I think that little hole in the airplane window might be one of the most confusing things I've ever personally come into contact with. I have literally spent entire flights doing nothing but contemplating what in the hell the purpose of tiny little thing is.
One day I want Serta, Tempur-Pedic, and all the mattress companies to get together, collaborate with the federal police, and actually arrest all the people in the country who have removed that little tag on the mattress that says "Do not remove under penalty of law." Waste of time? Certainly not.
Last week, while doing what any normal 21 year old college student does on a Wednesday night (watching Wall-E and eating pancakes), I made a decision. Later on in life, when I am a multi-millionaire and have personally hired Morgan Freeman to follow me around and narrate my daily life, I have decided that I am going to have one of my houses be completely devoid of all electronics, save for a lone robot which will be a completely functional exact replica of Wall-E.
While we were on the topic of Wall-E, let's talk about Wally World. Y'all know what I'm talking about. That power hungry, "F the little guy", monopoly of a company that we fondly know as Walmart. I was perusing the aisles, looking for God knows what (probably something dangerous and/or unhealthy), and had to put my shopping venture on hold because I needed to use the little boys room. Now forgive me, as I may not be fully updated in the realm of automated air hand dryers, but last time I checked, they were still pretty wimpy. Nobody I know likes them, cause no matter how long you take, they just really don't get your hands all the way dry. Not these dryers. Apparently, Walmart needs to compensate for something, and decided to do it by installing nuclear powered hand dryers. No joke, I thought I had just teleported into a freaking wind tunnel. Either that, or gravity just got exponentially stronger, cause it almost threw me to the ground. What I'm really trying to say is that in the off chance that a Walmart associate reads this blog somewhere down the road, TAKE IT DOWN A NOTCH. I prefer to keep the skin on my hands. Thanks.
Long ago, in one of the first couple blogs, I told of me and my roommate (he'll go by Robert E. Lee in this one), and how we talked about pun-induced business names. Well, as I sit here listening to the entire collection of "Now That's What I Call Music" (73 total albums) backwards, I recalled another business idea that I came up with a few days ago. I want to start a Lawn Care company and call it Lawndry. Don't hate. You're just jealous you didn't think of it first.
The other day I slapped on my wetsuit, did a quick stretch, and went for a nice 4 hour surf on the World Wide Web via Stumble Upon (greatest invention since the knife that sliced bread). It brought me to a visual map of hangover cures from across the world. Some were gross, and some were absolutely repulsive. In no way is it possible to convince me that a pickled herring will help my already nauseated stomach. I'd rather french kiss a food processor. However, after reading all of the entries, it was pointed out to me that Ireland did not have a hangover cure listed, which I found slightly weird, given their stereotype. Then I realized that you can't get a hangover if you are 100% drunk for your entire mortal life.
I think cocaine is the equivalent of a performance enhancing drug for infomercial spokespeople. RIP Billy Mayes.
This weekend, I was privileged enough to come in contact with the all-time greatest truck driver in the history of trucks and/or drivers. I didn't get a good look, but I am pretty convinced that it might have actually been Jeff Gordon sitting in the cab. This guy was honestly hitting 70-73 mph driving on mountain roads that make me slow down to the low 60s high 50s. Not only that, but when he came upon a lesser human being in a Ford Explorer going a weak 60 mph on these cliff-edged blind turns uphill and downhill, he did what any semi-truck driver in this case would do. HE PASSED THE EXPLORER. Screw Jeff Gordon, It must have been some combination of Chuck Norris and Jesus in the driver's seat.
Once we careened the rest of the way behind the rocket-powered semi-truck to our residence for the weekend, I was informed that I would be guest starring as a barista in the camp's coffee shop. Now that's all fine and dandy, then they told me that the group that was attending that camp was a women's retreat. Don't get me wrong, I'm not sexist (not completely at least), but there is something about putting 100-150 over 40 yr old women together that makes their motherly instinct rival that of [insert some animal that eats its children]. See I can handle the women in the coffee shop when it's later in the day, OR early in the morning in the store or snack shop, but when you put these creatures in the coffee shop at 6:30am in the morning it's like they turned into the cast of Jurassic Park. No, not the people cast, I mean the dinosaur cast. We weren't even open yet, and when I looked up I saw what looked like two hungry, furious Velociraptors and T-Rex on it's period. I almost cried. Thankfully we had the only weapon that could have possibly saved us in this situation: Expresso. Even when we closed, they were at the doors and windows like the scene when the people were trapped in the car. I'm just gonna start carrying Caramel Macchiatos around, and when the women approach I'll just throw the drink and bolt like Usain.
Here's looking at you, kid.
Shout out to Nick Moore.
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