Yup, that’s it. You nailed it, Autocorrect. This person is totally getting ready to finger some buttonholes. Good catch.
Don’t brag about intentionally leaving the page blank if it requires you to make that announcement on the allegedly blank page. I’m legitimately concerned you don’t actually know what a blank page is.
After chatting on the phone for 10 minutes or so, Harriet said to Millie, “I’ll let you go…”
Oh, will you? Will you, Harriet? Wow, what a lady, granting Millie her freedom like that. You’re a regular Abe Lincoln, except not at all cuz you’re a dick. Stop projecting your desire to end the conversation onto poor innocent Millie, you hemorrhoid.
Just admit you’re done with the conversation, Harriet. It’s okay… Everyone knows you and Millie have moved onto the fluffy part of the conversation at the very end, where small talk has started to dominate your dialogue, since you’ve exhausted any relevant stuff to talk about right now. I bet Millie is done with this convo too; she’s just not pretending to be some kind of hero for bringing the worn-out conversation to an official close with a proclamation of fake righteousness.
This happens every time I keep my headphones in my pocket. Catastrophic.
A headphones knot is different from, say, a massive tangle in the squiggly cord of an old 1990s non-cordless phone. Now, those phone cord tangles could get pretty disastrous; don’t get me wrong. But a headphones knot is especially strenuous, as it often happens in public, when you face the challenge of disengaging this audiophonic devil-knot in front of onlookers. Possibly many onlookers… watching, judging, giggling. I mean, sure, technically, they could be giggling about ANYTHING, but in the interest of paranoid musings, I’ll assume all these hypothetical onlookers are giggling at me, directly. Those snide motherfuckers. The same kind of people who would silently or audibly judge you for doing this.
Anyway, these knots are a pain in the ass.
I realized that, as a society, we’ve gotten a bit too liberal in terms of acceptable fruit-mint combinations. This is out of control. I blame Obamacare…
gornoggs [gohr-nogs], n – a gastrointestinal phenomenon wherein one’s bowel movement feels incomplete, as though there is still a substantial amount of feces remaining somewhere inside the dark recesses of one’s colon
I really hate when this happens. There’s something truly unsettling about dedicating time to defecation, only to feel like you’ve only partially gotten the job done, like only 70-75% of the total turd volume came out. It’s especially gross because, now, that extra feces is going to fester and rot inside me for days, potentially. Ewww, right? It also makes me feel bad about the caliber of my intestines, like I’ve got dumb, losery bowels. I mean, what kind of man can’t even push out all his doodie in one go, nahmsayin? In an ideal world, I’d get all of it out in one sitting… or, rather, one SHITTING. Get it?!? You see, it’s funny because of a pun involving the words ‘sitting’ and ‘shitting.’ I’m the best.
I had gornoggs this morning, and I’m not particularly happy about it.
Special Thanks To Natalie Boss for naming this disgusting phenomenon, following ample personal experience with it.
If I’m not supposed to eat this, why does it look exactly like a packet of black pepper? Whoever’s in charge of this particular product needs to spend less time walking around saying, “Do not eat” (as the quotation marks indicate) and more time designing a silica gel packet that looks poisonous rather than delicious.
See subject line.
Still trying to figure out why you insist on doing this. There is no possible benefit to making a suit, and then sewing the pockets shut before it reaches consumers. What are you so afraid of? That some hooligan is gonna go into a store and put cummy tissues in the pockets? That makes no sense, because there are pockets in the slacks too! And they’re not sewn! Not to mention the unsewn pockets in the jeans and bathrobes and overcoats and just about all the other items sold at this department store. You’re not afraid about the cummy tissues in those other garmets. In fact, I’d argue that it’s much easier to hide a cummy tissue in an overcoat than in the outer pocket of a blazer. You’d clearly see a bulge in the suit jacket. In an overcoat? Not so much. So I guess what I’m trying to say is that the stores can’t possibly be concerned about people specifically hiding things in suit jacket pockets so there’s gotta be another reason. What is it? I have no idea. I can’t think of any other possible reason. Cummy tissues.
If this school zone is “asthma free,” then why can’t I idle here? No one has asthma, right? It’s an asthma free school zone, per the poorly-worded sign.
Does this even qualify as a lottery?
Don’t get me wrong. I would love an extra $1 million. But when the jackpot is this low, you really shouldn’t be advertising it. Better to just turn the power switch of this high-tech sign to the “off ” position and leave passersby wondering what the jackpot could potentially be. Because let’s be real – the $1 million jackpot is a deterrent.
This is a bare minimum lottery. It’s also the absolute lowest the jackpot could be for this sign to remain functional, because that word “million” isn’t going anywhere. Well actually I don’t know… maybe the sign could do decimals. But it’d be borderline embarrassing to win a $0.67 million lottery.
druddle [druhd-l], n, v – obligatory applause; to participate in such applause
“Bravo, bravo!” sincerely thought, I don’t know, maybe like ONE person in the entire audience at the end of yet another boring speech from some random alumnus during your sister’s college graduation ceremony. Yet everyone in the room is clapping at a fairly high volume, mostly to be polite to the speaker. For me, like 98% to be polite… and 2% because clapping is kinda fun and oddly cathartic. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s such a raw, primal, borderline ridiculous way to demonstrate appreciation for something, but hey, it is what it is. Sometimes, the applause is a bit delayed because everyone needs to collectively decide (via telepathy or possibly just looking around at one another) to award the speaker with a round of applause once the speech is over. That decision takes a few seconds to completely register, as opposed to an airplane, where we customarily applaud immediately upon landing at the destination airport, practically without even thinking, as if to say, “YEAH! We’re still alive! Thanks for not killing us, professional airplane flyer!” It makes me feel silly, but I do it automatically like a big dumb dummy. Whatever, at least it’s better than being stuck with this decision…
After a very tense four-to-five-second lull following his student council campaign speech, 8th grader Brucey Fredericks was relieved to finally hear the gradual emergence of reasonably loud druddle. Dead silence is never a good sign in that context, so druddling was welcome.
Special Thanks To Missy Gottlieb and Adam Fockler for being the druddle spokesmodels.
So this ravioli offer is only for eat in or take out, which as far as I know, are really the only two options when dealing with restaurant food. Who are they trying to limit with this disclaimer? From 4 to 8 P.M. Diners at 3:30 pay full price. Got it. And then it can’t be combined with any other offer. Makes sense. Don’t want people using arbitrage to unfairly profit off your manicotti. Sooooooooo…..Mail order? Could that be it? Because I just sat here for a good 6 minutes trying to figure out how else someone could procure and/or consume food bought at a restaurant, and that’s all I came up with. So basically, don’t try to walk in between the hours of 4 and 8 P.M. and expect to get some great deal on ravioli to mail to your in-laws in Des Moines. Ain’t happening.
As DeAngelo walked along the sidewalk, he thought, “Gosh, it’s so wonderful outside today, with the sun shining and the children playing and the birds chirping somewhere (probably). I’m gonna enjoy this walk around the neighborhood, wearing my supercool bright blue sneakers with my hoodie unzipped almost all the way down cuz I just don’t give a fuck. Gotta love the outdoors and the glorious splendor of—WHOA, WHAT THE SHIT WAS THAT?! “
That, DeAngelo, was one of those metal trap doors on the sidewalk, my friend. You just unknowingly stepped on it while walking, and it totally startled you… you and the five people in your general vicinity on the sidewalk. Everyone is kinda staring at you right now, but it’s not 100% your fault that the two metal flaps dipped downward when you stepped on the trap door, creating a shockingly loud noise. Sure, you could’ve just avoided the trap door altogether, but where’s the fun in that? Part of the thrill of walking down a NYC street is the possibility that a flimsy metal trap door might buckle under the weight of your body, resulting in a life-changingly loud crash-type noise.
Does anyone know what the hell I’m talking about?
Special Thanks To Jon Salik for taking part in this photograph despite his traumatic history of being thrown to the ground by someone emerging from an underground storage unit through a metal sidewalk trap door, at the exact moment that Jon was stepping on it. True story.
This, ladies and gentleman, is a sign that we’ve officially run out of ideas for decent television shows. We’ve now resorted to selecting arbitrary blue-collar professions, and sending camera crews to follow the gentleman and ladies employed in that field. How do we even think they came up with the idea for these fine examples of American television ingenuity? Were there other occupations that were in the running for similar style television shows? I wanna know what South Beach Tow was up against, and what it had to offer that a show that followed, say, a troupe of plumbers in Reno, Nevada wouldn’t have been able to provide to viewers. Maybe it’s sex appeal. It’s near impossible for a female plumber to be sexy, but I suppose some men may find a woman strapping logs to the flat bed of an 18-wheeler attractive.