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.
Archive for October, 2012
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.
kolsh [kohl-sh], n – the small amount of liquid remaining in a cup that is nearly impossible to suck up through a straw.
My lung suction is top notch, yet every time I try to draw this last bit of fluid up the straw, it seems to reappear as soon as my suction stops. There must be some principle of physics at play here that I’m not privy to. Maybe we should get a physicist to opine on this one. If we miraculously have any physicists that read our blog, please chime in below. If you are not a physicist, also feel free to comment, but we probably will not put too much weight in your response.
Not wanting to be wasteful, Harrison grabbed a piece of sourdough bread, used it to sop up the kolsh, and then ate the soggy and somewhat fizzy piece of sourdough soaked in RC cola.
With the colder half of the year finally upon us, I feel compelled to write a formal goodbye (slash love-letter of sorts) to one of my favorite self-made amenities – the sweat napkin. I’ve thrown together a variety of makeshift hygienic products in my day, but the sweat napkin is kinda my crowning achievement. See, I walk around all day with a few napkins in my pocket (or sometimes a paper towel, depending on what’s available at the time), and when my face and/or lower back get all slimy during bouts of heat or humidity, I wipe that perspiration right off my skin. The napkin absorbs it all. Pretty basic, really.
What I’m saying is, when it comes to forehead moisture, I’m like the freaking lovechild of MacGyver and Martha Stewart. It’s such a simple thing that I can’t believe no one else has thought of it. What? Don’t be mad at me. You’re the one who missed the opportunity to invent the sweat napkin.
Is there anything better than being the first one into the bathroom after it’s been cleaned? Nothing beats it. Just me and a bacteria free toilet. I know no one’s used it. The presence of blue fizzy detergent bubbles tells all. My friends, these are the occasions when I consider ditching these guys and just going raw dog. This puppy’s so clean, I’d consider eating a meal off of upper portion of the bowl, where it looks like there’s enough space for some sort of deli meat sandwich, and maybe a small side salad on the opposite surface. I think the orange ginger dressing that they serve at Japanese restaurants would be optimal for the side salad.
Special Thanks To Devin Duffy, who has successfully synchronized his biological clock with the arrival time of the custodial staff.
wriznutt [riz-nuht], n, v – sneeze-related shirt mucus; to sneeze this mucus onto one’s shirt
Oh, come on! Right on the freakin’ sleeve? Really? Dammit, self, get your shit together. How about a little bodily control, for a change? Anyway, back to what’s important. Did these globs of snot originate in my throat or nose? It’s hard to tell for sure without an MRI or something, but I’m guessing throat because that sneeze was really powerful… so powerful that it actually hurt coming out. That kind of force can easily propel phlegm from deep within the throat onto a shirtsleeve. Luckily, this sweatshirt is grey, so there’s a chance the sputum will just blend in, and no one will notice. But I’ll still know it’s there and will probably be walking around with that classic guilty, I-just-wriznutted-on-this-shirt look on my face. Alternatively, I can just wipe it off and move on with my life, but I kinda want to make a big deal out of it, emotionally.
Ralph was the only one who caught supermodel Franny Gipperman wiping the wriznutt from off her fancy dress during a photo shoot for Cosmo.