Previous Posts - Arbitrary Musings

Shaggy Is Not A Skilled Defense Attorney…

busted 2


Many of you have probably heard the 1990s hit song “It Wasn’t Me” by Shaggy, which begins with Shaggy’s friend desperately seeking out Shaggy’s advice on how to resolve a troublesome situation.

According to his initial statement, Shaggy’s friend was at home — petting, fondling, and ultimately penetrating his female neighbor “butt naked… on the bathroom floor” — until his girlfriend returned home unexpectedly, catching him in the act.  Overwhelmed by this veritable budussy tornado, his girlfriend expresses her displeasure with his unfaithful actions and demands an explanation.  He asks Shaggy how to respond.

Shaggy advises, very matter-of-factly, “Say it wasn’t you.”  After about 1.5 seconds, his friend goes, “Alriiiiiight…”  He took basically zero convincing.  He didn’t even wait to hear Shaggy’s other ideas for how to get out of this jam.  He jumped on that very first idea almost immediately, even though it’s an absolutely preposterous statement and, frankly, an insult to her intelligence.  Did you really think your girlfriend would be fine with it and just drop the topic after you responded to her legitimate concern about your commitment level by claiming that ain’t you?  C’mon, man.

There’s really no wiggle room here.  “It’s not what it looks like” probably isn’t gonna cut it.  I mean, she literally entered his apartment, WHERE HE LIVES, and walked in on a guy, who looks EXACTLY like him, intercoursing with the girl next door.  It doesn’t really get any more straightforward than that.  It’s not like she heard some bullshit rumor that he cheated from a friend of a friend of a friend; she physically witnessed his infidelity, like 10 seconds ago.

Also, as a quick side-note — the intro to the song suggests that this event occurred very recently, like within the past hour… so how the hell did he get to Shaggy’s house to ask him for his advice, amid this major argument with his girlfriend?  She’s like, “Explain yourself, asshole!”  And I guess he’s like, “Hold that thought,” then runs out of his apartment and drives over to Shaggy’s place to seek out advice?

There are some serious inconsistencies here, and I plan on getting to the bottom of it…


Approaches To Garbage Can Placement



There are two types of people in this world — those who hide their garbage can in a cabinet beneath the sink and those who display the garbage can separately.  It’s the centuries-old debate of Garbage In vs. Garbage Out.  We are not necessarily advocating for one lifestyle over the other.   But, personally, I’d like to be able to scrape beef stroganoff vertically downward, directly into the garbage from my plate.

Now you — person who hides his garbage under the sink — tell me what you’re going to do with all that saucy debris after polishing off a juicy plate of Grandma’s beef stroganoff and brothy egg noodles (or perhaps rice-and-bean enchiladas, as pictured above).  Believe me, I’ve tried the hover-the-plate-over-the-garbage-and-use-a-paper-towel-to-forcefully-smear-the-leftovers-directly-downward-into-the-garbage technique.  But all it takes is one poorly-placed greasy wipe, and suddenly, there’s stroganoff meat with gooey mushroom bisque all over your Windex bottle, 409 All-Purpose Cleaner, dishwasher detergent nuggets, and other under-the-sink items.  (Not to mention the inevitable skidmarks down the side of the garbage can.)  A viscous beef-and-mushroom onslaught, all due to some poorly placed diagonal strokes.

So just remember, when you think you’re being all classy and hiding your garbage, let me tell you something, Noam – it’s not any less disgusting.  In fact, it’s arguably more disgusting.


If It Would Please Her Majesty…

bag on seat

Tell the truth, ma’am** — you legitimately believe that your bag is more important than I am.  It’s true, isn’t it?

OMG, it is.  It’s true.  In your heart, you truly feel that your purse — a strappy leather sack containing tissues, gummy bears, maybe some Tylenol — actually DOES take priority over me, a fellow human being.  Remarkable.

No no, don’t be silly… you have nothing to apologize for.  It looks like a really terrific bag.  A good bag.  A respectable bag, that clearly deserves its own seat on this completely packed train.  The kind of bag that probably spent most of his Saturday helping his mother learn how to use a series of increasingly fancy Emojis on her iPhone today.

No, wait… that’s me.  I’m the one who spent over three hours teaching Emojis to mom on a Saturday.  Me.  Not your esteemed bag, okay?  ME.  So, with all due respect, please relocate your bag to a more bag-appropriate spot, while I settle into my seat.  Thank you.

**Sorry not sorry for using the sarcastic “ma’am.”



Anti-Americanism Has Spiraled Out Of Control

scrolling down to USA


Fundamentally, I believe that all people are created equal, and I am excited to visit other parts of the world and enjoy the opportunity to learn about places and cultures different from my own.

However, when filling out my personal info on a website today, I had to scroll all the way to the ‘U’ section on an alphabetized list, like some sort of peasant.  Absolutely unacceptable.  I get it, okay?  There are lots of other countries in the world, America isn’t the center of the universe, blah, blah, blah…

Just put USA at the top, where I arbitrarily feel it belongs.  Freedom, everyone!  Freedom.



Flavor Ambush

Screen Shot 2015-12-11 at 10.10.04 AM


Cinnamon?!  Are you fucking kidding me?  This is an outrage.

When I pop a beautiful red jelly bean into my mouth, I expect to be delighted by the tender caress of sweet cherry goodness upon my taste buds.  From time to time, however, I get blindsided by the harsh sting of cinnamon, which is absolutely terrifying for a second or two.  And to be honest, I actually quite like cinnamon.  The issue here is the expectation of cherry, shattered abruptly by the pungent shock of non-consensual cinnamon.  It ruins the entire jelly bean experience and makes me doubt my candy selection abilities and, in turn, myself, as a man.  I’ve been bait-and-switched by cherry’s ugly cousin, cinnamon, on multiple traumatizing occasions.

Enough is enough.  It’s time that we, as a society, organize and finally do the right thing, the sensible thing — make cinnamon jelly beans brown.  That’s right… BROWN.  You know, like the color of fucking cinnamon.  I’ve seen hundreds, maybe thousands of red cherries in my life and a grand total of zero red cinnamon sticks.

Make the cinnamon jelly beans brown.  Does anyone know who’s in charge of jelly beans?



Regarding Glutenmania

gluten-free body wash

There are, indeed, many individuals who genuinely experience allergic or inflammatory reactions to products containing gluten, and if you are one of those people, it makes sense to adopt a gluten-free diet.

That being said, I strongly recommend that you — gluten-free body wash shopper — consider reducing how much body wash you eat on a daily basis.  I’m not a licensed digestion or nutrition expert, but the persistent gastrointestinal discomfort you’ve been experiencing is probably due to excessive body wash intake, not gluten.  So, like, maybe body wash is the main thing that makes your belly hurt and should be completely eliminated from your diet, starting today.

Now, what you decide about eating bread, pasta, and other gluten paraphernalia going forward is up to you and your bowels…



Some Planets Make Better Juice Names Than Others…

venus and uranus crpd


The next time someone tells you to have a nice, warm glass of shut-the-hell-up, you should tell him to have an ice-cold bottle of cold-pressed Uranus.



Cocktail Houring Like A Champion

ditching food at cocktail hour

She waits patiently in the periphery, carefully examining each potential landing spot for her food garbage.

She’s moving in.

“Don’t mind me — I’m just going to discard a few of my freshly-chewed lamb chop bones on this here tablecloth,” thought Gloria, as she delicately placed down another partially-eaten bone on the table, making it a clean half-dozen.

But now what—does she just walk away casually? Say nothing? Maybe she should just own it. You know, be very much up-front with the folks at that table, telling them straight that she’s just there to unload six loose lamb chop bones.

Let’s be real, though… we’ve all done it. I did it at my Uncle Charlie’s. Walked right up to a man and boldly placed my pesto-stained plate with a staggering pile of shrimp tails right next to his rum-and-diet while he was mid-conversation. Then I went back to business. Got me some cold motherfuckin’ sesame noodles.

Special thanks to Slurz & Adam for this lambchop selfie.


Let The Man Handle This…


“Yup.  Oh yes, indeed.  This is definitely wine.  It’s wine, everyone.”

Phew.  We can now proceed with the pouring of the entire bottle of wine, since I’ve given my official approval, as the man of the table.  Lord knows, only a man could possibly sign off on something that important.  We couldn’t possibly allow a woman, with all her feminine guile and intrinsic womanliness, to be the person who tastes the tiny sample of wine that the waiter pours into a cup upon opening a bottle of wine for a restaurant table.

Even if a woman clearly selected the wine and went so far as to discuss the wine selection with the server at length prior to ordering that bottle of wine, apparently, restaurant staff are instructed never to entrust the ceremonial first taste to anyone with a vagina.  Let’s move past this archaic tradition, society.  In fact, let’s just eliminate that ritual altogether.  If, somehow, the bottle of wine in question has been compromised prior to being opened, someone at the table (regardless of gender) will probably notice and alert the waitstaff.  I doubt testicles are required to detect that the newly-opened wine tastes very strongly like the liquid inside an expired can of tuna.


Special thanks to Sir Adam Fockler for inspiration and Sir Randy Ostrowe, father of Duncan, for allowing us intimate access to a moment between a man and his beverage. Absolutely stunning.


Keep It In Your Pants, Coach…

Screen Shot 2015-09-11 at 10.46.28 PM

Wow… not even done with Week 1 yet, and New York Jets Offensive Coordinator, Chan Gailey, is either already sleeping with one of his players… or the victim of an unfortunate choice of words in this headline.  Yikes.  Well, nevertheless, we at What I Realized support Coach Gailey and his players’ decisions regarding their private sexy-time.  What goes on between two consenting adults in the confines of Coach Gailey’s private office bathroom is exactly that — private.

Again, though, I guess it’s possible that whoever wrote this particular headline simply did not read it, ever, not even a single time, before submitting it for publication (and subsequent tomfoolery on the interweb, at

I kinda hope they’re fucking.


Okay, I Have A Few Questions About The Specifics…

AA and Chinese videos

For starters, when you say “African-American & Chinese videos,” do you mean both African-American and, separately, Chinese videos are for sale at this establishment or, rather, that you exclusively sell videos that are jointly African-American & Chinese (as is slightly suggested by the choice of ‘&’ in lieu of the word ‘and’)?

As a follow-up question, I’d also like to inquire as to your selection of hybrid African-American/Chinese films.  Please advise.



I’m Sorry, What Did You Say The Author’s Last Name Is?

author name

I realized it’s never too late to consider using a pseudonym… (Attn: Carla)



The Island So Nice They Mentioned It Twice…



LI Alzheimers Assoc of LI


Apparently, however, community group names are not subject to the New York State Redundancy Rules.

NOTE:  We at WhatIRealized sincerely apologize if it turns out that the person who named this organization is actually suffering from Alzheimer’s and simply forgot that he/she had already included “L.I.” at the beginning of the name.

(We acknowledge that, if hell exists, we may be headed there…)



What’s The Polar Opposite Of Appetizing?

dump cakes 2


Nothing, and I mean nothing, about the title of this cookbook (or its slogan printed at the bottom) makes me willing to even consider buying a copy.  The sad thing is, the cherry-crumble-type dessert depicted on the cover actually appears very yummy… but all of that appeal instantaneously goes out the window once I know it’s called a “dump cake.”  You need to rename the shit out of this book, immediately.  Like today, if possible.  Have some self-respect…



That’s So Meta…


Meta-labeling… Redundant?  Perhaps.  Necessary?  Absolutely.  Really?  No.




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