I realized that Mike Harris is off to the right. If you are looking for Mike Harris, you should not go left. Right turn for Michael Harris.
Archive for June, 2011
roleg [roh-leg], n – small shards of potato chip or like product that remain in the bag following consumption of the primary chip fragments
Few things in life bring me back to childhood better than cocking my head and sucking back a deep, unabashed pull of roleg. There’s something oddly satisfying about fully extending your gullet and taking in all the loose chip shards, flavor particles, salt, garlic and/or powdered cheese. Or fuckin’ snort that shit. Whatever.
Fran made it a point to collect loose morsels from several bags of chips in order to make herself a well-stuffed roleg omelet.
I realized that this “reassuring” bathroom sign does the exact opposite of its intended purpose. If your waiters actually need to be reminded to wash their hands after taking a dump, I will not be eating at your restaurant.
“Aww mannnnnnn”, thought Timmy, “How could they only give me one napkin?” This lone napkin does not provide Timmy with enough real estate to dismantle his entire burrito. Now he’s got to budget his wipes and carefully distribute individual smudges to isolated sectors of the napkinspace.
Good thing he’s got a plan. He unfolds the napkin entirely, exposing all available surface area. Throughout the meal, he folds the napkin to enclose soiled napkinspace and expose virgin terrain. Note the blotting technique. This maximizes precision, as smearing can increase the size of any particular smudge and waste precious napkinspace. Direct all movement inward toward the mouth. Sweep in loose debris for ingestion.
Timmy was intelligent. Had he wiped conventionally, he would have had to resort to using the plastic bag as a napkin mid-meal… which, as it turns out, is not the best way to get refried beans out of your facial hair.
I never, ever, under any circumstances, bring my drink into a bathroom at a bar. Why not? Because I don’t want diseases, son! Sure, that may sound paranoid, but at least I’m not the one who’s gonna catch hepatitis from his own cocktail.
My urine strikes the urinal at velocities that produce reverse-propelled backward splatter, and everyone knows that, similar to the rain cycle, evaporated urine can re-condense above one’s glass, thereby producing a cascade of unpleasant precipitation into the beverage. And we’re only talking about MY evaporated urine. Now combine my evaporated urine with a mélange of different evaporated urines that are probably laced with various contaminants like asparagus, garlic, and riboflavin.
No thank you, plain beer sounds fine to me. Hold my drink, chap. I’m going in.
I realized that there are various ways to mask an unwanted erection, some more obvious than others. Smooth. Real smooth.
posirot [poz-i-rot], n, plural posirot – a food item of a flavor or variety that is typically viewed as inferior to the others included in a package
Seriously, dude? You have an entire bag of jellybeans and you give me the black licorice? Nuh-uh. Throw out your own garbage. I’ll take a lemon, thank you. Or a cappuccino. Okay? And don’t try to pull this shit again, alright? I’m serious.
On Jimmy’s birthday, Randy decided to share his bag of trail mix, and he even offered to eat all of the posirot, but made it clear that this was a one-time deal because it was Jimmy’s special day.
My grandparents currently possess prescription ointment that expired in 1986. It’s been expired for 25 years! How can they possibly remember what this ointment does or which body part slash crevice it’s for?
Are they saving it for a special occasion? Perhaps it does something incredible, and they don’t want to waste it. Did they just forget about this particular ointment? Does this ointment get better with age? Do they know something I don’t?
I can only imagine the value of the quality, aged ciggitch that must have amassed on the applicator tip in the dank, moist environment that is the neglected back corner of a bathroom cabinet… Prized ciggitch. Life-changing ciggitch. Show dog caliber ciggitch. Emmy Award-winning ciggitch. Organic, oven-roasted, free-range ciggitch.
(Click the ‘ciggitch’ link above if this makes no sense to you.)
To our shorter friends, it might seem like being tall is all smiles… seeing over people’s heads at concerts, touching ceilings just cause you felt like it, etc. Well, I’m about to rock your world, soul brother. In the world of public restrooms, shorter people reign supreme.
I’d love to be able to enter a stall and have free reign to do as I please anonymously, as my shorter brethren do. But alas, this is not the case. Right from the moment I enter the stall, it’s like I’m on stage, for all the urinators and hand washers to see. And I can’t even enjoy an unabashed stand-up wipe. Seriously. I’d immediately be branded a stand-up wiper for the rest of my days. I may even miss out on a raise or promotion. I mean, could you really take a stand-up wiper seriously?
Unfortunately, the options are rather limited: I can do the more traditional sitting wipe, but that’s just crazy… or I can own it and boldly deliver a stand-up wipe. And if I happen to end up making eye contact with my boss or my rabbi, life goes on. Nothing to see here – just a tall guy, fearlessly executing a stand-up wipe. A stand-up wipe for a stand-up guy. Or girl.
I realized that Chinese restaurateurs should consult with native English speakers before naming their restaurants. Otherwise, they may end up with a restaurant that sounds like a raunchy sex act.
Stobling [stoh-bling], n – a single unit of soap formed by adjoining two wet tagerleaves on their concave sides
What, sir? Throw out these two, perfectly good tagerleaves? No. Nay. I will not. I shan’t. You think I want to go buy soap tomorrow? Well, I don’t. And now I don’t have to, because this thing now has enough girth to achieve a reasonably milky lather. That’s right, this little gentleman just bought himself another couple of showers. And don’t even get me started with the double stobling (that’s like six showers).
As they always say, when life hands you tagerleaves, make a stobling.
I realized that some companies need a better marketing department. Either that, or I am underestimating how often this scenario must occur at this particular garbage can: “Ya know, for months now I’ve been looking for a certified public accountant. Wait, hold on, I need to throw out my coffee…”
I wish I carried a purse. There, I said it. You women with your fancy pocketbooks. You think it’s easy to be a guy? It isn’t. You get that big, spacious purse to hold all your wallets and cell phones and diaphragms and stuff. I have to cram everything into a 4-inch pocket.
So if I need to reach for my wallet, I’m gonna make this face. Because I really am straining. You think I want to look like this? Don’t you think I’d rather just casually reach into a purse while smiling handsomely? Of course I would. But the reality is, my man-jungle is wrapped tightly in this denim, and if I cringe (NOT smile — cringe), I’ll have a better chance of reaching the wallet without having to physically stand up. What? Like you’re so perfect? Don’t sass me.
This is the “Reaching for Your Wallet” face.
We recognize that not everyone is blessed with a thick, well-rounded urine stream. And while that’s perfectly fine, let’s be honest—you can’t have your new girlfriend’s parents knowing how weak your stream is and listening to the irregular “stop-and-go” nature of your urine flow. And even if you do have a respectable, audible stream, you don’t want to disrupt everyone’s conversation in the living room. What’s the solution? Side-bowl urine deflection. That’s what.
There are practical applications of this technique. Maybe you got home after curfew. Better urinate on the side of the bowl, or else the deafening sound of your urine stream pummeling the water is going to wake up your parents. I’m really, really good at hitting the side of the bowl. In fact, I’m so good that I could even rent out my services. If you’re heading home after curfew and you don’t want your parents to wake up from your thunderous urination, just give me a ring. I’ll be there in no time. I’ll grab your cock and make sure your urine stream doesn’t come within 4 inches of the water. And it’s guaranteed – if for some reason I fail, I won’t even charge you, which essentially would mean that I came over and grabbed your cock for free, which doesn’t say too much about me or my values or my morals or my self-worth, but hey, I was trying to help, and I take solace in that.
And for the record, yes, Blake or Matt (we’re not telling who) stood there with a camera while the other one urinated on the side of the bowl. What, like you’re so perfect?