A Photobomb To Beat All Photobombs.

THIS guy.

Someone hand him a damn good beer, because he deserves it.


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Thanks, creepy large man floating in the ocean, paying way too close of attention to these illegal preteens. You’ve made my day.

Totally gonna frame this.

Lazy, Adaptive, or Stupid As F*@K?

It’s hump day, folks, which means we’re halfway to the weekend. If that little golden token doesn’t already rev your engine, then take a look at these fuckers.


This can’t end well. In fact, let’s think of all the things that are sure to result from the above photo:

  • Mr. Muffintop has Emergency Room written all over him, because his skinny friend isn’t gonna amount to shit. Look at those gangly arms – he’s only there for verbiage and already uncommitted to any use of his 1st grade muscles.
  • That couch is going to die. Fall apart, break up, and die. There’s just no getting around it. Mr. Muffintop will fail, miserably.
  • This is clearly one of their parents’ house, just look at those lampshades and Ben Franklin’s old writing desk. Someone is going to get removed from the will. My money is on Mr. Muffintop or Stretch Armstrong up top. They’re the only ones committed to this terrible idea.
  • See ya, bannister.
  • You too, ceiling fan.
  • When the cat clears the way and actually positions itself high above ground, shit is about to go down. And that couch is the color of shit.

I only hope they sketched it out before making this attempt, like Ross did.


Breaking Down Superman’s Weakness.

At the end of the day…



Considering the fact that clowns can be seriously fucked up –


Superman totally loses this argument.

We are all Batman. Thank you, Stephen King, you jerk.

Has It Come To This?

Have you seen that iPhone commercial about a bunch of people taking random pictures? I suppose it’s meant to justify the massive overuse of people snapping quick shots of their food or finding a shitty looking building exterior and calling it cool, rustic art. I’m sorry, that wall isn’t shabby chic, it’s fucking gross and needs more paint than what’s on your face.

And for this reason, the following picture is worth a thousand words rather than a thousand instagrams.


I know what you’re thinking, those totally aren’t smart phones, therefore, this cartoon is invalid. But I’d like to say NAH-UH, because this cartoon has a rather frightening commentary on our photo obsessed present, no?

I’d like to give humanity the benefit of the doubt and assume if someone was drowning just off shore, there would be more people running in to try and help than there would be people taking a video of it or trying to post the picture to Facebook – all before the helpless victim even has a chance to contemplate death.

I don’t even know what it’s like to have the capability to think past the panic of “Oh my God, that person is seriously dying” and shift swiftly into “Oh my God, I have to get this on camera.” What’s that say about us these days? What we lack in proactivity, we clearly make up for in inactivity. We’re doing something, just not really the right thing. Why bother taking a picture of your food if you’re not going to tell me how to fucking make it? Thanks for angering my appetite. I hate you.

It almost seems like the person being saved from drowning and the hero(es) who saved said person are being overshadowed by the person capturing it all on camera. People want the picture of a picture. But try that on your television and tell me you don’t immediately get a headache.

What a wonderful topic for a Monday, amiright? Screenshot this and share it.

The Only Reason I Would Ever Want To Visit Australia.

Besides for Hugh Jackman and the beauty of it all, of course.


Granted, a mad koala might be a legitimately dangerous thing for Aussies. But here in America, they’re thought of as cute, cuddly, and full of great puns.


So all I’m thinking is there’s some disgruntled koala roaming the lands, more sad than angry, just hanging his head low and looking for a hug while muttering:

“I lost my temper, I should’ve just shared some dinner with Burt, and now he won’t even look at me. I can’t even eat a leaf right now. I’m upset, life is kinda rough. I hope these cars will understand. I’m just not myself today.”

SO FUCKING CUTE. I’d drop all my plans to go looking for that mad koala.

The Truth About Kangaroos?

And now, let us question stuff.

Because it makes sense.


Meanwhile, in the UK…


Silly, Brits. It’s a BUS. But I won’t hold it against you, because you sound a lot smarter than me. Which means it’s totally a train.

Observations From My Morning Commute

I take a public transit system to work in the morning, so I’m fortunate enough to drive, ride, and walk every week day – the perfect combination for advanced people watching.

This fine black gentleman is not me.

This fine black gentleman is not me.

Let’s go over some of my observations I recollected from this morning:

  • Merging sucks. There’s few things more annoying in the world than when you need to change lanes, but as soon as you turn on your blinker, the car just behind you in the lane you’re trying to get in decides to speed up like a muthafucking asshole. Because there is NO KINDNESS AT 7:15AM.
  • I’m second in line at the light, but the car in front of me has 50 feet between them and the crosswalk. STOP. READING. YOUR. PHONE. ASSHAT.
  • Adele just came on the radio, everything is so much better.
  • I need to get past one more light – ONE MORE LIGHT – until I can scooch over into the majestically long right hand turn lane and past these fuckers up. But there’s traffic and I might not make the light. I am really stressed and anxious about this situation.
  • Stop signs are the worst in the morning.
  • Very tempted to hit pedestrians. Not hard, just enough to tap ’em and make them start running so I can move.
  • Walking into the BART station and spot a woman in massive, open-toed hooker heels. She’s also wearing very nice black business pants. Ladies, when you wear hooker heels with business pants, you’re still a hooker.
  • Waiting in line for my train doors and a woman gets in the next line that started in front of mine. I soon realize that women with wide hips should never, ever wear tights pants with geometric patterns. Holy shit.
  • Hey peeps, stop stopping as soon as you board the train to look both ways for the best available seat. Choose your path. Morpheus commands it.
  • People who don’t offer their seats to elderly or pregnant women piss me off, especially if they’re only listening to music or texting. At least read a book. EFFYOUGUYZ.
  • People hacking and coughing on trains should die a slow death, if they’re not already doing so.
  • San Francisco seriously smells like piss.

The Only Acceptable Way To Sag Your Pants.

Hello, thuggish miscreants.

I’m sure you already come to my blog every day, but in the off-chance that this is your first time, allow me to pop your cherry right.

As most people know, the fashion statement of sagging your pants past your ass began in the prisons, letting your jail pals know they can totally stick in and you won’t give a shit. (HA! Good one, Sharon.)

Since then, it’s become more of a, “Don’t fuck with me cuz I’ma G” message, even though it most definitely started as a, “Go ahead and fuck with me, it’s cool” kinda thing. The irony!

Some states/cities/schools are completely against this piece of crap style statement (whyyyy do you insist on having to constantly keep pulling up your pants? It’s like a bad strapless bra, but on purpose.), but I think there’s always an exception to the rule. Never say never, you guys. Bieber wasn’t fucking around.

Observe, an exception.


I like you. Victory is, indeed, yours.

That concludes this lesson in pants sagging and its rare exceptions.

A Stark Outlook On Life.


Don’t worry, this is spoiler free. But I imagine if you’ve been on the internet, in general, you know something. (As opposed to knowing nothing, Jon Snow.)

That being said, I’m relying on the following people to make me feel better about living in this world.




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Don’t fuck this up, you guys.

I’m about halfway through the third Game of Thrones book, The Storm of Swords, so I didn’t quite make it to what played out in last night’s episode “The Rains of Castamere”, but JESUS CHRIST – that’s not gonna be easy to get over.

The fact that there’s only one more episode left in this season makes what happened last night incredibly and excruciatingly UN-FUCKING-FAIR.


Happy Monday, one and all! Here’s something silly.


I still want to cry.