Jeez Louise, maintenance staff… have a little self-respect.
Archive for May, 2012
boffner [bawf-ner], n – a seat whose location and/or position somehow exposes the unlucky occupant of that seat to the one random light beam shining through a window, right into his/her face
Poor bastard… got stuck with the boffner at a lengthy Passover Seder. It looks so awkward and uncomfortable, especially since this particular, upsettingly bright ray of solar energy completely bathes his right eye in sunshine, while leaving his left eye alone in the shade. Nonetheless, this guy seems to be in good spirits considering his current sunlight-directly-in-the-eye situation. It takes a great deal of mental toughness and inner strength to make it through this type of visual assault with dignity, and this guy’s doing it like a champion. Well, good for him (I guess). At least it isn’t me, right?
No matter what time he arrives at class, which side of the room he chooses, or what time of year it is, Ronaldo always manages to find himself sitting in the boffner once class begins, which makes it a huge pain in the ass to see the blackboard.
So Memorial Day is all about the memories. So I’m gonna take advantage of that and remember the time I was walking past a book store an saw this book in the window, Is The Rectum A Grave, And Other Essays. Anyone can find a book that tells you whether or not the rectum is a grave. The real value here is in the other essays, which answer other questions that have plagued mankind for centuries, such as “How does hand lotion really work?”, “Is butternut squash better than Canada?” and my favorite, “How many Asian people have been to Antarctica?”
I’ll admit it… when the weather gets hot and humid, I sweat a lot. My mom says it’s totally normal and that I’m a very handsome young man, so I should be fine with it. But I still have a really hard time picking an outfit when the weather is shitty and confusing. For example, if it’s not cold out, but it’s raining significantly, instinct says to wear a hoodie. Seems like a good idea at the time, since I constantly lose umbrellas, and my headphones need to stay dry, right?
Wrong. The intense humidity begins to make me sweat, beginning with a pool of gross body-fluids at the small of my back and slowly progressing upward to the armpit region. I recently switched to an aluminum-free deodorant (without anti-perspirant), so it’s all kinds of damp over there. In other words, I’ve already crossed the “sweaty threshold” and can no longer remove my hoodie because I’m now visibly sweating through the t-shirt underneath. Classic humidity.
… Although I will say that there are few feelings in life as refreshing as peeling a pair of wet socks off two sweaty-ass feet. Am I right, ladies? Of course I am.
Call me old fashioned, but if you’re only gonna put in one bathroom fixture in the men’s room, a toilet might be the better option.
Frosnip [frahs-nip], n, a sign that appears humorous if considered in a language other than that in which it was written
Didn’t the Swedish consider the English ramifications of their word choice here? Clearly not. Because if they did, I guarantee this wouldn’t have slipped through. If they did their due diligence, they would have realized that every single English-speaking tourist would stop by this sign and snap a photo. I wonder if an American chick named Jillian Ericsson ever chanced upon this intersection. If so, I bet she made an about-face and got the hell out of Stockholm.
They say that the first World War started as a result of the assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, but it was, in fact, a Serbian frosnip which was misinterpreted by the Austro-Hungarians.
Are you serious with that? I’m not trying to jot down a phone number here; I’m trying to remove water from the surface of my skin after using one of the many sinks in this restroom. My hands are sopping wet, and this guy’s acting like I only need something to wrap a macaroon with.
Now I have to stand here like an idiot, waiting for that annoying red light to turn off so I can swipe my hand by the motion detector again and receive another inadequate ration of paper towel. I might even have to repeat the process one or two more times after that, depending on whether or not I decide to rinse off my face with my wet hands first. A wet face plus two still moderately wet hands require considerably more dry surface area than this disgraceful attempt at towel delivery. Take some pride in your work, powers that be; you’re embarrassing yourselves.
The English language, like most other languages, came from Latin. We took Latin words, changed them a bit and poof! English. Januarius became January, mater became mother, and so on and so forth. But I don’t understand why there’s no English word for et cetera. They create the entire English language, translate everything over, but then once they get to et cetera, they decided that no English sounding word could possibly encapsulate everything that et cetera stands for. So I’ll go ahead and pick up where the creators of English stopped. How about floogie? Can floogie be the English equivalent of et cetera? I’m going shopping tomorrow for some summer items. I need t-shirts, bathing suits, shorts, sandals, floogie…
Hmmm… for a clean I will notice. How exactly will I “notice” this particular product’s excellence?
plibby [plib-ee], n – a non-empty beverage that’s been abandoned in the bathroom by its owner, either intentionally or accidentally, which may or may not be retrieved later on during a party
Ah, there she is! Is she alright? Did anybody touch her while I was gone? I feel responsible. Over the initial 10-15 minutes we spent together, I had forged a bond with this vodka & diet coke that was not to be broken, even though that particular cocktail combo is pretty terrible. But they were the only ingredients left at this party, so when life handed me lemons, I made a vodka & diet coke… which I then proceeded to accidentally leave in the bathroom for at least 9 minutes and now certainly has at least microscopic remnants of other people’s waste in it.
After tasting a random plibby sitting atop a bar bathroom urinal, Marcelo realized he is a disgusting person. He still went on to steal that plibby, adopting it as his own beer.
Someone did not think this title through. Maybe change “Bone” to “Bones”? Pediatric Bone sounds really pervy.
There is very much wrong with this restroom sign I saw at a local Thai restaurant. Let’s start with the obvious. What’s going on with the “break” in the line separating the boy and girl in the diagram? The break appears to be eye-level with the girl, who just so happens to appear as though she’s peering through the slit, trying to catch a glimpse of this unsuspecting boy’s genitalia. And speaking of the boy’s genitalia, are we in fact looking at his genitalia? Note the first little dash mark coming out of his groin—is this part of his urine stream? Or is this first, round-edged dash actually a little penis, and his urine stream is represented by the three dashes immediately following? (He could also, in theory, be tossing miniature Tootsie Rolls in a very controlled pattern with his right hang, which is difficult to see from this vantage point.)
Answers, please! Anything’ll do, really.
Are you serious with that? You know how they say if Barbie’s proportions were projected onto a life-size woman, she’d probably just topple over and not be able to walk? Well, this is the watermelon martini version. That thing is gonna tip any second.
On the other hand, it’s like a melon-tini but also a snack. Nutritious and delicious. Getting all the food groups in there. All my essential amino acids and folate and shit. Just living the healthy life, one Wednesday night special watermelon martini at a time. It’s a gentleman’s beverage.