Last Friday I used my 40-minute train ride to try and write an entire blog. This is what I got.
40 MINUTES TO GO
A girl in front of me on the train the other day was texting like crazy. Since I had no books to read and nothing to write with, I decided to pass my time by reading her texts. At first they were pretty standard. “I’ll be home soon:)” “What’s for dinner?” Boring stuff like that. But then she texted a guy named John, who I’m guessing she just started dating. The text said, “On the train thinking about you, and I’m all smiles.” This seemed sweet, only there was one problem: she wasn’t smiling. I saw her reflection in the window and she wasn’t even grinning. John texted back a minute later, saying “Awww, thanks!:)” I thought to myself, ‘Poor John. He has no idea that he’s in a new relationship with a liar.’ I tried to see if I could see his number in her phone so I could text him and let her know that she wasn’t smiling, but the phone didn’t show it. Sorry John. What if it as John Cougar Mellencamp? Then I really feel bad.
34 MINUTES TO GO
I wonder if they caught the Hamburgler. I haven’t seen him around for years. I bet some angry mother complained about the character so much to the McDonald’s executives that they decided to get rid of him. I bet that she argued that he promoted theft. I mean yeah, he definitely did, but so what? That’s not the reason this woman’s son got caught stealing baseball cards at the Kane County Cougars game. He was stealing to try and be cool, something he’s forced to do because his angry mother spends all of her energy embarrassing him with her angry rants at restaurants, video stores, and PTA meetings. I hate this imaginary woman I’ve made up. But her son seems pretty cool. I hear he steals.
27 MINUTES TO GO
An automated message just came on the speaker of the train reminding everyone to report any suspicious activity or abandoned bags to the train crew. I don’t think I would do that. I’m too afraid of reporting a false alarm to the train conductor. The train would be forced to stop, it would be searched by the feds, and in the end everyone on the train is 4 hours late to get home on a Friday because I thought the abandoned bag of Fun Dip I found was anthrax. That sounds awkward. I think I’d rather just die from anthrax.
23 MINUTES TO GO
Why as it fashionable in the 80s for women to wear shoulder pads? That was a gross fashion trend.
22 MINUTES TO GO
A woman just sneezed two rows ahead of me and got snot everywhere. I wouldn’t have noticed, but after she sneezed, she said “OH MY GOD!!” This made me look up, only to see boogers hanging from her nose. I find it odd that she would draw so much attention to herself. I guess she’s just really honest and didn’t want to lie about getting snot everywhere. That kind of honesty reminds me of a story from when I was in 2nd grade. I wrote a girl a fake love letter and signed it “Robert,” one of the guys from my class who I hated. It became a big issue, so much so that the teacher got involved. Suspecting me as the possible culprit, she pulled me aside and asked me if I knew who did it. I nodded, looked her in the eyes and said, “David.” I didn’t like David either.
20 – 13 MINUTES TO GO
(At this point a lady with a spiked mullet walked through the train. I compared her to Ivon Drago’s wife in Rocky IV, and then talked about how Sylvester Stallone probably can’t read. I’m skipping my rambling on this subject because I talked about Rocky IV in my previous blog. But I guess I mentioned it in this post anyways…)
12 MINUTES TO GO
Why did Brett Favre have to wait until I don’t hate him that much to have embarrassing pictures of his penis posted on the internet? That would have been awesome when I was twelve and he was ruining all of my winters as quarterback for the Green Bay Packers. Now I’m trying to force myself to enjoy the humiliation he’s feeling for having his gens posted all over the web. It’s like finding out that your girlfriend from first grade who dumped you is now fat. I mean, do you really care? It was first grade. And why were you dating at such a young age? The adult supervision at your grade school was terrible.
5 MINUTES TO GO
I think I’m going to stop here. My hand hurts. If this train crashes before I get home, these will be my last noted thoughts. It’s a shame that I spent so much time talking about Brett Favre’s penis.
OBAMA ATTEMPTS TO STRIP THE 1980 U.S. OLYMPIC HOCKEY TEAM OF THEIR GOLD MEDALS, PROVING HE’S A COMMUNIST!
The rumors are true. The 44th President of the United States is a Commie. Touche, Tea Party. Touche.
The surprising news came earlier today, when it was reported that our Commander and Chief secretly attempted to strip America of its most celebrated achievement in sports history.
On the brink of passing a bill that would help prevent childhood obesity (a piece of legislation that, ironically, that was already being labeled as ‘communist’ by the Republican Party), Independent congressman Bernard Sanders discovered a clause in the proposal that would declare the 1980 Russian Olympic Hockey Team the gold medal recipients, forcing the American team to give up the hardware.
This news comes a week after it was rumored that the President referred to the ending of Rocky IV as bullshit during a fundraising event in Philadelphia, claiming that Ivan Drago would have “literally destroyed the Italian Stallion.”
Even more shocking is the recent picture taken of the 1980 Russian Hockey Team’s Left Winger Valeri Kharlamov.
Today I had training for a job that I’ve had for a few months. Yes, for those of you who don’t know, I have a job. I know it’s tough to hear. I apologize. I know this makes me uncool. But to be honest, I’ve never really been that cool anyways. If over the past year you’ve ever thought, “I wish I were more like Sean,” you weren’t wishing to be cool. You were just wishing you didn’t have a job.
For my training, I had to travel to an office that I had never been to before. When I got there, I was greeted by a few people I had talked to but never met face to face. After a minute of introductions, they took me to my temporary office for the day.
Nothing makes a man feel more important than having their own office. Even though it was only temporary, it made me feel like Matt Roloff.
I looked around my brand new (temporary) office. After a few moments, I noticed a device sitting by the computer that appeared to be a garage door opener.
A garage door opener seemed pretty out of place, so I investigated the contraption. I looked at it from every angle, and after a few minutes of review, I was beginning to doubt that it was what I thought it was. I started to think that it was used to turn off the lights or open up a drawer or something. So I pressed the button on it. The red light on top of it lit up when I did that, but nothing happened. Already bored of playing with a possible garage door opener, I put it down and started to get situated.
A few moments later, I found myself back to thinking about the device. If it was in fact used to turn off the lights or open up a drawer, I would probably have to point it at the lights or the drawer to make it work. So I started pointing it at different areas in the room while frantically pressing the button. Nothing hapened. I figured that someone just left their garage door opener in the office, and if I was lucky, I had just made their garage door go up and down.
I put down the thing and started opening up my work email account. As I was doing so, a woman from the front desk hurried into my office and asked, “Are you okay?!?”
“Uh, yeah, I’m fine.”
Next thing I know, a security guard runs into the office.
“WHAT’S GOING ON?!?”
“I don’t know. What?”
“WHY DID YOU PRESS THE PANIC BUTTON?!?”
That’s right. The panic button.
The garage door opener was actually a panic button that is only supposed to be used in the case of an extreme emergency. When I pressed it the first time, a signal went to the security office that someone at my desk had an emergency. Thinking it was probably hit by mistake, the security guard casually started traveling to my office. Then when I started to press the button numerous times a minute later, the security guard got a message from her office: “HURRY!!!! THE PANIC BUTTON IS GOING OFF LIKE CRAZY!!!” Hearing this message, the security guard was forced to run to me.
As soon as security was in my office, about five other coworkers immediately followed. The room was full of people when the guard asked me, “WHY DID YOU PRESS THE PANIC BUTTON?!?!”
My response:
“I thought it might open a drawer.”
The guard was confused.
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t know what it was. I thought it was a button you pressed to open a drawer or turn off the lights or something.”
There was a moment of silence.
Then everyone started laughing, including the guard. What started out as an intense emergency situation turned into a laugh riot in the matter of seconds. The security guard went to the phone at my desk and called her office.
“Hey, it’s me. No, no emergency. A guy here thought it was used to open drawers. Yeah, I know! OK, I’m coming back.”
She hung up the phone, put the panic button in front of my face, and said, “don’t press this unless someone has a gun to your head.”
Then she put the button far away from my reach so I wouldn’t do it again. Everyone continued to laugh as they left my temporary office.
I looked at the clock.
It was 9:04 am.
I had managed to cause major chaos within the first 4 minutes of meeting everyone.
Your body is distorted, you got a toe in your mouth, three sets of genitals are resting in your ear, and a stranger’s tongue is resting on your lower back. Then a voice demands you to move your right leg without letting your butt touch the ground, or else!
This isn’t an Iraqi prison camp… this is the game of Twister.
Twister. What is there to say? You lay down a mat with friends and family and rub up against one another like it was cocaine party at John Phillip’s house.
I’ve been trying to think of an appropriate age where a boy or man should play this filthy game. This is what I came up with…
For a boy, age 2-9, this game actually isn’t that bad. There’s an innocence in boys that age that cannot be denied, and to them this game suggests nothing inappropriate… it’s just a game Uncle Keith insists watching you play by yourself after he’s had too much Root Beer Schnapps. Unfortunately, these kids are too short to play the game correctly. They cannot put their right hand on blue when their left foot is on green. Who do you think they are? Greg Turner from Grade 6?
Sure, there are some 8 or 9-year-olds that are tall enough for Twister, but those kids are freaks that already have armpit hair and an addiction to nicotine. Trust me, those kids should be locked up instead of playing a game brought to us by Parker Brothers.
When a boy is 10, he is finally tall enough to play this game, and Twister all of a sudden seems like a good physical activity for the kid. But guess what? It’s not a good idea. Why? Because every 10-year-old has a friend who showed them their uncle’s pornography stash before they were emotionally ready to see such filth. Making physical contact with another human being, a requirement in the naughty world of Twister, is the last thing this kid wants to do. This goes on for two years.
Now the boy is 12. He’s no longer freaked out by the snuff film their buddy showed them, and he is ready to show off his Twisting skills. HOLD THAT THOUGHT. 12-year-old boys smell like Long John Silvers burps and get accidental erections. You might as well play around in the dumpster at the expired baby food/cucumber factory. This problem doesn’t end until the boy is in college.
Now the boy is a 19-year-old man. His boners is under control, axe deodarent body makes him smell like The Situation, and his body type is perfect to play the game of Twister. But unfortunately, he’s now at the age where it’s creepy to even suggest it.
Any guy that suggests Twister at 19 is looking to purposely grab female body parts while pretending it’s an accident. “What can I do?!?! It’s Twister!!” will be the excuse. This person will also have Shakespearian facial hair, roofies stashed in the inside pocket of his trench coat, and polaroids in his wallet of women in the dressing room at JC Penny. Stay away from this guy. He makes pipe bombs.
So when is it appropriate for a man to play Twister? Not until he is in his mid-forties and experiencing an uncomfortable silence at his first key party. It’s only then that Twister’s sexual playfulness is appropriate and useful.
For reasons unknown, the sports website I was writing for has stopped publishing articles. Or maybe they just stopped publishing my articles. Either way, I only had one more article that I haven’t shared with everyone, so I decided I would post it so it wouldn’t go to waste. Keep it mind, it was written before A-Rod hit his 600th home run.
MLB Temporarily Lifts Steroid Ban For A-Rod’s Pursuit Of 600
After becoming more and more impatient, the MLB has decided to temporarily suspend the steroid ban for Alex Rodriguez so he can hit his 600th home run.
Rodriguez, who has been one home run away from the milestone for over a week and a half, has gone 9-43 in the 11 games he’s played in since he reached 599. His latest effort, an 0-5 performance against the Blue Jays, was what led to the shocking decision. MLB commissioner Bud Selig commented.
“Watching his pursuit of 600 is like watching the ending of the third Lord of the Rings movie: You keep thinking it’s about to be over, but it just doesn’t end. I’m getting tired of it. The league is wasting too much money on specially printed balls, and I’m sick of having to attend Yankee games. They’re scary. So we’re temporarily going to look the other way while A-Rod injects himself with whatever made him hit 57 home runs in 2002. After he hits number 600, the ban will be reinforced.”
While popping a vein and excessively winking, Rodriguez commented on the news.
“I’m insulted by this. I don’t need any substance to hit home runs. I refuse to do it.”
He then high-fived all the reporters and walked into the training room with a gentlemen wearing a black trench coat and fake mustache.
Other players around the league are furious about the arrangement, including Boston’s David Ortiz.
“That’s unfair! He should have to risk a 50-game suspension like the rest of us! It’s like giving one person permission to kill his wife, but making it illegal for everyone else! It feels like the O.J. trial all over again! You think I don’t want to kill my wife?!?”
Ortiz’s wife was immediately given a 24-hour security escort after these comments were made. Roid rage is suspected.
I recently had the pleasure of devoting a good chunk of my evening at the local Walmart. Nothing makes me feel quite like a tortured war prisoner like spending some time at a Walmart shopping center.
Everyone complains about Walmart. If this were a hip website, I would make the surprising and humorous argument that Walmart was a great place to shop. I can’t do it. My fingers wont allow me to type it. Walmart is completely terrible, and my story will reveal some of the many reasons why this is true.
THE STORY
6:15 p.m.
Tuesday night I went to Walmart to pick up a prescription. For the sake of sounding cool, I am going to say that I was getting my penial reduction pills that are being forced upon me by the federal government’s gynecology department.
Typically when I drop off a prescription, I’m told it will take about 10 minutes to get my order ready. And let me tell you, those 10 minutes are always the worst part of my year. But this time, I was told that it was going to take about 45.
45 minutes…
PROBLEM WITH WALMART
The Lighting
The electricians at every Walmart have been instructed to install hundreds of upsetting fluorescent light fixtures. This lighting makes everyone and everything in the store look horrendous. Zac Efron couldn’t even pull off that lighting, and he’s a dude that would look gorgeous covered in baby scalps.
Because it’s hopeless trying to look good in there, we all dress down before we even walk into the store. Next time you’re there, take a look around at what people are wearing. It’ll shock you. Then take a look at what you’re wearing. You’ll think to yourself, “Where did I get these yellowish-white sweatpants and this XXL Tweety Bird t-shirt?”
Not wanting to drive all the way home and back and unwilling to spend any more time in that concentration camp than I had to, I decided to cross the street and go to Target.
Ahhh, Target. What a refreshing breath of life. It’s like going to the Sybaris. The lights are turned down low, the cliental don’t look like goblins, and your soul doesn’t feel like it’s being ripped out of your ass.
I walked around this heavenly store for about thirty minutes before returning to Walhell. It was almost 45 minutes after the woman told me my prescription would be ready, so I stood in line and waited to get my order.
6:50 p.m.
Although the line was only three people deep, it took ten minutes to get up to the front. This was because only one woman, who was extremely friendly, was working the register. There was another girl that was available to help out, but she chose to sit in a chair and do nothing but watch us all die slowly in front her eyes. Her refusal to help struck me as odd, but at this point I didn’t really care. I was still feeling my Target buzz, and I knew that in just a few minutes I would be away from this giant gravesite and on my way home. But something was staring to bother me…
PROBLEM WITH WALMART
The Constant Airing of One Commercial
I understand the concept of advertising. In fact, I’m a fan of advertising. Without it, I would have no idea that people who use Axe Deodorant are dicks. But recently, Walmart joined forces with Dove Men’s Body Wash (finally), and the store insists to air their commercial on the television located in the pharmacy section every two minutes. That advertisement is this…
For the rest of this blog, I will be posting it as often as I had to hear it. If you want the virtual experience of being at Walmart, feel free to play it every time you approach it.
I was in line behind a man who had something catastrophic happen to his eye. He had a huge bandage over his right eye, and when he got up to the lady working at the counter, he was informed that his prescription wasn’t ready yet. If he had two good eyes, he probably would have cried.
Now it was my turn.
I walked up to the counter and told her my name. She looked up my information, nervously giggled, and told me it would be a “few more minutes”…
…now I was the one that was holding back tears…
The reason I went to Target was to avoid having to wait inside this poorly-run orphanage. But here I was, dressed in an undershirt and black dress pants, being forced to loiter around the pharmacy section of the store until they called my name.
7:00 p.m.
The pharmacy section in any store sucks. Walmart’s is worse. There is nothing to entertain yourself with. I was quickly getting bored, and before I knew what was going on, I was in front of the condoms.
I don’t remember approaching the area, but all of a sudden I was standing there, in front of strangers, staring at condoms. I don’t know what it was. I was in a hypnotic gaze. I would spend a minute looking at one brand of condom, and then would slowly move onto the next one. I was like a kid in a condom store.
After seven minutes, I realized that I had been giving the prophylactics way too much attention. When I looked up, I saw One-eyed Willie staring at me with his functioning eyeball. He must have thought I was insane. But he was the one with the eye-patch, so the feeling was mutual.
7:20 p.m.
After twenty minutes, the pharmacy was packed with angry people whose prescriptions weren’t ready. One of these people was an old lady who had a cranky look about her. Her hair was frizzy, her jeans were white, and her mustache would make any seventh-grade boy envious.
Although she was angry, she had only been there for about five minutes. Including the time that I dropped off the prescription, I was approaching an hour. But being a dissatisfied customer at Walmart is way too trendy, and since I am the opposite of trendy (I LOVE MILEY CYRUS!!!), I kept my cool.
7:35
Although I had earned the right to cut in front of everyone, hop over the counter, and strangle the girl behind the counter who was still refusing to help, I got back in line.
The line took another 10 minutes. When it was about to be my turn, Captain One-Eye cut right in front of me, stuck both of his hands down the back of his pants, and started feeling his own ass.
This isn’t a joke.
In a bizarre act of protest that only punished me, this man cut me in line and stood three feet away from me while he massaged his butt cheeks. He had officially stopped caring, and to be honest, I respected him for it. Although I wish he would have chosen a different way to show his disgust, I happily let him get in front of me and respectfully looked the other way while he was having alone time with his backside.
Unfortunately for ass-hands, he got bad news. His prescription wasn’t ready. He was pissed, and he let the teller and anyone else in a twenty-foot range know just how unhappy he was. I felt bad for the teller, who was slowly becoming less pleasant. But now,
it was my turn. I was about to end this nightmare.
Having given her way more than “a few minutes,” I was sure that my prescription would be ready. In fact, I thought maybe she would offer me a free bag of cookies or at least some Dove Mens Body Wash since at this point I had memorized the commercial.
I told her my name, she looked at the computer, and said, “oh, there was a problem.” Then she walked away. As she left I said, with my bottom lip trembling and in the saddest voice I’ve ever heard come out of my mouth, “….wwwwhat is it?”
She talked to a pharmacist for a few minutes, and then came back to me.
“We need your authorization to fill your prescription.”
I was confused.
“Uh, I mean, yeah, of course you have my permission.”
“OK. I’ll put that in the system, and it should be ready in 15 minutes.”
…………
I’ve never been stabbed in the chest with a sharpened toothbrush as my fingertips are being chewed off by Roloffs while I’m forced to watch everyone I know and love slowly being cut to pieces with swords by terrorists wearing Green Bay Packers jerseys… but at this moment, I caught a glimpse of what it would feel like.
Of course they have my permission!!!!! I dropped it off to them!!!!!
I was dying inside. I wanted to scream, but my scream is too feminine. To make things worse, as I left the counter, the mean old lady looked at me, giving me the “can you believe this?” look. I quickly looked away. I didn’t want to be associated with her. She’d been waiting for ten minutes, I was nearing an hour and a half. She had no idea. Plus, by the looks of her, it seemed like a good thing that she had to wait. She could use some time away from her overly-draped living room and her dozens of undomesticated cats.
Fearing that I would faint from anger, I decided to sit down. I sat on a bench next to the counter and stared at the ground, trying to recall if I got into a car accident on the way to the store and was now in a crueler version of hell…
As I was
staring at the ground, a man walked up next to me and put his sandaled left foot into my limited line of vision.
His big toe… was not doing so well. I’m guessing that’s the reason he was at the pharmacy.
Attached to the big toe was the worst yellow toenail I’ve ever seen in my life. It was literally falling apart before my eyes. Like a Vietnam war vet, my personality has altered since seeing that thing. To make things worse, he smelled like expired taco meat.
I got up and went back to my former safe haven: the condom section. I tried to get into the same trance as before, but I was rudely interrupted by the loud speaker making the announcement that “A little girl wearing a red shirt and brown pants has gone missing. If you see her, please bring her to the customer service desk.”
I thought about this missing girl. Either she couldn’t take it anymore and ran out of the store without her parents, or she was kidnapped and now tied up in the back of some creepy guys van. Both scenarios made me jealous of this missing child.
Unfortunately for her, the girl was quickly found, and I was losing my mind. I began to realize that I was in a test of wills with Walmart. If I left without my penial pills, Walmart would win. If I waited long enough to get my prescription, I would leave a battered man*, but I would leave with my pride.
8:00 p.m.
I got back in line. It was a long line, and if the end result was not favorable, I figured I may need to order blood pressure pills as well, which would extend this evening even more. After another 10 minutes in line, in front of a girl who was openly complaining that it had taken her over 5 minutes to get what must be her “bitch pills,” I was back in front of the teller. I said my name, she looked me up, and told me my order wasn’t ready.
I was Pearl Harbor devastated.
As I was about to walk to the gun section of the store, the teller stopped me and told me to stay up front. After 5 more minutes of waiting up there, it was ready.
During my long wait at Walmart, I thought I would have to wrestle a swarm of gargoyles in order to get what I came for. But I just got my penial reduction pills and at that point and left. But before I walked out I heard this one last time…
“Mary is making me go to a play tonight. I swear, her luv for the theatre is going to be the death of me!” – Abraham Lincoln, April 16th, 1865
“Me and the family just missed our flight!! Bought 6 tickets for nothing!! ARRRRGH!! So mad!!!” – Jarod Canan, one of six Hindenburg survivors, May 6, 1937.
“Just bought front row tickets for tonights game!!! Life is perfect!!! World Series, here we come!!!” – Steve Bartman, October 14th, 2003
“Planning on getting crazy tonight with the boys. Time to make a memory fellas!” – Joran van der Sloot, May 30th, 2005
“Work today and then a movie.” – Lee Harvey Oswald, November 22, 1963
“Bought my first dog today. Don’t know what to do with it.” – Michael Vick, 2005
“My apartment stinks. I don’t think my neighbor flushes his toilet. ” – Phil Kardian, former neighbor of Jeffrey Dahmer
“What the hell is going on?!?!?” – Helen Keller, 1922
I want to make a watch that just says the word PERCOLATOR. That way, it will always be time for the percolator.
The watch would have The Percolator programmed onto it, and if a stranger in a white dress were to approach you in a crowded area wondering what time it was, you could just show her your watch, press the music button, and let this happen…
Joe Grokin, a twenty one year old college dropout, has trained his whole life to become a pushup champion. A month before Nationals, Joe loses both of his arms while trying to start the wave at a helicopter expose.
Seemingly having lost his ticket to becoming the pushup king, Joe decides to ignore medical advice and keep the dream alive by strengthening his tongue. After a month of rigorous training, his tongue becomes strong enough to replace his arms, and as the competition comes near, Joe’s moveable mouth organ becomes his only shot at at living his dreams.
“Mary is making me go to a play tonight. 
I swear, her luv for the theatre is going to be the death of me!” – Abraham Lincoln, April 16th, 1865