You are the result of 4 billion years of evolutionary success. Act like it, dammit.

Actually, in most cases that's very depressing.  Then again, maybe I just have some very stupid friends.  Kind of makes you wonder what we started at, huh?  They must have been some serious assholes.

I realize it's been a while since the last blog, but I went on vacation.  Sue me.*  For those of you who haven't forgotten about me, lost interest, or been hit by a car, I thank you for sticking with me.  Don't forget to click the white button over to the right to Follow.

*Please don't.

So we're officially back in the school year.  As I recently tweeted, if your fifth year in college is called a Victory Lap then I'll be doing a Victory Mile.  Luckily for you people going to college is and endless source of Daily Tablet material.  But let's not get ahead of ourselves, we still have my wonderful summer to talk about.

This is a long story, so I'm breaking it up for you.  See if you can hold on during the page breaks.

As some of you may know, I recently went to California.  I basically traveled the entire state and had many wonderful experiences.  However, wonderful experiences are rarely funny, so you don't get to hear about those.  Instead, I'm going to tell you about one of the most hellish adventures I've ever been on.  

Have you ever thought that some place was only an hour away, but a friend corrects you (they've always gotta be right, don't they?) and says it's not one, but four hours away, so naturally you google it to see who's right.  Smarty McJerkpants is right, of course (he's such a douche), and you're left to ponder how you managed to forget about three whole hours of the trip.  Don't feel bad, you probably just have short-term memory loss or amnesia.  Either way, you were wrong.  Very wrong.  This is essentially what happen to me, except in my case being wrong resulted in me losing movement in my legs and getting more dehydrated than I have ever been before.  I didn't cry though.*  

*Might be false.

So the apartment that I was staying at, we'll call it Never Never Land, is a bit farther than, well, any other place of residence in the entire city of Chico.  Actually, it might not even be within city limits.  I don't have the evidence to prove that, just go with it.  Anyway, the story begins when jolly old Tab wakes up one morning alone in the apartment.  I knew the roommates were at work/gone/etc for a while so I figured, why not go on a little run?  I thought I'd just take a nice little relaxing jog back to my other friends' house in Chico.  It's only about a mile, right?  WRONG.  SO WRONG.  SO WRONG IT HURTS.  If I could go back in time (and I'm working on it), the first thing I would do is go back to that exact moment and threaten my own life to deter me from going on that excruciatingly painful "jog".  I honestly might even knock myself unconscious.  However, time travel does not yet exist, and thus I left on the run.  Oh yes, did I mention that I elected not to eat anything before I went?  Yea, and we all know how well I function without food.  It's like the planets aligned to ruin my life.  

Anyway, I took a couple gulps of water and took off without stretching (cause everyone knows stretching's for pansies).  Off I went, like Little Red Freaking Riding Hood off to her grandmother's house.  In hindsight, I would have gladly taken on a talking wolf rather than finish that run.  So there I am, running at a completely irrational pace with twice the grace of a gazelle.  That lasted for about the first mile, if even.  Then I start thinking to myself, "This road is a lot longer than I thought it was.  I don't even recognize this area."  I even thought I was lost at one point, so naturally I kept running straight.  A couple miles in I'm really starting to overheat, keep in mind I started this run at a full sprint.  Also, it's roughly 97 degrees outside, which to me felt like the inside of a brick oven, which for those of you who don't know, average out at about 3,000 degrees.**

**Complete guess.

  Another mile passes and I start to recognize where I am, but at this point I'm not even excited about it.  If I hadn't recognized where I was, I probably would've started walking but since I did, the male ego reared its idiotic head and said, "Keep running, bitch.  Only nancy boys give up when you're this close."  Of course I listened and kept running.  I make it about four more blocks before I realize that I'm so dehydrated that I'm not even sweating anymore.  That's right, I'm completely dry.  Normally you would stop here, but my twisted mind approaches the situation by pointing out that because I'm dry, people will see me and think I haven't been running long at all.  Yes I realize that's absolutely retarded, but I'm not exactly thinking straight at this point.  So I keep moving.  I call it "moving" because what I'm doing here can't even be called "running".  

Now, if you can believe it, is where it gets interesting.  Usually when I run I avoid people in wheelchairs/motorized scooters like the black plague.  Why?  Because when I jog pass them I feel like I might as well dance in front of them for a couple seconds singing, "Look what I can do!!!  I can do this and you can't and that's why you suck!!"  Irrational?  Possibly, but that's how I feel.  So I see this elderly lady in a motorized scooter driving down a cross street, directly toward my path.  I panic, there's no way I'm gonna let her get there before me cause then I'd have to pass her.  So I pick up speed, probably to about 1.5 mph but it felt like I was sprinting, and the only thought is to beat her to the corner, then I can slow down again.  

You can stop holding your breath cause guess what?  I beat her there.  Usain Bolt would've have even been impressed.  Now I can slow down again.  Problem solved, right?  Wrong again.  You're 0 for 2 here.  I didn't realize that this was no ordinary old lady, this was Danica Patrick driving a motor scooter with six gears and a turbo boost.  This lady was haulin like the Grim Reaper was hot on her tail.  It took about seven seconds before she started catching up to me.  I don't know if this was some kind of sick twist on Karma or something but I almost broke down.  Screw the planets, it's like the galaxies aligned to kill me.  Literally the only thing that saved me was that she was going to a grocery store one block down.  I have never loved Safeway more than I did right then.  

After all this, I'm on the home stretch.  I can virtually see the finish line.  I am less than eight blocks away, and I'm starting to feel a little better.  Honestly that was probably just the dehydration making me a little delirious.  Regardless, I feel better and just as I'm thinking, "I've got this shit" I get a knock out punch.  A little kid on a mother effing Razor Scooters goes blasting past me.  And that's not even the worst part.  The real kick in the nuts came when he chuckled as he rode past and asked, "Havin' trouble there?"  DAMN THE RAZOR SCOOTERS.  All of them!  That's like somebody passing you on a pogo stick or a fucking unicycle..  It only solidifies the fact that you are traveling at less than 1 mph.  I didn't give up, but I did turn the corner.  There was no way I was going to watch that little punk ride off ahead of me.  If I'd had a stick, rock, or grenade, I would've thrown it at him.  After that nothing really interesting happens for the rest of the run, besides my face plant into the hardwood floor at my friends house.  The whole point behind this is that I just wanted to teach you all a very valuable lesson:  Razor Scooters are the devil.

I didn't realized that'd take up so much room, so I'm gonna break it up and put the rest of the shtuff on the next blog.  Deal with it.

Fact of the Day:  Club Direct, a travel insurance company in Britain, provides insurance plans for protection from falling coconuts.

Shout out to Cxadi Angus.

If your parents never had children, chances are you won't either.

Biological parents, that is.  None of this "adopted parents" nonsense.  Besides, everyone knows adoptions are illegal.  Wait, that's true isn't it?

The other day I was in the midst of a text conversation with a friend about flamingos.  We came to a decisive conclusion on them, and here it is:  Fuck flamingos.  Honestly, what purpose do they serve?  Beside the fake plastic lawn decorating ones, which we all know are about as cool as pleated jeans.  We established that they live in Florida, yes every single one of them, which instantly makes them suck, and the only value I can imagine them having is being used as croquet mallets in Alice in Wonderland.  As far as I'm concerned, flamingos could disappear from the world and I wouldn't even notice, and if they did I'd probably be happy.  Actually, the same goes for everything in Florida.  Better yet, let's just send them all to Detroit.  I'm pretty sure randomly firing automatic weapons in public isn't even illegal there anymore.

"Nearly everything you read online is a lie."  -Abraham Lincoln

I love infomercials.  They are great.  Where else can you burn time watching a group of people fill an entire hour trying to make a bender interesting?  Nowhere.  The only problem I have is with the people used in the infomercials.  Not even the ones giving the sales pitch, just the people that are using the other rival product.  I don't where they find these people, but they are single handedly the most stupid and incapable human beings I've ever seen in  my life.  Before watching these people do what they do, I didn't even know it was possible to make a plastic grocery bag look complicated.  They are so skilled in being complete idiots that my IQ goes down just from watching them.  For instance, I was watching one today for a product geared towards litter boxes (it was riveting), and the girl in the clip looked absolutely bewildered at the concept of scooping litter into a plastic bag.  When she tried to scoop, it was like the her world started crumbling.  The grocery bag's instructions must have been in Greek, and the scoop must've been a manual, not automatic, because she was straight clueless.  There had to have been an earthquake going on while she was scooping too, because she spilled more litter than a blind drunk with one arm and no fingers.

I love music.  Everybody loves music. And don't say, "No, not everybody loves music.  What about deaf people?"  Sitting there all smug like you beat the system.  Fuck you.  What about Beethoven?  He was deaf and he loved music.  Hell, he wrote music.  Suck it.   Okay let's pause for a second.  I don't mean to be so hostile, but here's why I am.  I recently got a new phone, and have yet to put my music on it, so when I'm driving (which I do a lot), I have been forced to listen to the radio.  I know, poor me right?  Right.  It's awful.  Usually I enjoy a nice perusal of the radio playlists every now and then, but this time it's becoming unbearable.  Radio stations have always been notorious for their extremely limited selection of music, and without fail you end up hearing the same song 5 times in an hour just because it's topped the pop charts.  Recently, and by "recently" I mean for the last two and a half months, Adele's "Rolling in the Deep" has been in the top whatever of the music popularity charts.  Good for her.  I'm happy for her, really.  But I swear on everything that's holy, if I hear "There's a fire, burning in my heart..." start on the radio one more time, I am going to track her down and actually set her on fire.  This can all be prevented if the radio stations would select more than 4 freaking songs to play on repeat, or just stop playing her song.  I'm sure she's made all the money she's going to make from it, and goddammit I'm going to have a stroke if I have to listen to it one more time.  Honestly, I rather listen to the fucking Wiggles for the rest of my life than waste another three minutes and forty eight seconds on that God-forsaken song.

Now that the rant is over with, let's talk about something fun.  How about sunburns?  Not like when you get sunburned, cause that sucks, I mean when you see someone who is roughly the shade of a Red Delicious apple.  Now I'm not usually one to delight in the suffering of others (*completely false), but yesterday....it was glorious.  The top three worst sunburns I've ever had in my entire life could combine and they would still pale in comparison to the sunburn on a man I saw yesterday.  Pun intended.  This man was so red it hurt to look at him, but I couldn't look away.  He was clearly in excruciating pain, and I only wish I could have videotaped him trying to walk.  The best way I can describe it is to picture someone walking while holding a fishbowl between their knees, both their arms straight out like they're halfway through a jumping jack, puffing their chest out, and grimacing like they're trying to scare a small child while also being constipated.  Ignoring the fact that this man will probably get skin cancer in about three days, it was a hilarious sight and brightened my day substantially.

This will probably be the last blog for a week or two because I'll be traveling.  Unless of course something completely ridiculous happens, then you'll be the first to know.  Have a nice end-of-summer.  Follow the blog and like the Facebook page.

Also, in case you haven't noticed, I'm really embracing the use of links.  They aren't spam, like on a lot of sites.  In my case, it's usually a link to a picture or something relative to the story, so click away.

Fact of the Day:  At the moment of conception, you spent about half an hour as a single cell.

States of the Day:  Excitement and California.

Shout out to Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell Etheridge.

A word to the wise isn't necessary. It's the stupid that need the advice.

Here's some advice:  Follow this blog.  I'm at over 800 views per week, yet still only 20 of you are following.  I need you to change that.  Please and thank you dammit.

Ladies and gentlemen, I think I may have discovered one of the most underrated things in all of humanity.  I'm assuming most of you reading this have been to college.  Not necessarily even passed, but at least "attended" one semester.  In that one semester, chances are your teacher gave you a syllabus with the grading policy on it.  The other day I was reading through the syllabus for my summer class, doing the traditional "What will I get if I make a 50 on the last quiz and an 84 on the last test?  If I ace the final and get a 90 on my homework total, will I still get a B?" etc etc.  What I realized though, is that in nearly every class, a dropped quiz grade option is almost expected.  And in some classes, a dropped TEST GRADE is given.  How the HELL is that even okay?!?  When you first see it, you're like "Oh, that's awesome!  That will really help my grade, and it's not too ridiculous of an idea, as we take five test anyway, so the best four really are the measure of us."  ABSOLUTELY NOT.  You are horribly horribly wrong.  Sit down and really think about what a dropped test grade means.  "We are going to teach you everything you'll need to know so you can make it in the next course.  Here is a test proving to us that you actually know what you're talking about, and won't get to the next course be asked a question, have an seizure and shit yourself.  Wait, you failed this test?  It's possible that you know literally nothing about any of the material we spent the last three weeks learning?  That's actually very apparent, as I see there are only dragons, unicorns, and drunk leprechauns drawn all over your test.  But don't fret!  We are prepared to let you completely discount the last three weeks, act as if it never happened, and give you a passing grade in the class.  Here's a lollipop too!"  When the HELL is anything like that every going to happen in the real world???  Here's a tip:  It won't.*  (*Exception: Unless you're phenomenally rich, a superhero, or Gary Busey.)  Most people believe that, in life, you need to learn things the hard way, such as the consequences of not studying, or how much Carlos Mencia sucks.  Those people, I'm sure, are plotting extremist attacks on the idea of dropped test grades.   All that being said, I think dropped test grades are an incredible, career-saving invention and I don't know what I'd do without them.

You know the little hanging solar systems we made in elementary school?  I wonder how many of those are awkwardly off balance now that Pluto had to be removed.

Now I know I've had my share of rants about cars, specifically the hybrid category.  When it really comes down to it, I'm not opposed to the idea of hybrids.  What I am opposed to, however, is the design of them.  I drive from Atlanta down south yesterday, and saw what is essentially my last mental straw.  I can accept that the hybrids save gas, the ozone layer, the world, Ralph Nader, etc etc, but is it absolutely necessary to design them so they look like they could be completely dismantled using a household can opener?  The Honda Insight?  Really.  And don't even get me started on the "Smart Car".  That's the biggest contradiction on the road.  I'd rather drive a tank that runs on kittens and the dreams of small children than drive that "car".   It was a good thought, Daimler, but do us all a favor, put that shit back in the toy box, go find your dignity (what's left of it should be in the trash can next to Charlie Sheen's sobriety), and just stick to making Mercedes.

I feel like being employed at the unemployment office might be the most ironic thing possible.  Do you remember when you were a kid and you had something another kid wanted, like candy, etc, and ate it really slow, saying "Na Na Boo Boo" (whatever the hell that means...)?  Well I feel like a job at the unemployment office is the ultimate Na Na Boo Boo.

Don't you hate it when the power goes out?  It doesn't matter.  I do.  And I feel like it always goes out right when I need to charge something.  That's not the point though.  When it comes back on, usually after three to six hours of debilitating heat and darkness and at least three spoiled food items that were in the fridge, I always go around and reset clocks.  What kills me though, is my alarm clock.  There is no possible way of counting how many times I check to make sure I set the time right on the clock.  Especially right before I go to sleep.  It's like I'm paranoid that I set the wrong time, or set AM instead of PM, or that the freaking Keebler Elves are going to come out at night and change the time.  Side Note:  I have a paranoid delusion that the Keebler Elves are mad at me for not eating their cookies.  It's not my fault dammit, I'm just not a cookie person.  Lay.  Off.

In my opinion (and another guy who could sue me for plagiarism), I think everyone needs to get their ass kicked every once in a while.  It keeps you from being too cocky or becoming too complacent.  So, to ensure that everyone goes through this rite of passage, I've started randomly attacking total strangers.

Fact of the Day:  Hitler was a vegetarian.

Shout out to Garrett Perrigo.

I survived the zombie apocolypse and all I got was this insatiable hunger.

And a gnarly case of gangrene.

Have you ever been walking down the sidewalk and gotten stuck behind someone?  Not behind a group of people, just a single person.  I was cruising to class the other day and it happened to me.  It's the most frustratingly awkward situation I've been in in a while.  It's not like I'm going to class at a full sprint, either.  I'm walking somewhat briskly, trying to get out of the heat, and thus end up passing a few people on my route.  And it's happened three more times since that first instance.  There I am, diligently on my way to be educated, and I get trapped behind a single person.  And to clarify, the sidewalk is roughly six feet wide.  I haven't actually measured as I don't carry a measuring tape around with me at all times, you'll have to excuse me for being weird.  Anyway, I can see it coming from a little while back, and start to decide whether I'm going left or right around this person to avoid slowing down and losing my momentum.  Then, out of nowhere, the person starts weaving back and forth like a mother effing cotton gin.  Maybe they have bad balance, maybe they blinked for 42 continuous seconds, or maybe they took eleven tequila shots right before walking out of the house this morning and it just now hit them.  I don't know what it is, but it pisses me off.  I'm all in my groove, iPod on, moving at the perfect velocity, then BAM! Mr Drunk In Public decides to do a dance routine right in front of me.  Whole day ruined instantly.  I'm going to start attempting citizen arrests.  Is it possible to revoke someone's Pedestrian License?  Either that or I'm going to get in front of them and just box them out for a minute or so.  How's it feel, bitch?

They say it's the little things in life that make you happy.  Apparently it's also those small things that make you furious.  Yet another reason I'm against midgets.

A single bolt of lightening contains enough electricity to toast 160,000 pieces of bread.  That's a crapload of toast.  I don't even know what I'd do with 160,000 pieces of toast.  Probably built a life-size replica of the White House.  It's possible, I just spent fifteen minutes doing the math.

I recently found out that all of the swans in England are property of the Queen.  That comes off as a tad bit greedy doesn't it?  I feel like I would choose something a little cooler if I was king.  King Tab, owner of every grizzly bear in the country.  Either that or I would claim all the mosquitoes and sue the hell out of everyone for killing them.  (Reason number 42,067 why I should never be king of anything.)

I'm in a pretty serious thought drought right now.  I'm stuck and I don't know what to do.  Please bear with me.  Feel free to post ideas.  Or send me money, either will work.  (I encourage the latter.)

Fact of the Day:  The trucking company Elvis Presley worked at when he was young was owned by Frank Sinatra.

Shout out to Trent Lara.

Convincing my dog that I really threw the ball is the closest I'll ever get to being a magician.

Though I can make an entire pizza disappear relatively quickly.  And I guess you could say my gleaming smile and winning personality are nothing short of magical.  (Disclaimer:  After rereading that last sentence, I realize the most magical thing about me is that no one has punched me in the face yet.)


If you're new, hit the follow button over to the right.  Much appreciated.  (I'm trying a nicer approach to this.)

My goal in life is for this blog to get so popular that I can copy Stephen Colbert and start every sentence with "Nation, blah blah blah..."  Well, that and to own the largest single Sour Patch Kid ever made.

Nation, as you should already know, the final Harry Potter movie comes to theaters this Friday.  If I had to show my excitement in one word, it would be "KoihsDFNKLWDVNWajsbgqekrgqpfff".  It's like Christmas, my birthday, the first day of summer vacation, and another Christmas all rolled into one.  There are two problems though, and I'm really worried about them.  The first is whether the movie will really do the book justice.  As I've said on many accounts, if David Yates (the director) messes up the final battle and it's not as amazingly epic as it should be, I will order the most expensive and detailed replica of the Elder Wand that I can find, have it to be shipped to me in Atlanta (first class of course, don't want it to get damaged), purchase a ticket to London, take a train to St Helens, acquire the address of Mr Yates, take him to lunch, take out the wand, and promptly shove it through his throat.  The second issue is the one that really bugs me.  It's inevitable when it really comes down to it.  If I described my excitement as "Christmas, my birthday, the first day of summer vacation, and another Christmas all rolled into one" then the feeling afterwards, when I realize there will be no more Harry Potter movies ever again, can only be described as the day after Christmas, the day after my birthday, and the last day of summer all combined into one day on which I also find out Santa isn't real and I have cancer.  Screw Friday the 13th, Saturday the 16th is scaring the shit out of me.  I don't even know what I'm going to do. Probably cry.  A lot.

Recently, whilst home in Macon, Georgia, I discovered an interesting tidbit about my family.  As you already know, my mother is a superhero.  That's old news.  I'm talking about the ancestral family.  To be honest, I'm not even sure if I want to share this, but as it's my job to entertain, I fear I must.  We can all agree that the The Patriot is a great movie.  If you haven't seen it, order it from Netflix, rent it from Blockbuster or Redbox, pirate it, pay a group of homeless actors to act it out for you, I don't care, just watch it.  The bad guy in this movie is Colonel Tavington, based on the character Sir Banastre Tarleton, who is otherwise known as "Bloody Tarleton".  Once you get past the obvious awesomeness of that nickname, you have to admit it's slightly unnerving.  I'm related to that guy.  No, not the actor.  Who gives a flying shit about Jacob Isaacs.  (Yes, I had to look that up, forgive me for not memorizing the full cast lists of decade-old movies in my spare time.)  In almost any other situation at all, I would be beyond stoked at the idea of being related to somebody in a war movie.  Not so much here.  For those of you that aren't getting it, or are belligerently ignorant and disobeyed my command to go watch the movie, here's the long and short of it:  Sir Bloody Tarleton was a colonel in the war.  The Revolutionary War.  OUR Revolutionary War.  I am directly related to a leading force in an attempt at restraining America from being free.  I cannot explain to you how much this hurts my patriotic ego.  Especially after blindly celebrating the Fourth Of July.  I feel betrayed by myself.  And as if that wasn't enough, the very same day I found this out, my loving mother also explained that I was related to the governor of Arkansas during the Civil War.  Needless to say, my family does not have a shining record when it comes to choosing what side of the war to be on.  Now please excuse me while I go team up with Ghaddafi and any other clearly losing side I can find. I've got to honor the tradition.

Every now and then when somebody tells me to put my number in their phone, instead of putting Tab, I store my number as God.  Then  wait a couple days and at some random time I text them "I saw that."  Recently I've thought of something that's way better and infinitely scarier.  I'm going to start storing my number as 666, then I'm going to text them "Just seein what's up, see you soon."

Fact of the Day:  In the second movie, Harry Potter & The Chamber of Secrets, Dumbledore has a portrait of Gandalf the Grey from Lord of the Rings hanging in his office.

Shout out to Daelyn Paul.

Kidnapping? I prefer to think of it as "surprise adoption".

Unfortunately that makes it no less illegal.

I'm going to call this my Twitter Blog because all of the following sections are very short thoughts (some are mine, some I stole, get over it).  Also, each of these will have no more than 140 characters.  Enjoy.

I wish you could google anything. Like "Where's my wallet?" How sick would that be? I mean, besides the overall creepiness of the situation.  Google is now IN your home.

In need of a cheap laugh?  Say "I won a math debate" as fast as you can.  Your welcome.  I hope you didn't do that it a public place.

I can't wait for the time machine to be invented.  Not so I can go back and spend more time with people or change anything.  I want it purely so we can toss out those stupid little girly poster quotes about never getting the moment back.

I feel like Animal from the Muppets is Elmo's long lost, crackhead father.

I feel like every time a sexy woman jumps out of a cake there is at least one guy who's sad about the cake being ruined.

Two days ago I saw a "Git-R-Done" bumper sticker on a Prius.  I don't even know what's real anymore.

I want to know what person made Home Depot start putting the "For Display Only" signs on the toilets.

I wonder what the most intelligent thing ever said was that started with the word "dude"?

I feel like gun salesmen and prostitutes are the only people who should be allowed to use the phrase "more bang for your buck".

Whoever decided a 1-inch candy bar should be called "fun-sized" really needs to re-evaluate their standards of entertainment.

On my tombstone I want it to say one of two things:  "I told you I was sick."  OR "Died from not forwarding the email to at least ten people."

I want to invent an alcohol and call it Responsibly.  That way I'd get free advertisement whenever some other alcohol company said "Please drink Responsibly" at the end of their commercials.

I used to be a hipster.  But that was before it became popular.

"Life is like a box of chocolates" has an entirely different meaning to diabetics.

Okay I lied, one of those paragraphs was a little more than 140 characters, but guess what?  I make the rules.  Not you.  Not Twitter.  Me.  And as far as I'm concerned 254 characters is close enough.

Shout out to Britney Bergeron.

Women don't want to hear what you think, they want to hear what they think, just in a deeper voice.

It's always nice to start off with a big healthy does of something offensive and stereotypical.  Moving on.

I might go skydiving on Sunday.  I'm pretty pumped about that.  I bet blind people don't go skydiving because it would scare the shit out of their dog.

Last weekend I went home to help paint my sister's bathroom.  (Don't worry, it gets slightly more interesting.)  So there I am, dutifully painting the walls and chatting with the madre, and somehow we came to a point in the conversation where we were talking about old people being ready to go.  You know, like reading to GO go.  I'm talking about dying people.  I promise it wasn't as morbid as it sounds.  So the conversation is cruising along until my mom says, "And you know I had that dying thing when I was 18..."  SCREECH.  Hold the freaking phone.  You what?!?!  "That dying thing?!"  What the hell mom.  You don't "just have that dying thing".  Last I checked, that's not how this whole deal works.  Naturally I assumed she meant something different.  I was wrong.  My mom died when she was eighteen.  The whole white light shebang and everything.  (Side Note: There is a whole fluffy, touchy-feely side to this story, but The Daily Tablet doesn't do that.  If you want that part, talk to me some other time.)  Back to death.  Basically the long and short of it is my mom beat death.  Now there are a lot of explanations for this, but I think we all know what's really going on.  My mom is a superhero.  In my mind, I'm picturing Death (who looks like Hulk Hogan but a little less douchey and dressed in all black) walking into the hospital room all buffed up and cocky, at which point my mother springs out of the hospital bed, bitch slaps Death in the face, says, "NOT NOW DAMMIT!"  and spartan kicks him out of the hospital window.  (We're at least ten floors up and there is a car parked right below the window for Death to smash into.  I don't mean to brag, but my mom is cooler than your mom.  Suck it.

Wanna hear a joke?  (Usually this is where I'd say "Women's Rights", but I've already made my offensive joke for the day so I won't say it.)  What kind of people make the lines last twice as long as usual?  Emo kids.  They're all such cutters.

Elevators.  Elevators are fun.  Unless you're stuck in one with a really old person or a young person that smells like an old person.  Anyway, I've been composing a list of my favorite things to do on elevators (also known as ways to annoy other people on elevators).  So far my favorites are making explosions whenever anybody hits a button, and audibly saying "DING" at every floor.  The absolute winner, however, is staring at one person for a while with a huge smile on, then announce, "I have new socks on."

I like to think that clouds are just allergic to rain.

Fact of the Day:  Brett Favre's first completed pass as a Green bay Packer was to himself.


Shout out to Tiffany Siemens