How Noble Of You…


iPhone autocorrects Hitler


Okay, Apple, we get it… you guys are super progressive citizens of the universe and blah, blah, blah.  The above autocorrect suggests that you are literally trying to pretend that you don’t know the term “Hitler.”  Hitler… arguably the most famous historical figure of the past century, and his name is not recognized by your very broad dictionary of terms?  If I type “Kard” into a text message, it automatically inserts “Kardashian,” but Hitler?  Nope, apparently, Apple is unfamiliar with this name.

I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess that you also claim to literally not see race.  “Oh, is Alex Rodriguez of Latino heritage?  Since I’m such an altruist, I’d never make such a bold assumption.”  Please…

Also — with regard to the recommended autocorrect substitutions — what did “Lee” ever do to you, and why do you want to hit him?  I think maybe you’re falsely blaming Hitler’s actions on this Lee character, which is totally unfair.  So no, I will not “hit Lee” just because you refuse to acknowledge that Hitler was an actual person.

#History   #NotFoolingAnyone   #LeeMatters



Shaggy Is Not A Skilled Defense Attorney…

busted 2


Many of you have probably heard the 1990s hit song “It Wasn’t Me” by Shaggy, which begins with Shaggy’s friend desperately seeking out Shaggy’s advice on how to resolve a troublesome situation.

According to his initial statement, Shaggy’s friend was at home — petting, fondling, and ultimately penetrating his female neighbor “butt naked… on the bathroom floor” — until his girlfriend returned home unexpectedly, catching him in the act.  Overwhelmed by this veritable budussy tornado, his girlfriend expresses her displeasure with his unfaithful actions and demands an explanation.  He asks Shaggy how to respond.

Shaggy advises, very matter-of-factly, “Say it wasn’t you.”  After about 1.5 seconds, his friend goes, “Alriiiiiight…”  He took basically zero convincing.  He didn’t even wait to hear Shaggy’s other ideas for how to get out of this jam.  He jumped on that very first idea almost immediately, even though it’s an absolutely preposterous statement and, frankly, an insult to her intelligence.  Did you really think your girlfriend would be fine with it and just drop the topic after you responded to her legitimate concern about your commitment level by claiming that ain’t you?  C’mon, man.

There’s really no wiggle room here.  “It’s not what it looks like” probably isn’t gonna cut it.  I mean, she literally entered his apartment, WHERE HE LIVES, and walked in on a guy, who looks EXACTLY like him, intercoursing with the girl next door.  It doesn’t really get any more straightforward than that.  It’s not like she heard some bullshit rumor that he cheated from a friend of a friend of a friend; she physically witnessed his infidelity, like 10 seconds ago.

Also, as a quick side-note — the intro to the song suggests that this event occurred very recently, like within the past hour… so how the hell did he get to Shaggy’s house to ask him for his advice, amid this major argument with his girlfriend?  She’s like, “Explain yourself, asshole!”  And I guess he’s like, “Hold that thought,” then runs out of his apartment and drives over to Shaggy’s place to seek out advice?

There are some serious inconsistencies here, and I plan on getting to the bottom of it…


Plurals are Hard


debuted sentence


Admit it:  when you read the sentence in this photo, initially — even if only for a second or two — you didn’t realize that it’s the past tense of the verb debut.  Me neither.  In retrospect, I feel like a bit of a dunce… but at the same time, I doubt I’m the only one who’s occasionally thrown off by the “day-byood” vs. “dee-byooted” verbal-optical illusion.

Weirdos of the internet — we challenge you to respond with other examples of this phenomenon.  Just click “Comment” below, and face the challenge like a man/woman/gender-neutral person.  Do it.

Do it.  Please.



Just Like How Krav Maga Is Jewish Karate…


jewish egg bread


Pretty much the exact same thing happened with this lo mein truck.



Approaches To Garbage Can Placement



There are two types of people in this world — those who hide their garbage can in a cabinet beneath the sink and those who display the garbage can separately.  It’s the centuries-old debate of Garbage In vs. Garbage Out.  We are not necessarily advocating for one lifestyle over the other.   But, personally, I’d like to be able to scrape beef stroganoff vertically downward, directly into the garbage from my plate.

Now you — person who hides his garbage under the sink — tell me what you’re going to do with all that saucy debris after polishing off a juicy plate of Grandma’s beef stroganoff and brothy egg noodles (or perhaps rice-and-bean enchiladas, as pictured above).  Believe me, I’ve tried the hover-the-plate-over-the-garbage-and-use-a-paper-towel-to-forcefully-smear-the-leftovers-directly-downward-into-the-garbage technique.  But all it takes is one poorly-placed greasy wipe, and suddenly, there’s stroganoff meat with gooey mushroom bisque all over your Windex bottle, 409 All-Purpose Cleaner, dishwasher detergent nuggets, and other under-the-sink items.  (Not to mention the inevitable skidmarks down the side of the garbage can.)  A viscous beef-and-mushroom onslaught, all due to some poorly placed diagonal strokes.

So just remember, when you think you’re being all classy and hiding your garbage, let me tell you something, Noam – it’s not any less disgusting.  In fact, it’s arguably more disgusting.


WIR Sports: Top 10 Names in the NFL (2015-16)



Now that Super Bowl 50 has come and gone — with Peyton Manning, Budweiser, and the Denver Broncos victoriously defying doubters’ and Las Vegas oddsmakers’ expectations — we at What I Realized have been reflecting on the entire 2015-16 NFL season.  We laughed; we cried.  We lived; we loved.  Some of us temporarily lost bowel control; some of us did not lose bowel control at all, like not even one single time.  Such is life as a fan of American football.  Technically having written an introductory paragraph to this post, we now feel ready to unveil our official Top 10 NFL Names List (2015-16 season).  This is a big deal, everyone.


PLEASE NOTE:  Our Top 10 list will NOT simply be a run-down of the 10 flashiest, multi-syllabic names in the NFL.  Although we do appreciate eye-catching, bedazzled names like D’Brickashaw and DeAndre and Barkevious and Jacquizz, this list aims to identify the 10 most all-around outstanding names in the NFL — like overall name quality, as a first-name-last-name combo (with optional middle name or hyphenated names).  We looked for names that make us feel jealous and insecure about the coolness and quality of our own names.  The process was emotionally draining, but totally worth it.


ALSO PLEASE NOTE:   At times throughout this list, you will see the term “sounds like“, which will always be followed by a specific description of what this name sounds like.  For example… the vegetable Baby Bok Choy sounds like a 14-year-old rapper.  Maybe he’s Asian; maybe he isn’t.  I’m not sure.


Anyway, in a very particular order (hence the numbers):


10.  Brock Osweiler (QB, Broncos):  Very heroic-type name.  Would be higher on this list if he played in New England, where the fan base would pronounce it “Brawk Awz-wyluh.”  Arguably the whitest name of all time; it is what it is.


9.  Captain Munnerlyn (CB, Vikings):  Powerful first name + dank, visceral last name = 9th best name this year.  Consider adding a middle initial for next season, even if you don’t have a middle name, e.g. Captain F. Munnerlyn.


8.  Will Hill (SS, Ravens):  Just like my man Buster (pictured above), this guy’s name rhymes.  I hope you got that joke.  I’m really proud of it.  This list is going great so far.


7.  Gary Barnidge (TE, Browns):  Sounds like a suburban orthodontist and loving husband and father of three, who is medium-bad at golf.


6.  Crockett Gillmore (TE, Ravens):  Sounds like an elite, old-fashioned financial services firm established circa 1949, i.e. “Crockett Gillmore, LP.”


5.  J.R. Sweezy (OG, Seahawks):  Sounds like a prolific, multi-platinum selling hip-hop producer turned kitchenware entrepreneur.


4.  Charcandrick West (RB, Chiefs):  Very official and regal sounding, yet distinctly NFLesque.  Solid A-minus.


3.  Teddy Bridgewater (QB, Vikings):  Presidential.  Very presidential, indeed.  “Ladies and gentlemen… President Teddy Bridgewater.”  See?


2.  Baccari Rambo (SS, Ravens):  Name suits the tough-guy role beautifully.  Pure intimidation and lots of vowel sounds, with a Sly Stallone kicker.


1.  Jim Bob Cooter (OC, Lions):  Only coach to make the list.  Unequivocally the greatest name among people currently working with the NFL in any capacity.  All names are NOT created equal, and in this case, it’s not even close.  Taking into account the non-hyphenated 1-2 punch of Jim and Bob along with an undeniably, let’s say… anatomical last name, JBC sits atop this prestigious list.  Congratulations, Coach! (Fun fact — Jim Bob is literally abbreviated from James Robert.)


Honorable Mentions:  Jaquiski Tartt (SS, 49ers); Blake Bortles (QB, Jaguars); LaAdrian Waddle (OL, Patriots); Julius Peppers (DE, Packers); Foswhitt “Fozzy” Whittaker (RB, Panthers)

Special thanks to Topps and Mr. Buster Rhymes for (please) not suing us for using the above image without asking.


Ed Sheeran A Heartless Monster, According To Heartbroken Old Lady



“Baby, I… will be loving you… till we’re 70…” — Ed Sheeran


But, ummm… Ed, buddy, what exactly happens once you reach age 70?  Are you gonna be like, “Well, my verbal commitment has now expired” and just leave?  Despite the undeniably catchy melody for “Thinking Out Loud,” your lyrics suggest that you plan to abruptly abandon your family (including the children that you likely will have created over the course of the past few decades, the pre-70 decades).  This is the year 2016, when many people live well into their 80s or even 90s… so professing to love someone until you’re 70 kinda sounds like you are preemptively setting the stage for a devastating breakup 40-50 years from now.  This is not the pre-penicillin era, homeboy.  70 isn’t that impressive anymore.


IN SUMMARY:  Based on the lyrics to his famous hit song, Ed Sheeran plans to hit it and quit it.




If It Would Please Her Majesty…

bag on seat

Tell the truth, ma’am** — you legitimately believe that your bag is more important than I am.  It’s true, isn’t it?

OMG, it is.  It’s true.  In your heart, you truly feel that your purse — a strappy leather sack containing tissues, gummy bears, maybe some Tylenol — actually DOES take priority over me, a fellow human being.  Remarkable.

No no, don’t be silly… you have nothing to apologize for.  It looks like a really terrific bag.  A good bag.  A respectable bag, that clearly deserves its own seat on this completely packed train.  The kind of bag that probably spent most of his Saturday helping his mother learn how to use a series of increasingly fancy Emojis on her iPhone today.

No, wait… that’s me.  I’m the one who spent over three hours teaching Emojis to mom on a Saturday.  Me.  Not your esteemed bag, okay?  ME.  So, with all due respect, please relocate your bag to a more bag-appropriate spot, while I settle into my seat.  Thank you.

**Sorry not sorry for using the sarcastic “ma’am.”



Anti-Americanism Has Spiraled Out Of Control

scrolling down to USA


Fundamentally, I believe that all people are created equal, and I am excited to visit other parts of the world and enjoy the opportunity to learn about places and cultures different from my own.

However, when filling out my personal info on a website today, I had to scroll all the way to the ‘U’ section on an alphabetized list, like some sort of peasant.  Absolutely unacceptable.  I get it, okay?  There are lots of other countries in the world, America isn’t the center of the universe, blah, blah, blah…

Just put USA at the top, where I arbitrarily feel it belongs.  Freedom, everyone!  Freedom.



Flavor Ambush

Screen Shot 2015-12-11 at 10.10.04 AM


Cinnamon?!  Are you fucking kidding me?  This is an outrage.

When I pop a beautiful red jelly bean into my mouth, I expect to be delighted by the tender caress of sweet cherry goodness upon my taste buds.  From time to time, however, I get blindsided by the harsh sting of cinnamon, which is absolutely terrifying for a second or two.  And to be honest, I actually quite like cinnamon.  The issue here is the expectation of cherry, shattered abruptly by the pungent shock of non-consensual cinnamon.  It ruins the entire jelly bean experience and makes me doubt my candy selection abilities and, in turn, myself, as a man.  I’ve been bait-and-switched by cherry’s ugly cousin, cinnamon, on multiple traumatizing occasions.

Enough is enough.  It’s time that we, as a society, organize and finally do the right thing, the sensible thing — make cinnamon jelly beans brown.  That’s right… BROWN.  You know, like the color of fucking cinnamon.  I’ve seen hundreds, maybe thousands of red cherries in my life and a grand total of zero red cinnamon sticks.

Make the cinnamon jelly beans brown.  Does anyone know who’s in charge of jelly beans?



Words I Realized: Blucking


blucking [bluhk-ing], v – an accelerated chewing process, typically accompanied by a circular hand gesture and repetitive nodding, used to indicate that you’ve got something to say but have too much food in your mouth to allow for verbal communication

About five seconds ago, my friend asked how I like my new apartment. Pretty normal question. Unfortunately, a half-second before that, I took an ambitious — dare I say, brave — bite of my sandwich… completely unaware, at the initial moment of biting, that this direct question would be coming my way. I’m actually happy to answer the question: my new apartment is a significant upgrade from before, and living with my girlfriend has been really wonderful so far. Incidentally, I’ve also switched to an electric toothbrush, so life is pretty good. But I can’t say any of that right now because this chicken salad is shockingly dense. This one bite will end up taking significant time to swallow, and my friend, the question asker, is clearly waiting for a response. “Just hang tight,” I wordlessly communicate via hand gesture and facial expression (pictured above). Crisis averted?

Bluck like no one’s watching…


Wait, blucking?? I don’t get it… Can you explain?



Regarding Glutenmania

gluten-free body wash

There are, indeed, many individuals who genuinely experience allergic or inflammatory reactions to products containing gluten, and if you are one of those people, it makes sense to adopt a gluten-free diet.

That being said, I strongly recommend that you — gluten-free body wash shopper — consider reducing how much body wash you eat on a daily basis.  I’m not a licensed digestion or nutrition expert, but the persistent gastrointestinal discomfort you’ve been experiencing is probably due to excessive body wash intake, not gluten.  So, like, maybe body wash is the main thing that makes your belly hurt and should be completely eliminated from your diet, starting today.

Now, what you decide about eating bread, pasta, and other gluten paraphernalia going forward is up to you and your bowels…



Some Planets Make Better Juice Names Than Others…

venus and uranus crpd


The next time someone tells you to have a nice, warm glass of shut-the-hell-up, you should tell him to have an ice-cold bottle of cold-pressed Uranus.



Cocktail Houring Like A Champion

ditching food at cocktail hour

She waits patiently in the periphery, carefully examining each potential landing spot for her food garbage.

She’s moving in.

“Don’t mind me — I’m just going to discard a few of my freshly-chewed lamb chop bones on this here tablecloth,” thought Gloria, as she delicately placed down another partially-eaten bone on the table, making it a clean half-dozen.

But now what—does she just walk away casually? Say nothing? Maybe she should just own it. You know, be very much up-front with the folks at that table, telling them straight that she’s just there to unload six loose lamb chop bones.

Let’s be real, though… we’ve all done it. I did it at my Uncle Charlie’s. Walked right up to a man and boldly placed my pesto-stained plate with a staggering pile of shrimp tails right next to his rum-and-diet while he was mid-conversation. Then I went back to business. Got me some cold motherfuckin’ sesame noodles.

Special thanks to Slurz & Adam for this lambchop selfie.


Let The Man Handle This…


“Yup.  Oh yes, indeed.  This is definitely wine.  It’s wine, everyone.”

Phew.  We can now proceed with the pouring of the entire bottle of wine, since I’ve given my official approval, as the man of the table.  Lord knows, only a man could possibly sign off on something that important.  We couldn’t possibly allow a woman, with all her feminine guile and intrinsic womanliness, to be the person who tastes the tiny sample of wine that the waiter pours into a cup upon opening a bottle of wine for a restaurant table.

Even if a woman clearly selected the wine and went so far as to discuss the wine selection with the server at length prior to ordering that bottle of wine, apparently, restaurant staff are instructed never to entrust the ceremonial first taste to anyone with a vagina.  Let’s move past this archaic tradition, society.  In fact, let’s just eliminate that ritual altogether.  If, somehow, the bottle of wine in question has been compromised prior to being opened, someone at the table (regardless of gender) will probably notice and alert the waitstaff.  I doubt testicles are required to detect that the newly-opened wine tastes very strongly like the liquid inside an expired can of tuna.


Special thanks to Sir Adam Fockler for inspiration and Sir Randy Ostrowe, father of Duncan, for allowing us intimate access to a moment between a man and his beverage. Absolutely stunning.


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