Archive for October, 2011

You probably call them tart carts. I don’t. I’ll explain why later. Those short little buses where certain students ride on always capture our attention. They stand out despite looking more like a normal vehicle instead of a large stupid yellow bus. These automobiles are a strange thing. It’s wrong to call them tart carts. It’s one of the few things that offend me. Why? Because I rode on that bus.

To clarify, I only rode on the bus for about 2 months. I had broken my leg and my parents didn’t love me enough to drive me to school. A girl with cerebral palsy lived up the street from me, so it wasn’t that inconvenient to pick me up too. I was about to embark on a strange journey. A journey that few able minded children ever do. I was taking a ride on the short bus.

The first thing I learned about riding the short bus was that you shouldn’t look anyone in the eye. Those kids didn’t like that. They’d curse at me if I did. Here I was, sitting in a wheel chair, them having to sit on a sticky seat that matched their sticky hands. Put two sticky things together and you’re not going anywhere anytime soon.

I don’t remember what the schedule was, but I do know that at some point I was the only one on the bus that went to my school. The rest went to a nicer school that had air conditioning. Maybe that’s why they didn’t want me looking at them. The sweat from my eyes might tamper with their 68 degree room temperature flesh. The kids that went to the other school were really mean. They didn’t bother me much, but they were not comrades. Not like the short bus riders that went to my school.

I liked the kids that went to the same school as me. They all knew each other. They had their little niche group. You think kids without autism are cliquey? Try riding a short bus with them. I had to remain silent for a month before they would accept me. It was terrible hazing. If you ask them, they’d say it was gentle ribbing. I knew better.

My most memorable thing about this clique was that they didn’t call each other by their names. They called each other by their street names. It took me a while to realize this too. I thought it was cool to meet a boy named Wolfgang, only to discover that his street matched his name. The short buses pull right up to your house so they all know exactly where you live. Maybe that’s why they all got along. If you pissed someone off, they’d take some goons and throw crayons at your bedroom window.

The day I belonged was the day that Fleetwood called me Overton. I was no longer Tim. I could throw away my slave name and go by my street name. My street name that matched the black guy from the UPN sitcom “Living Single.” Finally I belonged.

 

(Actor John Henton, whose character Overton was immortalized after the mayor of my town named a street after him, which I grew up on)

My leg eventually healed and I had to say goodbye to my new friends. The friendship was over before it began. Occasionally in the hallways I would still see Wolfgang, Fleetwood, Flock, MICHAEL CARGILL!!! ,Maple, and Route 33. They’d be going to their classes to learn and I’d be going to mine. I may have looked different now, no longer wheelchair bound, but to them I was still Overton. And always will be.

I wish I remembered more about my days on the short bus. It was brief and really for some reason has faded out of my head. Maybe it wasn’t as interesting as I remember it being. 10 minutes of everyday, trapped on the same vehicle as these other students might not be enough time to really develop into a great story.

Oh and for the record, I don’t care if you call it a tart cart. Coming from me, a tart cart alumni, I feel that my endorsement of the word makes it political correct to say. So go ahead and use it freely. We know we are. We’re whatever street we currently live on. You can’t take that way from us.

I’m sitting in a chair that does not support my back well staring at my Facebook home page. Not right now. I’m told that writing in the present tense helps make the reader feel more like they are there. Feeling like you’re in my shoes for this story is essential. For that sake, lets pretend this is all happening live. I’m staring at the screen (still) and looking at all of the statuses popping up. Jerry crashed his shitty car that he always takes pictures of himself with. Erica misses her long faced boyfriend. Max is grounded–again, parents can be so unfair. Janet has a song that she thinks all 873 of her friends might like. Only 2 of them do. One of them is her. I have to delete this shit.

I’ve thought about deleting my Facebook many times. I have enough time navigating it trying to figure out how to get a picture up there that I’m sure Mark Zuckerberg would make me walk barefoot through hell to delete my account. It’s pointless to have one really. I talk to five people and they all have my phone number. At least in a text message I don’t have to see your stupid picture of you on vacation. Or see you quote bad songs that I didn’t know existed. Why do I have to conform and have a Facebook page?

I don’t remember why I got one in the first place. Myspace was different. I made one because my sister had one and so did one other person I knew. I jumped on the bandwagon before a lot of people I knew. Due to self-shame, it took me a while to put up a real picture of myself. A Puerto Rican girl I liked told me that I was cute so I was no longer camera-shy. We hugged once and she showed me her butt. She has a kid now, but you could have gathered that from me saying that she was a Puerto Rican.

Myspace was great at first. I remember how exciting it was to find someone new to add to my friends list. Then I had a fan club made for me. It had about 60 members, nothing to sneeze about. Unless you’re allergic to being popular, like I was. Even a few celebrities joined. Comedians Rich Vos and John Heffron who had been on the most recent season of Last Comic Standing joined. Dat Phan was promptly banned. I remember how excited it was that you could actually talk to celebrities on that website in the early days. Comedians were my favorite to talk to, as it was around then that I began my dead-end journey to becoming the greatest standup comedian of all-time. Gregg Rogell wished me luck before my first show and Super High Me star Doug Benson told me that he was going to delete me because I posted too many bulletins. I said I would stop and we remained buddies. It’s hard to believe that this was only about 6 or 7 years ago. Shit, that’s like a third of my life. What the fuck? I wasted too much time on Myspace. Posting bulletins. Commenting on pictures. I needed something new. That’s when I moved over to Facebook.

My first Facebook I made was a fake account. You used to not be able to have one unless you had a college e-mail address. I went to a community college and they didn’t know what the Internet was, hence, no e-mail address. A friend of mine who I thought was a homosexual in 3-5th grade, then again 7th-12th, asked me if I could make an account and befriend a girl for him. I did and then he told me that it was okay. Waste of time motherfucker. Eventually for some reason I made a real account. Nobody was posting on my Myspace anymore. Celebrities wouldn’t talk to me. They were out there to promote themselves. Every hot girl I knew had a private profile. What’s the point? I figured, Facebook might be different.

I had a Facebook for a while then stopped going on it when I got really depressed. Social networking will do that to you. People post a lot of cool things that they do. You’d think they never cried or had to spend a cold night alone. I had my account deleted temporarily for a wee bit, until a black friend of mine told me that it was the best way to remain in contact with girls now. I only mention that he was a black friend so you know that I’m not racist. He’s the best black friend I have ever had and that a boy could ask for. I haven’t talked to him in a long time, but I know we could catch up in no time as we rarely spoke much about our personal lives. I never knew his real name either. That was the brilliance of him. He admitted offhandedly that I was one of his best friends and still refused to tell me what his first name was. I loved that guy!

With my Facebook account back in action, not much changed. They had a special announcement that they would be giving you your own Facebook URLs. For example, Facebook.com/MrTimBoyle is my URL, incase you’re interested in sending crude messages and seeing just how few friends I have. My boss at the comedy club I was working at the time, wanted both his name in a URL as well as another thing that he thought would get a lot of hits. Facebook blocked making any new accounts for that week so he couldn’t make a new one. He gave me a nice $100 bill to buy the rights to my Facebook page in order to get his name before any of the other 8 people with the same name as him that have Facebook accounts. I bought shoes with that $100 as well as a few other items. My shoes lasted me 2 and a half years, he hasn’t been on that Facebook account since.

I sort of had to start over with friends. I had been working at yet another comedy club a few months earlier (you’d think I’d have some awesome connections or something) and created the Facebook account for that place. I worked at the club for about a month and a half and the guy that ran it annoyed me. He was trying to get me to take a comedy class he was teaching and didn’t pay me after working 6 hours the day after Thanksgiving. I knew it was going to turn out with me getting screwed more and more so I quit and turned that Facebook page into my own. I kept some of the same friends, ones that I knew in real life and a few hot girls. Starting over wasn’t a problem because I had 60 friends beforehand. Today, over 2 years later, I have 160, give or take. I know most of them personally and don’t mind them, so I guess it’s not that bad, is it?

That’s the history of my Facebook. That’s not even what I wanted to tell you about. But I’m sitting here, one in the morning typing this up as my dog begs to go outside. He needs to learn to hold in his shit while I type. Something that bothers me about Facebook now are the people who I knew from school who add me and then don’t say anything. Why add me and not say a thing? Not even a “Hey, how are things? I’m glad to see you’re alive.” Not a one from anybody. There are 4 people I can think of that I went to school with who added me randomly, out of the blue, and have not said a word to me on there. Some of them were good friends too. I know I could say something, but I’m not the one that added you. It’s juvenile to care and it doesn’t keep me awake at night. It’s more of a crappy thing that I don’t understand. There’s no reason to be Facebook friends with somebody you’re not going to talk to. You’ve just made me a number and nothing more. What are you, the government?

I rarely see something posted on Facebook that intrigues me. Sometimes I’ll laugh at a post. I have a lot of friends who are comedians, so most of them are just depressed, not shit heads like most other human beings. Nobody posts on my page except for my friend and girlfriend. Even they don’t post often and why would they? I don’t go on more than 5 minutes a day and that’s just to see if my high school crush has added me. I bet she doesn’t even know my name. Stupid big titted cunt. I still think you’re hot even if I know you have a weird face. I like weird faces. Reminds me of the circus, another thing I like.

Not deleting my Facebook has come down to a few things:

1) An occasional message from two old friends. They message me about 3 times a year just to check up. They live too far away to ever really visit or hangout with. It’s nice to hear from them. They’ve probably forgotten how irritating I can be.

2) The possibility of networking. I know I’ll need to network seriously at some point. Having a Facebook makes it easier than phone numbers or e-mails. I mine as well keep it around until the moment comes where someone wants to raise my hopes only to shatter them via Facebook message.

3) I own a camera and have nowhere else to put the pictures. I guess I could put them on my blog now, but I hate photographers and their bad mustaches. I don’t want to become that. Some people don’t want to grow up to be their parents. I don’t want to grow up to be your friends.

And that’s about it. My three reasons that I will not delete my Facebook. It annoys me now that they don’t sound out e-mails whenever something new happens. It means that I have to log all the way in to see that nobody likes me. Maybe someday people will like me. They’ll add me and demand nude photographs. Until that day, my Facebook will remain pretty much dormant. Where the only thing I post are updates to my blog. I don’t care what anybody says, The Social Network couldn’t possibly be a good movie.

Jesse Eisenberg + Trent Reznor + Facebook = Me Watching Something Else Instead

People still go to Britney Spears concerts. I know, shocking. Britney Spears first fell onto my radar in 4th grade. A boy who was obsessed with Tara Lipinski said that if he could have a threesome it would be with both of them. I saw his dad chase him with a lawn mower one time. I don’t know how his life turned out. He moved the next year. I like to think that he has grown out of loving Britney Spears like the rest of us should.

It’s strange that lip-synchers who were popular 10-15 years ago can still be popular today. Didn’t 9/11 teach us anything? We need to move forward and not dwell on the past. I mean, I love old music. New music blows. But Britney Spears? She was never good. Hot, yes. In her prime there was no one better. Then she turned 18 and yuck. She’s a crazy mess.

As much as I enjoy old music, I wouldn’t go see an old band in concert. Fans who still go to see the Rolling Stones aren’t going for their new duds. They go for the old hits. The relive the memories. That’s fine. At least they really do sing and actually play their instruments. Britney Spears is a dancer who got fat. How does a dancer get fat? By not doing their job well enough. I don’t dance much, but when I do, I sweat. I sweat so much that nobody wants to dance with me. I ruin the vibe and the club shuts down due to poor business. Really, I would never dance at a club. I might look fine until one Spanish guy shows up and can roll his tongue and shake his hips to the beat. I also don’t like fedoras. I think it’s because I was ripped off by a paper boy in a past life.

(Asshole)

I hope that one day I can be famous and talented for two years. Then I want to have a nervous breakdown and get really fat and gross looking. After some rehab, I’d like to come back and do the same shit that I used to do. I want everyone to be able to admit that I suck and will never be as good as I used to be. Fans will flock to see me anyway. Evolution takes millions of years. 15 down, 999,985 to go before people stop paying attention to washed up pop singers.

“Crack that whip!” – Devo and Sojourner Truth’s cruel master

A man stands a few feet behind me. I’m familiar with this man. I see him often. I don’t know much about him. One thing I do know is that his laugh is horrible. Worse than that, it’s often. He’s talking to someone. Crap. He’s almost done his sentence. Here it comes!

GUFFAW GUFFAW GUFFAW

What a horrendous laugh. I hate people with bad laughs. I mean really hate them. Remember when Osama Bin Laden was killed and everyone was happy about it? I feel the same way when people with bad laughs are shot by Navy Seals. They’re useless. They should never have a good day. That’s why they have bad laughs. It’s natures way of telling us that we should treat them like shit.

Other than this guy, there are others I have encountered with equally bad laughs. Let me do my best to fill you in on them. Maybe you’ll get some laughs out of reading this. Then you’ll have a LIFE LESS BORING!!!

Self-Laugher -

This is where I would classify my current laugher into. He laughs at the end of every sentence. It doesn’t even have to be funny. It’s a snorty laugh too. It sounds like he’s clearing out the back of his nose. Laughing at yourself rarely means that what you said was funny. More often than not it means that you’re awkward and to feel less awkward you laugh to make the poor victim you’re talking to feel more relaxed. It doesn’t make us feel more relaxed. It makes us feel tense. It makes us want to hit you. Why laugh at the end of your sentence? You can just think it and laugh to yourself. At least then people know that you’re crazy.

Snorter -

I mentioned this slightly already, but snorting is very common with laughers. We’ve probably all snorted at sometime while laughing. It’s embarrassing and usually makes everybody else laugh at our misfortunate. That’s okay. What’s not okay is always snorting when you laugh. That’s what we call gross. Especially when you look like a pig. A friend of mine had a girlfriend who looked like a pig. She still does and I know this from Facebook stalking. I can’t feel bad for a fat girl who snorts when she laughs. It’s too perfect. Normally I enjoy when people have animal qualities. Not when they both look like a pig and laugh like one. That’s what we call too much of a good thing.

Spitter -

I had another friend who would spit when he’d laugh. His laugh was a very quiet “hehehehehe” that never seemed to end. The spit that came out of his mouth was odd. It seemed to come from the bottom and shoot up. It hit me before and I guess technically it means I’ve kissed a boy. I arrived late to lunch that day, but could still tell that he had chicken nuggets thanks to his spit hitting my lips. Spitters are never good in any context. It’s impolite to spit. Remember that girls, nobody likes a spitter.

Silent Machine Gun -

Sometimes my laugh is a bit of a silent machine gun laugh. It’s not uproarious, but still has that rapid fire approach to it. The Don Rickles of laughing. At times, I use this as a courtesy laugh. I try to get as many quick laughs in as short of a time as possible. That last sentence was lazy writing. I used the worst “time” twice. Just wanted to point it out how awfully unoriginal I am.

Loud Machine Gun -

The exact same thing as the silent machine gun, except loud. Loud machine guns are really obnoxious. Everything loud is obnoxious. Think of the last time you heard someone screaming for help. I know, what a jerk. The loud machine gun serves the same purpose except it can be used more as a defense. I’m convinced all machine gun laughs are out of courtesy. There’s no reason to throw so many quick laughs into five seconds at any offhanded comment.

Vomitter -

Sitting next to the spitter at my 7th grade lunch table was a kid who would poke his head out and look as if he was about to vomit. It was a sincere laugh. The strange thing is I remember him doing it forever. Up through high school he still did his little head-forward, fake vomiting action. It was never annoying as it rarely made a sound. If anything, it was convenient. You’d know you said something really funny when he couldn’t keep his mouth shut and really would vomit at a joke. That’s when you knew you were cool.

Ricky Gervais -

Nobody laughs like Ricky Gervais. I can’t even categorize this laugh. How can you not enjoy listening to him get his funny bone tickled? And coming from such a funny guy, you know whatever has gotten him to make such an awful sound must be great.

Three Stooges -

Nyut! Nyut! Nyut! That’s how I write out how the Three Stooges laugh. Nobody really laughs like that, do they? I knew a girl with Down Syndrome who did. Her laugh was a dead on Larry and her haircut was a dead on Moe. The only thing curly about her was when she would try to draw a straight line and end up making numerous violent circles. But that’s the beauty about laughter. Even somebody with so many problems can enjoy a good one. Even if it does remind me of three dead slapstick comedians.

“A religion is only as good as its holy land is fertile.” – John P. Higgins, Philosopher/Homeless Man

Okay, John P. Higgins is a made up name. I thought the name sounded reputable. John usually makes us think of someone boring. The P. in the middle shows that he’s scholarly and possibly shares the same name with someone else in his field. The Higgins part of the name was chosen because it’s obscure enough, yet sounds very much like that of a WASP. You’d have to be an idiot to make up a name like that!

The Philosopher/Homeless Man part was just my way of saying that they are no different. Homeless Men really are the greatest modern-day philosophers. They have all day to pontificate and do other things that they don’t know the meaning of or how to spell.

I am not homeless. That still does not mean that I cannot come up with new ideas. I have the time. Today’s idea isn’t so much an idea as much as it is a SIMPLE OBSERVATION!!! It’s about Holy Lands and what they mean in modern times.

The most famous Holy Lands are in the Middle East. Christianity, Islam, Judaism, are three of the biggest. There are those other little religions that pop up all over the place. The Sunnis, the Sh’ites (really?), and a few others that I have heard about but know nothing about. This isn’t about those counterculture religious rebels so forget about them for now.

A lot of these Holy Lands are in that central location because that’s where humanity began. Some of the first civilizations were built there and from them came our earliest religions. I’m not an expert on this topic so I will stop trying to name facts. My knowledge of that time period really starts with how the Sumerians invented irrigations and how Fred Flinstone’s boss was Mr. Slate. Early history bores me. It’s all “well we don’t really know, but taking into account blah blah blah.” They don’t even know how the pyramids were built. Why bother learning about it? All they can say is “here are some giant stone buildings that we don’t really know the purpose of or how they were built” then gaze at the students awkwardly.

(In the 1950′s all villains and bad people wore glasses)

The problem with having so many Holy Lands in the same space is that it causes a lot of problems. So many of the wars that go on in the Middle East is over territory for ownership of the property where something may or may not have happened. I don’t know why you need to stick a flag pole wherever it was that your deity died at. Isn’t your God so much bigger than one town? Isn’t he with you always? Does he not control the universe? And once you get that land, what do you do with it? Open up a theme park? Lots of people died for ownership of the Holy Land in the Middle East. There were about a dozen Crusades or something. All of those knights on the European side and all of the Muslims on the defensive side died because they thought that two different versions of the same story happened on the same fucking blades of grass. It’s insane! I used to think that knights were so awesome. Then I found out that all they were doing was slaughtering other human beings for a fucking mug that Jesus drank out of. Fuck you and your holy grail Lancelot. No wonder you shits had to make up dragons to seem more daring.

The Holy Lands of the Middle East are by far the most violent. It’s because the biggest and most influential religions claim ownership of that territory. Then there are a few more Holy Lands that are a lot less appealing. Take the Amish for instance. Their Holy Land is in Lancaster Pennsylvania. Nobody wants to take over this landmass. You have to take a Septa train to get there and they’re always on strike anyway. I applaud the Amish for choosing such an uninteresting location to call home. They never have to fear an invasion from an enemy religion. It’d be so easy to take over too. The Jews should just give up on defending Israel from their surrounding enemies and make their location to Lancaster. Once night hits, the Amish are fucked.

Mormons are the other silly religion whose Holy Land lies in America. They call their home in a big useless state called Utah. It’s where D.B. Cooper buried his money, according to Prison Break. This was another great choice of a location to set up. Utah is too far away from California for anyone to even notice it exists. They have one giant lake in it, but it’s filled with salt. Woopie! What a lousy state that is. Their capital is named after that crap lake. That’s when you know nobody great has ever been born there. When you name your capital after a giant mass of water that is undrinkable. The only thing worse would be if it was filled with Seltzer. God, I hate that stuff.

(I hate Seltzer so much that instead of putting a picture of that, here’s a picture of Brian Setzer. It’s Jump-Jivin!)

Finally there are the rest of the religions around the world. Taoism, Buddhism, Confucianism, Hinduism, all of them. They don’t get a bad wrap for being violent because nobody else wants their Holy Land. If all of a sudden all the Cajuns who believe in Voodoo discover that their origins lie in Beijing, shit is going to get violent. It’s not fair to judge a religion on how violent it is. They’re all violent really. You may think Buddhists are peaceful, but wait until their land gets taken from them. We’ll see how passive those bald hippies really are.

I don’t go out to eat much, but when I do, I’m not sure how much to tip. The standard is 15%. But then sometimes I hear 18%. I usually aim for 20% and round down. Or up. It depends on my mood and how much cleave my waiter or waitress is showing.

A lot of people are bad tippers. It’s not even one type of person that suck at tipping. We can’t profile who will and who will not be a bad tipper like we honestly probably could with who and who will not blow up an airplane. If you’re with a baby, you’re not blowing up a 747. That still might not be as bad as when your children cries and you don’t discipline it. I’ll take falling thousands of miles to my death than hearing a child whine. Not disciplining your child on a plane really is an act of terrorism.

That’s why a mandatory guide is needed to help those who do not know how to properly tip. Seeing as I am the closest thing this universe will ever see to a Supreme Overlord, my recommendations should be taken into account immediately.

0% – There are few instances where a tip of nothing is needed. If the waiter craps on your sandwich, punches your wife, then signs your children up for the army, then yes, don’t give them a tip. Otherwise, leave something. Even when you do a crappy job at work you get paid. They deserve the same type of respect for their incompetence. Plus, they’ll know that you didn’t just forget. It’s like mouthing “fuck you” instead of actually saying it. Has a different effect.

5% – This is a real message tip. It’s saying that you didn’t forget to tip, you’re not bad at math, and the server plain-old-sucked. I still think it’s a little low on what you should tip, even for a crappy server. That’s about a buck on a $20 tab. However, a 5% tip is completely allowed if the server doesn’t smile at you the whole time and pokes your stomach while asking you if you would like dessert. It’s rude of them to do that. And the same reason why I don’t go back to Ruby Tuesdays.

10% – This would be what I’d give a server who was very bad. Maybe less even. It takes a lot for a server to piss me off. They always seem stressed even when restaurants aren’t crowded. I don’t know if that’s a hiring policy for the places I eat at or not. They always seem to be sighing and then stand with their friends and joke around while my food gets cold. I’ve never worked a service job so it’s hard for me to relate. A 10% tip is very justified if your food is late, the server isn’t very apologetic, or they continually make mistakes. Most restaurants don’t have fancy menus. I find it hard to confuse “no onions” for “extra sour cream.”

15% – I guess this would be the poor-man’s average tip. It’s still about 10% more than any European would ever tip, which is good. If you’re a 15% tipper than you should talk with a French accent the whole time. The server will be pleased and their self-esteem will raise. In France, 15 means 100. That’s why they are 85% less efficient than the rest of the world. They still eat snails over there. Yuck! I should probably stop talking about the French and instead talk about 15% tips, but I got nothing.

20% – As I mentioned earlier, this is what I generally tip. When the service is exactly what I expected, that’s what they get from me. I’m never a bother when I go out to eat. I’m way too passive in fact. I never give an attitude to a server, unless it’s a hot girl. I’m hoping that I can piss off a cute waitress enough that she’ll spit in my food. That way it’s like we kissed through a proxy sandwich. (I literally caught that I typed “killed” instead of “kissed” right before posting this. My mind is in a dangerous place)

21% or more – This is for those high rollers. I don’t think I would ever tip this much, unless I got some sort of special deal. Anybody would be welcome to tip this much. I would never tell someone not to put money out into the world. When should you tip this much? Simply, whenever you wish to. It feels good to give a nice tip to someone. Unless they’re hotter than you are. Then it feels like they get every break in the world possible.

I wrote a whole big thing trying to justify how stupid people with great abs are. It came off as too much of an anti-muscle magazine feature. It was entirely too long to say one simple thing. Trying to obtain abs is a waste of time.

Most people are genetically not supposed to have abs. It’s probably healthier that way too. You have more cushion (possibly for the pushin’) to protect your organs. You never hear of news stories where people with great stomachs survive cataclysmic events. Fat guys are the ones that always survive traumatic falls and point-blank gunshots to the abdomen. Survival of the fittest? It’s really survival of the fattest. Until you get to a certain age. Then you get hypertension, diabetes, and a whole slew of other problems. Plus you’ve probably had depression and a low self-worth from being a fat slob your entire life. Maybe that bullet should have gone into your stomach a little deeper and put you out of your misery.

I exercise and usually watch what I eat. At this point I could really care less about having great abs. All that would mean is that I’d have to buy belly shirts and shave my stomach. It’ll take so long that I won’t have time to train my stomach and will end up getting fat again anyway. How do these chiseled human beings do it? Great genetics, strict diets (starving themselves), and doing boring exercises like planking. Have you ever done the planking exercise? After 10 seconds I think “What the fuck am I doing?” Then I go into the kitchen and get something to eat.

We all have abs, that’s kind of common knowledge now. The people with the visible abs though, are just hungry. That’s all it is. You need such a low body fat percentage to have abs that you miss out on other things like family dinners, Christmas parties, and other things you try to find an excuse not to go to. I don’t know about you, but I’m fine with just not being fat. Nobody sees abs anyway. I hate the beach so it’s not like I’d even be able to go there to show them off. The only opportunity I can see is maybe if I happen to reach for something on the top shelf and my shirt pulls up a little bit. Even then, who’s going to see it? Some stock boy? Doing crunches is a waste of time for me.

The main reason why most people want the abs (I sound like an uncle there) is to attract other people. People with abs are sexy. I can attest to that. Their faces are usually kind of weird-looking, what from all the steroids and not eating normal foods, but that little section in the middle of them is gorgeous. If you never have abs, you may NEVERSHAGAGREEK!!! but is that the end all be all in life? People from Athens usually look funny.

Abdominals, the scientific and politically correct term, is hard to say. I screw it up a lot and it reminds me of the abominable snowman. He doesn’t have abs and he is not a man made of snow. False advertisement! Yet another reason to hate abs and people with them.

I think abs are kind of going out of style a bit. You can be a sex symbol and have a pot belly, at least for men. Even women who 10 years ago would have been seen as fat get some time as being sexy ladies. I think the confusion comes in with fat because in school, people are either fat or skinny. Ten year olds are never in shape. They’re either shaped like sticks or giant balls. It’s hard for me to find a really thin girl attractive. It looks gross. I don’t want to see your clavicle. Eat something. You shouldn’t have that many veins poking out. You look like a gay man’s forearm.

Most people would rather be able to go out once a week and get pizza than to date someone with abs who has to get down on the ground and do some sort of trunk twist every ten minutes. Truth is, for both sexes I believe, abs don’t really matter. They don’t make you a better person. They don’t make you more charming. They most certainly don’t make you better at sex. What makes sex good is cock thickness and pussy tightness. If you don’t eat and have abs, your cock might get thinner from all the lack of nutrients. Okay, that isn’t true at all. But girls without abs, that have been overlooked by others probably have had as much sex. That means they’re tighter than the other girls, the ones with the abs. That must be awful. To have a tighter stomach than a vagina. I can’t imagine either.

The next time you see a hot couple with perfect bodies, more importantly abs, jogging along, laugh at them for the lousy sex they probably have. Yell “needle dick” and “loose lips” out at them if it’ll make you happier. What can they do? Sit-up you to death?

This, all coming from a guy who is convinced that his stomach looks like Mr. Moneybags from the Monopoly Game.

(My stomach looks like this man’s face)