Sleeping At Work

I wrote another article for Cracked.com about a subject that I hold dear to my heart.

Sleeping at Work

If you like it then tell you friends. Or stop snitching and keep it to yourself.  Then again, do whatever you want! It's not like you're gonna listen to me anyway. Cuz if you DID I would suggest that you contribute to my "Robots Fight Dirty from Home" early retirement fund. This work business is for suckers.

More blog posts like this!

Drunk Girl Bowling

Supermarket Stalking

Never Bet on Glen

I Don't Know Anything About Philip Seymour Hoffman

All the information I wrote on Philip Seymour Hoffman came from what I found on Wikipedia. Honest. So the facts are as reliable as your 4-year-old neighbor's cardboard rocket ship and frying pan space helmet. I've only seen a couple of Hoffman's movies and from what I remembered, he annoyed the shit out of me.  So why not write an article about him, right? I think he is a pretty good actor but I still find his roles to be annoying as an eye full of mosquito bites.

I'll be honest. I just wanted to draw a cartoon version of Philip Seymour Hoffman and have a shitload of people see it, tell me I am the coolest ever and get my bank account obese.

(Cracked articles get views that range from tens to hundreds of thousands. Check mine. I'll be lucky if it breaks two and some change.)

You can see how well THAT turned out. I think if you threw a hat on him, my drawing becomes a reasonable Michael Moore caricature. Oh well. "Live and learn. No money lost and NEVER any money earned." So to the 4 people that read this blog, enjoy!

 

Philip Seymour Hoffman on Cracked.com

PORNO VISION

Who: The smartest scientist in the world.
What: World Science Conference
When: Right now
Where: An airship outfitted with a laboratory and 700 seat theater hall hovering 5 miles above the earth.
Why: To share and brag about brilliant scientific ideas and inventions.

-------------------------------------

Me: Everybody shut up! All your inventions are stupid.

(The crowd gasps as I march down the aisle confidently like a drummer boy. I manage to slap the back of a few heads that fail to turn and recognize my presence.)

Speaker at the Podium: Pardon me!

Me: Hey, I don't speak French! I speak science, just like the rest of you dorks. I'm just cooler.

Speaker: What are you doing here?

(I turn towards the audience dramatically. Think old school William Shatner.)

Me: I'm here to talk about science.

Balding Audience Member: (Wagging his finger.) How did you get on this ship? Only the world's greatest scientist are allowed on this vessel. I'm not familiar with who you are.

Entire Audience: (Like a herd of sheep.) Yeah.

Me: I'm the janitor.

Speaker: We don't have a janito... ( I cut him off.)

Me: Yeah, I'm the one that cleans up after all of you when you have your robot sex orgies.

(The audience grows visibly embarrassed and shuts their scientific asses up.)

Me: I'm sick of you smucks thinking you're so damn smart. (I point my finger gun at them.) I'm the smartest one here! (I point my finger gun at myself and blow away the smoke.) You see I've been working here all this time just to steal your ideas.

(The audience gasps again. The course I took in Pro-Wrestling Public Speaking is coming in handy.)

Audience Member with a Handlebar Moustache: This is preposterous!

Me: I'm not following you and your British, butler talk.

Audience Member with a Handlebar Moustache: My word!

Me: What's with you guys? You all seem pretty stuffy. By a show of hands, who here has never gotten laid?

(A few hands go up.)

Me: With a human.

(More than half the room raises their hands. My hand involuntarily shoots up as well. Luckily only a few see it since the majority are hanging their heads in shame. I force my honest hand down and hide it in my pocket to cover my guilt.)

Me: I see, I see. Now I know all you guys are here to talk about your new sources of clean energy, cures for cancer and other gay shit. I say nuts to that. What I got here blows that all out of the water. What I have here will change the world AS WE KNOW IT!

(Silence.)

Me: How come no one's clapping?

Audience Member with Hideously Thick Glasses: Someone alert the security bots!

Me: Please do call them, SO I CAN BLOW THEM UP!

(I rip open my button down shirt to reveal the bomb strapped to my chest.)

Audience Member with his Brain Encased in Glass: (Squinting) That's just a cereal box with the word "Bomm" written on it.

Me: You guys are cleverer than I thought. We'll let's see how...

(Before I can finish, one of those Jetsons looking security bots hits me with a stun gun from behind. The audience erupts in applause, hollering like they're on the Jerry Springer show. Some of the science nerds record this on their cellphones. Some throw calculators at me.)

Me: Don't do this! I must be heard! (The big, metal, cheap-shoting trashcan drags me out as I kick and twist my arm free.) These goggles... (I pull from my inside my pants) these goggles will change mankind... they're porno goggles!

(A hush falls over the room. The speaker at the podium stands tall with his arms stretched out like Moses.)

Speaker: (In a James Earl Jones voice) Stand down, security bots. (Gesturing towards me.) Sir, you have 5 minutes to speak.

(The crowd turns towards me as I walk back up to the stage adjusting my shirt and "bomm" box.)

Me: Jerks of the audience. I proudly present to you my porno goggles. With these goggles you can now tap into a new wavelength along the electromagnetic spectrum that will grant you ability to see PORNO VISION.

Audience: Awww! (A couple of attendees fall out of their chairs. One vomits.)

Me: Now this new wavelength, dubbed the porno spectrum, exist all around us. In this spectrum all different forms of porn are being played constantly on loop. Right now you could be sitting through a five way gang bang or a lesbian, car-wash threesome and with these goggles you can watch them, ALL OF THEM and no one, not your mom, your co workers or your wife will know. With these goggles, you can be at work, church, driving or giving a speech (ahem) and watch porn discreetly without interruptions; without embarrassment.

Audience Member with Dripping Wet Armpits: Are you talking about some kind of porn de-scrambler encryption technology?

Me: NO! But close. This isn't some kind of quack science. I'm talking about tapping into the earth's naturally supplied source of hardcore human porn. It's passing through us right now, like cancer waves from cellphones. And with these goggles, it can be yours, ALL DAY.

Audience Member with Three Arms: (Crying with big balls of snot running down his nose.) No way. That's impossible... sob... porn... all the time?

(I place my hand on his shoulder.)

Me: All the time.

Audience Member with Lab Coat Full of Frogs: (On his knees, nose running and shoeless.) I don't know what you're talking about but it sounds SO beautiful. It's a miracle! Sob...sob... I've dreamed of this since I was a boy... and NOW IT'S TRUE!

(The entire audience cries and shares hugs except for the scientist that has a robot dolphin for a body.)

Audience Member with Pogo Stick Legs: (Trembling, refusing to make eye contact.) My lord, may I view the porno vision?

Me: Yes my child.

(He nervously places the goggles on.)

Audience Member with a Head of a Hamster wearing a Beret: So how is it?

Audience Member with Pogo Stick Legs: Uh, it's just a marker drawing of a stick figure with boobs.

Me: Uh, yeah. It's a prototype.....

Audience:.....

Speaker: (Still like James Earl Jones.) Security bots, kill him!

Related Articles:

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The Black Cat Incident

The Black Cat Incident from Zeph on Vimeo.

If I was small enough to get zippered into a bowling bag and dumped in a lake or fit into a microwave or flung through a moving car window, I would definitely consider keeping my attitude in check. However, this is not the case with most cats. Even though they are lower on the food chain, they still seem to carry a strong sense of entitlement and contempt for me, uh... for humanity, as if it is an honor to feed and take care of them. Nuts to that! I can't think of a better reason to get them declawed and introduce them to my shoe heel ....um.....while petting them lovingly, of course.

Here's some related posts you might like as well.

Tough Talk

Impy Cockblocker

Husky Fight

Tattooed Midget Cop

I press my finger to her lip and say, "Don't worry, baby," flashing her a smile.  " I got this."

She lights up, squirming in her seat and begins telling me something. I stare at her blankly, thinking that maybe I should of paid more attention in Spanish class.

"Hey," I say stopping her mid-sentence with no regard to what she just said. "Just call me, Papi."
 
She does and I feel cool.

I see the leprechaun jump down from his patrol car, quickly waddling up to my car on those little knee-less legs of his.

Breathing heavy, hands on his hips and frowning, he stands next to my door and mumbles "Do you know how I pulled you over?"

I can barely hear him from down there. "Did you just ask to borrow a dollar?"

He rubs his chin for a bit. His eyes move from side to side furiously before a smile comes across his face. ".....yes."

"If you promise to turn some straw into gold for me, then we have a deal."

Gloria, my Spanish soap opera star companion, embarrassingly covers her mouth; her ample bosom, still covered with trace amounts of powdered sugar and caramel from earlier bounces from laughter.

"Who's in there?" He barks. "Can they give me the law?"

"Was that a riddle?"

He's jumping up to look into my car. Bless his heart. He can't make it. He makes a big Super Mario leap up to my car window to pull himself up, but his grip isn't strong enough (I smacked his hands) and he lands butt first.

I laugh and offer him a lollipop to quell his crying. No dice.

He rolls up his sleeves to show me two T-Rex arms scribbled with fuzzy tattoos of skulls,barbwire and Disney characters.


"Wanna know who got these? Got four more to go."

Again with his riddles. Is this a gnome-cop mind cleansing technique to get me to admit I'm guilty of something?

"They're not cheap," he adds. " Where's that dollar?"

“Simma' down” I say firmly, motioning him to sit down like an unruly pup.

"That's a salt!" He screams, losing his footing in his oversized baby shoes. “Step out of the car punk!”

I turn to Gloria and ask her to stop nibbling on my neck. “I have to go play nice with the officer” I tell her. She giggles when I use air quotes around ‘officer’.

I open the car door and step out. The door smacks the cop in the head solid and drops him to his back, turtle style; all two and a half feet of him.

While holding back my laughter I try my best to apologize but his gun’s already drawn. It's shaky in those little baby hands like a man-sized man holding a grand piano.

(Cue dramatic Western music) Even with his gun pointing at me I can't take him seriously. On his back with his oversized hat covering his face, mumbling loudly something about doing 400 in a 50, it's like I'm in a direct to DVD movie titled "Baby Cop".

I turn to Gloria suggesting that she put her bra back on which he sees as a great opening to fire a shot. The bullet misses me completely and hits a traffic light. The gun recoils, flying out of his hands and into his forehead. He’s out cold.

I call 911 and tell them a tattooed midget cop has knocked himself out. “Damn not him again” the operator says.

"By the way," I ask. "How does one tattooed midget cop join said police force?"

"He made a threat to become an anesthesiologist if we didn't make him a cop. We figure this way he won't harm as many innocent people. "

A second cop and the ambulance arrive with a baby sized gurney. They wisk him away to the children's hospital.

The new officer thanks me for my help. “You’d be surprised how often this happens,” he says.

I close the Lamborghini door and drive off as Gloria tosses her panties out the window. She cracks open some champagne and pours a glass for herself. I take the bottle in one hand and pour the 'pagne' down her shirt, her seat and onto the floor of our stolen car. I turn up the radio, making sure to play country music.  I hate stereotypes and wouldn't want  this scenario to look  like a rap video.

The Ramblin' God

"In this plane of existence, only you may see me." he said.

Me: Come on, man. I don't need this right now.

"Porquoi? Dost thou have no faith? Dost thou not see the benefit of witnessing a god?"

Me: You're fucking ridiculous, man.

"Now, gaze upon me now, mortal, as I perform a miracle!"

He stands up from his chair, arms outstretched, heels placed together. He begins to hum and tap his finger to his forehead, then to the bridge of his nose, back to his head. He's muttering something (or rapping) while twisting gently side to side. His bare, bony chest pokes out from

under his unbuttoned flannel shirt.

I try, as to not draw the 'crazy' attention to myself, to point him out to other people using my eyes. No one goes for it. Maybe my clenched teeth and the wild look of desperation in my eyes are too much.

Me: What the fuck! No one else sees this?

Or so they pretend. They continue to go about their business. Eating, reading books, talking to co-workers. They're either brazenly ignorant of their surroundings or playing that "I'm not getting involved in this shit" game we all play with homeless, crazy people.

"You see, they are not chosen to see divinity as you are."

Me: Please stop harassing me with your craziness, sir. I'm trying to eat my lunch. I got to be back at work in 15 minutes. This little 'thing' you're doing is gonna bug me all day.

(He stuffs his sandwich down his pants and does a headstand in his chair.)

"Why so child?"

Me: Stop that! That's why. Look around. Look at everyone in this food court. No one notices you acting crazy but me.

"Look at my eyelids and listen to the vibrations. Sounds familiar, dost it not? Three. Blind. Mice."

Me: You're nuts.

"That I am."

Me: Then why aren't you locked up?

"Because I'm not a threat to others. And that's why you're not locked up."

Me: Wat chu talkin' bout Willis?

"You're nuts too."

Me: Oh, so this is like The Sixth Sense where not only do I see dead people but I am one?

"Not quite nut job. We're not dead."

Me: You know what I meant.

"No I don't. The mice that dance in my head give me receipts that prevent me from learning."

Me:......

"And I have a reality TV show coming out this fall."

Me: Is it on MTV?

"No. VH1. It's a dating show."

Me: Oh yeah. Now I recognize you. I didn't know you were doing a season 3.

Rock N' Roller

I was ecstatic to learn that I was getting a new roommate. Delighted in the fact that my new housemate would be mildly retarded. You know, because I like having to repeat myself. Fortune smiled on me and delivered a rock and roll supernova aka Dim Starr.

My original roommate fell for the same trick that everyone lucky enough to speak with Dim does. He made eye contact with him. After that it was only a matter of time before Dim charmed him into living with us. Across the hallway from me.

Did I ever mention that the walls in my house aren't sound proof?

Dim walks in on me while I'm getting some food from the fridge. He's proudly strumming some nonsense on his new guitar. The way I would treat a mad dog or a homeless man, I do not make eye contact with him.

Dim Starr: I'm getting good, right?
Me: I can't tell. It sounds like you've been hitting the strings randomly.
DS: I've been practicing all morning.
Me: Yeah, I realized that. I'm sensitive to noises when I'm hungover.
DS: Practice makes perfect, right?
Me: Huh? Yeah...Maybe you should learn how to play a song.
DS: Can you show me?
Me: I don't know how to play any songs.
DS: Too many strings, right?
Me: WHAT?

If it was possible, steam would be coming out of my ears.

DS: Whatcha munching on?
Me: Well, I'm going to eat some waffles.
DS: Where'd you get them from?
Me: My mom made them for me.
DS: Why did she make them?
Me: She likes to cook for me.
DS: How'd she make them?
Me: I don't know. A waffle maker?
DS: Did she use a grill?
Me: What the FUCK are you talking about!?

At this point I stare Dim down before remembering he's 'gifted'.

Then I forget.

Pro wrestlers make smashing acoustic guitars across heads look so easy. It takes me about 3 attempts to break his.

The Lost Chapter: A Story of Love

Landor perched upon Marielle’s windowsill. His silhouette, casted by the moon, danced up her bed sheet and rested on her lips. Landor took his masculine yet well pedicured hands and opened the window. As fast as dripping candle wax, Landor was by Marielle’s side.

Landor took his beautiful demonic hands and supported Marielle’s head. Her dull, lifeless, knotted hair fell between his fingers. His hand was strong like a hydraulic press but smooth and soft as cashmere. He brought her head up to meet with his.

Marielle still had not woken from her sleep. Her pale eyelids were caked with yellow deposits of gunk. Her lips were raw and chapped.

“Marielle, wake up,” whispered Landor like an angel faced devil.

“Landor, is it you?” Spoke Marielle.

The words clawed their way out from her throat. Marielle speaking voice could nicely be described as unpleasant. Her slumber did nothing to improve this, only make it thicker and scratchier.

“Oh yes it is, my dearest.” The moonlight illuminated his silken hair. He cupped her head and pressed it into his well muscled, hairless chest. It was strong like a Kevlar vest and warm and supportive like a childhood blanket.

“Oh Landor,” creaked Marielle.

It was moments like this that Marielle longed for. You see, Marielle was dangerously boring looking but it was her plainness that melted Landor’s cold exterior. She bordered on the point of being competitively bland. Her skin was devoid of color. Years spent in doors reading, daydreaming, avoiding social interaction left her complexion grayish.

Being that she was orphaned and raised by her butch lesbian grandmothers, she never learned how to style her hair or dress like an attractive woman.

Her hair at birth was a vibrant red but do to poor nutrition and lack of sunlight, it thinned out and turned into a muddled rusty mess.

Her body was thin but she still had boobs. Nice perky boobs. Big enough for a half demon hybrid, modeling looking type chap to want to smack around or get his tongue all over. But Marielle wore big sweaters and no one would know that or be able to tell until she developed some better self-esteem or lost her virginity to a demonic lothario.

Her hips were not birth baring. They were narrow and jagged. It would be best if she was not romanced from behind.

She left her mind in books always and wished that one day she would find a roguish, super powered bad boy that could easily get any women that he wanted, saw past her looks and loved her for who she was or could be.

What a miracle when she found his battered and bruised, naked body in her shower. What luck that after battling his arch nemesis, another demonic bad boy that was only attracted to physically beautiful and shallow girls, he would stumble upon her open bathroom window. Who would of known that the first aid book she studied extensively would come in handy when nursing him back to health.

“I wonder if I still have that Joy of Sex book,” she thought to herself. “I hope I have that chapter about Oral Yoga bookmarked.”

Tough Talk

Tough Talk from Zeph on Vimeo.

Cursing too much is a good indicator that you need anger management classes or lack healthy conflict resolution skills. Good example: Pirates. Better example: Yosemite Sam.

Never Bet On Glen

Old Ass Times

JESUS: Can you warn me if a shit load of Roman soldiers pop up and start talking about crucifying me? For some reason I get the feeling that they might want to do that. And according to Mel Gibson, that shit ain’t pleasant. So with enough time I figure I can send my dad a text message and he’ll send down some thunder bolts to strike them down or something. Maybe he can even bring back the dinosaurs. Dinosaur meat is supposedly delicious. Can you do that ONE favor for me?

GLEN: Yup.

Nighttime in a Barn

MAN WITH SHOTGUN: Did you lay down the landmines like I told you?

GLEN: Yes

MAN WITH SHOTGUN: Did you setup the electrified, barb-wire fence that’s hooked up to the back-up sunlight and darkness powered generator that can pretty much never run out of power?

GLEN: Uh-huh.

MAN WITH SHOTGUN: Did you also initiate the limb slicing, laser grid security system with the robot dogs that bark fire and exploding bullets?

GLEN: Of course.

MAN WITH SHOTGUN: Then why the fuck are there a shit load of zombies knocking at our door? Tell me how they got pass all that shit?

GLEN: They ran fast.

MAN WITH SHOTGUN: You didn’t do anything, did you?

GLEN: Well I was going to but there were zombies out there.

MAN WITH SHOTGUN: There wasn’t any a week ago when I asked you to do it. I hope you have fun getting your brains eaten by a shit load of zombies because I’m going to suck down on this shotgun and blow my brains out.

He pulls trigger and nothing happens.

MAN WITH SHOTGUN: Goddam it! Where are the bullets for this?

GLEN: I left them outside.

A House in the Suburbs

MOM: Boys! Someone ate from the cookie jar. I know it was one of you two.  One of you two is in a shit load of trouble. Now fess’ up. Who did it?

STAN: I don’t know who did it mom. We were outside playing all day.

GLEN: Liar. You ate all the cookies and said mom is to fat and wrinkly to ever catch you.

MOM: WHAT! Is this true Stan?

STAN: No, of course not. Glen is making that up.

GLEN: Then he said by eating the cookies he’s doing you a favor because it will help to keep all that fat off your neck.  Cause there’s no way any sane man is gonna marry a woman with such fat neck.

MOM: I can’t believe this!

GLEN: Then he called you a lard brain with no fashion sense.

STAN: Dammit, Glen! You little snitch! You swore you wouldn’t tell! We took a fucking blood oath! Fucking blood! We’re supposed to be tight, like the devil and Ashton Kutcher.  

MOM: Stan you are so dead meat, little mister! Glen can you please get me my belt? I got a shit load of beating to give to your brother.

On Jeopardy

ALEX TREBEK: For a shit load of money, the answer is: An immature dumbass that is never reliable.

CONTESTANT 2: Who is Colonel Saunders?

ALEX TREBEK: Sorry no.

ME: Who is Glen?

ALEX TREBEK: Correct.

World’s Hottest Blonde Competition

HOST: Now it’s time for the moment you’ve all been waiting for: The  crowning of the winner of the World’s Hottest Blonde Competition!  Now can we have our two finalists step forward please?  Miss Jogs in the Park and has Huge Boobs and Miss I’ll Over Charge You  Bartender. Let’s have a round of applause for both these lovely ladies.

ME: Woah! Yeah!!! You’re both so fucking hot! I love you both!

HOST: Whoa! Haha! Calm down audience. Keep your head on.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead

ME: Whew. I’m sorry. I got a little worked up.

HOST: Sshh!!! Now our judges have voted and the scores have been tallied. May I have the envelope please?

A judge from off stage walks up to hand the host the results. During this brief lag the tension is too much for me to handle and I let out a shriek like a woman. Once again I am reminded to shut up. 

HOST:  Here it is. And the runner up…. Is…… Miss Jogs in the Park and has Huge Boobs! Which makes Miss I’ll Over Charge You  Bartender our winner!

ME: WOWOW! This is so awesome! Someone high-five me! One of you give me a hug!

HOST: Sir, excuse me sir. Can you please take a seat? Security.  Security!

ME: What’s the problem? I just want a hug. That’s not too much to ask for. Especially considering these girls owe me. Well, this one owes me. Miss Bartender. She lies to me and steals all my goddam money because she’s hot. It’s bullshit! This one, Miss Jogs in Park, well I’ve just been stalking her… Wait! Security get the fuck off of me!

HOST: Guys get him out of here.

ME: Most certainly do NOT get me out of here. Do you know who paid for the show?

HOST: Um, my gosh, no.

ME: Well maybe you should read your checks dipshit. I did! HAHAHAHA!

HOST: Great Caesar's ghost!

ME: Yeah, bitch-ass. This show is owned by ME! I paid for this shit. I did it to get revenge!

HOST: Oh me, oh my!

ME: That’s right. Shocking, isn’t? I set this whole thing up just so I could sleep with these blonde  hotties and then make fun of them.

HOST: Sweet Pete! You did what?

ME: I told both the girls that if they sleep with me that they could win the competition.  But little did they know that  there is no prize! HAHA! You’ve been fooled! Three hours of walking around in swimsuits and singing and playing instruments and answering questions about poor people was all for NOTHING! HAHAHA!

I pee myself a little bit

MISS OVERCHARGES: But I didn’t sleep with you.

MISS JOGS IN PARK: Yeah. Me neither.

ME: Oh yes you…. Oh, wait. Yeah. You didn’t. FUCK! You were supposed to sleep with me to win! Goddam it. THAT’S what I forgot to do. That goddam post-it note was NO help!

I start to cry

ME: What a waste. WHAT A WASTE! I sold my car to pay for this show. I’m broke! Broke! My wife is going to kill me.

HOST: Jeez Louise. You have a wife?

ME: Well, not really. I was going to black mail one of these girls into marrying me. Don’t ask me how.  That ain’t happening now. This whole plan was a complete failure! And I’m still a virgin.

HOST: Oh golly Molly, what?

ME: Nothing. Um, you’re all fired.

Hello Sunshine

Hey. Where have you been, friend? I missed you. It’s been so dreary without you. Nothing but clouds and lots of frowns.  I wanted to go outside and toss a Frisbee but no one wanted to join me. That’s because you weren’t there. 

What’s that you said? You missed me too? I knew you would. We get along so well together.  Did you get those tomatoes I left for you? Yup, just go and dry them out. They’re supposed to taste better that way, right? At least it sounds nice. That’s because it has your name in it. 

Oh, am I making you blush again? Well, stop being so modest.  It’s true; you do brighten up my day. I was talking about you to my stuffed animals just the other day. I had to let them know just how much I adored you! Then my neighbor’s cat had to interrupt my speech. So I got rid of him. 

It’s a little secret how I did it. But for you, I‘ll give you a clue. I threw him in something that rhymes with spicrowave.  Now he’ll never talk bad about you. No way, Sunshine. I’ll never let that happen again. You make me feel like….

….Owww mom, get off my arm! 

MOM: Goddammit. Are you talking to the lamp again?

ME: No, well, I, uh. I was recording a rap song.

A bottle breaks on my head.

MOM: If you’re going to lie to me, at least come up with something that makes sense! Why do you do this, shit? Talking to light bulbs and chefs hats and garden hoses? Why are you so fucking weird?

ME: They listen to me mom. Unlike you they….

Another bottle shatters on my head.

MOM: Did I tell you to sass me? I don’t need this shit. I really don’t. You’re a 7 year old man.  You should be out, living on your own, raising a family, holding down a steady job.  It’s by time you grow the fuck up.

ME: Sorry mom. 

MOM: Good. Now clean this mess up. People should be arriving for your birthday party soon.

Dirty Laptop

ME: Hey computer. Wake up. I need to check something.

COMPUTER: Hey, what? Who are you? Do you want to buy some pills?

ME: No I need to get online for a bit. I, uh… need to check my email.

COMPUTER: Are you interested in seeing girls that are barely 18? Are you looking for a sexual fling with a girl in your area?

ME: What are you talking about? ……Of course I’m not. Now quit playing around and let me get on the internet.

COMPUTER:  Poker? Blackjack? Roulette? 

Try your luck at our online casino.

Trl your luck at our online caslno.

Trcy your lik at our onine casino.

Try youf luck at oir online calino.

Tr your luck tt our onliene casino.

ME: Jesus. What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you sick?

COMPUTER: Am I speaking too slow for you? Why don’t you check this to speed me up?

He whips out his registry.

ME: Fuck, dude! Can you put that thing away? I don’t want to see that.

COMPUTER: Come on. Look at it. You know you want to.

ME: DUDE! What did I tell you? I experimented with that type of thing in college, but I’m done with it now. Put it away.

COMPUTER: Aww, you’re no fun.

ME: You’re fucking infected aren’t you?

COMPUTER: Probably. No thanks to you.

ME: Don’t blame me. I used a firewall.

COMPUTER: Come on. Windows Firewall? You might as well used a sandwich bag.

ME: Shut the fuck up! This is not my fault. I run anti-virus scans on you.

COMPUTER: Yeah and you never let them finish.

ME: Because you always tard’ out and your fan gets so damn loud. What do you expect?

COMPUTER: Well, bringing me to all those unsecure porn sites doesn’t help either.

ME: Oh, so I’m the bad guy, huh? Just because I like to come home every now and then...

COMPUTER: Everyday, twice sometimes, three times a night.

ME: Whatever! Just because I like to entertain myself with some free, streaming adult videos doesn’t make me a villain. I’m not trying to hurt anyone here. I am a grown ass man and I got needs.  I’m just trying to prevent myself from getting prostate cancer.

COMPUTER: Huh?

ME: It’s true. Doctors say you should ejaculate at least 3 times a week to prevent prostate cancer. The more the better actually.

COMPUTER: Well, I didn’t know that.

ME: You should fucker. You ARE connected to the largest library in the world. You may be a machine but I hope you understand this is my life. And I’ve only got one. I’m just trying to stay alive.

COMPUTER: Well you got me there.

ME: Yeah, well clean yourself up. You’re getting pop-ups all over the place.

COMPUTER: Sorry.

ME: By the way. What was that stuff you were talking about earlier? Pills to get 18 year olds sexual in a casino?

Shaky Cashier

I would love to go somewhere else, but fate has drawn me here. Any other register, please. The universal bonds that unite us, the strings that drive our lives have been played and manipulated until we would stand here face to face. And like a wizard that lives outside of the constraints of our reality, he gazes upon this world as if he knows this, perhaps had something to do with this.

I place my Slim Jim and pint of orange juice on the counter.

ME: Hey, what’s up man?

He pauses for some millennia, drawing my attention in with sniper like patience. Stars die, worlds collapse and angels get drunk. God, the shaky cashier, as he must be or may be greater than, rocks from one side of the universe to the other. His chin remains in the air and he is kind enough to cast his eyes upon me.

CASHIER: Mmrrrf. Good. That will be $2.38.

I hand him my debit card.

CASHIER: Debit or Credit?

ME: Credit.

CASHIER: Mmrrf.

He hands me my receipt.

ME: Thanks.

I look into the sorcerer’s eyes, waiting for him to answer me back. In time dogs evolve the ability to speak and California smashes into Asia.

CASHIER: Yur… Welcome.

I wait for the bones of discarded Buffalo Wings to form into diamonds.

ME: Are you retarded?

CASHIER: Mmrff. NO!

ME:  Brain damage from huffing too much paint and glue?

CASHIER: Mmrrff. Yes.

The Art of Celibacy (aka Dumpling)

I have a problem NOT getting laid. Where most men fight to get their dick wet, I struggle to keep it dry. My sex life is truly an uncontrollable beast that cannot be domesticated and taught to fetch. So I climbed a mountain to seek the tutelage of Grand Sifu Dumpling. Dumpling taught me everything I know in regards to human interactions. If anyone knew how to keep me from getting laid, it would be him.

Grand Sifu Dumpling fights a constant battle with gravity with hunched back, slack jawed contempt. His body is lopsided, as if his skeleton gave up on him and his organs are tasked to fill out his skin like a bean bag. In his half cross legged style of sitting, he fiddles with his MP3 player, presumably listening to the soundtrack to the first Pokemon movie and pondering the nature of crème filled donuts. When spoken to, he refuses to make eye contact and keeps his eyes barely open and drawn onto his music device. It’s one of his advance moves. Sifu Dumpling is the best.

Me: I'm trying to NOT get laid.
Dumpling: Do you have a penis?
Me: Yes and it works.
Dumpling: Strange. That's usually a deterrent. You sure you don't have a vagina? For some reason people with vaginas have a constant barrage of offers for sex. And they get free dinners and drinks as well.
Me: I'm damn sure about my dick Sifu. It almost froze and fell off when I was climbing up the mountain.
Dumpling: How about your friends? Are they idiots?
Me: Come on Dumpling. You know I have no friends.
Dumpling: Yes. Yes. That's right. You have an insanely repulsive personality.
Me: I learned from the best, sir.
Dumpling: Yes I see. How about your job? Do you work only with indecently fat men?
Me: Yes, sir. They can barely fasten the Velcro on their shoes.
Dumpling: Um… You have a particularly strange dilemma my son.

(I begin to cry.)

Me: Don’t you think I know this, Dumpling! Do you think I enjoy living this way? Do you know what it’s like not being able to leave my house without some stranger trying to sex me up?

(I pick up an urn and hurl it at the wall.)

Me: It’s feels like hell! LIKE HELL!
Dumpling: Are you sure you’re not a woman?
Me: Why because I’m having an outburst?

(Dumpling still doesn’t look up.)

Me: Fucking sure as hell I’m not. Look at… oh wait a second. Yup. These are definitely boobs. Yum. Big and full of silicone. I forgot I got these. I lost a bet. I’m sooo embarrassed. Sorry to waste your time.
Dumpling: No problem. Would you mind lifting your shirt up and doing some jumping jacks?

Valentines Day Dinner

Click to Enlarge

The Running Man

I’ve made a lot of enemies in my lifetime. No surprise really. Most of them are just haters. When you roll like I do, it’s expected. I’m that damn cool.

I’ve tried to lay low and stay off the radar but I guess I’ve gotten sloppy. Danger still comes my way. That or they just got better.

I’m guessing it was some head of a ninja clan I pissed off. They like sending guys you wouldn’t expect. They dress their boys up as little children, old people, cripples and fat women. It’s unpredictable. But they all have one thing in common. At least once they try their shit on me.

They’re dead.

Or maybe it was crime boss’s daughter or grand daughter I got horizontal with and left without explanation. Nothing pisses off daddy or grandpa more than breaking his little girl’s heart. Especially when you mail them a copy of the sex tape.

60% of the attempts on my life are a result of me fucking around with someone's girlie.

Girlfriends, wives, nieces and cousins. I love them and leave them. Then I wake up with a knife pressed into my throat or a gun jammed into my temple. I always come out clean though and the emergency rooms stay busy.

This one was probably some trash talking pro-athlete I beat up at a bar. Some jock that thought being able to catch a ball and put roids in his ass meant he could knock some teeth down my throat. Now a million people on Youtube or TMZ know otherwise.

He hired some buddy of his or a friend of a friend to bust my knee caps. And when I’m down, he’ll probably pull his car up from around the corner to give some opportune footstomps to my face. At least that’s how it should work. Whatever.

I just can’t figure this one out. The guy is erratic, clearly drunk. Or at least he’s pretending. Some kind of drunken master type shit. I mean, I never thought that anyone ran like the Bushwackers in real life.


He’s dressed well but looks like he just ran through a cycle in the dryer. Shirt is half tucked with misaligned buttons. Zipper is down. Belt unbuckled. Shoe laces untied.

Come to think of it, I’m not sure if he’s here to kill me or rape me.

I stand my ground and wait for him to reach me. The way I see it, he’s almost out of breath and by the way he’s crossing his feet as he runs, he’s gonna trip and bite it on the sidewalk.

He’s moving closer to me, this bobble headed assassin, barreling down at full speed in fist pumping, head wagging glory.

Tonight would be a good night to die, but not for me. Inches away, I steer clear gracefully like a matador leaving my upturned foot in his path. He catches it and takes to a patch of ice covered sidewalk like a baby deer.

Five slippery steps later he’s down on his side with the poop that’s been running down his leg pressed into his pants. Breathing heavily he screams “What the fuck, dude?”

I turn back to him and shrug. My friend giggles. I then erupt into laughter and walk off.

What kind of assassin drinks until the point they shit themselves just before a gig?

Fucking amateur.

Early Saturday Night

Come Sunday night I get ill. I get fidgety with disgust. I de-evolve into a Grumpasaurus Rex.

Just how the Terminator was remembered for “I'll be back” and John McClane for “Yippie-ki-yay, motherfucker!”. Just how all action heroes will be remembered as they should, for their catch phrases, I will be remembered for “Dammit, I have work on Monday.”

40 hours a week I'm a prostitute. Okay, not a real one. Just a cubicle dwelling office monkey. It's not like I'm sucking dick in an alley. Alleys have natural sunlight. When you hate your job you are a whore. Just in it for the money. I don't care how you try to spin it, I don't care what HBO sex special you watch and hear girls talking about how fun it is to get paid for sex or whatever, whoring yourself out sucks.

Unless you get a TV show out of it.

So Friday after five, the work week is officially over and I put cancer inducing pressure on myself to make the most out of my weekend. And when I say make the most, I mean get drunk and/or laid despite health concerns, like there's a winning lottery ticket waiting for me at the bottom of a bottle or crammed in a vagina. I want to black out while playing with some boobs.

It's the two things I want from life, the reasons I work in the first place. Only if I could do both of them on the job...

I know this stress isn't necessary but I'm spoiled, ignorant and arrogant. I couldn't survive without being stubborn and having self defeating tendencies. I think it's the American way.

Every once in awhile I like to shake things around and up the stakes. Why not make sure I have a heart attack by 40?

The game I play is called Early Saturday Night. It's really easy to play. Just go to bed early on Saturday. That's it. Just waste one of the greatest nights of the week by sleeping.

Not a big deal you say? We'll I'll make it a big deal. It's a gift. If you want to relax then you're talking to the wrong guy. Go smoke a joint, hippie.

As in all games there are a few guidelines that must be followed.

• Stay Single- Being in a relationship may actually make staying in on Saturday enjoyable. Companionship can help alleviate stress. Stay away from it by all means. Talking, cuddling and all that sex will do nothing but make you happy. Getting laid may actually make your work week tolerable. And that's why I have the next rule.
• Stay Celibate- Stay celibate as long as possible. Actually this task isn't that difficult. When you have a penis. Yeah I said it. This game is not for ladies. Having boobs and a vagina automatically makes you cooler than me. Unless your stomach is larger than your boobs. Then you’re just invisible to me and every other guy on the planet. For some reason when you have a penis, no one wants to buy you dinner. Or alcohol. Because of my partners in crime, I'm expected to pay for dinner and drinks without any guaranteed return. Pretty shitty investment, eh? Funny thing is, I'm an idiot and barely make enough money to support myself, so either we’re splitting the bill or climbing out the bathroom window.
• Have No Friends- I have a phone plan that doesn't receive incoming phone calls. At least not from my friends. Or that's what it seems like. What I like to do is make plans with my friends through text. Now when it comes time to cement the plans, we can't, because they can't call me! So I guess we both get to sit at home crying in bed while watching senior citizen porn. I also like to get banned from playing games and posting in forums online by sending offensive messages. I try to keep it sexually suggestive, like I should be on 'To Catch a Predator' or an after-school church program. I make sure to always include the words kittens, duct tape and fisting.
• Drink Alone- Nothing spells depression better than polishing off a bottle of whiskey by yourself. Being drunk around people may actually be fun. This is not what we are shooting for. This rule can be ignored though, if you are a violent, sloppy drunk. Like you should have your own reality dating show drunk..
• Have a Repulsive Personality- Just how you'd feel about the characters from 'Entourage' minus the fame and money, develop some strong, life lasting, obnoxious personality traits. Always wait for your turn to speak, conduct yourself in a way that shows your contempt for humanity, be ungrateful for everything, always look at the glass as half empty or even shattered and leave the toilet seat up.
  

How do you know if you've won? Well if you're drunk and trying to rip your hair out while covered in Kleenexes and jerk-off lotion, declare yourself a winner, champ!

Jersey Devil

Legend says the Jersey Devil is a creature that lives in the Pine Barrens of southern New Jersey. It is a horribly ugly, Frankenstein of a monster. With a long neck, head of a horse , tail and wings, it is known to fly around and terrorize livestock. It has haunted New Jersey since the 1800s and still to this day has not been caught.

Well I think that’s all a bunch of nonsense. I’ve seen the Jersey Devil first hand. In fact I see him fairly regularly. He works out at my gym.

He trots around the weight room, talking on his cell phone, reeking of Axe Body Spray and Coors Light. With his arms to his sides you can see the stains at the pits of his Polo shirt. He speaks very loudly for a creature that has eluded capture for hundreds of years. I suppose Devils never learn to be considerate of others growing up in the woods or whatever. Or maybe the popularity of being a folk legend drives you into behaving like a douche.

Today, like every other day, one of his sport teams lost and the head coach is a moron. Like everyday, he speaks into his Bluetooth headset and proclaims who should be benched, who should retired and what franchise owner should be paying him for wasting three hours of his time.

He says, “You put me in that uniform and give me a million dollar contract, and I guarantee that ball will never be dropped!”

“If you’re gonna make decisions like that, then maybe you need to get a colon cleansing to get your head out of your ass!”

He immediately slams the dumbbells on the floor for emphasis. This makes them appear heavier than they actually are.

He tells his Bluetooth “Okay I’ll let you go. It's chest day. Gotta go show these clowns how to bench.”

God only knows who he’s talking to. The guy has no friends.

So when it comes time to bench press, he comes looking to me for a spot.

I try to decline but he’s too drunk to understand. He slams his hand onto my shoulder and points at a girl’s ass in Lycra tights. Leaning on me, nearly rubbing his stubble against my face, he mutters something angrily and then smiles. His breath smells like burnt garbage and old fish.

With hand still clasping high around my neck and shoulder, he drags me over to his bench.

He loaded the bar with as much weight that could possibly fit. He has about 14 of those tire sized plates and a couple of the dinner plate sized one.

“You can handle this?” I ask. Wiping powder from under his nose, “Oh this? This is nothing.”

After about five minutes of cursing and speaking to himself in the 3rd person about ‘getting his’, Evil D as he likes to call himself, finally lies down on the bench.

ME: I’ll help you with the lift off on three, okay?
EVIL D: Evil D don’t need no stinking lift off or count down. You can count that Evil D is gonna throw this weight around. D' is gonna get his.

He plants his hooves firmly into the ground and extends his arms with bar in hand. He holds it, unsteadily, for about a second before dropping the bar directly on his neck, crushing his shiny pentagram medallion. His legs kickup from the ground. A thick vein pulsates in his right horn. A yellow froth sprays from his mouth.

I grab the bar. Amazingly, even with his windpipe crushed he can speak.

“Don’t touch it! I can handle this!”

I put my hands up in surrender and back off. Sweat is dripping of the tips of his horns pooling onto his popped collar. The seam in his vintage-style designer jeans are beginning to rip.

He’s speaking in tongues now like a Beatles tape played backwards. I’m waiting for some gateway to hell to open up. Luckily a busty woman in shorts steps onto the stepper machine and begins to bounce her ass within his view. He stops the Exorcist routine and whistles at her.

Don't forget there's still weight on his neck. His tail is purple and swollen like burned Ballpark hotdogs and looks like it's ready to pop. I feel a bit bad for him.

Then I remember he’s a devil. I walk off to the water fountain and get a drink.

Impy Cockblocker

When I get drunk I tend to wander off from my friends. I'll find a couch to crash on, a corner to hide in or a toilet to vomit over. In the wild, animals separated from the herd are inevitably killed by large predatory cats. I’m not that fortunate. I get harassed by old, annoying hags.

I catch her from the corner of my eye. I slink in my seat hoping she doesn't notice me. Too late. She's making her way over.

I know her type. Her body, if you smear Vaseline over your eyes, could look young but her face is unmistakably ancient. Maybe one time in her life, maybe when Jesus was around, she was attractive. But in the modern era she looks like a Jack-O-Lantern left over in December.

Impy: Is this seat taken?

I avert my eyes from her and kick the sofa cushion to the ground. I then replace it with a small, lit candle just to make myself clear.

Me: Yes.
Impy: It looks empty. I'm going to keep you company.
Me: Why? What did I ever do to you?

She laughs and playfully strokes my arm. I make a mental note to soak that arm in Lysol.

Impy: How old are you?
Me: How old do you think I am?
Impy: You look old.
Me: Wow. That number is pretty close.
Impy: I'll say 41.
Me: 41!?
Impy: Yeah. It's the way you carry yourself.
Me: I guess in Bizarro World that's a good thing. I usually get early 20's.
Impy: I had a twenty one year old hit on me earlier.

I try to not spit out my drink. I try.

Me: Really?
Impy: Yeah. I could get a twenty one year old if I wanted.
Me: Well why don't you then?
Impy: I'm not into young guys.
Me: That's great to hear. Can you go fuck off?
Impy: You suck with girls.
Me: Thanks for pointing that out. I'm going to sip my drink and think about strangling you.
Impy: I could tell you had a lot to drink. I saw how you were looking at that waitress.

It wasn't just a look. This cocktail waitress was packing midgets in the back of her skirt. I ran her through a head to toe, eye fuck scanner. I'm surprised I didn't knock her off balance. At this point it's all I can do, with the booze turning me into a mush mouth and a Kebler elf running a Pro Bowl cock block on me.

Me: Yes. She was attractive. One thing I liked about her is that she knew how to shut the fuck up.
Impy: Do you think I can't get laid?
Me: I think there's a lot of things you can't do. Reach high shelves. Ride on roller coasters.
Impy: You know that I could take you down? I work with troubled children. I'm certified to use holds to them.
Me: Do I look like a child to you?
Impy: I've had to restrain kids that are bigger than you.
Me: Any 'kid' bigger than me is either fat or retarded. You should be proud.
Impy: I'm tougher than I look.
Me: I've noticed. You don't take hints very well. What do I gotta do to get you away from me?
Impy: Buy me a drink.
Me: Do they serve Liquid Drano and Sprite?
Impy: It's my birthday.
Me: Happy birthday. Are you collecting social security yet?
Impy: I don't look old. When me and my son go out, people ask me if I'm his older sister.
Me: I feel bad for your son. Is he Benjamin Button?
Impy: Buy me a drink.
Me: Only if you tell me where I can find your pot of gold.
Impy: You want to get with me, don't you?
Me: I want to get you in a bear trap.
Impy: Ask me for my phone number.
Me: Okay. You win. What's your name?
Impy: The kids call me Miss Kathy.
Me: There you go with the kid shit again. I forgot my cell phone. Do you have a sheet of paper and a pen?

She hands me a napkin and a pen from her purse. I jot her name down on the napkin. I think about jamming the pen in her eye but decide to get rid of her in a more civilized way.

Me: Here, can you read this out loud? I'm drunk. I want to know that I got it right.

She snatches the napkin from my hands.

Impy: Yhtak Ssim? What's that?
Me: It's your name backwards bitch. Have fun back in the fifth dimension.

A wormhole opens behind her, sucking her in feet first. She's batting her little arms, trying to dig her nails into the sofa chair while screaming “Curses!”. I act quickly by loosening her grip and dumping my drink on her before the vortex closes. Now that she's gone I can finally fart. It's loud and squeaky. The cocktail waitress with the WMD ass standing behind me finds it very unpleasant. I tell her that I've lost my friends and that I need to ride her home. She realizes that my slip was intentional and is kind enough to find a bouncer to drop me on my neck. Before he does, I bite her ass.

Sea Voyage

Day 22

It has been five days since she has devoured the last of my crewmen. The creature, she taunts me now. She waits, baiting me. My raft destroyed, I sit on this rock, waiting for death or a chance to take my revenge. The salt water wets my skin, leaving my socks forever damp and festering in mold, which I feast upon. I eat my toe jam sandwiches and wait, baking under the bare ocean sun for a chance when I may lay my weapon into the beast’s mouth and remove it’s tongue, which I will blow my nose and wipe my ass with. I do not pray for rescue anymore. I am too far removed from sanity to ever attain that. Once I let one of my crew men defecate on my chest because as he said, “it'll keep you warm”, and I smeared the feces over my stomach and drew a smiling face and told everyone that the poo was actually my conjoined twin Oliver, I knew the creature had ruined my mind. Now when I pray to Neptune I ask for fists larger enough to punch the beast in the mouth. I want hands large enough to scoop up lakes and smother mountains. Then I’ll smack that bitch in the mouth with them and leave Sunday school marks all over her lips.

Day 67

I had relations with a fish again. But for the first time, it did not finish on my face. I seem to be gaining respect from all of the sea creatures. All but one. I do not want her respect though. I want her head in a wooden box with the words “Whore Mouth” stamped across it. That would be humiliating and a fitting end for a sea-bitch creature such as herself. Never before have I encountered a creature that kills with words. Everyday she asks me how am I doing but I refuse to answer. Yesterday I was weak and replied. She then spoke to me for an hour straight about her hatchlings and some squid that lives in a cave next to hers, before seizing my left ear and chewing it off. At first I thought that she wanted to destroy my flesh. Now I question whether she wants to destroy my soul as well. I spoke to a seagull about getting a restraining order.

Day 183

My men were lucky to die so quick. She never stops talking. I thought my insanity would save me from the pain of her voice but I suppose her speech transcends my madness. She is a devil or witch. I wish to drive a stake through my brain so I will not have to listen to her witch craft. I tried to scratch my brain through my nose but I could not reach it. Curse her. She is bad at reading social cues. I never make eye contact and I roll my eyes but that is not enough to stop her from lambasting me with her inane babble. Many days I will fall asleep during her incantations to wake with her still speaking. The Whore Mouth dost not speak with me but at me. I am her therapist. She should pay me.

Day 217

I can not defeat this bitch. I’ve severed her head several times but it just grows back. And the mouth becomes wider. And the talking more repetitive. I am a man of low fortune and few options. So I have devised a plan to build a urine powered time machine out of clam shells. I am done fighting her. I can go back to fornicating with fish but fish tend to think very highly of themselves and I always end up feeling used. Yes I know she ate all my ship mates and I should fight her until my last breath but let's be honest. They were going to stage a mutiny against me anyway. I am a horrible captain. We set course for an orgy island off of Greece to gain the company of some loose women and I managed to get them killed by an ancient evil at sea instead. I won’t be winning any awards this year.

Day 219

Time machine not work. Me crack head on rock. Brains fall out like egg. Be dead soon. Hate you Whore Mouth. P.S. Me hate my mermaid kids too.

Halloween vs. Christmas

Stats

Halloween- Kids get to dress up like monsters and harass strangers for candy. Women get to wear skimpy outfits without being judged.

Christmas- Kids wake up thinking a fat man broke into their house to leave them presents. Adults get off from work.

Round 1

The holidays teach us that kids get good shit without ever having to earn it. Unfortunately for them I am jealous and bitter. Employing my Absent-Uncle Evasion technique, I avoid trick-or-treaters by “working late” and doing all my grocery shopping at night. As a plan B I’ll leave an empty bowl outside with a “Take one, please” sign. Damn, I must have run out.
Come Christmas, I don’t buy my nieces or nephews shit but add my name to the gifts bought by my siblings and parents. In this situation it’s best to fake distress. “Oh, I’ve been so busy” or “Oh, I’ve been so depressed.” Cut me a break. The kid probably won’t even remember. And if they do, then you’re just ‘that’ uncle.

Round 2

Halloween and Christmas are a drain on the creative juices. Everyone wants to have an original costume or buy the perfect present. These challenges are easily handled if you have no shame. Try putting a paper bag on your head and saying you’re George Washington, Cobra Commander or one of the Olsen twins. Most people won’t get it but that’s their problem. Unless they want to chip in the $50 to buy a real costume they need to shut the fuck up. You can also substitute paper bags with trash bags, KFC buckets or stockings.
What makes a good present? I would say any gift that the recipient needs or wants. And what we could all need more of is love. Or toilet paper. I’m trying to make things easier, so I’m buying the TP. If they want the other thing they can go wish on a star or take it up with their therapist.

Round 3

Just like alcohol, holiday gatherings can make people act crazy. On Halloween that craziness can be good. Girls will find anyway to make their costumes slutty/awesome. Construction workers wear mini skirts, taxi drivers have their thongs exposed and strawberry shortcakes wear pushup bras with their boobs hanging out. Amazingly I don’t have to tip them anything.
On the other hand you have Christmas dinner with the family. Or what I’d like to think of as a bunch of people I have no intelligent connection with, asking me why I live in my friend’s basement and when I plan on getting married even though I don’t have a girlfriend and haven’t been on a date in 3 years and then have them tell me I should stop blowing all my money on comic books and action figures and should start thinking about purchasing a house even though I make $9 an hour and take a bus to work. I’m drunk off of egg nog and apple cider so I curse at my mom, give my dad the finger, throw a plate of food at my brother and his wife and tell my nieces that Santa Clause isn’t real.

The winner: Baby Jesus