and think that they are more social than everyone else. If you happen to have a friend in the high school, all of your middle school friends consider you a God. Well, they would consider you a God, but they’re Atheist.

Dealing with 7th graders is a lot like dealing with stubborn, ignorant, narrow-minded Southerners. Everything you say will go over their heads and if they happen to disagree with something they understood, they will most likely call it “gay.” Everything is gay to a 7th grader.

Weather Man- It looks like it might rain in San Fransisco around 4 o’clock

Student- That is so gay.

Another thing that happens when you’re in 7th grade is that you have to become cool, and to do this you have to show no fear at all. So how do you display to everyone that you are the toughest kid in the school? You simply pick fights with everyone who disagrees with you. The average 7th grader picks 3 fights a day, most of them with things that don’t even cause problems like, for example, a desk. At the camp I worked at, there was this big strong 7th grade kid named Kevin who would pick a fight with anyone who got him out in dodgeball. Most of the time the kids who pegged him with the ball were twice his height and three times his weight, but that didn’t stop little Kevin from aggressively bumping into them with his big strong 7th grade chest and calling them “gay.” Of course, if Kevin were to actually get into a quarrel with these kids, his big strong 7th grade head would wind up in his big strong 7th grade ass, but who cares? Kevin was cool.

Throughout the course of camp, I got into many fights with 7th graders. I was called “gay,” a “faggot,” and even a “homo.” My sophisticated sense of humor was lost on their immature minds and they overall hated me. After my third week of work I started to miss Justine and longed for her. Afterall, at least a 5-year-old cousin doesn’t want to fight you; and if she did you could just drown her in the pool.

This summer has taught me to not have kids, and I hope you’ve learned too. Because if you have kids, they will, at one point, be 5 years old. No one wants to deal with the Four Stages Of Brattiness, especially in public. And then right when you thought the pain was over, your child will be in 7th grade and start calling you gay. So if you are going to have kids, I suggest you adopt an 18 year old son and ship him immediately off the college. Just make sure he remembers his Binky.