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.
NFL scouts analyze and categorize players from number a different angles, using statistics and physical measures to evaluate the usefulness of that player to any given football team – height, speed (via clocked time during the 40-yard dash), vertical jump, and so on and so forth. But we at WIR have noticed that, when making these determinations, analysts routinely neglect to pay any attention to a player’s gastrointestinal health. We pose the following question: why?
A nonfictional-okay-fine-he’s-actually-fictional offensive lineman on the Cleveland Browns recently revealed his lifelong affliction with Fear-Induced Defecation Disorder (FIDD), a nonfictional-okay-fine-it’s-actually-fictional medical problem, where a person literally has the crap scared out of him when under extreme duress. This player described the emotional distress surrounding his condition: “Yeah, it’s really embarrassing to shit myself on the field every time I face an intimidating linebacker or defensive end. I was thrilled to be signed by the Browns, assuming their uniforms would be brown, which would mask the gigantic explosions of feces emanating from my butthole practically every game.” He was dismayed to discover that the bottoms of the Browns’ uniform are actually white, making it exceptionally easy to see the flood of fecal matter spilling out of him each game. The player continued, “What? You think you’re better than me? Let’s have Ray Lewis chase you around for 60 minutes and see how clean your undies are afterward. Dick.”
This “player” has since put in a request to be traded to the Seattle Seahawks, St. Louis Rams, or Atlanta Falcons, all of whom wear dark, crap-masking uniform bottoms. He’s still waiting to hear back. Anyway, this not-real turn of events makes us wonder how many players have tummy trouble, and exactly how much of an advantage the Seahawks, Rams, and Falcons have in attracting these players…
Remember when that woman was successful in suing McDonalds when she spilled her coffee on her lap and burned herself? I wonder if this is the result of something similar.
Special Thanks To Blake Furman for always checking to see if his clothing is flammable before braving the great unknown.
Snorge [snohrj], n – a condition wherein one’s underwear is sticking directly to his/her actual butt-cheek itself, rather than being stuck inside the butt-crack like a wedgie
This is the type of thing that happens on a sweaty day, know what I mean? You’ve been sitting down for an hour or so, watching The Real Housewives of Wherever-The-Fuck, and when you stand up, a large patch of your undies is sticking to practically your entire buttock. The butt-sweat acts as a mild adhesive, temporarily keeping the fabric from your underpants stuck against the contour of your tooshie. No big deal; it happens. Except, contrary to a wedgie, a snorge is quite difficult to fix hands-free. One cannot simply do a few lunges in order to separate butt-cheek from undergarment. One must actually peel off the fabric manually, which some people find embarrassing to do in public. Main takeaway point – wear thongs, always.
During the final presidential debate, Senator Ralphie Mungtipper had a major snorge the entire time, yet still managed to keep a straight face, so he considered himself to be the winner.
Marc Jacobs started his career with one goal in mind—to use his name in as many permutations as possible. He began with the logical choice, the Marc Jacobs line, which was an instant success. But then, the prospects turned bleak. Sales slowed. People were no longer excited. Enter Marc by Marc Jacobs. Brill. Now we can release more pocketbooks and consumers will think it’s the new hot stuff. But, my friends, Marc by Marc Jacobs could only last so long, because after a few years, consumers realized that Marc by Marc Jacobs was pretty much the same as Marc Jacobs, except there was a little extra ink on each article, due to the two additional words in the brand name (“Marc” and “by”). So he needed something fresh, something exciting. Well ladies and gentleman, I present to you, Jacobs by Marc Jacobs. An all-new line of already existing products. Fuck Marc Jacobs. There, I said it.
So I guess this is notification that we, the public, should just generally disregard how ugly Penn Station and MSG are, indefinitely? That’s it?
At what point in our pleasant yet brief relationship did I come across as though I like hot salad? Because from the moment I walked in to this TGI Fridays, I think I carried myself like a normal, sensible man who likes his Caesar salad served chilled. I guess I’m trying to figure out how this actually came to be. It can go one of two ways –one is that the server went into the kitchen and said to the chef, “This guy never asked for his salad to be heated up, but something tells me he’d like it.” The other is that the chefs are complete idiots and don’t understand the basic laws of conduction. Cold Caesar on hot dish. Salad absorbs heat. Salad is no longer chilled. Make sense? And while we’re on the topic of my salad preferences, I also enjoy it when I receive a chilled salad fork.