My dog eats New Zealand for breakfast.
Special Thanks To Ryan McGrath for staying up to date with all the latest innovations in pet food.
Not to brag or anything, but I’m a damn good message-leaver. I’m concise, clear, and to the point… practically an expert in how to leave messages like a damn professional, and I take pride in my abilities.
Yet, I always sound like a dunce when I’m leaving a voicemail for someone, and that person calls me back as I’m in the process of leaving the voicemail. For some reason, I completely bug out and don’t know what to do, so I wind up fumbling over my words and saying things like, “Just wanted to check in and—wait, this is you calling me back on the other line. Uh… ummm… I’m uhh… I’m gonna… I guess I’m gonna just pick up your call right now, and I’ll talk to you for real on the phone, so you can just ignore this voicemail. Okay? I’m gonna pick up your call now…”
No idea what just happened there. I spoke perfectly fine English no more than 3 minutes ago, but I guess I got so flustered by your return call that all those English speaking skills I’ve worked on since early childhood went out the window, and I just suddenly became a drooling moron. Good thing the entire verbal catastrophe was recorded on that person’s freakin’ voicemail…
Reading this tweet the morning after I went on a date with this young lady made me so happy. It showed me just how great I am on dates. I really only lose it once I give her a true look into what goes on in my mind. Which I’m fine with. The bizarre, inner workings of my mind are not for everyone. This blog really only represents a snapshot—the tip if the iceberg, if you will—of the truly outlandish stuff that goes on upstairs. Do you guys even realize how ridiculous I am? Let’s see, off the top of my head…
And these are just a few of the tamer absurdities things that I felt like sharing with the entire world (remember, our blog is accessible from all nations, e.g. Kuwait, Bosnia, Portugal, etc). I’m certainly not for the faint of heart, and for that reason I show women WIR on the first date, second date latest. If they can’t handle the blog, they won’t be able to handle the fact that I own a t-shirt that says “Bring Back Hairy Pussies” (although, I’m not saying I actually agree with that). So what can we take away from all this? That up until that very moment when I decide to give my date a glimpse into the deranged nature of my mind, I come across as a totally normal, reasonable dude. And for that, I am grateful.
It doesn’t matter what type of experiment or study was conducted based on the information on this whiteboard… Student 1 obviously had a terrible time throughout the experience compared to Student 2. No fair.
inchable [in-chob-ley], n – an accidental high-five to fist-pound mismatch
In a sense, inchable is really more a passive circumstance of everyday life than a thing of its own, per se. For instance, the photo above captures these two warm-blooded individuals with their modestly sensual hands currently in a state of inchable. But it’s not like, “Oh man, did you just see those two idiots commit inchable?” or even “Check out my creepy uncle as he moseys his way through this wedding reception. He’s already formed an inchable with 6 different people due to his total lack of social grace.” It’s more like this – “Hey dad, look at those two people over there attempting to make a celebratory gesture with their hands but failing… inchable!” It’s the kind of thing you declare as the defining, labeling quality of a particular situation, as opposed to being a concrete object or thing itself. Kinda like “Checkmate!” or “Yahtzee!” or something. Probably more like “Yahtzee!” now that I think about it, cuz the establishment of inchable should be announced with that same vigor and excitement. This is some exciting shit, alright? We’re talking about inchable here.
Upon initially encountering one another at the 8th grade school dance, Thurgood and Ron attempted a super-cool, hand-related greeting… ya know, to impress the ladies. Unfortunately, inchable ensued due to Ron’s game time nerves making him forget their pre-planned and choreographed fist-pound strategy.
Special Thanks To Rebecca Pearlmother for instantaneously coming up with the name ‘inchable,’ like a word-naming ladyninja.
Uncle Jesse, right?
Seriously. Does no one else see this?
Are these intentionally designed such that you need to practically give the thing a hand job in order to accumulate an adequate amount of soap to wash your hands? Because it sure seems that way. Much like their towel counterpart, these devices are either poorly designed, or their owners are cheap and have the outputs on the stingiest setting. Which is ridiculous, because people aren’t gonna take one squirt and think, “Well, shucks. That’s all the soap that was allocated to me, so I’m just gonna make do and hopefully the next sink will be a bit more generous.” Not gonna happen… People are just gonna jerk the thing off until they have enough cum soap to wash their hands! And all the while, the poor sensor-activated faucet is freaking out and turning on and off, all because some frugal guy insists on using the “Impotent Ejaculation” setting, as opposed to the more appropriate “Ron Jeremy-Sized Load”, which I know for a fact is the name of other setting that this particular model offers.
Wow, Identigene. You guys totally stole Jerry Springer’s thunder with this technological development. His TV program is no longer necessary. Now, anyone with like 35 bucks can conduct a do-it-yourself paternity test in the comfort of his/her own dining room. Sure, the bathroom or even the living room would be a more sensible choice than the dining room, but hey, this is YOUR paternity test, and you can do as you damn well please. You can even set up rows of folding chairs for an audience of family, friends, and/or arbitrary strangers who might be interested in watching some good ole’ fashioned family drama unfold right before their eyes.
I wonder if customers ever stock up on these bad boys, like 10 at a time. It’d be fun to accumulate a surplus of paternity tests and then just walk around testing yourself against random children on the sidewalk, to check if maybe I’ve got a kid out there or something. You never know…
This all made more sense right before I typed it.
“To confirm, you said Kitchen-Dick, right? Just want to make sure,” said Justin. “Last thing I want to do is accidentally turn on Kitchen-Sack and end up on the other side of town.
“So that’s Kitchen-Dick with a ‘K’…?”
tallast [tal-uhst], n – gusts of air conditioning felt while passing a store with open doors
I don’t think any store on the planet is cooled as sufficiently as this particular Bloomingdale’s. I’ve never actually been inside, but every time I pass it on a hot summer day, my nipples get as hard as Chinese math. The only logical conclusion I can come to is that the first floor also doubles as a meat locker. A one-stop-shop for Dolce & Gabbana perfume and premium dry aged ribeye.
When Reggie stopped in front of the Carl’s Jr to enjoy the fresh, cool tallast that was escaping through the open doorway, a homeless Asian man asked him for a nickel.
Special Thanks To Becca Trager who frequently experiences the “Chinese Math Syndrome” referenced above.
If I tried to brew my own iced sweet tea at home, it would probably taste like Robitussin mixed with cranberry juice. I buy iced tea in a bottle to avoid a home brewed taste.
Staircases and escalators have helped to advance society in many ways, but along with those advances come a bunch of occupational hazards. Fortunately for us at WIR, some of these occupational hazards are rooted in germophobia, which is one of our favorite sources of material.
That having been said, the lovely, young, vivacious lady pictured above finds herself in a precarious situation that many of us, in the escalator-using world, have faced at one point or another. She stands just behind and below the gentleman who stepped onto the escalator immediately before her, and due to the wonders of human anatomy, this places her face directly adjacent to his tooshie, in his anus’s line of fire. If he were to pass gas, it would probably go right into her mouth, or if she’s lucky, just her general face region. All she can do is hope for the best because (and we at WIR can tell you this from experience) it is EXTREMELY uncomfortable to tap a stranger on the shoulder and politely request that he/she please not break wind while your face is right there.
She will be in our prayers.
Special Thanks To Elizabeth Bonomo for putting her eyes, nose, mouth, throat and lungs at risk for the sake of comedy.
“Using my eyes to read a book is clearly not an efficient process,” thought Charlie as he moved his lips in tandem with the words he saw on the page. “This sure makes the content easier to digest. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s This Side of Paradise is not at all comprehensible by simply looking at the pages. When I mix in a little lip action, the words come to life! Now we’re talking!”
NO, Charlie. Now we are not taking. This is only acceptable if you are an eight year old. If you are above eight years of age and you mouth and/or audibly whisper the words while you read to yourself, you should make a concerted effort to learn about the wonders of internal comprehension. Okay? You’re not reciting a soliloquy. The only time this is ever acceptable is if you are sharing the story with a deaf person who is highly skilled at lip reading. I don’t think this was the case above with Charlie.
We regret to inform you that late during the night of Tues. July 10th, the gentlemen behind the website known as What I Realized (WIR) accidentally collided testicles with one another, resulting in one horrifically crushed testicle for each gentleman. It was a terribly painful ordeal for them, both physically and emotionally, from which they are still both in recovery. Needless to say, a post was unlikely yesterday. If you are wondering how this happened, let’s just say it involved jousting poles, early 1990’s NBA jerseys, and reruns of the American Gladiators.
They appreciate your support during this trying time, while their balls heal from the disastrous head-on collision. Just to clarify, when I just said “balls,” I didn’t mean that either of them had BOTH of his balls crushed. Again, for the record, they each had ONE ball crushed as a result of a direct testicle-to-testicle collision… so together, they technically have a total of two crushed balls, which is why I used the plural “balls” in the first sentence of this paragraph. It’s important that you know that each gentleman still has one perfectly fine and intact testicle.
Normal WIR posting will be back later today, you beautiful readers, you.