Shelling 101: Marking Your Territory

Any sheller worth their salt water knows that you can’t be a successful beach comber without being the biggest, baddest bitch on the beach. The chosen one. The person everybody else knows not to mess with. Because the sand is always going to be crowded. Any beach with good shelling is going to come with a sea of people, that’s a given. Letting everybody else know that you own this pile of sand and everything that’s found on it is a good way to ensure that you get all the cool shells instead of letting a bunch of random kids and old midwesterners appreciate them as well.

So how does someone go about marking their territory? How does one separate themselves from the rest of the shell collecting cockroaches, you might ask. First thing’s first. You need to seek out the best spot to set your things down. This is called your resting zone. It’s where you’ll be taking breaks and dropping off bags of collected shells. Make sure this spot is visible from miles around. I repeat, make sure you can easily locate your belongings from walking distance. Why you may ask? It’s important you set the tone for a beach day early. And there’s nothing worse than walking back to your spot with bags full of beautiful shells as the entire beach ogles you, and suddenly you can’t find your spot. How embarrassing. In addition to this area being easily visible, you’ll also want to spread out and make this resting zone as big as possible, as it let’s everyone else know that you couldn’t care less about their personal space because you are vastly more important than they are.

Now that you have an established resting zone, it’s time to do some cleaning. Shelling is most definitely a sport, and with any proper sport comes a proper playing field. Would they still play Wimbledon if the grass was two feet tall? Would the super bowl take place if the goal posts weren’t installed? Would they race the Daytona 500 if there was only time for 499 laps? No. No. and probably not. And the same goes for the playing field when shelling. So the first thing I do is clear out any debris, rocks, or uneven spots in the sand that could cause my 30 year-old ligaments any issues if we meet. This includes people, dogs, sand castles (both old and new), people in the middle of sex acts, bags, umbrellas, bicycles, beer bottles, and anything else in my way. Now that you’ve established a clean area, known as your 'shelling zone’, you are ready to shell! Remember to take as many good shells as you can possibly find. And shoving or tripping little kids is only cruel and punishable if enough adults see you do it and they are young and/or agile enough to chase you down the beach and actually apprehend you long enough for the police to get there and arrest you. Lot a ifs and ands there. Not my fault kids aren’t good on their feet. You should be fine.

The final thing to remember when marking your shelling territory is there’s no such thing as too big of an area. That simply doesn’t exist. I’ll rope off the entire state of Florida if I’m finding good enough shells. Walmart sells very cheap rope and you’d be surprised how many stakes you can find on the beach if you don’t care whether or not they’re currently being used. That’s all for this installment of shelling 101. Stay tuned for more.

Duck, Duck, Welfare Abuse

Is there anything more American than this? I mean really. Every single element of this video’s makeup is pure, screaming red, white, and blue. For starters, Mr. Hot Wheels over there literally invented slot machine nascar before our vary eyes. Is this a sanctioned sport yet? How many laps are races? Is it just the last person to not spew their buffet food all over those already hideous casino carpets? I need answers. Also, where the hell is this?!? I didn’t know there was a single casino on the face of this country that had empty seats in it, let alone enough for screamin’ scooter boy to be doing donuts like he’s back in high school showing off to the ladies in some Walmart parking lot. I’ll admit it shot a little blood to my man parts. Seriously, look at the control he displays. Never once does he even slightly tip that thing over, despite flying around those machines like some PCP’d up paper boy.

Boosted Ego: Let’s Put An End To Leg Lengthening Surgery

According to the two articles I skimmed, there’s been a recent surge in shorter men ditching the phone books and kid’s section clothing for adult sized legs by having them surgically lengthened. Now the reasoning is obvious. And I get it. When it comes to dating and women, mini men want to play in the same league as real men. It makes sense. For women, the party is nicer in the penthouse. You aren’t stopping on the third floor to hangout and see how many dudes you can simultaneously put in the friend zone when you know there’s a pool party on the roof. So I sympathize with you. However, shame on all you short kings. Have a little pride. Fuck the amusement parks and their height requirements. Take that extra step on the stairs. It’s ok. Life isn’t always greener on the other, much greener, sunnier, and overall better side. Believe it or not, (Not the Ripley’s kind your family probably belongs in) life isn’t all candy and roses up here either. Imagine having to open every door just to enter a room or building instead of simply walking under them. Yeah. And have you ever tried to sit in the back of any sedan smaller than an Accord Touring Edition? Yeah you have no idea what I’m talking about, do you. Because afterwards I bet your knees don’t look like you worked the corner all weekend. And how many overhead compartments on planes have you smacked your god damn dome on in your lifetime? So you have to stand up to adjust the air. Big deal. I’m the poor bastard who gets to act as part luggage crane for the vertically challenged around me more often than not. God forbid I’m simply handed my suitcase as I get off the plane like you short shit heads. I suppose you just sit on your suitcases too. See, more carry ons. Being short has its perks!

Anyways, there’s a lot that goes on up here. And I don’t think just any ordinary Joe schmoe should be allowed to surgically attach a pair of stilts to themselves just to get a few more phone numbers. Again, I get that your pool of women is more like a murky, stagnant pond instead of the five star resort caliber, olympic sized ones us vertically gifted males swim in. But that’s just life. And in life, not every pool has a shallow end.

Let’s Put An End To Grab Bars In Hotel Showers

I’ve officially hit my left elbow on the LAST hotel shower grab bar. That’s it. I’m done. As the shattered remains of my arm rattle like skeletons hanging for Halloween, I can’t help but question why these things exist in the first place. I mean really? If I wanted a stripper pole in my bathroom I’d just stay home. Why do grab bars in hotel showers exist? Who are they helping? Old people? You literally have entire chains of hotels just for you, they’re called nursing homes or caskets. So who? Lazy people? If you’re lazy enough to want a grab bar in your shower, news flash, you ain’t bathing on a regular basis if at all. Fat people? It’s called the hotel swimming pool. There’s plenty of space and chemicals to clean all those hard to reach creases and canals, so I have no idea why jamming yourself into a shower would be the more appealing choice. Uhh… Legless people? Ok how are you rolling into that tub/shower combo in the first place? They’re out, literally. Who else? Serial killers? If you tie a person up to one of those and they can’t rip it out of the wall in six seconds, I don’t know what to tell ‘em besides they should maybe hit the gym before getting kidnapped next time. So who is actually using these things? Short kings? Are they scaling the grab bar to change the shower head setting to their queen’s liking? Ok that actually makes sense. Fine. Keep the grab bars in hotel showers for the short kings. Gotta do what ya gotta do. I get it. 

Fuck my elbow.

Waitress Fired After Mixing Her Own Blood Into Customer’s Cocktail

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METRO (Sian Elvin) - It is often said hard workers pour ‘blood, sweat and tears’ into their efforts – but it usually isn’t meant literally. A waitress at a café in Japan was fired after it was found she had mixed her own blood into a customer’s cocktail. The Mondaiji Con Café Daku, which loosely translates to ‘Problem Child Dark Café’, opened at the beginning of March in the entertainment district of the city of Sapporo. Its gimmick is to hire ‘mentally unstable’ and ‘problematic’ young women as waitresses, dressed as goths and wearing dark make-up. But it appears one of the waitresses took her role a little too far and added her blood to a drink, reportedly at the request of a customer. The café apologized for what happened in a tweet on April 2, saying what happened was ‘absolutely not acceptable’ and calling the incident ‘borderline terrorism’. It confirmed the woman was fired 18 days after opening, and the café was closed for a day while it replaced all its glasses.

So let me get this straight… Cafe Problem Child or whatever it translates to over here hires a bunch of women who should probably be in the loony bin, and the genius/owner behind this brilliant operation fires his best waitress because she added a little secret sauce to someone’s drink. Well isn’t that just stupid. You wouldn’t let your all-star quarterback go because he slept with some other player’s wife. You wouldn’t direct a movie with some Hallmark actor instead of Robert Pattinson because he enjoys licking girls’ armpits. And you don’t fire your best waitress because some little snitch told everyone what her secret recipe was. So she puts a little of her own body mary I mean bloody mary mix in someone’s drink, who fucking cares? Maybe the customer was a vampire, who are we to judge? And you know this perfectly sane individual was this cafe’s best waitress. This lass clearly knows how to get the big tips and this moron of an owner could learn a thing or two. In the age of restaurants and cafes disappearing as fast as they appear, it takes a trained eye to spot a superstar server, and whoever runs this place clearly doesn’t have one. 

Keep your chin up sweetie. I’m sure there’s a blood bank/cafe combination store out there somewhere that appreciates the true artists in our society. You’ll get your big break. 

Pushing A Shopping Cart Should Require A License

It’s the the age old tale of lady meets shopping cart train, picks her companion for the tenth Target run of the week, and bounces said companion off every single person in said Target store like a fucking pinball. Ladies… can we for the love of God and everything holy, please PLEASE PPPLLLEEEAAASSSEEE figure out how to navigate a store without running into my heels? I’m begging you. I’m pleading with you. Please. It isn’t that hard. It really isn’t. So why on God’s green earth and his aisles wide enough for more people than just you, is it impossible for me to leave a store without an aching achilles? I mean honestly. Get your shit together! And I know… “How can you say it’s only women who can’t steer a god damn shopping cart to save their lives?” Well because it’s only women who hit my god damn heels with their god damn shopping carts! And maybe I wouldn’t be so god damn pissed if it didn’t hurt so god damn bad. And maybe if your god damn cart wasn’t filled with 300 pounds of diet soda and terribly scented candles, it wouldn’t hurt so god damn bad in the first place! So stop bothering your nephew with that Words With Friends game you forced him to play you in, and pay attention to where the fuck you’re pushing that thing. Because the next middle aged woman to hit the back of my heels with their shopping cart is going to get more than they bargained for, and FAR more than any bargain their local Target is currently offering.

And why is it always the same woman? You’re all the same. You Hellen Kellers of the grocery aisles are One. And. The. Same. You’re always between the ages of 40 and 55. You all have the same half bull/half Karen haircut. You all wear the same sweet and sour perfume. Hell you probably all lead the same boring lives. Regardless, I’m sick of your shit. Learn how to steer a fucking shopping cart, lord knows you do enough of it.

Don’t Fuck With The Girl Scouts Of America

The Girl Scouts of America. The woodsy divas behind our culture’s favorite bake sale cookies. They’re as American as apple pie, and so deep rooted in our culture that the Statue of Liberty should be wearing one of their hideous badge covered shoulder bandanas. So what makes the girl scouts so American? Why the popularity? It isn’t the fact that they teach young girls leadership skills and how to pull off that weird coral green color. No. It’s that they know how to move product! These preteen titans of their industry push more kilos of sugar than than the mightiest of cartels do cocaine. And if we all appreciate any one thing in this great country of ours, it’s sugar. Just look at us. I can’t go long enough to write this damn blog without having to wash the sweet, sticky substance off my damn fingers. If you want a good gauge at the state of our country and the sugar addiction we have, look no further than every single “convenience” store. What’s the first thing you see when you enter those ever widening sliding doors? It isn’t the vegetable aisle. The Girl Scouts and their overpriced cookies have Americans by the balls. They know it. And they own it.

Fast forward to today. As I was trudging past the perfectly arranged table of cookies these little she devils put outside seemingly every place of business on the face of the American earth this time of year, I overheard them ask a teenage boy if he wanted any cookies. Mr. Cool, Calm, and Collected strolled by these witty wolves in sheep’s clothing and hastily answered their “Would you like to buy some cookies?” with the classic “I don’t have cash on me but I’ll get some in the store.” Yeah mhm. Sure. Now this move may work on a rookie girl scout with a handful of participation trophy badges, but not these veteran sugar dough dealers. Because without hesitation, one of the girls said “No worries, we take credit cards.” And to say this boy of a man was at a loss for words would be an understatement. Mr. Confidence over here didn’t know what to say. His mind was broken. The words wouldn’t come out because his baffled brain couldn’t produce any. Hell he probably got lost in the store. His sense of purpose, and direction, was wiped clean like a hard drive full of porn. I bet bozo over here searched up and down every aisle for a leftover halloween mask he could wear on his way out of the store because he knew those cookie queens were eagerly waiting to take the cash he “didn’t have.” These ladies were feisty. And Mr. Zit Zoo didn’t stand a chance.

That bullshit might work on a used car salesman or a desperate stripper, but not at your local Girl Scouts of America folding card table of cookies. Get outta here.

Answering Life’s Most Important Question: Which Finger Do You Use To Pick Your Nose?

Picking your nose is one of those daily tasks that everyone does, and I’d say most people thoroughly enjoy. Who doesn’t love the feeling you get pulling out one of those massive green nuggets that have been inhibiting your air flow all day? It’s one of life’s greatest joys! So let’s ask the most important question when it comes to cleaning out those facial septic tanks… Which finger do you use to pick your nose? Do you always use the same finger? Or does it depend on the day? For me, I go by which finger deserves it that particular day. Ya know? Because picking your nose is a very important job. It can’t just be any old finger you’re jamming up there. No. The finger I use has to be hand selected each morning. So how do I pick out the perfect picker from the litter? Well let me explain:

The first thing I look for in selecting a digit to dig out my boogers is smoothness. The finger absolutely has to be perfectly smooth. No hang nails, no sharp edges on the nail, no rough skin etc. If you’re not weeding out the roughed up culprits, you might as well just shove a rolled up piece of sandpaper up there. Once I’ve picked out the fingers that fit this criteria, I move on to range of motion. How does bending, poking and prodding feel? Are the joints at all sore? Can the finger easily and repeatedly navigate the maze like tunnels of my nostrils in order to get those deep rooted snot snakes? There’s going to be a lot of heavy lifting and maneuvering in tight spaces for whichever finger is selected, so range of motion and agility is a must. Lastly, you HAVE to make sure that the booger picking finger isn’t also your ass scratcher. There is nothing worse than finally settling on the day’s nose picker only to, upon first use, discover that you also picked it as the day’s butt scratcher. Nobody wants the smell of their own shitty ass shoved deep into their smelling tubes. So I’d recommend picking out your nose picking finger BEFORE you choose an ass scratcher. Everyone knows that ass scratching is much easier than digging out boogers, so the fingers you choose for this job are a dime a dozen. Ass scratching is a minimum wage job compared to the highly specialized field of picking one’s nose.

That’s it. No more walking around in public with disgusting nuggets of hardened slime falling out of your face like you’re a cliff who needs one of those “falling rock” signs because you settled on an underqualified contestant. No. Follow these simple steps and the pageant you hold every morning will pick the perfect digging digit for you, every single time.

Bride Finds Groom’s Mother Breastfeeding Him Before Wedding

Daily Mail - A wedding makeup artist has claimed one of her brides almost called off her wedding after discovering her groom being breastfed by his mother. In the latest episode of the Unfiltered Bride podcast, host Georgie Mitchell - who is a professional UK wedding planner - explained how she had been told the story by someone she had previously worked with. Referring to the makeup artist by the fake name 'Jenny', Georgie relayed how she had just finished the bride's face and hair when she said she needed to go to use the restroom. George said: '[The bride] walked into the toilet and what she saw is enough to end a wedding.' Despite the bride's obvious shock, the planner claims she still went ahead with the wedding.

Ok. We’re all thinking it, so I’ll just ask it… How hot are we talking? Was this like “freak mom with a hundred kids from some TLC show” hot? Or like “single mom who’s stayed in relatively good shape in the off chance she finds a father to replace the one who walked out on her and little jasper” hot? And aren’t there much worse things this bride-to-be could’ve found her honey doing before their big day? A son sucking on his mom’s milk bags is a lot better than his mom sucking the white liquid out of HIS body, right? I think? And if this dude just had to get his freak on like fifteen minutes before saying “I do”… what the hell kind of debauchery did he get into on his bachelor trip?!? My god what a time that must have been. Was his mom supplying the liquid calcium for that occasion too?

Also I will never ever understand how that works. Does a lady keep pumping as long as there’s someone sucking? How the hell does someone keep making milk like 30 years after they’ve had a kid? And is the milk making transferable? Like if this dude’s wife doesn’t want him sucking on both her tits and his own mom’s, can she take over the milking duties? Maybe it’s like pairing a new bluetooth device with your phone. Simply twist the left nipple three times to put it into pairing mode, suck on the right nipple for a few seconds, and away you go! No more milf milk. Problem solved.

I Finally Joined The Bad Boys Club

Last weekend it finally happened. After all these years of flying under the radar, passing cop after cop as I sped through their shit towns like my teenage self playing Need for Speed Hot Pursuit… at long last I was given a ticket for speeding. Hallelujah! I’ve been dreaming of this moment since I got my first license. You know that one where you’re sixteen and all excited to get your picture taken, then they hand it over and you look like a cross between some humanoid freak and a normal functioning adult, and now you’re wondering if your face really is shaped like that, or why one of your eyes is droopier than the other, or why the asshole taking the picture didn’t bother to tell you that your colic is photo bombing the most important picture you think you’re ever going to take. Anyways, now that I don’t have a perfect driving record I’m officially part of the bad boys club, and god damn does having to pay the $175.30 entry feel good! Clean driving records are for fucking losers. You virgin nerds.

I wish I had a cool “losing my virginity” story though. If you’re going be the asshole cop that sees someone has a perfect driving record and decide to pop their cherry, at least make it exciting. Let me lead you on a high speed chase for a few miles. Or let us have a duel where one of us gets the pepper spray and the other gets the taser. I don’t know, but something cooler than simply pulling me over because I was going 73 in a 55. Big fucking deal. Amish people in their horse and buggies gallop faster than that and they’ve never even seen Fast & Furious. And yes officer, I saw that it changed from 70 to 55 like ten miles ago, I just took it as more of a suggestion. I’ve been doing it for 15 years and you idiots are finally now just catching me? Shame on you.

Plus I’m technically helping pay their salary, right?. You should actually be thanking me for my reckless driving. What if everyone drove perfectly and no one ever got tickets? What would you hardo wannabes do then?!? Kind of weird when you actually think about it. The officer told me to slow down, but if everyone slowed down and no one sped or texted while driving, or passed in the median, or drove on the sidewalk because they’re 105 and too blind to read let alone operate a moving box of steel… ok you get the point. If we all drove like those losers with the clean records, we’d have no police to pull over us cool kid actual hardos in the first place. Speed demons wreaking havoc on the roadways like myself are literally the reason we have the police force to begin with. How many lives have police officers saved over the years? Why haven’t I been recognized yet? I’m out here racking up debt just so Mr. Flashy Lights can keep doing his job. What a hero I am.

Back the blue? Uh how about me too? You’re welcome.