I realized that the term “lo mein” has yet to reach certain parts of the country.
Please remind me — did I order a Vietnamese-style sandwich? Or did I order a pork sandwich and a separate carrot and sprout sandwich? If I wanted a carrot and sprout sandwich, I’d order a carrot and sprout sandwich.
A carrot and sprout sandwich? Are you fucking kidding me? A plain pork sandwich is at least reasonable, but a carrot and sprout sandwich is flat-out absurd. You need to learn how to properly assemble a sandwich, sister. Especially considering you work in a shop that exclusively sells sandwiches. What kind of deranged, no-good sociopath would do such a thing? Am I supposed to eat this nonsense like a taco? I’m so lost. Help me.
I love peeing on ice. I love it. If given the option, I would urinate on ice exclusively. All the warm urine glazing that glistening ice prairie, making a light crackling sound akin to that of 2% milk gently douching a heaping pour of Rice Krispies.
I hope you’re not eating Rice Krispies right now.
It’s unfortunate that all of our female readers probably never knew of this phenomenon. Short of getting creative at home, women will never get to relish in one of life’s innocent pleasures and recognize the therapeutic value of this sound. As such, I propose that alarm clock manufacturers amend their traditional lineup of soothing sleep sounds: Rainforest. Ocean Waves. Thunderstorm. Urine Hitting Ice.
Plus, it’s fun, okay? It’s fun to melt ice with your own pee.
I realized that if you make the conscious decision to look at pornography in Starbucks, you probably shouldn’t sit near the window.
Thoble [thoh-buhl], n – the foil hole on a juice box designated for straw insertion
I don’t mean to brag, but growing up, I was quite good with a juice box. Motts, Juicy Juice, Ssips Iced Tea – no problem. Jammed that straw right in there at a standard 90-degree angle. But I could not penetrate the Capri Sun thobles for the life of me. I just couldn’t. Something about the curvature of that trademark metallic pouch. I’d end up cracking my straw and then having to bite a hole through the thoble and suck that bag of juice like a shiny silver teat.
Little Douglas pierced the thoble and squeezed the juice into a glass because he wanted to drink it like a gentleman.
I realized that some stores are a tad overprotective of their razor blade inventory. Seriously? You’re gonna lock them up in a vault? “Go ahead and steal the batteries, Brita filters, and 30-packs of at-home pregnancy tests” said the Rite Aid manager, “but you will NOT walk around all clean-shaven without paying for it.”
Happy Memorial Day! What are you guys doing for Memorial Day? Huh? A barbecue? You seeing some friends? Drinking? We were going to go to our buddy’s house for a barbecue or a crawfish boil or something, but that didn’t pan out because he said something about it being cancelled or something. Soooooo, we’re just sitting here… on Memorial Day, just enjoying each other’s company. On Memorial Day. Looks like we’ll be here for the foreseeable future, unless, ya know, you want to invite us to whatever it is you’re doing. Because it’s Memorial Day. Time for friendship and camaraderie and trust and stuff. No pressure. Alrighty.
The Protective Sleeve Technique is a versatile tactic utilized by germophobes of all skill levels. Even beginners can make use of this approach to brave that doorknob in the gas station bathroom. But be subtle about it. Gaze off into the distance to divert the attention of onlookers, and as an added security measure, wet your face, thereby focusing attention away from the enclosed hand.
Expert germophobes apply this craft in unlikely scenarios—pushing crosswalk buttons, driving a rental car, or shaking hands with someone who generally appears clammy; instead, give him a fistful of fabric.
The Protective Sleeve Technique can also be employed during random sexual encounters. Want to limit physical contact with that gross slob at the bar that you didn’t necessarily intend to go home with? Leave your coat on, partner! Use your wool sleeves to caress her buttocks or to take a firm grasp of his pulsating cock. I mean, they’re probably too drunk to notice the difference anyway, especially if they haven’t said anything about you leaving your coat on.
I realized that, instead of taking the garbage out, my roommate just creates new garbages.
Scrag [sk-ræg], n – One or more stray pubic hairs resting on a surface, such as a bar of soap, urinal, or toilet
There are many variables that define any particular collection of scrag. Curl. Length. Color. Amount. You may wonder how it wound up there. Was this person sitting or standing? Which body part did this come from? And perhaps most importantly, did these all come from the same source, or am I dealing with a cocktail?
Dude, I think I need to break up with Carol. You wouldn’t believe how much scrag she caked onto my soap.
I realized that apparently, “Oh No! There’s a Negro in my Wife” Volumes 1-3 were so successful that making the fourth DVD was a logical move.
I hate having to dress my own salad. I’m just no good at it. Sure, anyone can just “pour dressing on a salad”. It’s distribution and proper mixing where I fall short. In this instance, I was blessed with a plastic container, which greatly increases my likelihood of achieving some semblance of an evenly dressed salad. But put me in a buffet line, and I‘m hopeless. You’re telling me I have to dress a small portion of salad on my flat plate without getting runoff vinaigrette all over my manicotti?
And somehow, all the dressing manages to accumulate onto one piece of cucumber, so I’m forced to rub that cucumber all over the naked greens, painting them with dressing, like I’m some sort of big fat idiot.
I realized it’s completely unnecessary to inform everyone that you’re still alive because the whole “end-of-the-world” thing was fictional.
I think you’ve got the whole human waste disposal thing taken care of with the toilet. There’s really no reason you need to bring an auxiliary urinal into the equation just because it’s the men’s room. Looks like the owner of this bar wants to segregate bodily wastes at all costs… he must be a part of the whole “uro-fecal segregation” movement I’ve been hearing so much about.
“If you have to shit, fine, use the toilet,” said the Owner. He continued, “But if you have to pee, do NOT use the toilet. Urinal’s to the left. And don’t even think about dropping off a combo platter into this toilet. You know the deal—urinate to left, defecate to the right. Go back and forth 6 times if you have to, I don’t fucking care. Even if you squeeze out a few and then need to pee a little more, stand up, do your business in the urinal, retreat to the toilet. Everyone knows you can’t mix urine and feces in the same toilet. Are you fucking nuts? You wanna kill everyone in here?”