jokes 040815

I was at a punk show the other day (I say the other day, but I mean like 6 years ago. I don’t go to punk shows much anymore; it’s just a lot of standing, you know?). Regardless, I was at this punk show one time and I was standing near the bar when I saw this guy with giant ear plugs and a corresponding beard order a PBR, no surprises there. However the bartender searched around behind the bar for a moment and then said, “I’m sorry, we’re actually out of PBR.” There was a sudden uproar of, “NOOOOOO” from every single person at the bar. It was like the home team just lost the game at the last second, but more socially poignant and hilarious. Don’t worry; this story has a positive ending. The bartender sent some lower level employee out to buy several cases of PBR from the liquor store and nobody was hurt that night.

Encores are weird. Have you been to shows recently? Encores have gotten so mandatory and contrived that they are effectively not real encores. The band always claims that the show is over and then they go and hide somewhere backstage. Then, like, half the crowd start chanting, “One more song! One more song! One more song!” while the other half of the crowd glares at them, chanting, “my feet hurt! My feet hurt! My feet hurt!” Then the band runs back onstage and the members all pick up their still warm instruments and play one to three more songs that they were always planning on playing in the first place. Who the fuck is this charade for? What is the real problem here? Why can’t the band and the crowd just be honest with each other and just end the show without this weird ritual?

Does the term “neo-con” really need to exist when we already have the word “asshole?”

Word of the day: Macabrony – An adult male who obsesses over macaroni and cheese.

Word of the day: Funcle – A fun uncle.

I just moved out my dad’s house within the past year, and now I’m living in an apartment in Cincinnati with my girlfriend and a friend of mine. Living with my girlfriend is awesome, mostly. My only problem is that she seems to think that we’re doing some sort of fecal experiment in which the food we eat needs to remain a constant in order to accurately test some unknown hypothesis. By that I mean she seems to think that we need to always be eating the same food. If I want pizza and she doesn’t want pizza, I don’t get to eat pizza. This wouldn’t be a problem if it weren’t for the fact that I want pizza about 10 times as often as she wants it. If I suggest we just grab take out from two different places, she sees this as me being difficult and adds that she would like to eat at a restaurant and not at our shitty apartment. I guess a possible solution to this dilemma would be to eat at a mall food court so that we can grab separate shit and still eat at the same table, but that would involve going to a mall, which is an option I don’t like having on the table. Malls are the worst, and not only that, but last time I went to the one closest to our apartment, I was asked to leave by mall cops. Apparently it is frowned upon to pretend to have cancer just so I can get all my jogging done inside an air conditioned building equipped with a Smoothie King for optimal jogging breaks. I don’t work out hard, I work out smart. For some reason it’s not very effective.

On Friday morning’s, at the factory I work at, the company provides donuts for all of the employees who work during first shift. However, I work third shift, and for third shift they just send someone to the grocery store to grab whatever is on the bakery rack they pull out at 2 AM., the one that’s loaded with shit that’s packaged for immediate sale. I’m not a baked goods snob, so I consider these random finds to be perfectly fine alternatives for the fresh donuts the first shift people get. Plus, I’m used to looking at whatever my neighbor has and realizing that everything I have is a shittier version of whatever he has. That’s been my life, and once you learn to romanticize the minimalism of it all, it works out just fine. So a few Fridays ago the company did not provide us with our discounted baked goods, and I was understandably furious, but of course my anxiety makes it so that I can’t complain to anyone unless they bring it up first because I don’t want to be the pathetic fat guy who breaks down into tears because I was denied an expiring cinnamon roll. And of course nobody else seemed to have noticed this injustice, and I was left to stew in my fat guy misery. I tried to complain about it to my girlfriend when I got home but she was no help. She was just all, “you had a deep dish pizza and cinnamon sticks for dinner.” She didn’t understand. It wasn’t the lack of baked goods that caused my stomach to turn; it was the principal of the matter. I think.

I had to buy Sudafed recently, and never have I felt more self conscious about so many aspects of my physical appearance. As you’re probably aware, seeing as we live in a post Breaking Bad America, Sudafed is a cold medicine that has to be purchased over the counter due to it being an ingredient in crystal meth. But I wasn’t trying to make meth or anything; I just had a cold and wanted to be able to function properly at work. The second I walked into the drug store, I realized that I was wearing shorts with holes in them, a t shirt with a pentagram on it, ironically of course, and a red and black flannel. I quickly buttoned up the flannel on my walk to the pharmaceutical counter…which only served to make me look like a worse for wear redneck…which is exactly what a crystal meth user looks like. Also I had some acne scars, and meth addicts always seem to be covered in random face scars. My anxiety was through the roof, so I started sweating and my teeth started clattering and my hands seemed to be up to their own shit. I walked up to the counter, “I need some Sudafed, now, please. I’m not up to no good; I promise. I just…need it. I’m sick.” Now I’m on some sort of watch list, I just know it.

The most significant thing I learned from working in customer service positions is that most people walk around with an internal monologue that goes something like, “me me me me me.” And when they have to deal with anyone else, particularly someone they are attempting to purchase a good or service from, it goes kind of like, “me me me. You?! You!? Me me me! You!?!?! You!!! You? You! ME!!!!” You know what I mean?

I run a business that specializes in making our clients famous. Our current popular method is mass murder. You may have heard of some of our clients...Stalin, anyone? Saddam Hussein?