Know What's Fucking Crazy?

Laundry Machines.


Wait. You’re saying I can wear clothes, throw them in a hamper, let them get all stank and gross, then empty the hamper into a big metal machine, toss in a cup of gooey soapy liquid, close the door, press a button and spin them around in water at high speeds for an hour while I go jerk off and watch Netflix, and my clothes will be completely clean when I get back?

Stop it. Stop fucking lying to me.



We go to a (usually nice) building, sit at a table amidst dozens of other people sitting at their own tables, look through a list of food items and mention the ones we want to shove inside our bodies to a human being, who writes down the items we mentioned on a pad of paper, then brings the piece of paper to the back of the building where another human being is paid a lot of money to look at the paper and, using knives, fire and other tools, create the food items we requested out of a variety of raw ingredients, which we then fucking pay for. 

The Westboro Baptist Church.


I thought about writing a long, run-on diatribe rant characterizing these people as the batshit insane, ignorant, inbred assholes we all know them to be, but that would just be a waste of all of our time.

Just one quick question: is there one rational human being on earth who doesn’t believe Fred Phelps is being anally raped by God in hell at this exact moment?

Stay strong, Fred! Kisses!

Losing Feeling In A Limb.


You know that feeling when you sleep on your arm weird or you get up from the toilet after a while and can’t feel your leg, and all you’re left with is this really uncomfortable, tingling, pins-and-needles-like sensation?

That’s the feeling of your fucking nerve pathways being cut-off from your fucking brain, bro.

Couples Therapy.


When two people who love each other stop loving each other as much as they previously loved each other, they pay another human being money to sit in that human being’s office and talk to that human being and have that human being tell them things to help them love each other the way they used to love each other.

Wait. What.

Dog Years.


Unfortunately, most dogs can only live for about 10 or 15 years. This, to use a scientific term, “fucking blows.”

To cope with this detriment, put it into perspective and equate it to our own lives, we’ve given dog lifespans a non-standard unit of measurement called “dog years.” Dog years state that a dog ages 7 years in the time it takes a human being to age 1. It’s an oversimplified view of how old your dog is compared to you.

So for instance, when he doesn’t want to hang out with us, we always say our almost 2-year old pup is acting like “such a teenager.”


Holy fuck that’s dumb. We are so fucking dumb.



The world lost a giant yesterday.

We lost him not because of a car crash or a shooting or cancer, but because something was wrong inside his head. So wrong, he decided he was unable to live on earth any longer.

This wealthy, famous, insanely talented human being, who gave hundreds of millions (billions?) of people joy through his characters, jokes and antics over 40 hilarious years, was himself alone in a dark world he couldn’t get out of.

That was a terrible place for him to be, and it is a terrible thing for us to now know.

An estimated 20 million Americans suffer from depression every year. If you or someone you love is depressed or suicidal, there is help. Please call The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255.



Oh. My. Sweet. Fucking. Christ.

Flight Attendants.


Basically, when it comes right down to it, when you are aboard an airplane as it is hurtling through the sky at 500 mph, you are served drinks and snacks out of a narrow mobile cart by waitresses and (mostly gay, for some reason) waiters who explain to you how a seatbelt works and ask you to put your seat in its upright position and put your armrest down and your tray table up and carry-on items under the seat in front of you and power down your phone and JESUS FUCKING CHRIST ALIVE LADY SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY WE GOT IT.



So you and I both speak English, only you grew up on a medium-sized island off the coast of Europe and I grew up on a continent-spanning country 3,000 miles across the ocean, and now we pronounce the exact same sentences with totally different inflections and emphases that may or may not make one of us sound like a douche? 

And people in different regions within our own countries pronounce the same sentences totally differently, just because the people they grew up around pronounced it that way?

What in the bloody FUCK is going on.

A Year.


Just so we’re all on the same page: In 365 days from now, the earth will be the exact same distance from the sun and the weather in your geographic region will be almost exactly the same as it is now.

And this never. Fucking. Changes. 



During life, human beings need lots of things. Things like tomatoes. And dish detergent. And oatmeal. And condoms. And Lean Cuisine.

And where do we go to find all these life essentials?

To a huge structure within driving distance of our house, full of dozens of rows of shelves with tens of thousands of non-perishable packaged good product bullshit and an outer ring stocked with meat, dairy and produce that will all be inedible within three days.

If you’ve ever found yourself walking aimlessly inside this structure, pushing a cart made of metal bar cages past a shelf with 150 varieties of toothpaste on it and thinking to yourself, “holy shit, I am in an insane fucking place right now,” you are not alone.

I have, too.

TV shows.


At the same time every week, we return to the same spot on the couch, turn on our TV and turn off our brains in order to get sucked into the lives of a bunch of human beings pretending to be other human beings living in a more exciting time and place and story (and sometimes universe) than the one we’re currently inhabiting.

And even thought we know these people are professional actors paid to trick us, we don’t give a shit. We suspend belief and hang on every move they make.

If that’s not certifiably batshit fucking absurd, I’m not sure what is.



I’ve always hated being tickled.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that someone other than me is taking their grubby fucking fingers and pulsating them all over my motherfucking stomach and armpits in order to cause me to make involuntarily twitching movements and laugh uncomfortably while asking, then begging, then pleading for this dickhead to stop.

Seriously. That shit right there? The fucking worst.



Well, fuck me in the brain.

We pay money to wait on an hours-long line, all so we can strap into a rapidly-moving vehicle attached to rails that gets plummeted, rocketed and twisted through every physical-bending G-force tomfuckery mankind (working in collaboration with gravity) has to offer?

K, cool. Just checking.