I met someone from Tinder

Tinder is an app where you harass the opposite sex for no reason. Now that you’re up to speed…

I started talking to someone from this social abortion because her facial deformities seemed to avail of a limiting principle. Abort blog post.

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Sore

Sometimes when I’m on a plane, I wonder if the captain is suicidal, but instead of crashing the plane, he or she has decided to make it climb up and up and up as high as it will go, and whether that would be a cold death or a hot one, and whether it might require some degree of skill on the captain’s behalf to get us high enough that we’d burn, and whether he or she and/or I would swell with pride/ make a brief note of that upon the flames’ onset. And then I think, this isn’t the airline with Fresca, is it. No.

An Oral History of the Word “Serpentine”: Unabridged Version

The last two people to say the word “serpentine” are Jon Gruden barking at a waiter in the least buxom Hooters commercial ever recorded and a police officer describing Lamar Odom’s preferred motor vehicle trajectory. Numbers three through several thousand are mechanics. Then Axl Rose. Then more mechanics. Then Adam, with sitcom-husband exasperation. Then Eve. Twice.

I sent some messages to women on OkCupid

They are as follows:

Something’s been bothering me recently that you might be able to help me out with: so it’s true that we eat an alarming number of spiders in the course of our lives. It’s also true that daddy long legs(es?) are poisonous as all hell, but apparently they have gimpy mouths or something and can’t inject us with the poison. But wouldn’t we eat the occasional daddy long legs and die or get really fucked up? Maybe SIDS is actually just what happens when babies eat a daddy long legs in their sleep.

On that note, I’m going to tape my mouth shut and go to bed.

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Your profile screams ‘workaholic,’ which is sexy (just kidding).

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I was doing some shart-related research, and did you know it means “challenge” in Hindi? There are 3 Bollywood movies called Shart. My new life’s ambition is to procure all of them and host three viewing parties spaced two days apart that will forever be remembered as Shart Week.

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Ok, let’s break this down. You’d eat human meat if it were prepared just the way you like. My problem with that question is, how the hell do I know how I like to eat human meat before I’ve ever tried it?

The question seems to assume that human meat fits more of a steak profile than, say, chicken, because with chicken you’d just say, “Umm, fucking cook it until it isn’t pink and the bacteria is dead, like every time.” So maybe it’s more like steak? Or should I apply some kind of possibly racist criteria where white people are white meat and black people are dark meat and proceed accordingly?

If you’re already eating human meat, would you also ask it to be the meat of someone brilliant and/or famous? Because what about the 0.00000001% chance that there’s actually something to that voodoo stuff about eating someone’s soul and gaining their powers? (It was a cool theory that Walter from Breaking Bad was a Soul Eater: some uncanny things about certain affectations he developed after someone died at his hands, is about the only way I can put that and stay safely in the no-spoiler zone.) And if you were thinking along those lines, should you maybe have it prepared more on the rare side than the well-done side? You’ve gotta figure you get more of the soul that way, right?

What cut of meat would you go for? The thigh/butt cheek/I-guess maybe-breast would be the best, right? Would you have an aversion to eating someone’s butt that somehow emerges despite the fact that you’re ostensibly okay with eating a person in the first place?

Maybe you chuck it all, embrace the depravity, and say, “take away all the good parts and make me a hot dog out of the rest.” Baller.

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A few months ago I was at an interminable six-way stop light and realized I was behind a pickup truck whose back window (is there a word for that stupid vertical pickup truck back window? there probably is) was an elaborate graphic featuring the smiling visage of Bob Ross. I scrambled for my phone to take a picture that I’d cherish until the end of my days, but I couldn’t get my shit together in time. I’m still mad about that. More accurately, I am phthalo green with envy that I was too yellow ochre to capture his van dyke brown coiffure. (Those are three colors he would always mix on his little palette thing. I can’t apologize enough for subjecting you to that sentence.)

Anyway.

A Medieval Nobleman Recalls a Visit to Champp’s Americana, Part 1

Yesterday, my friend Sextus and I repaired to the local Champp’s, ostensibly to watch the Cincinnati Bengals concuss and be concussed while ultimately prevailing in unremarkable fashion against a Buffalo Bills team starting a recently furloughed park ranger at QB. And sort of watch the other games at the same time.

Upon emerging from the vomitorium and scanning the myriad viewing surfaces scattered throughout this cellulite (and cellulose, lots of wood everywhere) coliseum, my heretofore fully functional, 20/20-but-full-disclosure-one-time-they-said-I-had-an-astigmatism eyeballs detected divers fauna of the canine(-murdering), bovine (Texans), and porcine (Andy Reid) varieties, multiple fellow felines, and three flavors of marauding vagrant folk. And yet neither the flaming coiffure of our field general, Andy Dalton, nor the drooping visage of coach Marvin Lewis were blasting my rods or my cones. With dread in my heart, I hailed the buxom concierge, inquiring, pray tell, did they fucking contract the Bengals late last night, JesusChristwhatthehellisgoingon? Crestfallen, she replied that my beloved bestriped Bengals had been besmirched, banish├ęd to the patio, because “the manager is a Browns fan.”

Abscond to yon patio? What choice did we have? Jettisoned like common detritus, we emerged onto said terrace, which, as promised by the friendly hosting wench, contained two televisions projecting our quarry, positioned as polar opposite ends of the space, perhaps in an attempt by the diabolical manager to have both screens create an infinite strange loop of glare upon the other. Euclid, however, would prevail this day.We scanned the area for lifeforms, immediately noticing a rather large group of bipeds sporting identical t-shirts proclaiming the wearer to be one of Maggie’s Magical Magpies or some bullshit; I actually have no idea what they said. Upon further exploration, Sextus’ tricorder was able to detect a group of septuagenarians at our seven o’clock (which, had I thought to inform them at the time of their relative location, the mere uttering of words representing such a late hour may have induced a fatal torpor).Averse to offending the bluehairs with our wanton and profane commentary, we alit next to Maggie and her brood. Little did we know, magpie nesting behavior includes spontaneous bouts of swordplay, and it was not long before these roustabouts began rudely jostling us with each parry and riposte. There was no time to wonder whether the Depend Adult Undergarments┬« cupping those bedsored buttocks would be a suitable dike for the staccato series of sharts surely surmising from these postprandial pensioners. Menus in hand, we gingerly approached the blast radius.

A random person in response to hearing a favorite artist is releasing a new album:

“Oh fuck yes. Finally it’s about time. ~time to get pregnant~”

Killing in the Name of

I signed onto my “Mitt Romney” Xbox Live Account after a long hiatus. Yeah, I had one moment of zen-like clarity about two years ago, and rather than do anything world-changing or otherwise important, I registered the Xbox LiveID “Mitt Romney.” Anyway, I jumped on that account after not using it for quite a while, and there were literally dozens of messages from people who just jettisoned some random comment or friend request to “Mitt Romney” in the hopes that whichever random person had that name (me!) would holla/friend back.

Highlights of those messages include:

ScarceTrout says: radioactive llama penis (He will be surprised that Mitt Romney replied to that)
I Am Ryan Cable says: i hate you (I told him he was an hero (hacker inside joke))
A friend request from “Governor Romney” (pffft)
A friend request from “Ann Romney” (Accepted!)
Poopets asks: Are you the real Mitt Romney? (Poopets!)
H20 Drama wants to buy the account (No)
GunSmith117 challenged me to man up and clear out my Inbox because Barack’s is full. (I’m on it!)
MattisBestPony just yelled I LOVE YOU MITT really loud and hurt my ears, then started spamming me with party invites once I accepted his request to the point that I had to block communication. Matt: great pony, iffy human.
XxGhostVisionxX called me a racist. (Against Ghosts)

So those highlights weren’t very high. But the people friending me were!