Everyone likes hanging out with their friends. Everyone likes having a good time. So why are you hosting your birthday at a loud shitty bar.
A loud shitty bar charging $10 for a Bud Light. A loud shitty bar where I can’t hear anything but shitty Rihanna layed over a shitty house beat. I make better sounds when I take a shit.
A dark shitty bar where I can’t tell how ugly the girl next to me is. How far petruded her new herpes sores are.
Complex 1 or complex 2.
I can’t tell.
The only thing indicative of my movement through the packed shitty crowd is different body odor. I love being smushed between two fat macho guys with a short girl fighting for oxygen. Fight woman FIGHT.
Oh, you think a gas mask is your ally, you merely adopted the gas mask. I was born in cologne, molded by it. Your scent of pinewood and squirrel testosterone smells like shit. Girls don’t swoon over your Drakkar . When you spray a bottle on your chest, neck, wrist, pits, ears, etc., you fumigate the entire city. Rats and children will follow out of town–over the bridge, under the tunnel, back to the hellhole that spawns vacuous waste.
Nobody wants to go out and deal with meathead ego. Hulk smash doesn’t play well with other guys. Beta fish and gerbils–trying to rule the world one 3 a.m. bar at a time. Lacoste shirts and Yolo.
Bark loud and fast. They travel in packs.
Shower them in cupcake vodka and light their cigarettes. One’s bound to keel over.
This past weekend I wasted prime Saturday afternoon hours watching the women’s Crossfit games on ESPN. What a horrible decision. Not only was it an attrociuos competition to see who can do the most tiring, most pointless shit the fastest, but it reminded me of friends I have lost to the Crossfit mindset.
If you’re not aware of what Crossfit is, watch these videos:
“We’re really doin’ this shit so we can go outside and survive better”. You make me want to kill myself. We don’t live in the wild asshole. Do you hunt boar? No. Are there are no tigers running wild? You drive a Carolla to pick up bacon and some kitty litter. The only things you fight are your student loan debt and your god awful athlete’s foot from your shitty Vibrams. I know, because you bitch about it on facebook. Since when did Crossfit become the only avenue to physical health? Meatheads yelling does not equal motivation and making up retarded exercises doesn’t make you stronger. “But its muscle confusion, bro”. Doing a power snatch, tossing the bar in the air, doing a 360 and catching it doesn’t do anything but make a back injury more likely.
And obviously people at regular gyms do exercises wrong all the time, but when your instructor is Crossfit certified you might as well pull the pin on a grenade, put it in your pocket, and continue on your set. Crossfit instructors are good for yelling and lying about your form. Next time you squat and your Crossfit trainer says you have good form, put the weight down and look between your legs. If your intestines herniate out your asshole it’s time to get a gym membership elsewhere. If they haven’t yet, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Nobody in their right mind likes riding the subway. It’s an underground nightmare for the majority of commuters. If you’re not delayed from reroutes and construction, you’re hearing the local sombrero band rape your ears.
There is always something or someone making the ride worse, and the majority of the time they fall under similar categories. Here are the top 3 retards you experience in your daily commute, and believe me, they all deserve a beat down.
1. The smelly hobo – Get out of my f**king subway car. This isn’t a home, that seat isn’t a bed, and I don’t see pillows anywhere. Get the f**k up and get some help. You smell like you shit your pants 5 days ago and forgot what shit is. I’m not your alarm. Don’t look at me with a disgusted face like I’m bothering you. Nobody pays $2.50 to step into a subway car and instantly think “I want to kill myself” for the next 20 minutes. It’s even worse when you realize the smell went away because it’s seeped so far into your body. Don’t think I’m some right-wing hoping the poor start dying on their own dime–I’d rather see this guy in an apartment, with a job, and soap. But shit, get the f**k out my subway car.
2. Speech boys – I’ve had some memorable speech boys in my relatively short tenure in New York, but they all have the same rap. They don’t know when to shut the f**k up. A few months ago I had an angry white guy eco-bitching with a Bed Bath & Beyond bag. Just yesterday I had an old black man with a wheeler comparing New York’s stop and frisk policy to that of Adolf Hitler. Even the black girl standing next to me was having a hot sweat of embarassment. Are all of you really that desperate for an audience? The subway isn’t your soapbox. Nobody will ever thank you for bringing the subject to their attention.
Then there are the one’s that try to get a dollar from you. “Good day (It’s not) and god bless (shut up). I’m not here to bother you. I’ve been homeless for 6 months living on the street looking for food. I don’t do drugs”…Stop right there. You don’t do drugs? Your arm looks like it has herpes, your teeth are rotting out of your face and you look like a Spiderman villain. Trying to do puppy dog eyes doesn’t make you look less psycho. I’m not your source for a good time–go in a back alley for that.
But on a more serious note, I know not everyone on the street does drugs. There are some who need help because the world has truly taken a huge shit on their life–no friends, no living family, or savings. Go to a homeless shelter. Ask a guy on the street to Google where the nearest one is. Don’t board a subway and give a speech trying to guilt everyone for a dollar. You’re a poor investment and I’d rather see my 401(k) go up, or buy a Snickers.
3. Entitled Seat Queens – I f**king haaate Seat Queens. If there’s an inch of space their ass will try to slip in, snuggle up, and bump your ass far from where it was. They’ll box you out, step on your feet, elbow if necessary, just to plop their fat ass in a place it was never meant to fit. Is it really that hard to stand, you piece of shit. When you’re the size of two people wait for 2 seats to open up. Don’t lift your ass like it’s a backpack and think it’s making you skinnier. The worst part is when their stop comes up. Sit your ass down and wait your turn bich. You wanted the seat, you got the seat. Now wait for everyone standing to clear out. Don’t try to pop up once the doors open and mush your way into the front. I’m not an obstacle for you to get around. I don’t give a shit if you’re having cardiac arrest and need fresh air. You’ll get my fart wind and that’s that.
Do this instead
I don’t understand Beats headphones. At all.
There are trends year after year that you always look back on and say “Man, that was dumb as fuck”. Solid examples include: Ed Hardy shirts, Von Dutch Hats, frosted tips, and Jnco jeans. But then there are Beats headphones. They’re in a whole ‘nother class. The modern dunce cap.
How the hell Beats headphones became so popular is beyond me. I understand marketing and advertising gets everyone. There is no way around it. But sometimes there are products that defy common sense–products you’d expect the average customer to realize are complete shit, but nonetheless have incredible sales. (Side note, if you bought a power band, you deserve to get shot by Mark Cuban.)
Since Beats came out in 2008 there has not been a shortage of dickheads buying the shit. Everytime I step on the subway I see at least 3 people with those shitty B’s over their ears, blasting rap or other Top 40 singles. You make me want to jam my eardrums with a surgeon’s scalpel. I didn’t get onto the subway car to hear you DJ. Nobody did. Nobody looks at someone wearing Beats headphones and thinks, “That guy right there–he is cool. I want to be like him. I want to stand next to him and hear his shitty rap.”
And if you bought Beats headphones because they sound good, you’re an even bigger asshole. At least the first dickhead was ignorant all around, already lobotomized. You on the other hand genuinely think you got a deal. Who the fuck spends $300 on headphones anyway. If you’re not in the music industry, a sound engineer, or rich how are you justifying a $300 set of headphones. It’s rare you see a person with actual means wearing those bright plastic pieces of shit around their head, and if you do, you instantly think it was a gift that couldn’t be returned.
I wonder when the trend will be over, but it’s gone on for 5 impressive years. I don’t seen an end in sight and I’m almost ready to jump in front of the next bus. I can’t even be angry with Dr. Dre or Monster cable. They fully deserve every penny. Shit if I could sell shitty plastic for that much I would. I may be a bit jealous, but who wouldn’t. I had more faith in humanity. America is free country, I guess. God, the next thing I’ll probably hear is some 5 year old shot his 2 year old sister with a gun made specifically for kids. Wait. Shit. That happened.
SoOoul Cycle is the latest fad in exercise regimen and I f**king hate it. This is on their website — “SoulCycle’s full-body workout has revolutionized indoor cycling and taken the world of fitness by storm.” America is dumb.
How are you willing to pay $30 for an hour of riding a stationary bike? Do you lack motivation that much? 30 dollars worth? Your grandfather must turning in his grave. He’s probably trying to piece together his rotting corpse to smack you with a rolled-up newspaper. The man probably spent 2 months saving up that money, eating porridge and beans, widdling wooden figurines with his blistered fingers–and you just wasted it away on some glorified spin class.
Where does the $30 per visit get justified. You’re in a packed room on a stationary bike. Your face is inches away from another person’s ass. Your ass is inches away from another persons face. The point is to get sweaty and bike through imaginary hills listening to Katy Perry and other Top 40’s. I don’t see where the value comes in. Unless you’re Simple Jack you should realize the same fitness results can be achieved for way less cash, if not completely free. For comparison, $30 will get you 3.5 Chipotle burritos, 2.5 movie tickets, 1.5 2-for-20 Applebee’s dinners (comes with an appetizer or dessert, your choice), 3 manicures (if that’s your thing), a happy ending (if that’s your thing), or an airsoft gun, with scope.
In order to tell you why you’re a failure I need to tell you about an amazing man named Jack LaLanne. He is quite possibly the most badass fitness personality in the history of time. Arnold has nothing on LaLanne (and if he doesn’t, then you’re the shit on the bottom of his shoe) and I’ll tell you why. Not only did LaLanne deteriorate slower than U-238, but was doing push-ups the up until the day he died–at 96. He was still your mother’s DILFy fantasy. He ate fresh food and worked out daily, and most importantly–he wasn’t a pussy about it. He worked out hard, and didn’t pay someone $30 to yell at them. LaLanne apparently once said (according to wikipedia, which I rely on for reputable evidence), “I train like I’m training for the Olympics or for a Mr. America contest, the way I’ve always trained my whole life. You see, life is a battfield. Life is survival of the fittest.” Does that sound like a winner? Yes. Does someone paying $30 for a spinning class sound like a winner? No–they sound like they should be punched in the face.
Here are more LaLanne quotes explaining your chunky ass.
“If man made it, don’t eat it”, “if it tastes good, spit it out.”
“15 minutes to warm up? Does a lion warm up when he’s hungry? ‘Uh oh, here comes an antelope. Better warm up.’ No! He just goes out there and eats the sucker.”
For comparison, here’s what you say every Sunday. “Last night was soOooo crazy. I’m feeling like such a fatty, but I’m going to go to SoOOooul Cycle and have a prOtein shake. It’s going to cure all the burgers and pizza I had this week. I totally deserve a Drunch after with my girls.” What you should add at the end is–“I’m a dumb asshole”.
Now go read Lalanne’s Wikipedia and try to emulate him–or continue and pay $30 a session. I don’t give a s***.
“Drunch” – A late morning or early afternoon meal (usually on Saturday or Sunday) at which hipsters and poseurs alike gather at a local hotspot in which they consume more alcohol than food, in an attempt to rid themselves of the previous night’s hangover“
– Urban Dictionary
Drunch. The be all, end all, post-hardnightout, Ineedtorehasheverythingfromlas
I would like to point out not everyone who partakes in drunch is obtuse—but the vast majority are, and this is their bill. Fat, vacuous, group-think jappy girls, in big retarded (and expensive) sunglasses, yapping and yelling, drowning in mimosa, shoving fat avocado omlets down their fat gullets, reciting the previous night in ungodly praise of either how much alcohol they consumed or how wild they were and how many guys came up to them. It’s a sorority house table of discussion with little focus on how fat and insignificant they are.
Exaggerating the previous night doesn’t make you sound cooler. You went to a loud bar with your disgusting girlfriends and fiddled over your phone while meat heads tried to get in you. It happens over and over. Weekend after weekend. The only reason they’re talking to you is because they want to shoot one off. You are not more important because some desperate guy bought you a drink, you’re not hardcore because you had six cupcake vodka shots at the pregame, and you’re not a catch because you have a severe muffin top. Compare yourself to Ke$ha. She sucks and definitely drunches, but at least she’s legitimately a shitty human being, owning it and making money off it. If you’re going to continue, just make sure you get your hepatitis shot and tip your waiter. And stop screaming. It’s Sunday morning. Some people want to enjoy the weekend, not waste it away in a silly buzz of hopeless fantasy.
Coachella was awesome, bro. It was dope. Did I tell you how dope it was? I got all these urban outfitters shirts–mostly patterns for the weekend. Had to include some neon though. Everyone needs to know I’m chill–I can party. I mean, I got 4 likes on my first instagram.
But seriously, NOTHING comes close to the vibes at Coach. Everybody is free–having a good time. There was a solid 4 hours where I forgot about my student loan debt.
Weather is perfect. Totally organic. I found paradise at Coach.
I met this girl Jamie from San Diego State. Hottest ass. Probably did cross fit or something. Anyway we started makin out, drinkin some beers at the garden.
Me and my buddy Dom brought Jamie and her friend back to our tent. We scored this killer bud ealier in the week, saved it for Coach. We all get baked. LIKE BAKED. No seriously LIKE YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW. MEGA HIGH. Anyway, I’m a little sweaty, you know, it’s hot. We start makin out. It’s sick. Had to be there. But she took of my pants, smelled my balls and saw my tiny dick. She grabbed her friend and left the tent.
I mean, whatever. So the next day we hit up the mainstage. So chillllllllllllllll all day. Brought my extra strength speed stick with me. Good thing too. Popped on my neon sunglasses and felt the sun on my back. Probably should have put more sunblock on.
Saturday night was so awesome. Better than anything ever. NOTHING was better than Saturday night. Bro, you had to be there. You don’t even know how good it was. I can’t even describe. Bassnectar was DOPE. The beats were pretty hard to bob my hand to, but so much is goin on with girls’s boobies out. I had to leave early because my buddy suffers from epilepsy, but that first track was hard.
Coachella is unlike ANYTHING in this world. I felt at home. It’s not actually my home though–probably won’t ever be, but you know what I’m saying. I have a pretty sweet deal at home right now with my parents and younger brother. They give me a lot of shit about working and stuff, but it’s all good. Next year I’m definitely going back. We’re like a family out there. Everyone that goes to weekend 1 knows how much better Coach is the first week. Second week is lame as hell. Seriously.