When I grow up… I want to be like Jessica. I needed to be reminded of what’s important in life…
My favorite line: “Yeah, Yeah…. I CAN DO ANYTHING!”
When I grow up… I want to be like Jessica. I needed to be reminded of what’s important in life…
My favorite line: “Yeah, Yeah…. I CAN DO ANYTHING!”
This exists. Thank you little baby Jesus.
In the annual Fiesta de San Pedro Nolasco, instead of a pinata they have something called a “cucana.” It’s a very similar concept, except that with the cucana, the chances of candy are only 50-50. The other 50 is a dead rat. Which is then retrieved from the ground and used as a projectile because fuck-you-I-didn’t- get-candy.
“Hey, let me get in on that.”
The festival is named for Pedro Nolasco, a Catholic saint whose primary claim to fame was the founding of a religious order that sought the redemption of Christian slaves of the Moors in the 1200s. Then, obviously, a plague-dodgeball tournament was decided to be the most appropriate way to celebrate his canonization.
Uh, thanks, guys, but “The Patron Saint of Ratball” really wasn’t what I was going for …
In 1922, an erupting volcano forced the people of Nejapa, El Salvador, to evacuate. As they were leaving, locals saw great balls of fire spewing out of the volcano and believed that their patron saint, San Jeronimo, was actually fighting the devil for them. So to honor this event, where their heroic saint saved the villagers from burning alive, everybody gets together once a year and burns each other alive.
Getty “That volcano is a wussy little bitch!”
The city divides itself into two teams, then everybody wads up some old rags, dips them in kerosene for a month, sets them ablaze and hurls them at their neighbors, because apparently Jeronimo was the Patron Saint of Arson. Sure, the revelers mostly come equipped with water-soaked gloves, clothes and masks for safety, but you can only prepare for Armageddon if you know it’s coming in the first place. If you just happen to stumble into the wrong village on the wrong day, however, then surprise!
Happy Burn Ward Day!
In Spain, there are many ways to be maimed or killed by bulls. But it is a free land, so it’s up to you to pick your favorite.
What’s that? Ha ha, no: “None of the above” is not an option.
Getty “Neither is ‘sane.’”
For the discriminating gore victim, might we suggest Bous a la Mar — the Bulls to the Sea? There is no “running of the bulls” here; it’s nothing so uncouth as that. The objective of Bous a la Mar is simply to get a bull to dive after you into the ocean. Do not scoff. It is not such an easy task. You must drive the bull into a blind rage first, then, when he charges, you flee, ultimately leaping into the sea — not to avoid him, you see, but in the hopes that he will follow. That’s how you “win.” To recap: You provoke a suicidal rage in this gargantuan missile of meat and pointy bits, then you need to outrun him, then you need to outdive him, then you need to outswim him.
It’s like a triathlon of animal-based suicide.
Fernando Bustamante / AP “Pissed off Bull to Bull HQ: Transformation locked, initiating Missile Mode. Repeat: Bull Missile is go.”
Once upon a time, the peasants of a poor Chinese farming village found that they couldn’t afford fireworks for the annual Lantern Festival. But the industrious citizens didn’t let that stop them. Instead, with careful research, they discovered that hurling molten iron (at around 2,300 degrees Fahrenheit, to be precise) against a cold wall in autumn looks kind of neat. So now, every year — for the last 300 years — they just go ahead and do that a bunch.
China Travel Guide All the best holidays require welding masks.
The festivities begin with the townspeople collecting all the old pots and discarded iron to melt down, then they watch an hourlong performance called Da Shuhua, or “beating the tree to produce flowers” (the burning kind of flowers, in case Chinese metaphor is too subtle for you), and then everybody just holds hands while the world explodes.
So what’s the technique for pulling off this dangerous pyrotechnics show? It’s very technical, so see if you can stay with us:
Step 1. Get a guy in a wool coat and hat to toss liquid metal with a ladle.
Step 1 is critical.
Step 2. What?
Step 3. We were supposed to think of other steps?
Step 4. Holy shit WATCH OUT FIRE!
Holi, the festival of colors, takes place in early March of each year in India and Nepal. Holi is a beautiful time when both humans and nature shake off the gloom of winter to rejoice in the wonders of spring. Obviously, this is best accomplished by hurling poisons at one another. It’s not intentional, for the most part: It’s just that the tinted powders and dyed water that festivalgoers fling and smear across literally everybody they see — which are supposed to be from natural herbs — are sometimes comprised of oxidized metals mixed with industrial dyes, acids and engine oil. Aluminum bromide, lead oxide, copper sulphate and a whole host of other toxins that can make you make you sick and cause skin conditions and even blindness are playfully, joyously sprayed all over just … everything.
Getty “Open wide, so it coats your lungs!”
Although maybe that’s the true lesson here: You should appreciate the many varied and wondrous colors of nature while you can, because any day now, you could go blind.
Oops. Sorry, that was a typo. We meant “will.” You will go blind.
Getty “AHHH GOD THIS LEAD OXIDE IS ABSOLUTELY STUNNING! ABSOLUTELY STUNNING MY EYEBALLS!”
On the fourth Sunday of every January, the pious folk of Manganeses de la Polvorosa celebrate their patron, St. Vincent, by rounding up the unluckiest goat in the European Union. Said ungulate is then carried in a procession to the local church, where it is carted up to the top of the bell tower.
Marbella Guide Of course.
Historians don’t fully know how this began, but it may be that the custom is a reenactment: An old legend says that there once was an 18th century priest who had a goat that he would milk for the needy. Then, one day, the goat followed him into the church and made its way up to the belfry. When the bells started ringing, the goat, scared shitless by the racket, took a flying leap off the tower. Luckily, he was rescued by villagers below, who were holding blankets out to catch him.
Of course, that warrants the question: How did the villagers know that the goat was even up there, much less to already be in position with blankets to save him?
The legend of the jumping goat may be quaint and charming, but there’s actually a far more reasonable and likely explanation for the festival, put forth by historians earlier this year: There’s a lot of drinking going on in Manganeses de la Polvorosa.
Travel Huanqiu And yet somehow, clearly, not enough.
Entroido is the name of a popular festival in Laza, Spain, that celebrates the end of winter and the beginning of spring. Colorful and ornate “Peliqueiros” costumes are donned, and a general revelry is engaged in by all.
Getty “Hey, it’s like the Burger King Guy dressed up as a transsexual pope. I’m not planning on having nightmares about that later at all!” — Fucking Nobody
The festival lasts approximately five days, beginning with the weekend, during which folks run through the streets with flaming torches, while others throw dirt on them from second-story windows.
But why? You, the logical, sane reader might ask.
And that’s a good question, actually, but now you’re on fire and about to be buried in the street, so you don’t get to hear the answer. Later, all of the participants gather to dance, whip one another and eat grilled goat and pig head.
But I don’t understand, what’s the cultural significance of that?
Because those are the words their fingers landed on while they were flipping through the dictionary. What, you think there’s some rational motive here that you’re missing? OK, try this on for size: To signal the end of Entroido, they hold the “sardine’s funeral,” in which a huge artificial sardine is constructed and then set on fire. Some dress in black to mourn the sardine’s passing, while others choose white to imitate sardine ghosts.
Maybe the sardine is sacred to –
NOPE. We’re not done. On Monday, a battle is waged in which the weapons of choice are mudballs filled with live ants. Of course, what antball is complete without a good seasoning of vinegar first, to make sure the ants are good and pissed off pre-hurl.
Stop. Please. You’re just making noises with your mouth now, these aren’t even words I –
Getty Stop this madness.
When this blind orgy of torch-wielding, dirt-tossing, sardine-ghost-busting, antball-hurling madness is in full swing, there enters the “morena”: “A morena, or brown cow masquerader in a carved wooden mask, appears amidst the ant-throwing to butt people, lift women’s skirts and add to the chaos.”
Carnaval Exhibit.org Any festival where a key figure exists solely to “add to the chaos” is OK by us.
I give up. I give up trying to understand this. I’m confused and angry for reasons I do not fully understand. I think I might throw ants on people. Why do I want to do that now?
Heeeyyy, that’s the spirit! Happy Entroido! Now twirl! Twirl or the Cow God of Chaos will not honor you with his fire! Morena! MORENA!
Carnaval Exhibit.org You’ve won us over with your antballs and horse anarchy, Spain.
1. Rubber bands last longer when refrigerated.
2. Peanuts are one of the ingredients of dynamite.
3. There are 293 ways to make change for a dollar.
4. The average person’s left hand does 56% of the typing.
5. A shark is the only fish that can blink with both eyes.
6. There are more chickens than people in the world.
7. Two-thirds of the world’s eggplant is grown in New Jersey.
8. The longest one-syllable word in the English language is “screeched.”
9. On a Canadian two dollar bill, the flag flying over the Parliament building is an American flag.
10. All of the clocks in the movie “Pulp Fiction” are stuck on 4:20.
11. No word in the English language rhymes with month, orange, silver, or purple.
12. “Dreamt” is the only English word that ends in the letters “mt”.
13. All 50 States are listed across the top of the Lincoln Memorial on the back of the $5 bill.
14. Almonds are a member of the peach family.
15. Winston Churchill was born in a ladies’ room during a dance.
16. Maine is the only State whose name is just one syllable.
17. There are only four words in the English language which end in “dous”: tremendous, horrendous, stupendous, and hazardous.
18. The characters “Bert” and “Ernie” on Sesame Street were named after “Bert the cop” and “Ernie the taxi driver” in Frank Capra’s “It’s a Wonderful Life.”
19. A cat has 32 muscles in each ear.
20. An ostrich’s eye is bigger than its brain.
21. Tigers have striped skin, not just striped fur.
22. In most advertisements, the time displayed on a watch is 10:10.
23. Al Capone’s business card said he was a used furniture dealer.
24. Los Angeles’ full name is “El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora la Reina de los Angeles de Porciuncula.”
25. A dragonfly has a life span of 24 hours.
26. A goldfish has a memory span of three seconds.
27. A dime has 118 ridges around the edge.
28. It’s impossible to sneeze with your eyes open.
29. The giant squid has the largest eyes in the world.
30. In England, the Speaker of the House is not allowed to speak.
31. The microwave was invented after a researcher walked by a radar tube and a chocolate bar melted in his pocket.
32. Mr. Rogers is an ordained minister.
33. The average person falls asleep in seven minutes.
34. There are 336 dimples on a regulation golf ball.
35. “Stewardesses” is the longest word that is typed with only the left hand.
By: Sean Berkley November 12, 2011 1,073,380 views
Finally, after all this ancillary bullshit, it’s time to start raking in the dough. If your two gratis deposits are high quality, you will start getting paid for your man juice. So you can just make enough donations to afford a new Xbox and then take off, playing the sperm bank for suckers, right? Why doesn’t everyone do this?
“Have fun doing weird voodoo with my personal genetic material, idiots!”
Of course it’s not that easy. You have to understand, they need a lot of your sperm, over a long period of time, and you won’t be paid until they get it. In-vitro fertilization has a relatively low success rate, so parents who want your DNA are going to need a whole bunch of the stuff for any chance of success.
You need to baste a whole farm of these, is what we’re saying.
So if your first two donations are good enough, they’ll bring you on as a paid donor. However, that means you’ll be required to sign a contract, usually for six months to a year, stating you’ll come in at least once a week to spank the monkey. Just to make sure you follow through, your paychecks are kept in escrow by the sperm bank until the end of the contract.
In the meantime, your sperm are cryogenically preserved to maximize shelf life, but not all sperm handle the freezing process well. So, your first two donations are put on ice, and at the six-month mark, they’re unfrozen to check how they’re doing. If your tadpoles are still kicking, congrats, here’s your check. If your sperm has gone all Mr. Bigglesworth, however, sorry, hit the road.
They won’t even deliver a eulogy.
Also, there are certain delayed onset diseases that can take a few months to show up on blood screens (like HIV), so they need to test you every six months to make sure your sperm is cleared to give to parents. By withholding the money, that helps ensure donors to come back for their follow-up tests.
Well, you’ve come this far, might as well stick it out. So the screening was a pain in the ass and they’re holding your money for the next six months, but hey, it’s still a piece of cake. You’re getting paid for what most people do for free. They’re going to be so jealous …
Assuming you actually tell anyone, we mean.
Wait, we’re not done.
Sperm donation, as it turns out, has a pretty significant impact on your personal life, far beyond just having to take some time out each week to make your deposits. As mentioned above, you have to have an above-average sperm count for the whole process to be viable, so as such, you’re required to be abstinent two to three days before making a deposit. So if you’re trying to maximize your profits by donating twice a week, that leaves one day per week that you can do with your genitals as you please.
Hooray! We’re also going to knit finger puppets!
If you’re in a relationship, this limits your sex life pretty considerably, so you and your significant other have to plan no-pants time around your donation schedule. But hey, who likes spontaneity anyway? Even if you’re only donating once a week, you will still have a set day and time each week to come in and make your deposit (sperm banks operate on 9-to-5 hours). So if a girlfriend’s birthday or your anniversary happens to fall less than three days before your scheduled appointment, too bad.
Guess that means you’ll have to get her a present instead of sticking your penis in a box like last year.
And don’t go thinking you can just cheat the system. Your sperm count is still spot checked on each donation; if it’s too low, you don’t get paid for that deposit. If several donations in a row are rejected because of fledgling sperm counts, you may be asked to follow a special diet like this, which is designed to boost your numbers.
Happily, it includes both nuts AND bananas.
Of course, the diet and abstinence are all voluntary, and if you don’t want to follow them, so long and thanks for all the spooge. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass. If you decide to quit mid-contract, you just don’t get the money from the pay cycle. Off you go, have a nice life, there’s plenty of people to replace you.
One thing you notice right away is there is a huge difference in what you get paid depending on whether you choose to be a closed or an open donor. That is, whether the recipient can find out who you are (open) or you remain anonymous (closed).
At my particular bank, it was $20 a pop for a closed donor and $125 for an open donor. You’re allowed to donate a maximum of twice a week, so going the open route will pay upwards of $12,000 a year, certainly not a bad chunk of change. However, this comes at the expense of releasing all your personal information to parents should they (or their child) ever want to contact you.
You donated your sperm to a grateful woman — that’s more than our fathers did for us.
If you thought you’d be clever and go the closed route, that doesn’t mean that an intrepid parent or child couldn’t track you down through DNA testing, which is becoming increasingly common (the bank will often neglect to mention this). While no person who has donated sperm through a bank has ever been found liable for child support (at least not yet), you and your family are still going to have to deal with the fact that there’s a child, biologically YOUR child, who wants a relationship with you.
Also he’s a master detective who you should be proud of, you asshole.
It also turns out that you could be the father of hundreds of children. Banks will tell you that there’s a limit to the number of kids that can be born from your donations (12 in my case), and while most reputable banks will stick to this, there are plenty of unscrupulous ones that will happily dole out your sperm to anyone who asks. And that’s where the implications can get truly horrifying. Suppose the bank uses your sperm to impregnate 30 different women. Many of those women will likely live in the same general area, and give birth within a few years of each other. They may not be overly eager to tell your offspring that terrible pornography was part of their conception process. Congratulations! You’ve uncorked up to 15 potential cases of “accidental incest” into the world.
The problem is that many banks rely on college students who are desperate for a quick buck, and they have in no way thought through what fathering a stranger’s child actually means. They’re just thinking in terms of the paycheck, not a lifelong decision.
“I just name ‘em after the things I bought with my pay. The one at the back is Fleshlight.”
After all, even if the 21-year-old version of you is OK with it, that doesn’t mean that future spouses will be. You’ll soon come to the realization that in the interest of full disclosure to a potential girlfriend, you’ll need to tell her that you used to be a sperm donor. Sure, you can just lie and omit that part of your life, but see what happens when a kid shows up on your doorstep wanting to meet his real dad.
I’ve had more than one girl refuse to date me because I’ve donated sperm, and I can totally understand where they were coming from. Who wants to deal with that kind of drama? It’s the kind of thing that guys will casually joke about with other guys, but it’s actually an ethically contentious can of worms. That’s not to say nobody should do it. You’re giving people an amazing gift. But at the very least, you should know going in that it’s a hell of a lot more complicated than just jizzing into a cup.
You’re looking at a bride and groom who really wanted to get married. The fact that the Nova Scotia hotel where their reception was about to take place crumbled to the ground behind them, didn’t seem to matter.
Minutes before they were to walk down the aisle, Michael and Nancy Rogers got some bad news: there was massive fire in the lodge where they were about to wed.
“We came out and the place was in flames. It was indescribable really,” the groom told The Canadian Star. The fire is believed to have started in the basement of the 83-year-old hotel, while bride and groom were getting ready in a nearby cabin on the resort property.
This was not a rainstorm, people. The cake and flowers were destroyed. In fact everything they’d set up for the wedding was dissolved into ash. But as 10 fire trucks battled the blaze, they were just happy everyone was safe and evacuated from the resort (the bride’s dad was practicing in the wedding hall when black smoke engulfed the room.)
“Our wedding photographer had been teasing us for weeks that he had never shot a wedding where it rained,” Nancy said in an interview with the National Post. “At some point he said: “Don’t you wish it was raining?”
The hotel re-routed guests to a nearby venue that wasn’t on fire, and though they had to scream their vows over the sound of sirens, Mike still welled up when he saw his bride walk down a make-shift aisle.
“We lost all of that stuff, but that’s not important to us. We got the most important things,” says Nancy.
They also got the most incredible bridal photograph every produced without a green screen.
November 03, 2011 968,483 views
So which is it? Are these the years everyone looks back on fondly? Or some of the hardest times of your life? Well, I’ve been out of my 20s for nearly a decade and I gotta say, that period when TV says you should be carefree and playing wacky fraternity pranks on your buds? From my experience, those rose colored glasses just show me rose colored turds. Mainly because …
Let’s take music as an example.
In high school, music isn’t just a matter of personal preference, it defines what social team you’re on. In my school, the rednecks listened to country, the tough guys listened to metal, the weird kids had the alternative stuff. What came out of people’s car speakers was as important as the clothes they wore, or the slang they used. And each group was grading how “cool” an outsider was by whether they liked that same music.
“Have you guys heard the new Creed son- OH GOD, WHY DID YOU STAB ME?”
Then at some point in your 20s, you get to experience the bitchslap realization that the music you loved as a teenager was specifically designed to appeal to teenagers. And man, I’m telling you, it happens all at once. You’ll flip around the radio or turn on one of the MTV channels that still plays music, and suddenly it hits you that what you’re hearing is just absolute shit.
It’s because you’ve entered a state of adulthood that just isn’t represented in music at all. You’ll know when you’ve reached it because the music designed for teenagers now seems shallow and ridiculous, the stuff that’s supposed to be “dark” and “soulful” suddenly sounds laughable and trite. Suddenly, every band is an inferior ripoff of something awesome you heard when you were 15. It’s the reason your parents thought the same thing about your music when you were that age.
“Have you guys heard the new ABBA so- PUNCHING MY FACE IS NOT AN ACCEPTABLE RESPONSE!”
So, you still have a part of you that wants to declare membership to a social group by liking their music, but now you don’t like that group’s music and, in fact, suspect that the music they’re listening to now is bullshit.
But the music is just a symptom. Because now you look at the 16-year-old kids that, if you were 16, would be the kids you would hang around with, and suddenly see nothing cool about them.
But you’re also not old, you’re certainly not ready to turn into your Dad, proudly listening to Skynyrd in the garage and drunkenly proclaiming it to be the last “real” music ever made. You’re still more likely to play pranks at Halloween than chase pranksters off your lawn. You’re on a seesaw that straddles teenager and adulthood.
Yep, you look totally natural, buddy.
And it’s the same with everything that could be used to define you. Like clothes. If you try to dress in whatever teenage fad is in style that month, you look like a creepy old guy who’s desperately trying to look cool. If you resign yourself to dressing like what catalogs say adults should look like, you’ve just kissed goodbye any chance that you’ll ever be cool again. This is why you go to a college campus and half the people just wear their pajamas to class. They’re out of ideas.
When you get into your 30s, you get a little more resigned about this stuff — you’ve reached the point where if you show up at a Justin Bieber concert, girls start ducking away and dialing three digits on their cell phones. There is no maintaining the illusion that you’re young and cool. I’ve got to say, it feels good to finally let go of it. But damn the actual act of letting go is hard.
A guy I went to college with — we’ll call him Meatneck Flabalanche — was known in high school as the class clown. He was exactly the same as the one in your school: loud, brash, would literally eat a live child if it made eyes turn his way.
The very first day in college, he started his routine in class, jumping in with “that’s what she said!” when the professor said anything that left even the tiniest opening, using the lab’s beakers like props from a Carrot Top show, you get the idea. Lighting his farts.
You know the type.
Anyway, that lasted about a minute and a half before the teacher finally had enough and just flat-out stopped her class and addressed him directly. “I’m assuming this is your first year of college so I’m going to give you exactly five minutes’ worth of leeway. The next time you interrupt my class for any reason, you won’t be attending it.” And that was it. Shut down on the spot. As far as the school was concerned, that was his last trip to the “look at me” well … because in college, there is no trip to the principal’s office. Get kicked out of enough classes, and they boot your ass completely out of school. And all at once, there was no venue for the show this guy had spent his entire childhood perfecting.
This kind of thing winds up being the first in a long line of mindfuck realities that completely change how you view high school when you look back on it. High school is hard while you’re there — those are tough-ass years. But once you’re out, you look back and realize that everything about the system was built to make it easier to succeed. Society needs you to get that diploma, and will do everything it can to drag you across the finish line. You were praised for getting a good score on a test. If you win a big game, you’re revered. Hell, most schools even give out awards for perfect attendance.
You couldn’t do math for fuck, but you did show up. Good job, Jennifer!
Then when you graduate, all of that gets stuffed into a cannon and shot into the sun. That is literally the last time society forces success on you. Suddenly it’s, “We don’t give a shit whether you succeed or not. If you mess up this (job/degree/relationship) there are a million people waiting in line behind you ready to take it.”
You’re quickly met with the dead, limp reality of, “All that ego-stroking? Yeah, that was bullshit we do to grease your way through your training period. Now you’ve been trained. Here’s your shovel, help us move this shit pile from here to there.” And though you may turn out to be the best shit shoveler who ever shoveled some shit, there’s not likely to be any celebration for your shit technique and impeccable shit ethic. You did what you were paid to do. “Come back tomorrow and do it some more, or we’ll get somebody else.”
This starts all over again when you start your career, when suddenly everything you accomplished in the classroom up to that point again counts for jack shit. You’re the new guy, there’s one spot you can be promoted to, and there are six guys in line to get it who’ve all been working there since the ’90s. And until they hire someone else, you will always be known as “the new guy.” I used to work as the computer guy for an auto dealership, and we had the same “new guy” for two years before they hired some newer guy (who, by the way, was using his bachelor’s degree in psychology to change oil for a living). To a 20-something, it just seems like more arbitrary unfairness and bullying.
“This is bullshit! It’s age discrimination!”
Your perspective changes right around the first time you are old enough to have worked at a place for a while and seen a 20-something walk in the door, thinking his grades automatically earn him a salary higher than that of people who actually know what the hell they’re doing. You chuckle and/or cringe at their sense of entitlement and realize, “Wait a second! Ten years ago that was me.” And then you wonder how the other people in the office tolerated you.
I guess that’s when you know you’ve gotten past it: the embarrassment. Just remembering how at that age you were positive that you had everything locked down and figured out. You figured you were educated and smart and awesome and there wasn’t much left to learn. I wouldn’t live through that again if I were forced at gunpoint by time-traveling Time Rapists.
“So who’s up for some rape? Don’t answer that, it kills the point.”
This is the time of your life when you’re most desperate to meet a girl or a guy, and it’s the absolute worse time to actually do it.
Let’s face it, besides school, parties and bars, there aren’t a lot of avenues you can take to meet other single people. The reason is because it’s much easier to get to know someone in a group setting before handing them your phone number and pointing out that if you add a letter, it spells out “FREE DICK.” In college you have that group/school setting, but as anyone who is paying tens of thousands of dollars for a serious education can tell you, it’s not exactly the “get drunk and fuck” atmosphere that the old National Lampoon movies make it out to be. People are tied up in trying to balance studying with a part-time job so they can survive. The last thing they have time for is a relationship that may or may not last through the end of the year.
So you end up latching on to whatever short term relationship you can get your hands on, just to fight the loneliness. And when that goes sour, you’ll move on to the next, not fully realizing that committing to the chick you met by doing jello shots out of her cleavage probably isn’t going to be the long term romantic connection you’ve been searching for.
And then when you do meet the one you think is your soul mate, you realize it’s like meeting a girl at the airport. The odds that both of you are planning to wind up in the same place after graduation is astronomically small. He plans to move wherever a job opens up, she intends to go to grad school in Arizona. If you’re not the same age, one of you will be in school for a year or more after the other has moved on.
And then there’s the fact that at 20, everyone is in transition. This is why you go to a college campus and the girl who was prom queen two years ago now has green hair, and the minister’s kid has dedicated his life to his freestyle rap skills. Everybody’s trying on personalities like outfits in an ’80s movie dressing room montage. The girl you fell in love with, is that actually her, or is that one of the personalities she’s testing out? And are you the same person you’ll be five years later?
The worst relationship horror stories I’ve ever heard have all come from this age group. It’s a terrible hit and miss process, done at a time when you’re most vulnerable and emotionally unstable. And every time you bounce back from a bad relationship and give another try, you’re picking up a set of dice made out of your own balls.
“I’m here for our date, you blind fucking consumer. Let’s talk about racism in Pig Latin.”
So you’ve been out of high school for two years. You’re now in college, halfway to your bachelor’s degree in male pole dancing. You spend the day attending class and your nights working a local taco joint because you realized one month into your first semester that you couldn’t survive on student loans and financial aid alone.
You have four major tests and three research papers due at the end of the week, and you haven’t done a single second’s worth of studying because you planned to do that on downtime at work — and it turns out that drunk people love tacos at 2:30 a.m. after the bars close.
And they are a fucking pleasure to be around.
Meanwhile, your mom has been nagging you to come home for a visit next weekend, and you can’t really get out of it because the last time you were home was during summer break. But you still haven’t taken your girlfriend out, and she’s getting restless around five thousand other college males with working genitalia and an infinite supply of box wine.
You manage to pull off two of your research papers on four hours of sleep, but the other one just plain isn’t going to get finished in time. So you beg your professor for an extension, which he denies because he couldn’t give less of a shit about your problems. His is the only class that exists in the entire school as far as he’s concerned, and you should have spent more time writing and less time taco-ing. He wants it in his hands by tomorrow morning. So you resign yourself to another four hours of sleep and bust out a half-assed paper that will pull a C at best. But since the paper accounts for a quarter of your total grade, it’ll have to do because the F from not turning it in would wreck your GPA.
Meanwhile, your boss at work catches you nodding off during your shift and tells you that your school schedule isn’t his concern. He hired you to make tacos, and if you can’t do that he’ll find someone who can. He has a business to run.
“Now, you get in there and stir 6,000 gallons of meat chunks!”
Now, a lot of the older readers are thinking, “Ha! I run my own roofing business and on top of working 80-hour weeks, I have seven kids, and four of them are in wheelchairs! Try living my life, college kid!” but you worked your way up to that. You got acclimated to going without sleep and having no down time.
When you’re 20 or 21, the sudden change in life’s difficulty curve is an absolute shock. The amount of free time in your life is slashed down to nothing, all at once, and the number of responsibilities suddenly explode. Your body needs sleep more than any time of your life other than infancy, and you’re not allowed to get it.
There is probably at least one war veteran out there eager to point out that at 20 they were in Iraq trying to defuse homemade bombs, but the military is actually a good example — the entire process of basic training is built to shock the recruit into understanding how radically the world’s expectations have changed. Maybe that’s what we all need, some guy to yell it into our face on the first day. Instead, nobody tells you, and all of these new, conflicting expectations just start slowly pulling your limbs off.
“Man, I really need to have my own kids to take this out on.”
Twenty is the age where you most likely have a couple of straggler friends who are still in high school. Like say in high school you were a senior and they were a sophomore, but now you’re out. When you were both teenagers, there was nothing strange about it — teenagers hang out together. But when you’re 20 or 21 and you stop by to pick up your friend for lunch, you’re now the weird old guy from Dazed and Confused who refuses to let his high school years die. And you figure, yeah, but even at 18 Steve is cool and mature. But now Steve has a sophomore friend, Matt, who’s only 16. And he’s brought his 14-year-old girlfriend along. And all at once, you realize that some of the people in this car live on a different planet than you.
“So … uh … menstruating yet?”
But even with the Steves of the world, you have these little reminders — they still can’t legally buy alcohol or be caught with it, they’re legally bound to local curfew ordinances, they can’t go into the clubs that you can. And all of that teenager stuff you used to get away with — sneaking beers behind the backs of your parents, etc. — the kind of stuff that would get you grounded back then? If you get caught doing that shit now, your ass goes straight to jail for corruption of a minor. In a hundred different ways the world is telling you, “Move on, dude, this is getting creepy.”
But there’s another side to that coin. When you get into conversations with people just a few years older than you, they’re still fucking treating you like a teenager.
You’re not taken seriously on any adult subject because you have virtually no life experience yet. Your political opinions? “Yeah, that’s what I’d expect from someone your age. You’ll think differently when you’re older.” Opinions on raising children? “Yeah, you’ll laugh at what you just said when you’re 30 and have kids of your own. Hell, you’re still a kid yourself.” And don’t think you can just earn your way out of it — if you are successful in your career right out of school, that just makes people resent you more. They’ll look at you and your advanced work position and say, “I wonder who he’s related to?”
If you want a vivid example of what I mean, try walking onto a car dealership at 20. The salesman won’t come out and try to talk you into a car. He’ll look at you like you’re about to vandalize something. In that setting, you might as well be 13. At a party with teenagers, you might as well be 30.
“I totally fit in here!”
So all the movies that make those years of your life look like a romantic, vibrant sex-o-coaster? Fuck ‘em. I know better.
November 08, 2011 187,770 views
“I’m not here,” I said, immediately regretting it. Who else would have said that?
“Who else would have said that?” Jack asked. I sighed and popped up one of the ceiling tiles, looking down on the smug turbo-genius in the office below.
“How did you know I was up here, you smug turbo-genius?” I asked, carefully adjusting my weight on the frame of the suspended ceiling.
“Well, there’s an extension cable going up there,” he said, pointing at the extension cable doing that. “And odors coming down here.”
“Good eye. And good nose I guess. Well Inspector, now that you’ve solved the mystery of the lazy columnist, what do you want with me?”
“We’ve been talking, and we’ve decided that Cracked, as a stalwart member of the old-media, should probably weigh in on this Kim Kardashian thing. Our readers, whom we presume to be helpless naifs incapable of forming their own opinions, desperately need to know what we think about this.”
“Do we think about this?”
“No. That’s kind of the problem. We need you to research what a Kim Kardashian actually is, make a thought about it, and then write that thought down.”
“Is this because you hate me?”
“It is because we hate you, yes.”
I chewed on my thumbnail, considering that. “This could take awhile Jack. I’ll be up here for a few days at least.”
“That’s perfectly fine with me. Preferable even.”
“And I’m going to need supplies. And a hose, and a funnel, and the other end of the hose placed in a bucket beside Brockway’s desk.”
“You’ll have all those things.”
So after getting my supplies and befouling Brockway’s workstation, I set to work. The first problem was the I knew next to nothing about this Kim Kardashian, because she only shows up on those magazines and websites and television shows which make my eyes poop.
I had to do the image research for this column looking at the reflection of the screen in a mirrored shield.
Consequently, everything below is based on the tiny fraction of Kim Kardashian news I’ve been unable to escape on grown up news sites, plus a couple things from her Wikipedia page, plus a couple things that I just added to her Wikipedia page. If that sounds kind of rinky-dink to you, well, from what I can tell, half-assed Wikipedia based research makes this the most journalistically sound celebrity site in the world, so eat me.
So here’s what we know: Kim Kardashian is a woman who was summoned to walk the earth in our darkest hour, because we needed someone to be famous for us. She has her own television network called the E! channel, where she has conversations and tries on clothes and smiles in clubs. Last year she met a basketball player who has his mouth open more than normal.
In the span of about eight months, they fell in love, got engaged, and planned an elaborate wedding that was televised and heavily sponsored by I think one of those teeth whitening companies. It’s rumored that the wedding made Kim millions, money which was not apparently invested in couples counseling, as we discovered two and a half months later, when Kim announced her plans to divorce. Twitter has since crashed eight times under the weight of billions of Kardashian wedding jokes.
As I was conducting this painful research, I kept coming back to one question, repeatedly circled on the surface of the asbestos laden duct insulation I was taking my notes on. Good golly, she seems proud of her breasts my notes read.
But underneath that first, hard-to-not-see observation, was a second, deeper question raised by the debacle of her wedding and a number of other incidents. Is Kim Kardashian secretly an idiot? On the one hand she’s made an awful lot of money, which if my strict Objectivist upbringing was correct, means she is my moral and intellectual superior. But on the other hand, she really kind of seems like an idiot. Below I’ve outlined some of the arguments for and against the conjecture that Kim Kardashian is an idiot, which I hope you can use to help settle bar bets, or thorny theological debates.
Kim’s 30, and has already been married and divorced once before, so presumably has some idea of the factors necessary for a relationship to work. Like the bit about loving each other. Or a strict religious upbringing. Or when one of the spouses has a valuable dowry necessary to secure the other’s political future. Any of the three will do, and it looks like Kim and this guy didn’t have a single one of them. I’ll be generous, and take Kim at her word when she says she “loved” this guy. But I will question whether she actually knows what that word means. Like she might have confused it with “wedding planning excitement” or “dizzyness.” Like her blood-sugar was a bit low when she met this dude and she confused that with love. Or how she might confuse gas pain with hate.
“Man do I hate that Obama after eating burritos.”
Everyone is up in arms that this marriage lasted only 72 days, but very few people seem at all surprised that it ended up in divorce. I think if we’re all being honest here, maybe if after the wedding all of us got around a really big table with a beer and a lot of straws, we’d agree this marriage had at most a few years of life in it. After all, few people expect celebrity marriages to go the distance these days. So with the non-foreverness of the marriage taken as a given, shouldn’t we applaud Kim for acknowledging her mistake and getting on with her life? I mean, imagine how much this dude would interfere with Kim’s next project, adopting three African babies then giving up on them 114 days later. Can’t have him around for that.
“Hi Africa? Yeah, I changed my mind. I’m getting a rabbit instead.”
In the week since her marriage went tits-up, Kim has expressed surprise and shock that people are suggesting the entire spectacle was fake, a massive stunt put on for the cameras. The basis for these fake marriage claims lies in the fact that the wedding was completely fake, a massive stunt put on for the cameras. It was a wedding packaged into a sponsored, four hour televised special. Kim reportedly made millions off of it. Does she not understand that profit-making weddings do not exist? That they’re not things that happen? And does she not get how bad it looks to throw a profit-making wedding and then back out of it weeks later, like it was a fucking magazine subscription?
No, she doesn’t get it, at all. When asked by a reporter why the marriage ended, Kim replied:
“I think when you know so deep in your heart that you just have to listen to your intuition and follow your heart, there’s no right or wrong thing to do, so I really believe that.”
Obviously the transcript of an off-the-cuff statement isn’t always going to be sumptuous prose, and it’s a little unfair to hold it up as an example of babbling nonsense, but deep in our hearts, can’t we all believe and agree that holy shit that is fucking babbling nonsense?
As any of our married readers are likely to confirm, if they had had the opportunity to sell sponsorships to defray the costs of their wedding, they certainly would have. “What the fucking fuck?” they shrieked when I called them while conducting research. “Was that an option? HONEY!? GET IN HERE AND LISTEN TO WHAT THIS GUY IS SAYING.”
If she had the nerve and moxie to make money from her wedding, who are we to blame her? Indeed, the conventional wisdom about Kim is that she’s been a pretty savvy businesswoman, who’s managed to parlay her dubious, ass-based claim to fame into a massive, not entirely ass-based empire. On the other hand, that empire building mostly involved lending her name to products that other people had created, which makes her most marketable skill “existing” – a verb which is not normally associated with a great deal of intelligence. Carrots for example, exist as thoroughly as Kim Kardashian. But carrots are one of the most intelligent vegetables, so I guess that counts as a tie.
Kim famously was involved with hip-hop artist Ray J, with whom she created a sex tape. This is troubling for a few reasons, as one, no one who chooses the name “Ray J” for himself can be called wise, and two, nothing they propose to do with a video camera can be considered tasteful. Someone who agrees to anything involving Ray J and a video camera is either a girl with very low scores on standardized tests, or a busted Speak and Spell which can only say the word yes.
“You love me, don’t you broken Speak and Spell which can only say yes? WHY WON’T YOU ANSWER ME!?”
I’m not saying that Kim deliberately released her own sex tape on the eve of her first reality show hitting the air, even if that would make an awful lot of sense. That kind of statement would be slander, even if basically everyone agrees that’s what happened. But hypothetically, if that was the case, it only proves Kim’s great intelligence. The public’s appetite for ass, and the associated distributors of ass, is such a little known phenomenon that only a marketing genius could have picked up on it.
Earlier this year Kim released a single called Jam (Turn It Up) in which she made everything worse, everywhere. If anything bad happened to you this year, astrologists and philosophers agree it was probably because of Jam (Turn It Up).
Even her hair seems a little embarrassed by it, as it appears to be trying to escape her head.
The title alone should tell you everything you need to know about the song, that it was composed by someone who knows nothing about irony. Any song with a subtitle is already veering dangerously close to Ridiculous Chasm, and to then pick (Turn It Up) – the third most cliched subtitle after (Baby) and (Luvya Luvya Sex Panther) – is sheer idiocy.
But like before, if she’s in a situation where idiots will throw money at her and tell her she can make a music video, why wouldn’t she try it out? And when she realized that she had no business making music videos, and that birds would stop attacking her if she stopped, she stopped. The music industry could quite frankly use more of that kind of self-awareness, even if it does hurt the bird-protection industry.
If I know my readers, it’s that they’re now desperate for me to conclude this article in a completely unsatisfactory way. And not wanting to disappoint, I’ve decided to split the difference and not really take a stand one way or another. Yes, if set down in almost any other time and place in the thousands of years of human history, Kim Kardashian would be regarded as an idiot. She’s got the kind of skill set and demeanor and grating voice which would immediately motivate her peers to throw her at leopards, even if leopards weren’t readily available. But in the modern era, where leopards are protected, and bananas come with warning labels, and a television channel called E! can thrive, she’s just not that remarkably dumb. To be clear, that gross spectacle of a wedding was one of the single stupidest events to have happened in human history. But Kim didn’t do it alone – she had a family of idiots supporting her, and dozens and hundreds of professional idiots working to organize it, and millions of idiots, eager to witness a royal wedding (of ass-based royalty) who put her in the position where she could pull it off. Amongst this crowd, Kim’s the smartest one standing.
Good news, it’s not cancer. Bad news, it’s a calcified human face. And it’s not smiling.
At Queens University in Canada doctors scanned the testicles of a 45-year-old patient with a benign tumor. This is what they found.
“It was very ghoulish, like a man screaming in pain,” Dr. Naji Touma described to The Toronto Star. “His mouth was open and it looked like one eye was gouged out.”
Don’t you just love when doctors refer to the screenplay of Saw 4 for reference on medical mysteries?
This photo-a scan of a face-shaped tumor inside a man’s testicles- was published in the medical journal Urology this week, beating the Weekly World News to the punch.
So to recap: a tumor with the face of man in some kind of Pompeian shock was found in the scrotal sac of a human. You should now wipe up the drink you just spit out.