What your nose picking style says about you:
Style: Side pick (pinch your nose and dig with your thumb) Slogan: I prefer subtlety. Interpretation: You think that by picking your nose awkwardly from the side makes you look classy. You don’t look classy, because everyone recognizes exactly what you are doing. Stop grossing out everyone in the traffic queue by doing it in the front seat of your car.
Style: Straight up (index finger inside of nose) Slogan: I absolutely pick my nose. Whatever. Interpretation: This is the kind of pick that you might see from small children, and adults who have internalized society’s rules and promptly vomited them out of their system. Everyone appreciates your honesty, even though they don’t want to shake your hand.
Style: No-pick Slogan: I never pick my nose; I just get ball up a tissue and shove it up my nose. Interpretation: You LIE, sir. Did you think you could wash your hands clean of the boogers upon them? You’re a soulless creep.
Style: Snot rocket Slogan: Why the f are you asking me about this? Interpretation: Not everyone can blast missiles from their nostrils. You may have played many sports, honing your snot rocket skills through time, or you just have a natural sense of your body’s kinetic functioning. Either way, bravo, you sage of the snothole!
As a broke person, visiting Starbucks approximates visiting a foreign country.
You walk in, and everything’s dark and made of fake mahogany. You can’t even afford fake mahogany in your home; You have Ikea’s fake-oak furniture everywhere. Thus, the fake mahogany impresses you.
You have already realized that this is not a place where you f*** around. You have entered a place where coffees will cost more than you ever dreamed they could. And, somehow, this is okay. Every product here is so environmentally friendly and the chairs look so comfy… You struggle to remember exactly how much change you have on your person. Was it $8, or was it less? You want so badly to just stop cold, open up your wallet, and recount your singles.
Instead, you bravely continue stepping forward, toward the cash register. A bunch of yuppies in front of you buy all sorts of drinks. Hmm. What is a frappucino, and why must it come with so many options? Will they serve you espresso in a tiny glass, the same way that bars serve whiskey?
You order the least complicated thing on the menu–something that you’ve heard of before–and go stand next to a group of people who wait the way dogs wait for their owners to drop a morsel. Someone places it on the counter, a drink with your name on it. Next, a plush chair and alone time, with obvious choice™ jazz playing in the background.
This is probably the best black coffee you’ve ever had in your life.
ANCHORAGE, AK–A group of committed writers have simultaneously decided to take a hiatus from society. Operating under the moniker The Pariahs, they have collectively rented out the full entirety of False Pass, Alaska, a community whose population typically numbers just 35. All of the town’s inhabitants have moved for the winter. This resulting solitude and isolation will give The Pariahs a chance to write and critique their projects amid the wilderness.
However, without a grocer or blacksmith, or other reasonably skilled individual on call, some outsiders wonder how the group will fare in the extreme conditions that accompany a Northern winter. Writers as a general class, are known for their marked non-athleticism as well as their tendencies to nest deeply and helplessly within their own homes.
In the face of their upcoming adversity, the writers remain unfazed and quite belligerent. “It’s like this;” said Dave Lebowski, founder of The Pariahs, “Society like to pretend that it doesn’t need the writerly type. Well, we don’t really need society, apart from using it as a backdrop for every single one of our stories.” When pressed about the logistical details, Lebowski simply stated, “I’ve read Moby Dick and The Swiss Family Robinson. Have you?”
In response to the question of survival, Anna Simpke, one of the few female Pariahs, had a few simple words: “Seriously, do you know how many bags of Doritos one can fit on a single propeller plane? Case closed.”
I have a thing for slender, funny men. Canadian men, specifically.
SO, Would someone please open a Canadian-style club where men dress up like mounties and do a little strip tease? Where they encourage their employees to adopt handlebar mustaches? We could call it Flannel.
And they could wear these babies on cold winter nights:
We can all agree that Buzzfeed videos promise to bring the funny, yet they rarely deliver. Until today. I stumbled upon a very lovely vid, 12 Signs Being Ladylike Is Not Your Forte. Though one could never tell from the clunky title, it’s actually a funny and charming video. The actresses made me feel human again, if only for a quick minute.
My body lets me know that you’re the one. My body gives me unmistakable signs.
When I kiss your beautiful, adorable face, my heart starts beating fast. The beating induces a panic attack that typically lasts 20 minutes. I want to keep making out, but you usually make us stop.
When I see you walk into the room, I sometimes get the feeling of little tingles in my arms and legs, the kind that usually precedes a heart attack. I get so nervous about my vital signs that I experience another panic attack. You convince me not to call the ambulance.
Once in a while, when we make love, I see the world in an entire new way. I feel exhilarated, and my vision becomes clearer than usual. It’s almost like I’m high, in a spiritual sense. Then, the amount of oxygen that I swallow induces another panic attack. The sex actually becomes more harrowing, but you just try to finish as fast as you can.
As a grizzled comedian, veteran of a great many wild shows, I’ve heard it all. Porn jokes, mother***ing jokes, even the rarer sexpoop jokes. But something now has changed, and a certain source of joy has fled me; with horror, I admit that penis jokes no longer make me laugh.
It used to be different. In these happier days, when I still found the penis a source of true comedy, the simple utterance of the word “girth” would send me into hysterics. Then too, my young nephew would misspell “coke” as c**k, inspiring guffaws upon guffaws. Indeed, there was a time when someone unbuttoning their pants and wiggling their index finger through their fly would cause me to cackle. Nowadays, these cleverties no longer enthuse my withered soul.
In an attempt to recollect my joie de vivre, I went on a pilgrimage on The National Mall, with the intent of humiliating my tour guide as we stood opposite the Washington Monument. His emotional unhinging and my subsequent removal from the tour did not even produce a chuckle. Growing more anxious, I attended an amateur standup open mic. There, the penis jokes numbered in the dozens. Still, no mirth. In desperation, I spent the night with a stranger and, while he was sleeping, approached his dork and glued upon it googly eyes. But there was no laughter. Nothing. In sorrow, I admitted defeat.
Now dawns the age of vagina jests.