How come Subway Sandwich Shops call their little sandwiches, “deli style”? It seems to me that all of their sandwiches are deli style. Are the bigger sandwiches actually “sandwich shop style” or are they something else? Oh yeah, and if you ask the owner, manager or sandwich girl at the Subway next to my work why this is, they will look at you like your parents did when you asked them what a condom was. But they still won’t answer. I mean, does anyone know why this is? Is it like gravity or time or something? Are we just supposed to take this for granted? And yes, I know I have too much free time.
If you’ve only known a girl for a week or so, and she uses any one of these three lines, run like a Kenyan in the Boston Marathon:
aaaaaaa“I think you’d really like it if I lived with you.”
aaaaaaa“You should really get a tattoo.”
aaaaaaa“I like that your place is messy. I thrive on chaos.”
(Side note: if they find me dead in the trunk of a car or something, well, you know what happened.)
Calling my editor and asking him to edit a column after he posted it, then watching the edit take place from 500 miles away, has replaced downloading free porn while streaming audio from a different city’s radio station as my favorite internet experience.
Is anyone out there really excited for the next generation of razor?
Apparently, the State of Missouri has put me in the national database—something about a suspended license—and I had to find out from the Florida DMV. You know, Missouri, if you want to tell me something, you could call or email. I mean, I know we’ve had our issues, but there’s no reason for you to behave like a little brat. Come on Missouri, grow up. And quit talking to Florida behind my back. (Seriously though, this could be a huge deal. Anyone know a good lawyer?)
When I was flying back home to Tampa from St. Louis after Christmas, I asked one of the airline’s employees why I was unable to print my boarding pass from my mom’s computer (when they had allowed me to print the boarding pass for my flight to St. Louis from my home computer in Tampa). The lady with whom I spoke (who looked like an incredibly frustrated and beardless version of Dumbledore from the Harry Potter series) told me that I was most likely on a watch list. So then, when I got through the line to manually receive my boarding pass, I asked the lady behind the counter if I was on a watch list. Her reply: “No. Would you like to be?” I hate people sometimes. Sometimes I really do.
Every time I take a flight, I have to endure stupid jokes from the pilot and stewardesses. This happens every flight, and it only seems to be getting worse. I don’t have a joke here. I just want it to stop.
Well, Monday Night Football will be moving from ABC to ESPN next year. I think my friend Emmy said it best when she said, “Wait. Hasn’t Monday Night Football always been on ESPN?” This is truly the end of an era.
According to Dave the Bartender, even though I write for a humor website, I’m not funny. When I told Dave that I must be funny because I write for a humor website, he replied, “Not necessarily. Look at the cast of Saturday Night Live. They’re on a skit comedy show and none of them are funny.” Touché, David. Touché.
And finally, because this is another one of those rambling, tangential, incoherent entries where I spit on logic and fluidity from 30,000 feet, I offer you the following, which my friend Ryan told me:
“The thing is, monkeys, no matter how well they’re trained, will eventually throw their own shit. And that’s what keeps me from owning a monkey.”