You Don’t Like Mushrooms… You Like Butter and Salt
My dad has tried, for the entirety of my life, to get me to like mushrooms. Everything. He’s tried to hide them in dishes. Sneaking those little bastards into some salmon he had to over sauce in an attempt to counteract the true taste and texture of mother nature’s natural rubber. He’ll camouflage them, with so much seasoning it tastes like you’re eating pieces of said rubber from a tire that rolled through the McCormick factory. But try as he might, I hate mushrooms. Why? Because mushrooms are disgusting. That’s why.
“I love mushrooms.” No you don’t. I’m sorry but you don’t. You don’ttt… And look, this isn’t something I want to do. This is something I have to do. This has gone too far and somebody has to put a stop to this movement of mushroom eaters that has seemingly spread into every last grove and grain of this country’s great food culture. So I’ll say it once and for all… Mushroom eaters. You don’t like mushrooms. You don’t… You like everything you put on the mushrooms. You like copious amounts of butter and salt, and olive oil and whatever other seasonings you use to taste literally anything but the actual mushroom. You know I’m right. If you claim to love mushrooms so much, why do you spores of satan eat them with the help of your entire spice rack? Huh? Yeah. Because they’d taste like earthy, dried up dick raisons without.
See, what you’re confusing your love for mushrooms with is actually something called a noodle. It serves the same basic function your mushrooms currently do: Imports large shipments of butter, salt, and whatever else you’re craving into your pie hole without others questioning the sanity of someone who inhales half a month’s worth of sodium in one sitting. I suggest you try them out, quit lying to yourselves that mother nature’s dirt dicks actually taste good, and then you won’t be so mentally unstable that a few documentaries about how magical they are have you scavenging in the woods like some forest dwelling rodent looking for their next meal. I like butter and salt too. I just know what a noodle is.
You’re welcome.
Running Clothes Need Better Phone Pockets. End Of Story.
I don’t know who else cares this much about the topic of phone pockets in running attire, but I do. And I’ve had enough. I can’t take it anymore. I don’t know what else to do. Why the fuck is it so hard for companies to figure out adequate pockets for peoples’ phones in running clothes?!? How? And don’t give me that “oh do you really need your phone when you run?” or “get an arm band” shit. Who the fuck runs without their phone? I have the answer. Not a single person on the face of this earth that I’d ever want to speak to. And arm bands? Really? Yeah let me just delete all my online dating accounts while I’m at it. Everybody knows the reason you run in the first place is to get girls, not the opposite. I might as well carry pepper spray and wear those night club looking strobe lights around my neck so I don’t get laid out by any cars or girls for that matter.
And the nimrods who design these shit phone pockets? They don’t run with their phones because they don’t run at all. Obviously. There’s no way. They’d instantly know just how terrible their own clothing companies’ pockets truly are. Im sick of it. It shouldn’t be this hard. To figure out how to store your gd phone in your gd pants, or shorts, or bra or whatever the hell some of you weirdos wear running. Whatever it may be, there should be a good way to store your phone somewhere within it. And especially for the prices some of you dirtbags charge. Seriously. $130 for a sweatshirt with a few pieces of reflective tape on it and those thumb holes nobody has ever once used literally ever. Really? $130? Oh and it has a one size fits nobody style hood. My bad.
Regardless, everyone runs with their phone nowadays. This shouldn’t be news to what seems like almost an entire industry. I probably own two dozen pairs of either running shorts or pants, and I can count on exactly three fifths hand how many pairs I consider to have adequate phone pockets for running. I’m serious. And no I’m not some insanely picky jogging snob. I don’t have the sticker with the decimal point specifying that last .2 miles on my car or its pathetic little brother. I don’t weave my shoe laces in various patterns depending on how my feet feel that day. Hell I don’t even wear lights when running at night like previously stated. I just don’t like having a slab of precious metals slapping against my thigh for an hour straight as if running wasn’t miserable enough already. So listen up running industry. Here are some tips:
For starters, it would be helpful if the phone pocket, well, was actually big enough to fit a fucking phone. This isn’t 2005. I don’t know if the head of Nike’s running department has held a cellphone lately, but they’re bigger than they used to be. Surprising I know. But this isn’t news. So I don’t know what your plans are with those shitty snap button pockets you’ve been pushing on us for the last 15 years, but I suggest you at least upgrade the size of the pockets to fit something past an iPhone 4. Much appreciated. And if you expect me to carry my phone in a pocket, Nike, could you perhaps put a zipper on the pocket or some other way of actually keeping my phone in said pocket for the entirety of my run? This would also be heavily appreciated. A side note, I once purchased a pair of Nike sweatpants that had such awfully angled and shallow pockets, my phone would fall out of them if it shifted ever so slightly while I was simply walking. Not running. Or cycling. Or swimming. No. You had to be careful on your way to the fridge. That’s the design team they have working at Nike. Strings long enough for a skeleton to pull his shorts tight and then jump rope with the remaining length, yet couldn’t give us a few more inches of pocket material so my phone doesn’t commit suicide every time I move my legs. Just do it. Fire all of them.
Who else? Under Armour? Speaking of sweatpants, what the fuck is your problem? I currently own a pair of Under Armour sweatpants specifically designed for running, and I kid you not the draw strings are like Harry Houdini when it comes to untying knots. Nothing I try stays tied for the entirety of a run. I’ve had shoes where you’ll spend more time trying to untie the laces than time spent on the actual run, yet these “jogging” pants get lose from me repeatedly moving my abdomen a certain way. The laces are so thick and stiff you’d have an easier time trying to tie two trees together than getting these things to cooperate. I’ve seen threesome videos where dudes get their junk intertwined and it takes them longer to untangle their two man Dot’s dick pretzel than it does these laces.
Thank god for some of you. Fabletics. I’ll shout them out. They have a phone pocket built into the compression shorts that are built into your running shorts. Oh and if that’s not good enough, they have another pocket within one of the normal pockets that also works very well, as it keeps your phone from jostling around like some crazed crackhead trapped under their own blanket. That’s how you make running shorts. And once I find a pair of running shorts or pants that I like, I’ll pay whatever. $70-$80 for some shorts? More? If it adequately stores my phone so I don’t have to hold it like I’m running to the opening ceremony of the Olympics then I don’t care. Worth every penny. Step up your game Nike, and everybody else besides Fabletics and probably several other brands I’ve either never heard of or can afford.
Make running great again. Or at least the pocket that stores your phone.
P.S. I’ve never seen two gentleman get their reptiles wrapped around each other to the point of needing to untangle during a threesome. I imagine it happens though. I’ll round up for the cause. Where’s that charity?
Nature Valley’s New Design Is Their Crumbiest Yet
Nature Valley, better known as the crumb company, has officially released their new packaging for their famous granola bars/crumb piles. While the look of the packaging isn’t a drastic change from their old design, the biggest change comes in the form of the material. According to Nature Valley, their new packaging, a polyethylene film, is fully recyclable. YAY. SAVE THE EARTH. Right? Well... There’s a catch.
In one of the dumbest moves in the history of recycling innovation, you have to take your Nature Valley wrappers to select stores in order to actually recycle them. Yes you read that right. YOU have to drive around until you find a store that takes this stuff. Where the hell are these stores? No one knows. How many of these stores are there in any given town? Your guess is as good as mine. And yeah whatever, I know, they’re trying to help save the world. But this isn’t the way to do it.
Who the hell is going to save every single granola bar wrapper in hopes of some day finding one of these mystery stores? For starters, you have to first dump out the three pounds of crumbs that come with every granola bar, then you have to find a place to store the wrappers for the next three months, and then you actually have to remember to bring your hoard of wrappers with you whenever you feel like recycling these fucking things. I don’t know about you but that seems like a lot of work for the person who paid for the product. Shouldn’t this be Nature Valley’s job? That would be like eating at a restaurant and then having to go in the back and hand wash your own dishes because it’s more environmentally friendly than a dishwasher. I get that we should all be recycling, but if you think I’m gonna go to a store every time I want to recycle a god damn granola bar wrapper you’re out of your fucking mind. I don’t care, let the glaciers melt. I hope ALL the polar bears die because of these stupid fucking wrappers.
And to all of you hipster weirdos who will actually take this shit to a store and make some clueless high schooler nervously wonder around until they find a co-worker who knows what the fuck to do with these things, congratulations, your year-long supply of wrappers helped make the arm for an ugly plastic chair no one wants to sit on.
The world is crumbling, and it’s all your fault, Nature Valley.
Dear Parents, You’re Texting… Not Writing A Fucking Letter
Text messages, the modern day letter. There are many benefits to texting someone instead of sending them a letter like in the “good” old days. Texting is fast, free, and easy, as it doesn’t require ink, a feather, or the pony express. You can text someone a message, pictures, videos, gifs, your flaccid penis, your flaccid penis accompanied by a message saying it “could get harder if I had a picture of you to look at” and anything else your heart desires. No one cares if you use correct spelling or grammar, and instead of sitting down for an hour to pen out some long letter updating your family and friends on what’s going on in your boring life, you can simply ignore their calls and instead shoot them a text. The conveniences of texting are endless.
However, with all of these great modern day features text messaging has brought us, there are also some not so great ones. And perhaps the most annoying feature of text messaging I can think of, is the fact that our parents can now use it as a way to further annoy the living crap out of you. Because while most parents are kind, loving, and innocent, they’re also the furthest thing from being tech savvy. So them meaning well doesn’t change the fact that my blood boils every time I get a message from my dad reminding me of what my fucking name is, as if my memory is wiped clean every night and I wake up each morning with no prior knowledge of who I am, let alone the name my parents gave me the day I popped out of my mom’s creation cave... Now you’re probably wondering what I mean by ‘reminding me of what my name is’. Well, if your dad is anything like mine, he simply cannot send a text without first addressing you by name...
‘
Ben, what should we make for dinner?’
‘Ben, did you take the garbage out?’
‘Ben, be sure and watch for deer when you drive home tonight because this is the time of year when they’re running around the most.’
‘Ben, how did the interview go?’
‘Ben, what’s the netflux password again?’
I could go on and on and on and on. And I know, it’s clear from these actual text messages my dad has sent me, that he loves and cares about me very much. I get that and it isn’t lost on me. I love my dad very much and appreciate everything he does for me. But Jesus Christ man. I know what my damn name is! You’re sending me a text message asking what we should make for dinner, not writing a letter to inform me of grandma’s passing. This is 2021 not 1762. So unless you used a quill and some parchment paper to write that, I don’t want to see my damn name followed by a comma anywhere in that text message. Addressing me by name makes it seem like you’re scolding me for something, not asking me what the ‘netflux’ password is for the third time this month.
And yes, this is probably a bit harsh. I really didn’t need to write a blog about how my dad addresses me by my name every time he sends a text, but it annoys the hell out of me and I can’t change that. And I know there’s no shortage when it comes to spokesmen for the dad-less justice warriors, so before you get on here and tell us all about how you tragically lost your dad to a drunk driver and the last thing you have from him is a text message telling you how much he loves you blah blah blah. If you think I give a shit you’re barking up the wrong blog. So save that crap for whatever other depressing corners of the Internet you frequent.
If you really need to enlighten me on how lucky I am to still have a dad, I suggest you send a letter instead.
The Salem Witch Trials Are Proof Of Why Women Should Never Eat Carbs
Before you get your broom handles in a knot, settle down. The title is obviously a joke. So please read the rest of the blog before casting some spell on me. Thanks.
Today is March 1st, and for most people in the United States with normal functioning brains, March means one of two things. We are one month closer to summer and March Madness is just around the corner. However, for the minority, for those select few weirdos out there, March means something else. It represents women’s history, and all the good and bad that comes with. Now after having celebrated Black History month in February, this makes for quite a boring month. That’s a joke. March isn’t boring. We have college basketball and melting snow. Wink wink.
Anyways, this month isn’t just about celebrating the many accomplished yet overshadowed women in history, or say, the less accomplished woman sitting next to you currently scrolling through her phone’s camera roll trying to make you pick which photo of the two of you from the weekend you like most so she can post it on Instagram as if you actually gave a rat’s ass. No, luckily for Women’s History month, March 1st brings with it the beginning of the Salem witch trials. Now don’t get me wrong, learning about how Helen Keller communicated with her fingers is quite fascinating, reading articles about Amelia Earhart running out of gas and being bad at directions like the rest of us sends tingles of excitement down my spine, and watching documentary after documentary on Susan B. Anthony and wondering how someone used glasses that small brings me greater joy than you could ever imagine...
Seriously. Look at those things.
But much more interesting to me, anyway, is the lore surrounding the Massachusetts Bay Colony and all of the shenanigans that took place a little over 300 years ago. Because while we’ve always been told that the Salem Witch Trials were a result of things like church politics, feuding families, and just really old fashioned, simple minded people, a more recent theory has started to gain popularity and it is both fascinating and actually makes a lot of sense.
In 1976, a researcher named Linnda Caporael presented the first evidence that the Salem witch trials were due in part to an outbreak of rye ergot. Now what the fuck is rye ergot? And why should we trust some lady who spells Linda with two ns (talk about evidence of being a witch). Well, rye ergot is actually a type of fungus that forms hallucinogenic drugs in bread which causes its victims to appear ‘bewitched’ when they’re actually just really stoned. Go figure. And what was the most common, readily available food back then? You guessed it. And not only that, but in a time when people had to eat just about anything to survive, a few black spots on their rye crop wasn’t enough for them to just throw it all away. They were going to eat the shit regardless, and deal witch the consequences later.
Well, on March 1st of 1692, those consequences came. And over the next few months more than 150 women and some men from Salem Village and the surrounding areas were brought up on charges of satanic practices and dealt with accordingly (And if you’ve lived under a rock your entire life and don’t know how they killed witches google it).
The whole thing is one of the more fascinating bits of our country’s short history thus far. And the fact that it could have all been caused by some moldy bread just adds to this already crazy sequence of events. The Salem witch trials has sparked generations of pointy hat wearing, broomstick carrying little lads and lasses come every Halloween, and has brought us iconic movies and shows. So thank you ladies of Salem, for your sad yet entertaining contribution to Women’s History month. It’s also a very fitting installment in the endless saga that is women’s oppression throughout history.
But hey, that’s what you get for eating all those carbs.
#WhyMenNeverListenIn4Words Is Currently Trending On Twitter
This is why I love Twitter. Nothing on this Earth entertains me more than waking up on a Sunday morning and having a nice cup of coffee while I scroll through the responses to yet another hilarious trending hashtag (Pathetic I know). And man oh man did the responses to this hashtag not disappoint. From the truly absurd, to the hilarious, to the just plain pathetic. When it comes to the frequent users of Twitter, the responses never disappoint.
There are the idiots truly offended by the fact that something like this is trending on social media to begin with. Like this darling lass. Take it easy Hannah. The clever meme you stole from some other insufferable moron should be used sparingly. And responding to a funny hashtag on Twitter probably isn’t one of those times. You’ll maybe wanna borrow their tape and put it over your keyboard next time. Oh well. You’ll learn.
There are the equally stupid people, like Denise Snowflake Uptown Girl Snowman who take hashtags like this VERY seriously as they are no laughing matter, and feel the need to think it over for two hours before releasing this amazing piece of work to the world. I just hope she didn’t use up ALL of her brain power on picking the right gif, as I’m sure this social justice warrior still has many battles left to fight today. Thank you Denise. Stay strong you brave, beautiful soul.
There are the thirsty thots like Char Barley who will take any opportunity to show us their goods in hopes of getting a few more OnlyFans subscribers. She calls herself the “Big Booty Queen” and has over 1,500 posts on her page, yet has to offer a 14 day free trial. Guys are “Staring at my ass” but apparently aren’t paying for the privilege. Times must be tough.
And lastly... there are the more stereotypical, yet accurate responses to the #WhyMenNeverListenIn4Words hashtag... And my personal favorites. Like this gem:
I mean, he’s not wrong. Yes this is a stereotype, but I think it’s a pretty accurate one. It is biology after all. We’re only human. We’re gonna stare. Because I’m sorry, but looking at a nice butt on a war summer day is far more enjoyable than listening to you go on and on about how Jennifer didn’t invite you to her birthday party. And you wouldn’t have gone anyways because you hate her this week for god know’s what reason, but she still should have invited you because it’s the mature thing to do, plus she invited Becky and everyone knows how close you and Becky are, and you’re the one that introduced her to Becky in the first place when she was new in town and didn’t have any other friends. And now her and Becky are becoming closer and you’re worried Becky might like Jennifer more than she likes you even though Becky is supposed to hate Jennifer this week because you hate her oh look a nice butt.
Sorry what were you saying?
“We don’t all talk like that!” Yeah, you’re right. And WE don’t all stare at butts all day and watch sports 24/7, even though a lot of us would like to. Men don’t listen and women don’t listen. You ever try to talk to your girlfriend when the Bachelor is on? No. Because you know better after “the incident”.
But regardless of how stupid these hashtags may be, and the equally as stupid people who get offended by them, they definitely provide us with entertainment and for that I’m forever thankful.
YouTube Doesn’t Have Ads If You’re Not A Complete And Total Moron
Something that never ceases to amaze me is the number of people I see complaining in comment sections on YouTube about how many ads there are. It doesn’t matter if I’m watching a clip from a stand-up comedy special, a video from CNN talking about some idiotic thing Trump said, or a ‘How-To’ on picking your nose in public without getting caught… if I’m scrolling through comments, I’ll inevitably see at least one or two dip shits complaining about the number of ads on YouTube.
Uhhhh… I thought everyone knew how to get around this? Hasn’t this been old news for like a decade now? Ads? On YouTube? Hahahahahaha. What’s that like? It must be ROUGH. Luckily though I’ll play hero for the day with this extremely complicated bit of advice for all of you sad souls living in ancient times. AD BLOCKER. I repeat… AD BLOCKER. Get a goddamn ad blocker you absolute morons. How have you been living your lives on the interwebs without a fucking ad blocker for all of these years?!? Seriously. How??? If I didn’t have an ad blocker attachment on chrome I would have found an old ethernet cable and hung myself with it years ago. It’s so easy to install one! If you can wipe your ass you can install an ad blocker.
And for those of you who have ad blockers, yes I know, a lot of sites ask you to disable them nowadays, but luckily for us YouTube still isn’t one of them. And yes, I also know that you can’t put an ad blocker on the YouTube app on your phone. Just put an ad blocker on your phone’s web browser and you’re all set. Duh.
Also, ad blocker isn’t just useful for YouTube. I’ve been able to watch the free version of Peacock without ads because of my ad blocker. Sure Peacock asks me to disable it every time I log in, but who the fuck is going to listen to a bird. Mind your own business. And if I wanted to pay for yet ANOTHER streaming service I would. But you bastards stole ‘The Office’ from us and now have the audacity to only let us watch the first two seasons WITH ADS unless we pay? Yeah you can go fuck yourselves Peacock. The next time I’m at a zoo and see one of you fuckers I’m feeding you rat poison.
Regardless though, people, come on. Get your damn lives together. It’s free, super easy to install, and works so well that I haven’t seen a single YouTube ad since, well, they started using ads. I didn’t even know there were ads on YouTube to begin with. And several ads in a single video? No idea. Must be nice having to put up with all that hassle when it would take you all of 30 seconds to put an ad blocker extension on your web browser. Google it if you don’t know how and be sure to thank me in the comment section of this blog. You’re welcome. Sorry for calling you all kinds of names but my god. Get it together.
Most ad blockers also tell you how many ads they’ve blocked in total. Wanna take a guess at how many ads on YouTube I’ve blocked over the years? I won’t say. That’ll just depress you.
Why Are You Wishing Your Parents A Happy Birthday On Instagram? No One Cares
Just a quick PSA for everybody, if you're wishing a parent happy birthday on a social media platform that your parent isn't even on, instead of making 500 random people scroll past the same paragraph and stupid pictures you posted last year, just send them a text. Ok?
Because I'm sorry to break the news to you, but no one reads past the first few words, and all you're doing is making us hate you more than we already do. Especially you self important idiots who feel the need to wish your parents a happy birthday or anniversary on Instagram. INSTAGRAM. Are your parents on insta?!? I’ll answer that for you... No, they are not. So should you be congratulating them on getting older or wasting away another year with their spouse who they’ve hated for a decade now? I’ll answer that question for you too... No, you should not.
"Happy 27th anniversary to my two role models, you've taught me so much about life and love, and you're an inspiration to us all. I can only hope to be just as perfect as you two someday and blah blah blah blah BLAH. The only reason, I repeat, the ONLY reason you make these stupid posts is to get likes and attention. That’s it. There is absolutely no other reason to post about your parents birthday or anniversary on a platform they don’t even have. They won’t see the post and you probably told them the same sappy shit in person or over the phone early that day anyway. Actually, you probably didn’t because no one is ever that corny. Ever. Just on social media when it comes to getting attention. If you want attention that badly, post a topless selfie, or a picture of your parents having sex. I don’t know. But spice it up a little bit.
And if you just have to make these stupid posts every year, if you can’t live unless you type out the same shitty paragraph about how great Bob and Lisa are, then it should be a requirement that you also make a post when they get divorced with all the dirty details about how Bob fucked Lisa’s best friend. I guarantee this would get way more likes, and would definitely be more entertaining to read. So just some things to think about.
In the meantime however, just text your parents whatever you thought the rest of the world wanted to read. They’ll appreciate it and we won’t have to pretend to. Thanks.
People Who Prefer Their Pizza Cut Into Squares Are Freaks
Seriously. If you like your pizza cut into square slices instead triangles like the rest of the world, you are a freak and should be banned from ever eating another pizza. This picture is a perfect example of why pizza has always been cut into triangles. One word... EVEN FUCKING PIECES. Ok three words. But come on, who the fuck wants to eat those tiny crust triangles that you always get when the pizza comes in squares. And why would I want to go through the laborious process of putting 27 little squares on my plate when I can just put a few large, perfectly cut, even triangles of NORMAL looking pizza on my plate in two seconds. By the time you square cut weirdos are done picking out which pieces you want to take (because we all do when a pizza is cut into a billion pieces), I’ll be done eating my pieces and back in line for seconds.
There is literally no benefit to butchering a pizza into little one or two bite pieces. Give me one good reason. And you can’t say, “Well, sometimes triangle slices are too big and I want more than one piece but not more than two pieces, so little squares are better.” Yeah? Who the hell can’t finish a piece of pizza even when they’re full? The answer is no one. It’s fucking pizza! And don’t try to tell me that squares are better for when there are a lot of people eating because then everybody gets like three bites worth of pizza and no one is happy. AND, slicing a pizza into little squares takes way longer! I just want to eat the damn thing, not take 10 minutes to chop it up while it gets cold. There’s not a single reason to cut pizza any other way than the way it’s always been sliced... Big, even, perfect, triangles.
And another thing, if a restaurant is slicing their pizzas into squares because they make square pizzas to begin with, they’re freaks too and shouldn’t be allowed to make pizza anymore. The only thing that should be square when it comes to pizza is the box it comes in. Seriously though. Square pizza? Square slices? Why don’t you start making square pepperoni slices while you’re at it too, and put the square pizza in a round box. All I’m trying to say is, just make a round pizza with normal slices. It’s the easiest way, and best way, for a reason.
Leave the weird pizza to those vegan creeps.
Mr. Potato Head Comes Out As Gender Neutral... Old News
Mr. Potato Head... A dude with a bushy mustache but manicured eyebrows, pink ears and blue shoes, wears lipstick but no pants, and rocks a bowler hat which was popular in 1800′s Britain, has recently revealed that he isn’t a Mr. or a Mrs., he’s actually gender neutral. Go fucking figure. Just look at this spiffy motherfucker. Does it look like this trend setting staple crop gives two shits about gender identity? Of course not. I wonder why it even took this long for him I mean it to take away the ‘Mr.’ from his name. I mean it’s name, dammit.
And for those of you who are upset by this recent development (Fox News and company), I have more bad news. If this dapper son of a bitch (I mean offspring of a bitch) doesn’t adhere to society created gender identities, there’s no way in hell that Potato Head identifies as a vegetable, starch, or root or whatever the hell else they’re labeled as nowadays. This bad ass is in its own food group, if it even considers itself a food at this point. I’m guessing not.
When the dust finally settles and those of you devastated by the news are able to move past this, I’m sure there will be more toys and cartoon characters who will come out as gender neutral, gay, bi-sexual, trans, and whatever else you idiots still have a hard time accepting. So I just hope this isn’t too much for you folks to handle. Just know that there are resources available to you, to help get you through these tough times.
Fuck. As I was typing this shitty blog I read another article on the matter and apparently Hasbro is just changing the brand name to Potato Head, but is keeping the Mr. and Mrs. Potato head characters. But I already wrote this much so I’m not deleting it. God dammit Hasbro. I guess Potato Head is a Mr. after all.
Whatever. That’s what you get for taking the time to a write a fucking blog about a toy potato.