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Flavor Ambush

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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?



Words I Realized: Crunga

crunga [kruhn-guh], n – the phenomenon wherein one’s big toe pokes completely through one’s sock

In my not-far-from-thirty years on this planet, personally, I’ve never seen a woman experience this.  Either they’ve got less aggressive toenails than men, or they just generally take much better care of themselves, i.e. purchasing new socks every once in a while.  It’s gotta be the latter, right?  Even in the unlikely event that a lady’s toe did penetrate the soft, velvety cotton of her socks, she’d probably have the common sense to change those socks immediately.  Because, come on, this dude looks ridiculous and flat-out sloppy.  Time to throw those away, buddy.  I know they’re your favorite argyle socks, which are soooooooo in right now, but have some self-respect.  Plus, your toe has got to be freezing.  Look at it, all unprotected and exposed, falling victim to whatever elements are present in the environment…

Fritz was delighted to find that his lovely and caring fiancé, Wanda, had replaced his old, nasty, haggard socks (which had become that way due to crunga, specifically).

Wait, crunga?? I don’t get it… Can you explain?


Please Don’t Fart In My Face

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.

According To WIR, Wed. July 11th Never Happened


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.


Overly Complicated Password Composition Requirements

“Your password must include at least one of the following four characters:  upper case letter; lower case letter; number; ‘special character’ that most definitely requires the use of the shift key…”

Who the fuck do you think you are, making these demands?  I don’t care if I impress you, you shitty, annoying automated computer system on a power trip.  No time for your shenanigans right now.  If I want a less complicated password for my account, that’s my problem, right?  If it puts my precious motherfucking password’s security in jeopardy, well, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.  Stop interjecting just cuz I won’t alternate upper and lower case letters for my normal go-to password, then add an obligatory ‘123,’ and surround that son of a bitch with percent signs.

Cut me some slack, dude.  Do you know how hard it is to keep thinking of newer, edgier, more bedazzled passwords for the expanding collection of online services that I use on at least a somewhat regular basis?  Explain to me why it’s absolutely essential that I include a dollar sign or exclamation point in my password.  Explain it.  What?  Huh?  I can’t hear you.  Probably because you don’t have a point, and also because I can’t just magically hear any random person I choose, speaking at a distant location.  Don’t be ridiculous.


Words I Realized: Boffner

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.

Wait, boffner?? I don’t get it… Can you explain?


A Money Saver But A Heart Breaker

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.


Wish I Had Gone With Plain Black Boots Today…

Alright, I’ve finished constructing the usual pointless public restroom toilet paper “barrier,” and now it’s time to get down to business.  The difficult part is over.  Really not much more for me to do; the body just kinda takes over at this point.  You know how that goes, ladies and gentlemen.

But wait!  Two people just entered the bathroom.  Noooooo!  I’d rather be alone for the initial, potentially loud phase of the removal process.  Guess I’ll just hold it for a minute and wait till they leave.  Don’t wanna make a scene, ya know?  I have to see these people everyday.

Ya know what?  Screw it.  These guys are taking too long.  I’ll just throw caution to the wind and deploy the vessel.  I mean, the other bathroom occupants don’t know who’s in this stall, so it’s safe to proceed with this atrocity, right?  They’ll have no idea who did this to them.  I almost feel bad, but not really.  Aaaaaaand… NOW!  Hahahaha, suckers… take that.

Oh, crap… my blue sneakers with yellow laces are not very stealthy.  I could easily be recognized later on!  Should I torch the shoes to get rid of the evidence?  Probably gonna be paranoid about this for a while.  Terrific.


It Happens To The Best Of Us?


Dammit… stupid humidity. I’ve been sitting for two hours. Now my undies are sticking to my butt cheeks, and I’m not happy about it. It’s not quite a wedgie, since the fabric has not infiltrated my crack, but rather has stuck to the warm, moist skin along the surface of my tooshie. I’m not gross; you’re gross.

It’s okay… just keep smiling.  Ugh, I feel like everyone can tell.  But realistically, how could they possibly?  No one can see through my jeans, and this is strictly an underpants issue. Na’ mean? Denim is opaque. That’s what I’m saying, basically.

Regardless, I need to peel this soggy cotton off of my gluteus ASAP. Probably gonna have to incorporate a maneuver like this into my game plan. Problem soon to be solved.


Maybe We Should Just Go Back To The Conventional, Trigger-Style Flushing System

“Really?  Again?  Come on now.  I have to take a shit.  How many more times can I put down a toilet seat cover, only to watch it get swallowed before I can even pull down my undies?” thought Carlos as he witnessed another failed attempt at protecting his heinie from the evils lurking on the toilet seat.

Maybe this restaurant should consider reducing the sensitivity of its automatic flush sensor.  All Carlos is doing is bending his knees ever so slightly to apply the seat cover.  He’s barely leaning forward, and he’s not even going anywhere near the sensor.  How can this stupid sensor confuse a human being barely leaning forward with a person sitting down for 5-7 minutes with their back six inches from the sensor?

I’m not sure what poor Carlos should be doing here to avoid this problem.  Should he drop the seat cover on the toilet from above and hope it happens to land evenly on the seat?  Is he supposed to hold the seat cover flush against his tush with his butthole poking through the center, and sit down while maintaining a firm grasp on the seat cover throughout the process so as to maximize the chances of proper toilet seat alignment?   Or maybe he should just suck it up and ditch the seat cover, because as we now know, they really are pointless.


Why Didn’t My Roommate’s Technicolor Towel Fall Also?


Oh Jeez.  I’ve been gone since 8 AM.  I really have no idea if this happened at 8:17 or right before I got home five minutes ago.   What do I do?  That’s my only towel.  Do I have to do laundry right now?  Towels are absorbent, and the bathroom floor is home to a wealth of objectionable material, e.g. psmatiste.  The proximity of those two plungers doesn’t inspire much confidence either.   And we can’t overlook the fact that, if the towel was wet during its untimely descent, particles are definitely sticking to it.  Many particles.

Why didn’t any of my roommates do me a solid and hang it back up?  I rub that thing all over my sweet, tender body!  Yet, can I really blame them?  I mean, I wouldn’t want to touch something moist that has spent a considerable amount of time in contact with my roommate’s masculine region.  Would you?  You know your roommate.  Now, imagine his cock.


Times When You Wish You Had A Can of Compressed Air

I realized you shouldn’t eat a carrot right before you sneeze.


Woe Is Me. Seriously. Woe All Over Me.

No… Please no…. Please be a dream… Please let this be me, waking up in a dream.

Nope.  Not a dream.  This is actually happening.  I forgot to unset my alarm.  I woke up early and got to work on time every day this week.  And now, I’m awake at 7:35 AM on a Saturday.

I was in a great part of my dream, too.  Won’t go into detail on that one, but you’re gonna have to take my word for it.  I could try to fall back asleep, but that’s never as good.  Rays of milky light penetrate the cracks between my blinds.   That, plus now I have to pee.  If I were sleeping, I’d be blissfully numb to these disturbances.  Instead, light is shining in my eyes.

Okay dude, close your eyes.  Enter a state of extreme relaxation.  Deep, rhythmic breaths… IN, two, three, four, OUT, two, three, four, IN, two, three, four, OUT, two—  Shit.  I really do have to pee.  Alright.  White flag.  Surrender.  Time to tend to my bodily functions.


Occupational Hazard: China

Coagulated egg white suspended in an eggy yellow chowder.  I’m just gonna repeat that more slowly for effect: Eggy. Yellow. Chowder.

Egg drop soup stands its ground.  Go ahead, try peeling the globular solid from your shirt.  You may be able to pick off that big guy in the middle, but the smaller morsels are gonna linger, leaving trace bits.  Trace eggy bits.  So what do you do?  You brush them on the floor.  Then what happens?  A toy poodle eats the bits and gets salmonella poisoning.  Then the poodle runs around your apartment, uncontrollably leaking, ya know, doodie all over your shoes, laptop, and expensive alpaca rug.  All because you insisted on having Chinese for dinner.  Next time, do yourself a favor and toss the shirt.

I know it sounds ridiculous, but fuck off, it could happen.


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