Pretty much the exact same thing happened with this lo mein truck.
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.
Special thanks to Topps and Mr. Buster Rhymes for (please) not suing us for using the above image without asking.
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.”
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.
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?
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…
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…
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.
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.
“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.
Grammar question — Is twat the past tense of the verb ‘tweet’?
If not, can we make it so, effective immediately? We look forward to hearing from you. In fact, we are anxiously awaiting your response, Twitter folks.
Wow… not even done with Week 1 yet, and New York Jets Offensive Coordinator, Chan Gailey, is either already sleeping with one of his players… or the victim of an unfortunate choice of words in this headline. Yikes. Well, nevertheless, we at What I Realized support Coach Gailey and his players’ decisions regarding their private sexy-time. What goes on between two consenting adults in the confines of Coach Gailey’s private office bathroom is exactly that — private.
Again, though, I guess it’s possible that whoever wrote this particular headline simply did not read it, ever, not even a single time, before submitting it for publication (and subsequent tomfoolery on the interweb, at www.WhatIRealized.com).
I kinda hope they’re fucking.
For starters, when you say “African-American & Chinese videos,” do you mean both African-American and, separately, Chinese videos are for sale at this establishment or, rather, that you exclusively sell videos that are jointly African-American & Chinese (as is slightly suggested by the choice of ‘&’ in lieu of the word ‘and’)?
As a follow-up question, I’d also like to inquire as to your selection of hybrid African-American/Chinese films. Please advise.