McDonald's renting out attic space

Have you been to the Museum of Communism? It's located right above the monster of capitalism. Just look for the psychotic panda holding an AK-47.

Kilt/Tims

Check out this bro straight killing it in the kilt and Tims, with his nuts swinging lower than his plantium-plated canteen belt. He's probably textin his bitch saying "sorry I can't make it over to your place tonight, too busy redefining fashion and trying to find a place to sit. Stop by tomorrow afternoon if you need your nylon stockings back."

Sexy clothes vs. ugly habit

Fat guy in a little coat has nothing on handsfree smoker in a German drindl ...


Look mom, no hands! (That is literally her mom next to her.)

Is the book really better than the movie?

Whenever a group of people are discussing a movie that was first a book, inevitably someone says, "The book is better than the movie." Even if the book is better than the movie, many times the person's real reason for making this statement is to let everyone they read. In the history of book to movie transfers, rarely will a person who has read the book and seen the movie say the movie is better, even in the uncommon case that it actually is. This is simply because of their accomplishment in reading the book. Of course the book is better ... you've developed an emotional attachment to it.

Of course, for the humorously inclined, there is a zinger to be had somewhere in there. "The book is way better," said jokingly when people are discussing a movie, is a facetious way of making fun of people who say this seriously. It's especially funny, I always thought, to use the phrase on a movie that clearly was not based on a book.

But for those who insist on making a point of announcing that the book is better in seriousness: No one cares that you've read the book any more than they care if you've seen the movie. Besides, if you really want to let people know you read, there's a better way.

People are always taking about what they've "heard." I heard Istanbul is a great city, I heard there's no wind in space, I heard running downhill is bad for your knees, etcetera. The next time you're inclined to tell someone about something you heard, switch "I heard" to "I read." If you heard it, then someone has probably written it somewhere, as well. And it's a good habit to get into since reading, especially when compared to watching television, is generally a practice of the more intelligent. Therefor, if you want to be considered among that ilk, it's always better to say you learned of a particular piece of information by reading it than by hearing it. And if you're asked to reference where it was you saw that piece of information printed and you cannot, your reason is simply because you read so much that you can't keep track of it all.

It's much better than going out of your way to let everyone know you found the time to sit down and enjoy a Dan Brown novel.

Taking a dump at the office – pros and cons

PROS
-time away from the desk
-better to have filth/strain on facilities in work bathroom than home bathroom
-save money on toilet paper
-subjecting significant other to the sounds and smells of your dumps is a passion killer

CONS
-less privacy (sounds, smells)
-filth other than your own to contend with
-more obligation to wipe streaks from bowl upon completion
-too much time in a cramped stall with nothing but dump fumes steaming up from below can nearly suffocate a person
-embarrassing walk of shame into/out of bathroom or stall

chould

could've, should've, would've?

when unsure whether to use could or should, try "chould"

venison

If men are from mars and women are from venus, then men are martians and women are ... venisons? No, because venison is a dead deer that's been cured for consumption. The proper term is "Venusian."

Brother from another mother

It would seem that despite how convenient the rhyme works out, it's much more common to have a brother from another father than a brother from another mother.

Cuticle anorexia

It's one thing to do it in private. One time I was at a chamber of commerce meeting, covering the gathering as a reporter for the local newspaper. A guy named Gary Joyce was giving a speech; Gary was a friend and always exuded a lot of enthusiasm and respect toward our paper and myself. Somehow Gary got to talking about the paper, and I was so engulfed in my attempt to rip what little white skin I could away from the cuticle of my thumb that I was completely oblivious of the fact that he was talking about me. The entire room took a moment to glance over at me and briefly observe how interested I seemed to be in this disgusting ritual. All of a sudden I received a wave of that ESP like sensation we all seem to get when a group has turned its attention to you, and I looked up at Gary and said "Sorry. I was in a trance."

He replied kindly, as he always was. "It's okay John, I know I'm boring. Just don't fall asleep on me."

The implication there, of course, that whatever bizarre self-mutilation was engaged in at that moment was about as productive as if I was asleep. It's the human equivalent of when your dog takes an old shoe or toy or rawhide and goes in a corner and just zones out for hours, chewing and chewing away. Only that's not actually bad for the dog, as far as I know. The dog's not bleeding from several places when it's done. Hell, after a two-hour Sunday night session with the tiny scissors I've got at least four fingers bloody, sometimes six.

When I say "tiny scissors," I'm referring to those little scissors you receive in those "kits" that are designed for this very ritual. Apparently I'm not the first person to have this disgusting masochistic addiction, for these "kits," these collections of instruments of self-mutilation, are very much in existence. Alas, wherever there is vice there will always be some opportunistic swine profiting from it. It's as certain as the vice is tempting.

The company profiting from my addiction at the moment is an aptly named outfit called "Trim." I say at the moment because I've gone through several of these kits, losing every piece, piece by piece, over the last 15 or so years. The tools are often lost in bedding and couch cushions and all the other places a drunk might find his flask when he is finally roused the next afternoon, still in the same clothes from the night before. I often pass out during my Trim sessions in the same manner a stoner passes out in front of the television after gouging himself on potato chips.

I often compare this cuticle mutilating addiction to an addiction to alcohol or drugs and the like, but it's really not a fair comparison as those are substances. An x-girlfriend once told me I was like a "cutter," a person who cuts him or herself, which is a little closer, but I don't think that's quite right either. I think cutters cut themselves to escape numbness, while deep down I think every cuticle masochist started down that path because they thought it was making their fingers look better. That was the case with me, and I'm sure it's the same with many people. So in that regard, it's more like anorexia or bulimia. You're putting yourself through pain because you think it's making you look how you're supposed to look, when really it's only making you look worse. Or maybe it's like those girls who pluck their eyebrows out and go too far and end up plucking them all out. "Eyebrow anorexia," I've heard it called. Maybe we should call my sickness cuticle anorexia.

Like masturbating, or picking your nose, I find this subject so embarrassing it's difficult to write about. But I'd like to think at least I'm thinking while I'm doing it. The multitask culture tells us to value everything you do by dividing its amount of accomplishment by the amount of time you spent performing said task, and when I spend hours picking at my fingernails and cuticles, the only other thing I could be accomplishing is a little cathartic thinking.