Comedy Corner

Not to many of you knew it, but I have been spending the last two weeks of my summer at my grandparents’ house in Holland, also known as “The Netherlands.” My time here as been well spent, and by “well spent” I mean that I want to go home now. All the other times I’ve been to Europe I’ve gone to Italy or France and now it sucks. Instead of being able to lie out in the sun all day it’s rained all week and the most exciting thing I’ve seen is a windmill that makes wheat. You know what else makes wheat? Massive factories in the Midwest that don’t require pussy wind.

But my least favorite part of coming to Holland is dealing with my spoiled cousin Justine. My cousin is so annoying that I’ve actually complained about her on my last trip to Europe, but this year is so much worse. Since she lives a few blocks from my grandparents, I have to hang out in her room and play with her toys. Every day. You see, Justine is an “only child,” and the readers of this site know how much I hate those kids. Only Childs are created when the parents are too much of pussies to deal with a second child, so instead they spend 80% of their finances making sure that the first child is the best. The result? Spoiled assholes on “My Sweet 16” crying because their parents didn’t buy them the BMW M6 convertible in pink.

Justine is only seven years old, so I don’t blame her for craving attention. In fact, I’m not as mad at Justine as I am at her parents, my aunt and uncle. It’s not her fault that she screams and whines and annoys everyone around her to the point where they give in to her demands, it’s the fault of her parents for allowing her to think that’s the proper behavior. In my family, whining for a toy would get you one thing: smacked in the face. Have you ever been smashed in the face with an elbow? I’ll tell you one thing: it’ll make you care a lot less about the G.I. Joe Fighter Jet with retractable wings.

Justine’s parents wouldn’t dare hit her. They don’t even yell at her. Hell, I’d be damned if they’ve ever parented her! They’re essentially her bitches. Justine gets whatever she wants one way or another, simply by screaming at them. You see, when you only have one child, you want to make sure that that child loves you unconditionally. Whereas other parents have a second or third child to give their attention to when one claims to “hate them,” the parents of only childs have to make sure that their offspring never consider hating them. So, when Justine wants to stay an extra 10 minutes in the playground when dinner is already on the table, all she has to scream is “I HATE YOU DADDY I HATE YOU!” and the father is suddenly in defense. He doesn’t want his child hating him, so what can he do to fix it? Well, I guess another 10 minutes on the jungle gym is okay if it makes her stop hating you, right? Wrong. Your daughter has just made you her bitch, and you can just stand off to the side and watch her go down the slide while your dinner gets cold, you spineless bastard.

Justine never gets disciplined. Her parents are scared to discipline her for fear of her hating them. Instead, they justify her tantrums with bullshit excuses. “Oh, she had to wake up at 8:15 this morning, that’s why she’s really grouchy.” No, your daughter is grouchy because she’s a spoiled bitch who is given whatever she wants. Grow a pair and tell your daughter No.

Does anyone else remember the Clean Plate Club? It was an exclusive group that you wanted to be in, and you could only join if everything on your dinner plate was gone. And I mean eaten, you couldn’t slip your extra ham to the dog or else you were rejected at the door by the Clean Plate Club bouncer. And everyone in the Clean Plate Club got dessert! But only if you were in the club. If you weren’t, you had to sit with your dinner plate in front of you and watch as everyone else sucked down their Creamsicles while you stared at the broccoli in front of you. No Clean Plate Club; no dessert.

Well apparently the Clean Plate Club was bought out by an asshole with only one child, and he changed the name to It Doesn’t Matter How Much Food Is Left On Your Plate Because All You Have To Do Is Complain And You Automatically Get Dessert Club. Out of the two weeks I was here, my cousin didn’t finish a single meal. In fact, she didn’t even have to eat the food that she didn’t want to; my grandmother individually picked the mushrooms out of Justine’s lasagna while the rest of us simply picked around them. Yet at the end of dinner, after all my food was eaten and Justine’s plate looked like Nichole Richie had just picked at it, we all got the same amount of dessert. And if Justine wanted more ice cream, she just had to complain and boom—she would have seconds.

My anger reached its limit last night when we were at dinner. As a side, we had french fries. In Europe, it is custom to put mayonnaise on your french fries, potatoes, etc. The night before we had potatoes, so there was a very small amount of mayonnaise left. Aware of this, my sister got the tube out and finished it off, only getting enough for maybe three or four fries. Justine then parades to the table and demands mayo. She refuses to eat without it and runs away from the table crying. CRYING. This child is crying because she didn’t get a condiment she wanted.

Well guess what happened. Justine’s parents took half of my sister’s mayo and gave it to Justine, who wasted it all on one fry and then ate her other 20 plain. Outraged at what had just happened, I decided to write this post.

Shit like this would never have happened in my family. Ever. Not only because I wasn’t an only child, but because my parents are pussies who play to their children’s pathetic needs. You know what would have happened if I had left the dinner table in a tantrum over mayonnaise? My dinner plate would have been emptied into the toilet and I wouldn’t have been allowed to eat. My parents took no bullshit from anyone. I specifically remember having timeouts so long I could feel my chin-hairs growing. You know my father’s favorite line? “Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.”

I think my parents favorite form of discipline was the wooden spoon. If me and my brother started bickering or if I was being stubborn, my mom would get a look on her face that meant business. She would grow silent and rush to the kitchen, where I would hear her open a drawer, rummage through cutlery, and slam the drawer shut.

Run.

I would scamper anywhere I could find. Behind the couch, under the coffee table, or into my room, I would scurry for safety, but not before my mom got a few good smacks on my head with the tool. To this day I never look at a wooden spoon the same. My dad, on the other hand, would use only his hands, which he managed to transform into amazing weapons of discipline. Whether it was a few smacks across the head a tight “Grab and drag” of my arm down the hallway, I would be yelled at if I was late to dinner, cried over something idiotic, or even thought about acting spoiled.

I’m glad my parents hit me, too. Because I see now what would have happened to me if I hadn’t. I see kids my age crying over spilt milk and getting whatever they want. My girlfriend was also hit, and because of that she doesn’t take anything for granted. You definitely won’t see her bitching about wanting more mayonnaise. That might be because she hates mayonnaise, but you get the point.

Because Justine was never beat or yelled at or even contradicted, she has become the world’s biggest bitch. At age seven! She thinks she can control everyone and if they don’t do exactly what she says, she gets upset. Here is a conversation I overheard between her and my sister who were playing “pretend”:

Justine- Pretend that you’re my mom and that I’m the prettiest girl in the world. Pretend that I have to go away to camp. “Goodbye mother, I’m going off the camp.” Now say ‘how long will you be gone?’
My sister [emotionless]- “How long will you be gone?”
Justine- “Just two weeks.” Now say ‘Two weeks?! That’s so long!”
My sister- Two weeks, that’s so long.
Justine- Now say that you want to come with me.
My sister- “I’m going to have your father go with you”
Justine- NO SAY THAT YOU WANT TO COME WITH ME!
My sister- “I want to come with you”
Justine- “No, I want dad to go with me”

Whenever I call Justine out on her bitchiness she ignores me. On multiple occasions I’ve asked “Why are you being so mean?” only for her to turn her back and walk away. Luckily I’ve leaving tomorrow so I’ll no longer have to fight the urge to shove my foot down her throat. Kids like these should be shipped off to a military school where they are shown how to respect people older than them and realize that the world doesn’t revolve around them. Hopefully I won’t see my cousin for another 10 years or so, but I suspect I’ll see her on a future episode of “Sweet 16.” No doubt she’ll want a car filled with mayonnaise.

I have had it with the commercials for “clearer skin” that advertise anti-acne creams and medicines. Every single one of them is the same, and every single one of them sucks. All I want to do is watch “The Gauntlet III” in peace when every 10 minutes my show is interrupted by someone reminding me how many pimples are on my face. They then tell me that they have an acne treatment that no one has ever thought of before and that they could possibly be fired for revealing the company’s deep secret to clearer skin. The worst part is that even though every company is preaching the same crap to force kids into self-consciousness, they all do it through different—yet equally annoying—advertising strategies.

First, we have the commercials that trick you into believing they’re the best because before they even say anything they feed you with easily-obtained facts.

“Eating chocolate makes you break out . . . FALSE!!”

“Washing your skin every day prevents break outs . . . FALSE!!”

This advertising strategy is the same approach “Bill Nye the Science Guy” took in his television show. The first ten minutes would be him listing facts like “Mercury is 43 million miles from the sun!” in order to gain the parent’s approval, and then the kids were forced to watch him promote Nazi genocide through, for example, chemical reactions. Similarly, these acne commercials think that if you hear reassuring facts about your skin, you’ll trust them enough to buy their face cream.

Another, funnier approach is taken by Clearasil, who uses comedy in their commercial but at the cost of legitimate information about their product. Clearasil knows that they’re dealing with teenagers who hate to be bombarded with inane things like “statistics” and “hard work,” which is why they directed their commercials in a more comedic direction. This company insisted that their face cream “may cause confidence,” a side effect that few would distrust. There are many things that cause confidence, but few that cause confidence and clear skin. To most insecure teenagers, a face cream that results in self-assurance is worth their life savings alone, and the clear skin that results with it is just an added bonus!

This advertisement approach reminds me of every single beer commercial there is. Advertisers blind alcoholic men with pictures of bikini-wearing women and unrealistic situations to the point where consumers buy the beer hoping to get laid. They think that if they drink it, their beer belly will turn into a six pack, their receding hairline will turn into a full head of hair, and they will instantly get a job. Oh yeah, and they’ll have a beer.

The last acne commercials are those of the famous Proactive Solution. Besides being the biggest buzzword in any company’s innovative meeting, “Proactive Solution” is the number one selling acne medicine in America. No, I swear, they really are, even Jessica Simpson said. Yeah she did! She was in the commercial! Remember her in “The Dukes of Hazzard”? She was so hot in that. I bet Proactive is what made her so hot.

The fact that Proactive has enough money to buy out celebrities doesn’t make them the best, it makes them the richest. And the reason they have all this money is because people think exactly what I just made fun of. They think that because P. Diddy and Jessica Simpson use it, it must be the most trusted acne medicine of its time. As proof, I have here a Proactive commercial staring Lindsey Lohan. Try to keep your eyes off her chest enough to notice the bullshit she feeds you throughout the entire commercial.

Besides Lindsey sounding like she has an entire frog colony stuck in her throat, this commercial was good. It had the upbeat, catchy music that teenagers love to listen to; it had a famous person that everyone idolizes; and it had Lohan pretending to adlib blatantly scripted lines (“I even think I keep some in my car HAHAHAHAHA!!”).My favorite part, however, was ten seconds into the commercial when Lindsey describes herself as “a normal person.” Oh yeah Lindsey, someone who has multi-million dollar movie contracts, hit albums, and an eating disorder, and a drug problem is undoubtedly a normal person. Also, it seems that the only skin problem Lohan had was one pathetic pimple on her chin. Try saying you’re a “normal person who gets zits” to a kid whose face would put a pepperoni pizza to shame. But lastly, this commercial had what every acne medicine commercial has: the universal How-We-Clean-Your-Pores diagram:

This familiar clip is put into every skin treatment commercial in America, and clearly shows everyone something that they don’t care about. Teenagers wouldn’t care if your face cream contained tiny soldiers with flame-throwers who torched the acne from your pores like the beaches of Iwo Jima. We get it: your product goes inside the pores, grabs the crap, and then magically dances out.

Another thing that all skin advertisements have is a display of “Before and After” pictures that flash across the screen. The sight of seeing a hideous pimple-faced monster transform into a decent-looking student builds the hopes of teenagers and makes them want to buy the product. Little do people know that while these pictures are being quickly thrown across the screen, a small note at the bottom reads “results will vary.” This scumbag move is all the advertisers need, and now they can fill their containers with water.

I think that since I’m sitting in front of my computer complaining against commercials, I would join the group of people (SNL, The Onion, MadTV, every other kid with a blog, etc.) who are getting angry at razor companies. For Christmas my parents got me the second season of SNL from 1976. The cast included massive names like Chevy Chase, Dan Akroid, and even John Belushi. One of my favorite skits was a spoof-razor commercial in which they advertised a razor with three blades, mocking the needlessness. To my father this was hilarious because he remembers a time when he had a single-bladed razor and was stunned by two blades, but to me it wasn’t funny. I shave with a razor with three blades, and I didn’t think it was that strange. But then the next year I hear about the Schick Quattro Razor with four blades! And recently we’ve seen the release of the Gillette Fusion razor with five blades. And what’s this? It needs batteries!? WHY THE HELL DO I NEED BATTERIES TO SHAVE?!

I’m not even going to make the joke about “a razor with 15 blades” because everyone has done it. Just know that you only need one blade to shave, and you no not need batteries. Advertisers for razors also need to calm down. Shaving is a very basic process, and the last thing people need is for you to complicate the procedure by bringing in irrelevant jargon like “Vitamin E” and “hydrating formula.” Just let me deal with my patches of awkward peach fuzz without perplexity.

And finally, since I yelled at the skin commercials for all using the same diagram, I feel obligated to warn the shaving commercials that if they don’t stop using the same “close shave” illustration I’m going to scream. I think you guys know what I’m talking about:

Each commercial has an added comment like “This fifth blade picks up missed hair follicles that the fourth one missed!!” I have an idea: How about instead of adding blades to “catch” the left over hair, we manufacture a razor that catches the entire hair on one blade. Instead, they endanger us more by forcing sharp pointy razors near the arteries in our throats.

Half of America isn’t smarter than a fifth grader, I don’t think people should need a PHD in Anatomy to cleanse their skin or shave their beards. I don’t care if you advertise the occasional face cream or razor, just lay off the clichéd illustrations and scientific terminology. I don’t know what it means when something is “hydrocronically adhesive.” I must have missed that episode of Bill Nye.

I was reading one of my favorite comedy sites the other day when I stumbled across an article about ideas a writer had but never really completed for whatever reason. One of them that caught my eye was “Building The Perfect Woman,” and I liked the idea. I figured if he wasn’t going to write it, I’d give it a shot. In a past post I gave you my list of the three hottest women, but that was where it stopped. I never considered which celebrity had the hottest kneecaps or finest eyelids, or what combining them would look like. Also, I figure that the girl world already has John Cena and Orlando Bloom, so constructing the perfect woman would only level the playing field.

I guess we’ll start from the bottom:

To being we’ll select feet, which I believe are obsolete because only podiatrists and men with weird fetishes like feet. Also, most women take such good care of their feet that it doesn’t matter whose you pick, but for the point of argument I’m going to take Missy Elliot’s because any feet that was withstand that much weight without exploding must have super powers.

Next are the legs. For those I chose Paris Hilton. No, I didn’t choose her legs just because they’re easily open-able (swing and a miss), but because it was the only part of her I could choose. When selecting legs, you don’t want thunder thighs that will take up an entire seat, but you also don’t want scrawny little twigs that snap if you rest too heavy a purse on them. Paris Hilton has no attractive qualities besides her legs, but only if you give them a thorough cleaning before-hand—maybe it’s just me but I think everything on Paris appears sticky.

I chose the waist of Victoria Beckham, not only because she was the 5th hottest spice girl but because I wanted to go European. In a country of fake tits and nose-jobs, Posh Spice has continued to amaze us with her slim body. Granted, the rest of her appearance is butt-ugly, which is why we’re only stealing her waist.

For the butt I didn’t think twice about Shakira. If you’ve watched any of her music videos and seen her spin her ass around like she was winning a pillow-fight you’d agree with me. Shakira appears attractive until she opens her mouth and her Columbian vocal chords punch you in the face. Nothing against the Latin-American culture, but I think a woman rolling her R’s and talking to me in the same language my Spanish teacher cursed at me for six years is unattractive. Also, Shakira is 31 years old, so I thought we should include her on the list before all that beauty starts sagging.

For the stomach I took Briana Evigan, also known as the girl from Step Up 2: The Streets. Although the movie was lacking (it’s unbelievable how producers think they can make a movie sequel successful by putting “The Streets” at the end of it and making it more “hood”) the six pack of Briana was amazing. My girlfriend and I joke about how if she works hard enough, she could get a stomach as hot as Briana’s but we all know that’s not true because Briana doesn’t order four sides of french fries every time she goes out to eat.

Continuing up we reach the controversial part of the woman: the breasts. A woman’s boobs are very personal and private, which is why talking about them is so fun. Chesticals play a major part in a woman’s appearance, and selecting from the array of celebrities seems like searching for a needle in a haystack. Luckily, I was a kid brought up on music videos and the internet, so it didn’t take me long to decide that Maria Carey’s “display” was good enough for our lady. They’re big enough to be seen without needing to be pushed and smashed and Wonder-Braed, but not too big as to scare young and timid men. Other substitutable chests include Halle Berry in Swordfish and Courtney Cox in The Longest Yard.

The face of this perfect woman (who, while writing, I have decided to name “Christina Harmony White”) I went with Jennifer Love Hewitt, but I substituted her eyes for those of Megan Fox. I’m still waiting for the day when Megan Fox gets really angry and lasers shoot from her eye sockets and burn a hole in the wall. Jennifer Love Hewitt, on the other hand, has the puffy, rosy cheeks and quaint nose to tickle any man into a good mood.

Next: hair. In a girl I either like my hair straight as a board or unpredictably wavy, but for the benefit of all men I went with Lindsey Lohan’s old hair. In movies like Mean Girls and Herbie: Fully Loaded most guys couldn’t follow the plot due to the distracting attraction of Lohan’s luscious hair. Unfortunately, she then cut it, dyed it, and became lesbian, making her the only celebrity in American history to become less attractive when seen kissing another girl.

Lastly we must select Christina Harmony White’s personality. Anyone who is my close friend knows how much I hate girl’s personalities, and at first I was considering choosing the die-hard, freedom-fighting, baby-stomping mentality of Chuck Norris to fit our Perfect Woman, but the decided against it because even though a woman who could kick my ass is attractive, a woman who could shove a telephone pole through my appendix isn’t. So I went one step down from a combative man: a lesbian. These women don’t care about what guy likes them or if they’re being used for sex, they just want to have short hair and drive SUVs. So I chose our Perfect Lady to have the funny and peppy personality of Ellen Degeneres. Not only is Ellen funny and positive, but she has her own TV show.

So, after sampling a little bit off of every hot woman, let’s see what Christina Harmony White would really look like:

Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.

Today’s post is about a man who epitomizes greatness. He characterizes masculinity and is untouchable in the man world. If men on this earth were a fraction of his manliness, wars would infinitely continue in a test to out-strength the other. Sadly, all of men’s chances to prove their power would fall short to this man. But out of all the ways to describe this man, nothing paints the picture of his might better than his own name:

Magnus Ver Magnússon.

Magnus Ver Magnusson is a strongman from Iceland, and has won the World’s Strongest Man competition four times. His strength is unmatched of any man, along with his name, which is really what tops his whole persona off. I feel Magnus needed a tribute post to him because strongmen are usually categorized in the same class and none of them really stand out. Because people don’t know much about strongmen competitions, they just refer to all body builders as the same people, resulting in a man with the badass man Magnus Ver Magnússon being categorized with body builders named John Smith.

But putting the fact that Magnus is a body builder, let’s just focus on his name. In fact, I’m not going to even call it a name. Names are “Bob” and “Elleanor”; Magnus Ver Magnússon is a fucking title. According to Cheap Seats, this strongman’s title could only get better if it was changed to “Magnus Ver Magnússon the Magnificent,” whereas Cracked.com says that his name couldn’t possibly get maniler. I think “The Mighty Magnus Ver Magnússon” would be nice, but there’s really no way to out-do the Double Magnus that his name represents. And with forearms that could make a cow shit steaks, I’m willing to bet no one ever called this guy “Mag the Fag.”

There’s really no point to this article, I just wanted people to know that there is a man out there with a name cooler than yours and he’s the epitome of manliness. Oh sure “Ryan Thrillshed” might sound kind of cool, but you’re certainly not a body builder and your name definitely doesn’t rhyme. And as an official tribute to Magnus Ver Magnússon, I have decided to make one of my kid’s middle names Magnus and surrender his life to weightlifting. We will move to Iceland and live among the greats. Maybe Magnus will even sign me an autograph.

With this biceps.

The other day, my co-workers and I were discussing a topic that normally takes place in a bakery: who is the hottest “Austin Powers” Girl? Now for those of you who haven’t seen the three “Austin Powers” Movies, the girls are:

Elizabeth Hurley from “Austin Powers: International Man Of Mystery”

Heather Graham from Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me

Beyoncé Knowles from “Austin Powers in Goldmember”

Now obviously based on looks, most guys would agree that the order goes Beyoncé with Heather in close second and then Elizabeth in back, but my co-workers and I also factored in humor and acting skills. Comically, the order was changed to Heather (who was 2nd in both categories), Beyoncé (who was the worst actress since Tom Cruise, but whose beauty is unprecedented), and then Elizabeth Hurley (who, although being a model and actress, was put into last place because she’s British). Now personally I would get with any of these actresses in the blink of an eye, but that’s not what we’re talking about here. Because although this conversation with my co-workers is one that ignites between any teenage crowd watching the Austin Powers series, this one sparked a new question. Although to call it a question would be like calling Hitler “a little bit racist”; this question was more of an undeterminable debate amongst the human race.

The question is, of course, who is the hottest girl alive? Now before you do some stupid assuming and yell out “OMG I WUD TTLY DO MARIAH CAREY! LOL!” let me explain the rules. The qualifications for these girls is that they come with “no strings attached”—that is, while considering the woman, you pay no attention to her personality, background, or past boyfriends. We are going by the idea that you were knocked unconscious and forgot any celebrity gossip in the past and you were looking at these girls for the first time. Also, the women need to be semi-famous. When I discussed the topic with other girls, I got dumb responses like “There was this cameo by a man in Sex and the City and his mom’s niece in the show was the most gorgeous women I had ever seen.” They don’t have to be big names; they just have to be recognizable names. Lastly, I know that when it comes to the looks of women there are different types. So in order to make things easier, I will split the competition into three categories, which I will describe here as stages of Britney Spear’s life:

The Goody-Girl

This is the girl who you would keep around just because she’s an angel and keeps you out of trouble. You know that with this girl your relationship would never hit a rough spot and everything would be easy sailing. Her looks are based more off of clear skin and cute smile than anything, and you know that if you were to play with her it would include fewer condoms and more Barbie dolls.

The Bad Girl

This is the girl who could probably kick your ass. You don’t dare pick a fight with her because it would result with you on your back crying Uncle. You keep her around because her fierce attitude scares you in a way nothing else can. You would gladly fight a bear or wrestle an alligator than forget your one year anniversary with this girl. After playing around with this girl you’d need three shirts on so no one sees the scars on your back.

The Psycho

This girl could undoubtedly kick your ass, and she has the spiked bracelet to prove.
There’s really nothing attractive about this girl, other than the always sexual idea that if you were to upset her she would slit your throat. In fact, the only thing keeping you with this girl is the fear of your dick being thrown out of a moving car into a field. To prevent yourself from being chopped up and kept in a freezer, you stay with this girl and endure the excruciating and terrifying sex, all-the-while begging that someone spots the Morse Code S.O.S. you’re flashing with your phone. Playing around with this girl would unquestionably involve whips, chains, leather dominatrix suits, and you crying like a bitch.

After much debate and talking with other girls, I feel that I have safely come up with my decision for the hottest girl ever: My girlfriend.

Hahaha just kidding, here are my real candidates for the hottest girl in each category. They are as follows:

The Goody-Girl—Jessica Alba

I feel that if I were to share an apartment with Jessica Alba, the worst thing she would ever do during our 15 years together is overflow her cereal bowl. And even then she would thoroughly apologize and immediately clean it up. She is arguably the cutest thing since Furbie, and probably listens when you ask her to be quiet—something Furbies are yet to do.

My Runners Up: Jessica Simpson and Jennifer Aniston.

The Bad Girl—Megan Fox

The piercing color in this girl’s eyes is enough to make a grown man cry, and her body is enough to have him coming back for more. I feel that if Megan and I ever shared an apartment together, she’s get the bigger bedroom and my bedroom, forcing me to sleep in the closet. We would watch whatever channel she wanted to watch, which would most likely be wrestling or dirt-bike racing. In an interview with Maxim, Megan admitted that she “really enjoys having sex,” a thought that makes more than hope rise in many men (swing and a miss).

My Runners Up: Courtney Cox and Angelina Jolie

The Psycho—Carmen Electra

Carmen Electra is one of the hottest girls alive, but I’d be too afraid to tell her for fear of her whipping a razor from her titties and attacking me. In fact, I’m a little scared that she’s reading this now, finding out my personal information and a planning to kill me in my sleep. The things I would do to this girl are enough to send me to confessional, and the things this girl would do to me are enough to send her to jail.

My Runners Up: Lil’ Kim and Rosie O’Donnell

I would be glad to know what you think of my girls, and I encourage everyone to try to answer to unanswerable question. Do you agree with me? Who are other potential Runner Ups? My co-workers and I dare you to answer the question. If you think you have a good idea, just leave a comment. I probably won’t read it for a while though; I think I have to fix things with my girlfriend.

Due to my crazy schedule and my sudden development of a “life,” you may have noticed that I’ve been posting less and less and less. It’s not because I don’t enjoy writing (I still chose to write during class instead of taking notes), but because I have so much other important shit to do (working, coaching, masturbating, etc.), to which writing comes after. In order to explain to you why I don’t have time to write anymore, I have—ironically—written an entire post about it.

1. My work. Believe it or not, I enjoy my work. I have friends who work with me and I meet new people every day and get to joke with complete strangers before never seeing them again. One time (at band camp . . .) I met this guy who wanted to know if our New England clam chowder was any good. Stunned that he had never tried clam chowder, I asked him where he was from, and he replied “D.C.” You know when you hear one thing and your mind immediately goes crazy and makes connections? Well this is the thought process I went through:

Trying to sound smart, I fired back “State?” only to realize that I had just asked if Washington D.C. was a state. Embarrassed, I joked with the guy about my IQ of 4 and gave the guy his food. Luckily, I’ll never see him again.

Because I enjoy my work, I don’t mind working a lot of hours. I would roughly 25 hours a week, which is a fair amount of time for a 16-year-old kid. Money-wise, I make bank, and it also prevents me from becoming mind-numbingly bored at my house. Before I worked, I would go straight home from school, sit on the couch, and watch TV until 7:30 when I would eat dinner, and then watch more shows until bed. Now, I come home from school, get ready, and work until 10:30. When I get home I’m far too exhausted to even think about comedy.

2. My memory. Part of writing and performing comedy is being able to remember long subjects and punch lines without the assistance of anyone. This is also true for thinking up topics to write about. At one point I carried around a notebook in which I would write down every funny thing I thought of, but that got really annoying when I filled up an entire notebook and then it got wet and all my work was lost. After that, I tried remembering stuff, but that was very difficult because I have the memory of a retarded 80-year-old. I would think of something funny while at school, forget it by the time I got to my computer, and then remember it the next day at work. This seriously crippled my writing style. Unable to remember an on-going theme or joke, I started writing my posts in one sitting instead of multiple sessions, and my work became smaller. Also, writing posts in one sitting requires free time, and although I still have 163 hours off work, most of my time—and memory—is dedicated to my life-engulfing girlfriend. Hmm, I wonder what the next number on the list is going to be about . . .

3. My life-engulfing girlfriend. As many of you know, once you get a girlfriend you are forced to become tough and masculine, and apparently writing posts about Pokemon and Tough Guys Wearing Pink doesn’t qualify. To quote one of my best friends, my girlfriend has “changed me,” both emotionally and comedic-ly. Emotionally, I have become more controlled, and instead of doing what every other guy does when a hot girl walks down the hall—stare at her chest without her noticing—I have learned to stare at her chest without her or my girlfriend noticing. It’s a big change, but I think I can handle it.

When I didn’t have a girlfriend, I would spend a good portion of my weekend nights inside with no friends to talk to. Either all my friends would be having a “girls night” or they would all be drinking, but for some reason I would wind up at home with no plans. And when caged in the uneventful constraints of your house, you start to find ways to ventilate your boredom. Some people watch TV, others listen to music, and some viciously masturbate to late-night Girls Gone Wild commercials. Whatever the way of liberating (swing and a miss) your boredom, it’s what works and what feels good. Me? I would write stuff. I would write whatever. Sometimes I would be listening to a song and decide to write a parody of it. To this day I have over a dozen parody songs written, and I would gladly make a CD that would turn me into the next Weird Al Yankovic; the only problem is that I can’t sing, which, apparently, is a major part of making a song.

But six months ago, I entered this thing called a “relationship” in which I have “responsibilities” and “commitments.” And although there are laborious chores that I have to follow (walking her home, making her happy, remembering her birthday, blah blah blah), it is overall worth it. The good news is that I always have plans on a Saturday night, but the bad news is that I’m too busy hanging with her to write superior posts. To show you how much more important my girlfriend is to me, I have created a math-like equation of my priorities:

4. My viewers. Turns out that my website isn’t just a small thing for me and my friends anymore. When I first started posting, I got probably 100 views a week on this site, and they were all from kids younger than me who laughed at words like “duty” and “lubrication.” I used this to my advantage and posted about whatever I wanted, namely, Sex Drugs and Rock & Roll. Now, my viewers include my 7th grade History teacher, my girlfriend’s militant father, both my parents, and a teacher at my high school. Although I don’t think that my comedy is intended for these people, I am flattered that they would take time out of their busy schedule. Unfortunately, this also restricts my writing to broad subjects that don’t zoom in on my life. Since I live life with a “Do or Die,” “All or Nothing” attitude, my stories are both inappropriate and unacceptable in the eyes of these people, some of whom have the power to end my life metaphorically and literally. Without readers and censors like this, my writing would be comparable to Tucker Max, but since I have to dance around these people, my posts lowered to the inappropriateness of a touchdown celebration (which, thanks to T.O. have become oddly obscene).

I have made a promise to myself, as well as you loyal readers, to continue posting, and I promise that I will get back up to a post a week. Since I am going to college for journalism, writing all the time can only benefit me. In 6 years you’ll probably read an article by me in Rolling Stone talking about something goofy like abortion or politics, and you’ll know that it was this website where it all started. You can say to yourself “I knew that kid before he was a big shot.” And although this site has started my writing, I hope to further my education at a college. Preferably D.C. State.