You guys know I don’t like making everything about me, but come on Canada, just put the fire out. I’ve got asthma and I want to go outside and smoke weed. This kind of childish behavior is exactly why we haven’t let you become a state yet.
Justin Trudou, I am holding you personally accountable. So much so that I am adding you to my list of grudges. As emperor of Canada this is exactly the kind of thing that is your responsibility. Don’t think that being on my list comes without consequences, get ready for this every day:
I don’t know how things work in Canada, but here in America when there is a fire, we put it out. Whether it be a city burning because of civil unrest, a religious compound that mysteriously catches fire while tanks are aimed at it, or an offshore oil rig explodes because of severely outdated safety guidelines- when there is a fire, we put it out- that’s what we do here in America. We put out fires.
Honestly though, I’m worried about the Canadian fire fighters and their horses:
Smoke inhalation is terrible for humans and ponies alike. Emperor Trudou, it might be time to stop focusing on being cute, and start focusing on upgrading your fire department.
Honestly, I almost wish Dick Cheney was still running the show, he would have considered this a direct attack on America and Saskatchewan would look like downtown Baghdad by now, circa 2004. That’s how upset I am about this fires. I’m wishing for Dick Cheney.
Let’s all just hope that Canada gets their shit together and puts this fire out before it gets out of control.
Hey Jabronis, no- not all of you- just a real good portion of you. If you are wondering if this is for you- just ask yourself- are you a jabroni who doesn’t know how to act in public? If the answer is yes, then keep reading. If the answer is no, you can still keep reading, I’m sure you will enjoy it, I mean, it’s not like only lesbians can enjoy lesbian porn. Or so I’ve been told.
This is for the people who shake their glasses at bartenders.
The people who snap their fingers at their waiter or waitress.
The people whose minds are blown that on a holiday weekend they have to wait more than 20 minutes for their meal to arrive.
The people who BLINDY cross the road with their children as they head to the beach.
The people who see a wide open beach, and not only do they park it as close to you as possible, but they let their sex receipts feed the damn seagulls. The sky rats do not need the tail end of your Wawa sandwich- they can feed themselves. There is literally a parking lot three miles away coated in a thick layer of McDonald’s fries for them to feed on.
Come on people, do better. Be better.
A lot of you have forgotten how to be human since life in the times of COVID.
Most of it boils down to patience, and this weird need to be satisfied the exact second you want something.
Listen, no one wants a drink faster than I do, I get it. But just wait like everyone else. Or order two drinks at a time, and when your second drink gets low- you hop back in the drink line. And hopefully you’ve timed it right so that you get your next two drinks as you finish up the one in your hand. You’re welcome.
Now when it’s time for dinner or lunch, maybe get there a little before you’re so hungry you’ve become unbearable to be around. The hostesses and the waitstaff know you’re hungry or you wouldn’t be there. Don’t ask them to hurry because you’re starving. Time your meals better. You’re an adult. This is how life works. Sometimes you have to wait for things.
Take a few deep breaths.
It’s going to be OK.
It’s a crabcake- not life saving medicine.
And I can’t believe I have to tell grown adults to look before they cross the road but here we are. Edging your way out so someone stops for you is one thing, but I, like I’m sure many other people have had to slam on their breaks to stop in time. And I’ll be honest, if I spill another coffee this summer because you walked out in front of my truck- I’m going to yell something out the window that I’m not going to be proud of later. So please don’t make me do that. There are enough lights that even on busy days you will naturally find a safe time to cross the street.
You might think this is an attack on tourists, but it’s not, plenty of people who live here year round are assholes too. This is a calling for everyone to just act a little better. Take a breath. Smoke a joint. Crack a beer.
If you’ve been reading this blog for a few years- you’ve probably heard me reference The Dipshit. Well the other day, I got bored and a little stoned again- and since I couldn’t just go back to running my now defunct Panera Bread page- I decided to try and make my friend a few extra dollars by selling his car for him. Without his permission of course. So I made the post above and included his phone number.
I was nice enough to make him this ad- and pay the $5 Craigslist makes you pay when you post a car for sale-so I wasn’t about to also field all the phone calls and texts that come when you list a car $3k under Kelly Blue Book value.
The post was up for about seven minutes, and I was suspect number one.
He called me and I couldn’t stop laughing. The combination of his anger and my mid morning bong rip were too much. I copped to it and promised to take it down.
I didn’t, obviously.
So I deleted it for him and sent this as proof:
He thanked me immediately. But what I didn’t tell him was right after I sent the “proof” over- I just immediately clicked un-delete.
This is around the same time I let one of my more terrible friends know about this prank. She quickly piled on.
It quickly became more about ruining his day than selling his car. We both started applying to colleges for him immediately.
This is around the time I found out there is an app you can download where you can change your number. So I thought it would be funny to try and buy his car using this app.
By now he was calling me every few minutes to yell at me and tell me about how he was going to get me back. So if I end up missing- just know it was probably part of this idiots “prank”.
I believe he had begun to suspect the ad wasn’t taken down yet. But in my defense, it wasn’t, I wanted this to last for a couple days. And it did.
As I was cruising on the island earlier today I saw the old 7/11 all boarded up and it broke my heart a little bit. That place was an institution for years. That place saw every island person imaginable: kids with sandy feet, angry New York moms loading up on Marlboros on their way to smoke and yell on the beach, some of the most hungover people on Earth in desperate need of a Gatorade, fisherman at 4am, drunk people at 2am who don’t want to wait on the lines at Wawa.
And that is where our story begins today.
Driving past that 7/11 I couldn’t help but think back on my weirdest night involving that place. I had spent the better part of that day bouncing around the island, at random bars and parties with some friends. Towards the end of the night I had made a lady friend who for some reason wanted to go home with me.
Maybe she wanted to rob me or something.
Anyway, we get in the taxi to go back to the house, and by this point I’m pretty banged up and in dire need of food.
“Dude.” I said to the taxi driver, “We gotta get food. I’m positive I have nothing in my house besides booze, I need some food, can we please stop somewhere?”
“Nah man, I’ve got too many pickups- I don’t have the time.”
“I’ll throw you a twenty dollar tip, please?”
“Too busy man, sorry.”
“Two twenties, and I won’t complain the whole way. You know I’ll be relentless, we’ve been through this song and dance before.”
Which was true- this wasn’t my first time getting hungry in his taxi.
“Fine, but not Wawa- you’ll be in there for twenty minutes waiting for your sandwich.”
“7/11 is perfect.” I replied.
“Eww.” She spoke up, “I’m not eating a microwaved burrito.”
Oh now she’s got standards all of a sudden?
“That’s fine.” I told her, “They have these taquito things on the rollers- it’s a life changing snack.”
I run inside, grab a half dozen buffalo chicken taquitos, two Gatorades, and a sugar free Red Bull. I get back in the taxi.
“No eating in the van Steve.”
“What the fuck did I say?”
“It’s fine we’re almost done.”
“These actually aren’t terrible.” She said as she reached for her second one.
“I know right!”
We get back to the house, have a few more drinks before we went up to my room to check each other for ticks.
I’m awoken a few short hours later with some of the worst stomach pain of my life. I could feel the sweat on my face and body. I sat up, knowing something bad was going to happen in a few seconds. I look over at my friend, and she’s wide eyed with sweat on her face too.
“Hey, so uhm, I have to use the bathroom. There is also a bathroom downstairs- if you have to pee or anything while I’m in the bathroom up here- it is very private down there- my roommate is in Philly visiting his girlfriend. I gotta go now though.”
I walked swiftly into the bathroom that was only a few feet away. I quick turned on the sink- to try and out volume what I knew what was about to happen.
Even with the water running on full blast- I could hear little steps running down the stairs.
As I sat there bashing the flusher all I could think about was this poor girl. Just trying to have fun with some tall hunk, and she ends up with a full case of the squirts. And not even the fun kind.
About 40 minutes later I made my way back to bed. She was still downstairs doing work- so I sparked up a joint in hopes that she’d be up in a few minutes and want to partake.
That never happened though. I eventually made my way downstairs- hoping there wasn’t a dead girl on my toilet, sitting there like little miss Elvis.
Bathroom door was wide open- which was unfortunate for the first floor of my house. So I walked into the kitchen to see if she was grabbing a water or something. No one there either. I opened a few windows.
By this point it’s about 6am. I go back upstairs- because in my stoned stupor I thought maybe we passed like ships in the night. She’s not there either. But there is one woman’s Vans shoe. Just sitting there. I sat there for a few minutes dumbfounded before I went back downstairs and outside to see if she’s sitting on the porch waiting for a ride.
Not there either.
High and confused, I go back upstairs.
Still no girl.
But there is still a shoe.
I go outback to make sure she’s not sitting by the water.
Not there either.
This girl was in such a hurry to leave the abomination she did in my downstairs bathroom- that she left with only one shoe on.
We never exchanged numbers or anything- so I had no way to reach out to her.
I ended up leaving the shoe in my closet hoping that one day I’d run into her and we’d laugh about the whole ordeal. I eventually threw it out when I moved, but I’ll forever remain curious about this shoeless Ho Jackson.
Rest in peace Ship Bottom 7/11. Thank you for providing me the slushees that I added way too much rum and vodka into as a kid. I’ll miss you forever.
If New Jersey is the armpit of America, I think we can all agree Florida is the asshole. If DeSantis wants to get rid of all this garbage seaweed, he should just start telling people it pairs nicely with the white cans of Monster Energy, the universal drink of scumbags.
But instead I’m sure all he’ll do is block books containing the words ‘seaweed’ and ‘blob’. And before you call me a liberal soy boy cuck snowflake for making that joke, just know I make fun of both sides, don’t be a puss. I make fun of Biden too for being a worthless bag of bones and Trump for looking like an Orange Gatorade with Zach Morris hair. I hate everyone, I promise.
But now back to Florida.
As if the people of Florida didn’t stink enough, they’re going to have almost 5,000 miles of seaweed flooding it’s Gulf Coast as it ferments in the hot hot Caribbean heat, mon!
I hope the great citizens of Florida are able to make Lemonaid out of AIDs again, and somehow use this seaweed for good. Like I don’t know, maybe make it into a drug or something. Can’t you see a bunch of kids in orange UF shirts smoking fermented seaweed in a Publix parking lot? While they chug cans of the white Monster energy drink.
I’d like to replace the worst television doctor since Dr. Huxtable, I mean of course, Dr. Phil.
Multiple people have come forward who have worked for Dr. Phil in the past who claim that there is a toxic work environment. That he allegedly bullies people, manipulates guests, treats guests unethically, and promotes racism. Who would have thought that someone that looks and sounds like Dr. Phil would be a racist… He looks like he says the N word on a regular basis and not just when he’s singing a Kendrick Lamar song in the car all by himself.
Let’s start with our qualifications.
Dr. Phil has a doctorate from The University of Northern Texas in psychology. I have an honorary doctorate of Theology from the Universal Life Church website that cost me 47 dollars. Like most people, I’ve never heard of the University of Northern Texas. I have however heard of the Universal Life Church.
That’s a point for me.
Now let’s talk in terms of morality. For years “Dr” Phil has been exploiting and taking advantage of morons under the guise of “helping them address their problems” or whatever bull shit he feeds to the trash people that go on his show. And he does this for millions of dollars a year.
Another point for ya boy. That’s 2 to nothing for all of you math majors out there.
I don’t want to alienate all of my fans in the south, but Dr. Phil sounds like a fucking idiot. Not all southern accents sound stupid, but his really does. He sounds like a mud farmer from West Texas.
Whereas I sound like if Seth Rogan wasn’t of Jewish descent and he gargled with scotch every morning, like a fucking American.
That puts us at 3-0 with the Squatch coming out on top.
Listen I can keep going with a million reasons as to why I should replace Dr Phil. But if you read this website on a regular basis, you know in your heart I would do a better job that that doorknob with a mustache.
Please sign my petition so I can replace Dr. Phil: The Petition
My fucking man! Looking sharped dressed in what I assume Wyatt Earp would have worn if he was born in Italy.
This dudes gonna be picking moth balls out of his mouth all the way to Ibiza.
Slinging dick to a 76 year old woman is probably easier than filling out financial aid paperwork these days. I wouldn’t know though- I went to college on a scholarship because I’m smart and handsome.
Listen, maybe they are in love, and they can overcome their 57 year age gap. Or maybe this kid just wants a few free vacations and is interested in learning about the Korean war.
The kid in question, Guiseppe D’Anna, 19, and his fiancé, whose name I couldn’t find- so we’ll just call her BagOfMilk, haven’t set a day yet- but I would urge them to set it for sooner rather than later.
The nice thing about dating someone in their late 70’s is that you don’t have to remember very many friends names. I know that has always been an issue for me in the past. Most of the time when people are being introduced to me I’m not actually listening, I’m busy crafting insults tailored for them in the chance that they say something rude to me that night. I am always ready.
Honestly though, I’m happy for this 76 year old. She gets to get stuffed like manicotti by some little Italian hunk deep into her golden years.
It all started like most of my ideas, with me being a little drunk and a little stoned. My friend had casually mentioned to me that the new Panera Bread was set to open soon, but when he went to check when they would open, there was no answer, as they had no social media page.
In the year 2023, not having a social media account for your business is as dumb as being closed on Sundays (fuck you chick-fil-a).
So like any other rational adult, I hopped on Instagram and made them a page. Here is the proof:
They weren’t actually open at 5:30am, they open at 6am. But anyone who wants to eat Panera Bread at 5:30am deserves to wait 30 minutes.
This was taken about two weeks before my account finally got suspended for dunking on some kid who tried to talk shit on Panera Bread, but we’ll get to that later.
So anyway, what did I do with my new found power? I posted daily super grainy pictures of Panera Bread food that I found on Google.
I would take a screenshot of the thumbnail on Google. Then I would take another screen shot of this but with the picture zoomed out:
So by the time I uploaded it, it looked like it was taken on a Nokia Potato.
I think maybe five of my friends knew about this. I had to keep my circle small so word wouldn’t get out. I thought I’d be able to get to at least a thousand followers- but that’s when I got bored and decided to get a little weird with it.
And that is when I did my first giveaway. I did one of those, share this and tag three friends kinda posts. I think the winner got a free loaf of bread.
If you look at the post above this one, it looks like one of those posts where you click “more” and it expands to a longer post. But it didn’t. I just typed, “…more”. So people would click on it over and over again, but nothing would expand.
Anyway, speaking of bread, shoutout to the super blurry PB employee I found on Google:
I was ‘accidentally order from two food delivery services’ stoned when I decided to create, Mike “Dollop” Hurnberger. Having the word Dollop as a middle name still makes me laugh. He is the bread manager. Not the baker. The bread manager. And no one questioned anything. Not even the fact his nickname was Dollop. This post proceeded to get like 30 likes.
I was even nice enough to work on getting them some catering gigs. I for one, know that I popped a tub of salad on NYE.
After running the page another week I decided it was time to get into a friendly feud. I aimed my sights across the parking lot at the Chic-Fil-A.
Shots were officially fired. The tea was dumped in the river or whatever. I was ready for war. I think someone commented on it and called me mean. I didn’t get a chance to screenshot everything. They don’t warn you before your page gets taken down.
Like with everything in life, I thought I had more time. Here is the post that I think got the page taken down. I posted this on a Sunday.
The post itself was maybe pushing it. But I really wanted Chic-Fil-A to respond. I thought at the very least they would call me the ‘F’ word.
But when some kid decided to post something hurtful, I had to do some punching down. I’m sorry, but don’t post a picture of you holding a second place trophy like you’re a winner and then talk shit to someone online.
Anyway, my time running the Manahawkin Panera Bread Instagram was fun and I’ll miss it forever.
For some reason, whenever a celebrity death occurs they always say that the person “passed away peacefully at home surrounded by friends and family.”
Sounds beautiful, right?
I mean, honestly, I don’t know. Hear me out.
Want to know when I want to be surrounded by friends and family? My birthday. New Years Eve maybe. Not when I’m dying. I don’t want all those people around me. My friends are too funny. I want all the attention on me. And I certainly don’t want people laughing.
My friends can’t shut the fuck up either. I don’t want side conversations while I’m in the middle of dying. And I don’t want to die in the middle of someone telling a story.
HOW DOES IT END? WHAT HAPPENED WITH CAROL FROM WORK?
Now when I die… when I die I want to be surrounded by absolute total strangers. Just pull a few people off the street, send em right into my room. Don’t tell them why they’re coming in either. Be like, “hey get in here” then lock the door on them so they’re stuck. And I’ll be like, “welcome to watching me die folks, it could be a few minutes or it could be a day or two, either way, buckle up, I’ve got a lot of stuff to come clean about.”
Or maybe I’ll just pick one friend I’m not all that close with and have them be by my side while I’m dying. It’ll be sort of like Brian’s Song, but not nearly as gay.
Anyway, let’s get to the celebrities that died this year that I feel like talking about, my Mount Rushmore of 2022 Celebrity deaths, if you will. This is obviously not all of the celebrities that died- Mt. Rushmore only has four faces, so that’s all I can pick. I don’t make the rules here people.
Obviously we’re going to start with my guy Coolio.
I’ve spent most of my life confusing Coolio with Busta Rhyhmes, but I will not be doing that here, I’m better than that. Coolio rose to fame when the movie Dangerous Minds came out, starring a smoking hot Michelle Pfeiffer, and featuring his song, Gangster’s Paradise.
But more importantly, Coolio had maybe one of the worst haircuts of all time, paired with that little thin mustache I love so much- he was perfect.
RIP in peace Coolio, hope you’re up there in the real gangsters paradise.
Queen Elizabeth also finally died.
Now I’m not using finally because I’m happy it happened. It’s just that she was one thousand years old, and it was bound to happen. No one is suspecting foul play. But if you do want to suspect it, look no further than her creepy son who gets to play dress up now and act important.
Which brings me to my next point, did anyone have an easier life than the Queen and her shit family? Like they don’t make any real decisions, they’re legit just figureheads who have to make public appearances and pretend to matter. And what money do they survive off of? The Sovereign Grant- paid for with tax dollars- or whatever their stupid currency is called- to the tune of about 120 million a year (US Dollars).
Imagine if we had to pay people our hard earned tax dollars to pretend like they care and make pretend decisions? Boy, I bet we would be livid.
That brings me to someone who earned every penny he had. With each swing of his mighty mallet, he covered his fans with watermelon and tears from laughter. I’m talking about, of course, Gallagher.
He mesmerized fans all over the world by placing an item onto the podium, saying a few words, and then smashing the fuck out of it. Watermelons was the closer, but he also smashed things like alarm clocks, salads, figurines, plates, you name it- Gallagher probably smashed it. He was truly ahead of his time.
RIP in peace king, gone but never 4gotten.
Next and closing out this Mt. Rushmore of dead celebs, is the one the only Kristie Alley. Not only was I a HUGE fan of cheers, but she is in one of the most important movies I’ve ever seen.
I’ll never forget when I first watched the modern cinematic masterpiece that is Look Who’s Talking. Listening to the dialogue, watching the story unfold, that’s when I knew I could make it as a writer. Because the fact that- that corn filled hunk of dog shit of a movie was popular enough to get a sequel- gave me the confidence I needed to start writing shitty books.
May all of the celebrities who died this year rest in peace. But most importantly these four.
A Thai monastery had to close it’s doors because a bunch of monks were pinched for doing meth…
Of all the drugs that you’d assume monks take- meth was maybe at the bottom of that list. Weed? Sure. Shrooms? Probably. Opium? Absolutely.
But meth? Why on earth would these lunatics be doing meth when trapped in a monastery? Meth is something you do when you’re in Florida visiting your cousin. Or you’re in Arizona- for literally any reason. But trapped in a monastery with a bunch of other religious dorks and you’re going to give meth a whirl? Just seems like a waste of perfectly good meth. Especially since there is no one to rob- I don’t think monks have any cool possessions unless you’re a big fan of flowing orange ill fitting robes.
As the proud journalist I am- I have a lot of questions:
What were this monks doing that made the higher up monks want to drug test them?
Is meth a big problem in the monk community?
Do you think if you let these monks fuck they wouldn’t be doing meth?
Is being a monk fun at all?
I see that these monks have been un-monkified-punishment fits the crime- I get it, but does that come with any negative legal consequences? Or is it just like, ok you can go have fun now and not dress like a shit head?
I’ll be honest, with that line of questioning I’d be shocked if 60 minutes doesn’t reach out and offer me some kind of position on their writing staff or even better, let me host it. Fire those skeletons and let me take over.
Honestly I’m just jealous. I have to stress every day about what black v-neck I’m going to wear and which one of my two pairs of jeans I’m going to wear. Meanwhile these monks don’t have to make any of the hard fashion decisions like I have to.
Honestly good for these monks.
Hunter S. Thompson said he couldn’t advocate drugs…