Are Manatees The Most Overrated Animals On Planet Earth?

Look, I get it. I really do. They’re adorable. They’re the size and shape of an old VW bus. They have whiskers like a cat, little flippers, and they sleep and float around all day like that fluffy turd you left in your ex girlfriend’s toilet the night she told you it was over. I get why people with normally functioning brains think they’re cute. With that being said however…

I just don’t see it. Somebody help me understand our culture’s creepy obsession with manatees. What’s so great about them? Really? Is it because they’re so pathetic and helpless? And fat? Have you ever seen a manatee migration? Where they all come hangout together in a big clump for a few days before continuing on their journey to wherever the hell they go for the winter? No? Well there’s schools of them, like fish. And I could quite literally run across their backs like a contestant on that obstacle course show, drowning them one by one with each step. Ok that was too far. Jesus.

Also, nobody ever talks about how dolphins are literally just manatees only better in every way possible. Every single way. Name one thing a manatee can do that a dolphin can’t? What… fuckin’ float better? Get hit by more boats? Have less sex? What? And for those of you who think manatees are cute, have you seen other animals? I can name like 3,200 way cuter animals. They’re so ugly. If they were cute every man in here would be 400 pounds and keep 6 really long whiskers on each cheek when on the prowl for women. Ok I guess that’s basically the entire midwest but you get my point. Ok fuck it. Fine. Maybe Manatees are cute. If they’re good enough for the millions of miserable midwest gals, who am I to judge? Whatever.

But really, evolution. God damn guys. Grow them some fangs or something. Stick up for the poor creatures. How the fuck does a god make an animal so fat and slow, that out of the bazillion different species in the ocean, it’s literally the only one to get repeatedly run over by boats for its entire life. That’s impressive. Hell I once saw a pelican kick the shit out of a manatee while standing on one leg… That’s how pathetic these things are. Give them like a turtle shell or something for some defense at least. What was god trying to make when he debuted this thing anyway? Was he trying to make the hippo worse and less menacing in every way possible?

“There weren’t any motor boats when god made manatees.”

Yeah I know. But I would think someone who could create an entire fucking universe and then also this slow, fat, pathetic waste of a living thing without a single defense mechanism would foresee it having some natural enemies. All I’m trying to say is I think God needs to do a little software update on these things. Or evolution needs to speed up the process a bit. I’m tired of hearing about them and their issues.

Save the manatees? Save it.

Scientists Have 20 Minute Conversation With Whale: Second Date Pending

In a first for humankind and science, a team known as ‘Whale-SETI’ successfully held a conversation with a humpback whale named ‘Twain’. Now why his name isn’t Wain so he can be ‘Wain the Whale’ is as big a mystery to me as I’m sure it is to you, but we’ll move on. Scientists from the SETI Institute, University of California Davis, and the Alaska Whale Foundation teamed up to make this first date a spicy one, as the researchers were actually able to communicate with the magnificent beast over what I’m assuming was the most romantic, candle lit, sensual, sexy, hot to trot first date that has ever been had with a whale. Now as to how the actual conversation worked, you’ll probably wanna check out an actual article on the topic. An article by Eric Ralls in earth.com explains how they were able to communicate with the whale by using a recording of a humpback whale’s ‘contact call played into the ocean using a speaker.’ And scientists apparently shit themselves with amazement when their hot date circled their boat and responded in a conversational manner, as they put it. Throughout the rest of their twenty minute speed dating sesh, Twain consistently matched interval variations between playback calls, which sounds like the nerd way of saying the date went well.

Anyway, I don’t know how you can truly tell if you’re accurately communicating with a whale but I’m also not a scientist so who the hell knows. Like I said, read an actual article.

Cover Up Your Back Acne, At Least On The Plane…

Is it just me, or does it take an absolutely bat shit crazy, off in la la land type of person to wear an open backed shirt on an airplane, especially if they have terrible back acne? Am I just crazy? Does anybody else notice this? The sheer number of people I see traveling with garments that put their zits on display is nothing short of astonishing to me. I can’t be the only person who notices this, and I wouldn’t be caught dead leaving the house in anything but a properly covering shirt if between my shoulder blades was currently the fourth largest mountain chain in North America. Call my crazy. Call me an asshole. Call me whatever you want. But the next time you’re sitting behind me on an airplane you can be rest assured that you won’t be studying my backne like they’re constellations in the night sky.

And I get it. That skin can be an uncooperative cold hearted son of a bitch. I suffer the same fate. But seriously. You have to be another breed of human to be ok with rubbing your back grease against the already present wax museum on any airplane seat when you’re already struggling with breakouts. Plus we have TVs on the back of planes and I’m not trying to watch Mila Kunis and JT get it on in ‘Friends with Benefits’ when I got some Dr. Pimple Popper thumbnail in the background. And of course I’m going to stare at it. And study it. I can’t help it. Human nature. It’s like a car crash. Do I want to see a dude’s exploded head fifty yards from where it left his body? Fuck no. Then why have I stared at literally every single car crash I’ve ever driven by? The hell if I know! Same as the zitty back on the plane situation. Our eyes hate us sometimes.

What does it take for a human to wear a garment that allows me to study their back like this from afar without seemingly a care in the world anyway? Or at least this god damn plane. And again to be on a plane wearing this. Oh no my fair lady. What disease has infected your sense of direction in navigating life’s most obvious paths separating us from being a normal human being and an absolute menace to society?

Stuff like this. That’s what. From one shitty skinned, zit infected individual to another… cover it up. Thank you.

P.S. I realize this may sound a bit harsh, at least to some of you. Imagine how I feel trying to eat the already disgusting pepperoni from the meat tray I overpaid for while I’m staring at the pizza on your back? Yeah. Not everything is just about you ya know. Again I deal with it too. I just don’t advertise the shit like it isn’t gross to look at it.

Why Are The Women In My Family Such Messy Eaters?

My grandma had a notorious shelf on her. Yes I’m talking about the size of her bust line, and for educational purposes only. The sheer amount of crumbs, sauces, and various soft drink syrup stains that called her twin peaks home throughout their illustrious careers were hall of fame numbers great enough to impress the messiest of competitive eaters and smartest scientists. My grandma had a knack for making sure her shirts always had a carbon copy of whatever she was eating. No matter the meal or device she used to eat it. Plate. Bowl. Napkin. Her hands. Whatever it was. If it was going in her mouth, my grandma found a way to make sure she fed her shirt too.

Now fast forward to present day, where something is happening with my mom. She’s morphing. Or I guess in this case *animorphe… ing, as she’s fast becoming my grandma when it comes to how she chooses to distribute her food. Generous really. Everybody, or should I say every body part and clothing item covering it gets something. Is this what communism was supposed to be? My grandma is likely rolling over in the apartment complex for caskets she paid way too much money to live I mean lay in. Terrible joke. Sorry grandma.

Ok moving on. My mother. We sit down for dinner the other night. Spaghetti. I hadn’t finished scooting my squawking chair up to the edge of the dining room table when I noticed what looked like a crime scene left on her chest, displayed under the dim yet accurately directed dining room light like some expensive art piece. A spaghetti sauce stain. Well done mom. This was an impressive one. Red blotches scattered all over her chest like camouflage in various sizes and shades of red, successfully masking the colors of her actual clothing. And nothing on her face. Never. Somehow that was the sought after real estate immune from her eating. And I’m not over exaggerating… My mom looked like she recently returned from her bid as one of those fair people you pay to lob expired tomato pieces at from ridiculously far away. Yeah. Easy to talk shit when I’m trying to throw something the shape of a Chicago deep dish pizza slice the distance needed to complete most NF fucking L hail mary passes. Let me throw the whole damn tomato you scared little boy. Why am I throwing portions more suited for a house salad at you from across a damn football field when they’re so light the laws of physics won’t allow them to travel the length of a coffee table? Any way.

And I get splatter. We all splatter, especially with Italian dishes. Who doesn’t slurp up noodles like some dick hungry crack addict sucking cock for cash? Uhh I’ll raise my hand. If that’s against the law then lock me up. Guilty as charged. But when your shirt looks like Picasso ran out of paint and started using whatever he had laying around his kitchen, it’s either time to reevaluate how you shovel food into that pie hole of yours, or buy a damn bib for christ’s sake.

The Zit On My Back Could Be A Ski Hill For The Next Winter Olympics

I currently have a back boil that’s bubbling up like some natural spring on the side of a country road that hippies wait in line like three days for, just to fill a canteen made from a camel’s ballsack full of germ infested creek water that the same type of dipshit takes his monthly bathes in. Anyway, I have a zit on my back so large it could house a family of parrots, from the midwest. That mountainous. In fact, if my back zit was a ski hill, there’d be no safe enough place to put a bunny hill. Black diamonds only. This sucker is that steep. It’s as if there was a registrable amount of weight in upset ooze underneath the surface, pushing 24/7. Prodding. Pleading. Persuading the skin to set it free. Slowly but surely.

Actual photo of the pimple on my back

If my back bump was the type you see on residential roads to deter speeders, everyone would be driving slower than your grandma when she’s pulling out of a parking lot while simultaneously flipping down the sun shade, putting on her sunglasses and combing the thirteen strands of still pliable hair she has, all while letting the weight of nothing but her mangled foot and slipper shoe push down on the pedal.

If my back… you get the point.

It’s that big. Thanks for reading.

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?

I Adopted A Running Routine, Not A Highway

I was on my daily run the other day, and this older gentleman with a beer gut the size of an actual beer fridge stopped me to explain he had seen me run by previously and noticed I had gone right by a piece of paper on the ground without stopping to pick it up. He pointed at said piece of paper, still on the ground, and with a sort of struggled, puzzled stare masking an already pretty ugly silhouette if we’re being honest, asked me why I didn’t pick it up… I stood in place for a moment, computing what I had just heard. The sun beamed down on me. It felt like a spotlight, and I was a contestant on ‘Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?’ as I struggled to come up with the correct answer for why I seemingly had the audacity to run by a lonesome sheet of paper, without picking it up.

Uh. And do what with exactly?… No I’ll wait. For you to actually use your fucking brain. The thing that’s obviously sat silent for so many, very important moments in this poor man’s life. Think about it. Old man who will surely never see this blog. Use your brain. I’m jogging. Out for a run. What on god’s green earth of a fuck do you want me to do with this piece of paper? Put it in someone’s mailbox? What’s their address? Am I guessing? Oh I forgot the wind won’t blow pieces of paper around if they’re already at the correct address. Is this the next level of mail carrier service some nerd at Hogwarts invented instead of giving his hog, warts? Sorry Hedwig. The wind delivers that now.

And if you think I’m running all the way back with a sheet of paper posing as a rock to win some contest against an imaginary pair of scissors in my pocket, you’re even dumber than you look. Am I the garbage man too now? Do I get a salary from the local waste management company? If you want me to start carrying a black trash bag when I run, just write me in the comments with a link to your Venmo so you can pay me the hourly rate of whatever a mail carrier and garbage man makes combined. And I’m obviously not knocking the people who keep our neighborhoods clean or deliver our mail. Those look like some tough jobs that I’d never want to do and I’m glad there are better people than me doing it. All I’m saying is I don’t think expecting joggers to clean up after your shitty neighbors is a thought that a logical thinking person has ever had.

It’s always old people too. They’re always fat. Never dressed in appropriately fitting clothes. And they’re obviously never happy with their lives. Because the retired people who are healthy and happy are always out doing things. They lead fun and interesting lives. They aren’t sitting at home all day, figuring out who or what to be mad at next like they’re putting together one big, pathetic puzzle. No. They’re not worried about what their neighbors are doing. They don’t care. It doesn’t matter. But when you’re 75 with the same amount in extra pounds slowly suffocating your organs, and you’ve had untreated asthma and god knows what else running rampant throughout your body for the last decade, walking to get the mail is a chore, so that’s all you do. That’s your excitement for the day. And when that isn’t enough excitement for an entire day, because it isn’t for anyone not on really good drugs, you create the excitement out of necessity. Out of boredom. And because you pull it out of thin air, it can be anything you want it to be. And it’s much easier to use what little remaining energy you have on getting yourself worked up over seeing someone with a smile on their face jog by a piece of trash without picking it up, than it is to actually address the issues in your life making you this miserable pile of shit who cares about how clean the joggers keep your street for you in the first place. Go for a drive sometime. Or take a walk. There are plenty of nice parks to explore. Or piers to walk off of. Anything. Just get out of your miserable little bubble. You’d have to cover more ground getting a first down in a football game than you do in a typical day. That’s not good for you. But do you know what is? Walking the extra ten steps to pick up that elusive scrap of writing stationary your hawk eyes saw me run by from the comfort of your expired lazy boy you’ve been massaging the floor boards of that screen porch with for the last fifteen years. Maybe give the lever on the recliner a rest, start picking up your own trash, and that human sized hacky sack of fat and hair you have growing off your normal stomach might start shrinking for a change.

Also how the fuck am I supposed to run and hold on to a trash bag full of your neighborhood’s garbage? Because I’m assuming that’s what you want me to do here. Surely you can’t be so selfish, where you only care about if there’s garbage at the end of your driveway. Right? So obviously I’d have to run with a bag of some sort, to put said garbage in. Correct? I don’t know if you’ve ever carried groceries in from the car or played Santa Claus, but carrying a bag of something while you walk isn’t always the easiest thing in the world to do. So if someone were to be running many miles while simultaneously carrying one of these bags, that would be quite the difficult task. Do we agree? Yeah. So go fuck yourself. I can put a bag over your head and tighten the strings as hard as humanly possible. We can do that. Those black glad bags are tough too. Really hard to poke a hole in one of those bad boys. And those strings never break.

I didn’t adopt-a-highway. Pick up your own trash.

A Good Shower Loofah Will Change Your Life Forever

On a cool, breezy winter Saturday in a Walmart outside St. Petersburg, Florida… My life was changed forever…

“It like suctions to your body” was my first thought after roughly two seconds of using far and away the best loofah I had ever purchased. “It’s much thicker and stiffer than any other loofah I’ve ever used.” Was the second thought as I scrubbed my skin with what seemed like a ball of tangled barbed wire compared to what any other loofah had ever felt like. It was love at first swipe. I love everything about this thing. For starters it was two dollars at Walmart. This wasn’t some boutique bought, free range sponge caught humanely with the blessing of whatever ancient god oversees the ocean’s sponge populations. Nope. This was from Walmart.

Save money. Live better. Baby.

Seriously though. This thing is incredible. Like I said, it somehow suctions (or like suctions) to your body as you’re using it. It’s impossible to explain unless you’ve had the privilege of using one of these blessed objects. The fishnet material or whatever the hell it’s technically called is much thicker and stiffer than normal loofahs, so it does a much better job of scrubbing your skin if you can handle this type of tough love. It isn’t for the faint of heart. But man do you feel amazing afterwards. Also, your feet. My god does it do a great job of scrubbing your feet. It feels like a dang pommel stone on the bottoms of them, yet simultaneously tiptoes across the tops like a trained ballerina, cleaning with purpose and precision without being too harsh. It’s like magic.

And of course. Yes. It holds soap amazingly. Duh.

How To Lose A Customer In 10 Days: The Dentist

Way #1: If the hygienists that floss between your teeth with the ferocity of a starving wolf pack tearing apart a caribou, it’s gonna be a one and done visit from me. Why do they have to floss so fucking hard? Seriously. And don’t give me that crap about flossing every day and then my gums wouldn’t bleed. I floss every fucking day. Your hygienist just told me I have perfect brushing and flossing habits, so which one is it? And why is that floss so fucking sharp? Don’t you guys use normal floss? Maybe if you weren’t using razor wire they put on fences intended to keep prisoners in their place, I wouldn’t be losing gallons of blood right now.

Way #2: If your job requires your mouth to be six inches from mine the entire time, ya maybe wanna make sure your breath doesn’t smell like one of those creepy body farms at a criminal justice school. A good rule of thumb for all you dentists and hygienists out there… The barista at Starbucks doesn’t take a step back the second just anyone opens their mouth to order, they’re doing that because you have disgusting breath. And they don’t have to lay six inches under it for an hour straight. They say wearing two condoms during sex actually increases the chances of condoms breaking because of the friction it causes, well there’s no increased risk of condoms breaking when you double mask. Or triple. Whatever it takes. A gas mask perhaps.

Way #3: If your dental office has one of those old, huge plastic molars or whatever the hell type of tooth it is sitting in the lobby grossing me out, this isn’t going to work. And it’s not me, it’s you. So unless that’s an ancient tooth from so some prehistoric giant human and it’s worth like a hundred million, I don’t want it in my lobby. And I don’t care if it gives the kids something to do, put a few TVs in the lobby like every other place of business. You can surely afford Nickelodeon.

Way #4: If your dental office was once a law office, or crematory, or whatever the hell else these hideous buildings started out as, you already lost me. The last thing I’m doing when it comes to trusting someone with my pearly whites, is picking the dentist that preaches how much better it is to get a custom fit, night time guard for teeth grinding instead of repurposing a cheap Walmart one meant for sports, when the fucker repurposed an entire building to meet his needs. Yeah. Ok. Wink wink.

Way #5: If a single fucker in your battalion has even a single tooth out of place, I’m never coming there again. If you can’t ensure the perfection of every mouth that works for you, how can I expect perfection in my own mouth? Now while this might sound a bit harsh, let me just remind you of how much a dental visit costs… Yeah. I’ll choose picky for two thousand, Alex. Or whoever’s doing it now.

Way #6: I’m sorry but if you’re younger than me, I don’t want you anywhere near my mouth. Your frugal, environmentally minded generation probably cuts every corner they can if it’s better for mother nature’s animals or the ice caps or whatever. I don’t give a shit how much water it takes washing whatever disgusting vegan friendly shit you put in my mouth, just get it outta there. Besides, if there’s less water in the ocean when the polar ice caps melt, that’s just less water you get on land. Duh. You’re welcome Florida.

Way #7: If you set foot in that curtained room I’m laying in wait in, and there’s a single drop of somebody else’s blood on your lab coat I’m getting the fuck out of there. The glasses are coming off, the bib is gone, and so am I. And you can send me the bill for the late cancel or whatever, I don’t care. I ain’t letting some blood thirsty tooth fairy anywhere near my teeth. I’ve seen the drills you use on people who didn’t get the routine maintenance memo, and you can be assured that there’s no need for anything with a sharp point in my mouth. In fact you can just wheel that damn cart of weapons right back where it came from. I do a perfect job cleaning, there’s no need to use something better suited for John Wick just to scrape nothing but clean off my teeth.

Way #8: If the actual cleaning and x-rays and various meetings with masked people only took an hour, and half of that was me needing to make shopping choices in those drawers of yours, you lost me for good. I’m not five. I don’t care which flavored floss you give me. Just hurry up and put together the goody bag so I can get back to doing literally anything else. Thanks.

Way #9: If any of your employees wear bright colored, happy patterns, that’s a no from me. Going to the dentist isn’t something that’s supposed to be this fun, happy time. No. People should be leaving that place in shambles. That’s a true dentist’s office. None of this modern day shit where they make sure everyone’s comfortable all the time, and everybody goes home a winner whether your teeth are perfect like mine, or rotting out of your head because they haven’t seen toothpaste since Obama was in office.

Way #10: If the glasses you give me to wear during my stay, look like someone shoved them into the middle of an orgy without bothering to wipe them off before their second job as dentist office glasses, it’s a no thank you from me. How can I trust you to clean the shit off my teeth if you haven’t bothered to wipe the few hundred family trees of semen off those damn glasses before handing them to me like I’m supposed to ignore not being able to see for the next hour. Ok. Fuck you too.