Average Yahoo User: What the fuck is a Tumblr?

Average Tumblr User: What the fuck is a Yahoo? AND I’LL CURSE WHENEVER I WANT, MOM! IT’S MY FUCKING LIFE! CLOSE MY DOOR! NO, IT’S NOT YOUR DOOR! IT’S MY DOOR! WHAT, AM I A SLAVE IN THIS HOUSE?! AM I YOUR SLAVE?! DO YOU OWN ME TOO?! OH, YESA’ MASSA’ I GO AND DO MY HOMEWORK RIGHTA’ WAY, MASSA’! FUCK YOU, MOM! THIS IS WHY DAD LEFT! YOU DID THIS TO US!

By Bill Dixon

1. For the Love of Everything Holy, Stop Telling Me How to Make Bombs

Stop telling me how easy it is to make a bomb. I spent the afternoon of the Boston Marathon bombing in L.A. traffic, screaming at my radio as they told me just how easily I could make my very own explosive or incendiary device.

“From what we are understanding, the bomb was a simple device made from everyday items you might find in your own kitchen.  All you need is ____________, ___________ and a little ____________. The instructions for it can be found very easily with a simple Google search of ____________.”

All you have to say is, “The bomb was made with household materials–frightening, right guys?” You don’t need to break it down for me. While you’re telling me this, some bearded lunatic is in his underwear, covered in Nutella, running around his trailer while talking to a volleyball–”Honey, where’s a pen!? NPR is givin’ recipes!”

2. If You Don’t Know What’s Happening, Shut Up

Helpful Information: Two bombs detonated at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. Two fatalities reported; at least two dozen injured.

Less Helpful: Terrorists probably exploded a bomb in Boston; at least two dead, it could be 100, who knows. Also, JFK Library probably got blown up. Reports coming in of Osama Bin Laden’s ghost shoplifting at a South Boston grocery store. He reportedly paid for several items but ate several string cheeses while shopping and shoved the wrappers in his ghost pocket without paying for them. BREAKING NEWS: John King reports that the FBI has Osama Bin Laden’s ghost in custody and it was seven string cheeses.

3. Don’t Tell Me the Name of the Person Who Did it, and Stop Calling Him a Lone Wolf  

“There is a good chance that this is a lone wolf we are dealing with” -CNN. Lone wolf? What is he, a fuckin’ superhero? Some asshole who owns a pressure cooker isn’t an X-man, he’s a douche bag.

Also, I have a limited amount of space in my brain and I like to pack that space with valuable things like the time I was 10 years old and went to a sleepover where they were watching the movie Porky’s and I started crying, called my mom and asked her to pick me up because the movie they were watching wasn’t appropriate for me. I also like to keep my brain filled with the fantasy I have of my mom calling me a punk ass bitch and hanging up the phone. These are important things to keep in my brain.

But once they capture or identify the person who shoots up an elementary school or blows up a federal building or kills spectators at a public event, I don’t want to know his name– ever. I want him or her to be forgotten forever. I want the history books scrubbed of their disease and I certainly do not want one single inch of psychic real estate occupied by a coward’s legacy. And finally…

4. Instead of Telling Me About People Who Went On Killing Sprees, Try Telling Me About People Who Go On Living Sprees

I would love to have my regularly scheduled programming interrupted with “BREAKING NEWS: At 9 PM EST, 33-year-old Kenneth Jordan of Jacksonville, Florida was making brownies when he realized he just wanted the batter, so in an unprecedented action, he sat in his living room in his pajamas and ate brownie batter out of a mixing bowl with a big wooden spoon and watched Annie Hall. According to reports, the man then decided to call his estranged father just to tell him he loved him. Finally, the man walked into his front yard, laid down in the grass and spent two hours staring at the stars and inventing his own constellations. Reports are still sketchy, but we have at least three of the constellation’s names: Ken’s Big Ol’ Soup Ladle, Jimi Hendrix and Ken’s Dick.

From what we are understanding, the brownie batter was a simple recipe made from everyday items you might find in your own kitchen.”

By Bill Dixon

“God, my glutes feel tight today,” he says as he holds a cup of coffee in one hand, placing his other hand against the wall and stretching his legs. “CrossFit is kickin’ my ass, but it’s worth it man. You should come with me sometime.” 

“Yeah, I go to 24 Hour Fitness. It’s pretty cheap so—”

“I threw up yesterday,” the coffee splashes in his cup as he crosses his right arm across his body, clasping it with the left and stretching his back, “That’s how hard they work you. But the results are worth it.”

This scenario is the framework to every discussion I’ve ever had with anyone who does CrossFit, the hottest new trend in personal fitness. It’s impressive, actually. I don’t think I would have the stamina to work CrossFit into every conversation I ever had forever. 

I’m sure it’s a perfectly invigorating exercise thing, but there are elements of CrossFit that smack of cultiness. For example, the aforementioned evangelizing byway of working CrossFit into every conversation. I don’t trust anyone with that much enthusiasm for pain (the same reason I find Catholicism suspect). 

Also, CrossFitters have their own diet—the Paleo diet. This is characterized by only eating things that people ate during the Paleolithic Era. So essentially, it’s a caveman diet. It’s worth noting that cavemen topped out at like three feet tall and died of old age at like 17. It was a brief brutal existence rife with disease and malnourishment. Probably gives you killer abs, but I think I’ll stick to my post-industrial revolution diet and die of congestive heart failure at 67, thank you very much.

Also, the fucking juicing. Was the guy who invented juicing just doing yard work when he decided, “You know, I would hate to just throw away all these leaves and grass clippings. I know! I’ll turn them into a fluid and drink them.” There’s an inherent paradox in drinking vegetable juice: drinking it will make you live longer, but drinking it will also make you not want to live.

CrossFit feels like Scientology. It makes me uneasy, everyone involved is beautiful, and it’s wildly overpriced. My gym feels more like Christianity—everyone says they belong to it but really only go one time around the holidays, making promises to return weekly but never do. Also, it smells weird. Those are my people.

By Andy Sandford

We’ve all seen this list of “99 Life Hacks To make Your Life Easier” floating around the web, and we’ve had the same thought: 99 things is a lot of things! Too many things, I say. I am not some kind of life hacker. I can only learn so many life hacks at one time. Does this list honestly expect me to remember how to use a muffin pan as a condiment tray when I JUST learned that my shoe can be a cup holder? It’s easy to get overwhelmed by all these solutions to problems you didn’t know existed. 

Fret not, weary worry warts: I painstakingly sifted through those 99 memes and have chosen the 5 most crucial life hacks. So buckle up you fucking idiot, ‘cause here they come!

Before seeing this life hack, I had pretty much written off key rings as one of life’s necessary evils. I actually thought that I was dumb, just because I couldn’t take a key off my key ring without absolutely destroying my fingernails. Key rings have ruined my life. I was too embarrassed to give my girlfriend a key to my place, and now she’s with another man. Those days are over though, because I can keep a safe distance from dangerous key rings by using any common, four-fanged, quasi-menacing staple remover that might be laying around.

GENIUS! What’s the best part of a camping trip?…Smores! But what always happens?…There’s nothing flammable in the woods to start a camp fire! Everybody is starving, and you’ve gotta think fast…OH YEAH! You came prepared with bags of doritos! Now all ya gotta do is take all that food and set it on fire. Soon enough, the other non-edible kindling will catch fire. Next thing ya know, you’ll all be feasting on Cooler Ranch-smoked Smores. I bet the cavemen wish they knew about this life hack.

I love bagels, and I’d love to have one at the ready; but every time you put a bagel in a bag, it fucking explodes. Not anymore! Having a bagel tote is as easy as leaving a stack of CD-R’s unprotected, and strewn about your desk. **One word of warning with this life hack: don’t microwave your bagel tote, or leave it in a hot car, as poisonous carcinogens will seep into your bagel.** this thing is “totes” cute!

THANK YOU! I have complained about messy Oreo fingers for years and everyone acts like that’s weird. Just because I am disgusting enough eat a sleeve of Oreo’s in one sitting, making sure to give each cookie a dairy baptism…that doesn’t mean I like messy fingers. With this new life hack, my fingers stay clean enough to eat cookies and test my blood sugar at the same time.

Everybody knows what is wrong with those store bought iPhone speakers: why are they all so slow and difficult? Ya gotta take it out of the box…plug it in…and where the hell does it connect to the iPhone? Is it that clearly marked connection er what?! Fuck all that noise: stick your expensive phone in a toilet paper roll with thumb tacks in it. It is basically the same thing they have at Best Buy. The only difference is that it is not a speaker at all, and is actually a toilet paper roll with thumb tacks in it. Wanna impress your lady guest? Just stick your iPhone repeatedly (it will fall over) until it stays standing up; now just blast your sexy-time playlist and get your serenade on. The toilet paper roll will do the rest.

How goddam easy is your life, now that you are the Zero_Cool of life hacking?

HACK THE PLANET!

-Andy Sandford

By Andy Sandford

New York is one of the two main destinations that most stand up comedians are ultimately fixated on. In a lot of ways, if you are talking about purely stand up, it is “the” destination. Most comedians know this, and that is why so many have made plans to move here…some comics’ plans are firmer than others. I meet a lot of comics coming through and checking it out with intentions to move, and most of them have some misconceptions about what doing comedy in NY is like day in, day out. Here are a few things I have learned in my time here that might help those who are planning on moving, or at least thinking about it.

1. In many ways, you will be starting over. I can’t stress enough how much being a big fish somewhere else does not matter. This city is filled with big fish. To the surprise of some, no one is keeping track of the comedy rankings for other cities. You are not going to be able to hop on a bunch of shows right when you get to NYC. You are actually going to take a big hit in the stagetime department, even with everything going for you. I visited NY a bunch of times before moving and was able to do several of the good shows (I strongly recommend visiting btw), but it is a different thing once you make the move. Everything is on a larger scale, so it takes more time for people to know who you are and that you live here. This is why the most valuable thing you have is your skillset as a comedian. Good sets beget future shows. The more consistent you are with the shows that you do, the more people see that you are consistent. Keep in mind it takes being out every night for months before people get it in their head that you live there and are out a lot.

Most shows (and I mean smaller booked shows. Not open mics, which I will get to later)…most shows are not what you would consider optimal conditions. Very small crowds. Uninterested people barked in from the street…it is very important to remember not to throw a set and basically say “fuck it” because you’d rather look like you’re not trying. These are the type of shows that make you better. My friend nate puts it like this: “a lot of shows in NY are like swinging 2 bats.” It’s true, because after a bunch of the 2 bat shows, a regular show with an attentive crowd feels like no problem. I personally love going up to a dead crowd and seeing how much I can elevate the show. Not caving goes a really long way. Acting like you are too cool for shit comes off really bad. 

2. You Might Be Pleasantly Surprised. The scene is not as “cut throat” as you might think. There are so many really supportive people who want to see the scene thrive as a whole. I am always overhearing comics talk about other comics while they are not around, and in a positive way. One of my favorite things is that there are so many really funny comics that you have never heard of, and that work really hard. I have really enjoyed being surrounded by comics who are clearly as “all in” as I am. You can’t just coast on being good. You gotta be constantly progressing. Your act talks, bullshit walks. 

3. You Can Get Stuck In a Corner If You Aren’t Careful. It’s a really big scene, which is broken up into a bunch of scenes. When you first move, it is easy to decide you are comfortable in a specific scene and then end up not venturing out because other places were seemingly not as welcoming at first….That is just how it is kinda. It isn’t that people are snubbing you, they just don’t know you yet, and you could be gone tomorrow, or you could be insane. Over time, your act will speak for you, and everyone will see you are alright. Steer clear of people who don’t venture out of their zone, but have strong opinions about everyone over at such an such being dickheads. You don’t wanna hang around those goobers. Give everywhere a chance, and after a while you’ll see where you like or don’t like hangin. 

4. Open Mics. Open mics in NY are exactly how people describe them. They are comprised of 100% comedians, and at most, you get 3 minutes or less. This isn’t the end of the world or anything. Just accept them for what they are. In all likelyhood, you will be doing open mics most of the time for a while, and you never just stop going to them completely. Certain things are a waste of time at open mics. There is no need for the same type of trickery that works with actual crowds. Think of it as “pretend time” if you want, or some kind of meet up… and definitely don’t get yer panties in a bunch if a line you thought was a sure laugh gets nuthin. It may well be a sure laugh, just not in a room of comics. No one has it out for you, so don’t have a meltdown or somethin. At first, you are gonna totally get stonewalled because no one knows you. As people get to know you and see that you are around, they will make an effort to listen and play audience member, and you might get some worthwhile feedback. The open mic scene is its own sort of subculture.  There are a tons every night. Some are super shitty and filled with weirdos. Some have a good vibe with cool people. Over time, you figure out which ones are productive for you and you go there to get an idea how somethin works. Just be sure to use the mic to work on material and not get caught up in inside jokes and commenting on everything before you for your whole three minutes. And btw, 3 minutes is plenty of time to figure out a new thing at one time. Just be sure to respect the room. This isn’t a crowd of shitty people. They are comics who don’t know you yet, so don’t act like you are above them or something because you are used to doing better shows…everyone is.

By Danny April

Remember when the Moon was man’s greatest frontier?

I don’t. We’re almost fifty years removed from the most ambitious journey in history, and my entire education of this momentous occasion has been confined to a one-day eighth-grade science lesson and hours of being high and staring blankly at the science channel, wondering what would happen if Neil DeGrasse Tyson and Michio Kaku could conceive a baby together.

Our ancestors worshiped that silent, sallow orb - our parents dreamed of conquering it. In the time following that “one giant leap for mankind” our society has grown to consider the Moon about equal in importance to pro-biotic yogurt.

To prove my point: When was the last time you looked at the moon in wonder? 

If it’s been a while, that’s not your fault. America treated the Moon like a married couple treats anal sex - we went there a couple of times, found it too dry, couldn’t breathe comfortably and eventually decided it was more traditional to keep fucking the Earth.

The U.S.A. only went to the Moon on six occasions, and two of those were just Neil Armstrong commandeering a live rocket at gunpoint, obsessed with going back to the one love he could never keep.

This neglect for our astral neighbor is reprehensible, and something has to be done to recapture humanity’s love affair with our only moon. The best we’ve done in the past 15 years was Nickelodeon’s Moon Shoes - and the thousands of broken ankles they caused were nothing compared to the millions of broken dreams.

Now, I’m not an astronomer - all I truly know is that the surface of the Moon is the most dangerous terrain to encounter a wolfman - but here are some possible solutions I came up with:

You want to encourage space exploration? Make cocaine legal on the Moon. If you combine the vast wealth of a Wall Street cokehead and the savvy technical ingenuity of the crack addict, we could have private colonies up and running in a mere 15-20 years. Don’t doubt me on the timeline; I once bumped a rail and terramorphed an entire hotel room in thirty minutes. That’s proof of theorem, if nothing else.

Or… just spitballing here… we could do pretty much the plot of the movie Armageddon, but with the Moon instead. This may be my strongest solution, because it’s a permanent one. Look: we have the drills and the nukes, and Steve Buscemi’s life remains expendable.

Scientists of Earth: Figure it the fuck out.

By Bill Dixon

I woke up this morning to an AP alert on my iPhone (because I can afford it) that read “Department of Justice joining lawsuit against Lance Armstrong.”

I had to go ahead and Google Lance Armstrong to make sure I had the right guy, because the Lance Armstrong I know became a public figure by riding an exercise machine. As I scrolled down the search results, I was looking for someone nefarious enough to have earned a full-throttled assault from the federal government’s Department of Justice. I was looking for someone who was pure evil. Unfortunately, all I came up with was a bunch of dumb shit about raising money for cancer survivors.

Then, I looked to see if Lance Armstrong invaded any sovereign nations. I tried Googling “Lance Armstrong invades Iraq + no weapons of mass destruction.” Turned out, I had the wrong guy completely.

Then, I tried Googling “Lance Armstrong outs CIA agent Valerie Plame.” Again, I had the wrong bro. No real DOJ action there.

Then, I tried “Lance Armstrong, when not riding a bicycles, uses Predator drones to kill American citizens, circumventing the due process granted to all U.S. citizens by the Constitution.” I found some information, mainly that the DOJ was cool with that.

One last try at Google. “The DOJ can’t really be filing suit against someone who cheated at exercise, can they? I mean, if the DOJ is cool with the government using Predator drones to kill American citizens, I can’t imagine them getting worked up about a guy who raised $470 million for cancer patients for using drugs to make bicycles interesting. Honestly, the DOJ sounds like the kind of guy that wouldn’t give a shit if Lance Armstrong mounted a gatling gun on his handle bars. Google, you don’t think the DOJ is doing this because they think it’s a good PR move after the Predator drone thing, do you? Google, look at me — in my eyes. Be honest.” Then, I hit enter:

It’s like Google wasn’t even paying attention to me.

Instead of the federal government spending my tax dollars to build roads, it’s spending my hard-earned money to tear down a guy who cheated at exercise. But who gives a shit, right? It’s not your money.

Finally, to be on the safe side, I Googled “If I write a snarky blog about the DOJ, how do I avoid being murdered by the government’s Predator drones?”

Again, Google called the DOJ a dog. I’m with you, Google.

By Bill Dixon

It’s been nearly five years since I stopped using drugs. I’ve got five years of distance between me and long neon-lit nights hunkered over well drinks in the murky wood paneled dungeons of my local bar scene; five years between me and my daily ritual of huffing keyboard cleaner in my underwear, sprawled out on the shag carpet of my dad’s living room, watching West Wing DVDs at one in the afternoon. I think about that and on good days, I cringe. On bad days I want to run out the front door into the street, claw at the asphalt with my bare hands until I hit topsoil and bury my head in the street. I don’t miss that, but if I were to relapse, that would give me an excuse to go back to rehab. And I do miss that because let me tell you something: Rehab is fucking awesome.

I can think of nothing in my life I’ve done that was so consequential and life affirming while wearing sweatpants. If you’ve never been to rehab, let me explain.

Rehab is 30 days with no cell phones, no email, no televisions, no Facebook, and no substantial contact from the outside world, and yes, that means no family (I know, amazing right? I imagine you leaning back if your chair, eyes assessing the mahogany liquor cabinet across the room. You’re thinking, “I think could force myself to drink Jack Daniels every day for a few weeks. Shit I would drink a bottle of Clorox if it meant I could get away from my wife and kids for 30 days.” And some people do).

Before you start guzzling detergent, let me tell you the rest. There is art therapy, where you get to finger-paint your feelings. There is group therapy where you sit in your sweatpants at noon sobbing hysterically, wiping away tears, and leaving streaks of finger paint residue across your face like a super sad-sack Cherokee indian chief. And then, there is recreation time where you can go outside and play football. 

Have you ever played football with 12 agitated, detoxing crack addicts? It’s exhilarating! It makes the running of the bulls look like wrestling with puppies in tall grass. There is nothing more life affirming than blocking a 6’6” meth addict doing 30 days of court-ordered in-patient for throwing a mini-fridge at a cop. When that guy hears, “Hike!” it’s game on. Fear doesn’t get more pure than that.

But the thing I miss most is waking up in a twin-sized bed at the bottom of my life, thinking, “Here — here in this bed — in this building, is the best place in the world I can be today. I don’t know what to do tomorrow but today, given the circumstances of the situation, the undisputable fact is this is the best I can do, today.”

Life rarely grants us absolute moments like that. In the wake of great trauma like checking yourself into rehab because you’ve moved past hard liquor and developed a taste for hard cleaners like hand sanitizer and rubbing alcohol, there is very little ambiguity about right and wrong choices. Not too many people arguing, “Yes, he may be drinking hand sanitizer but let’s not forget his digestive system is now 99% germ free! He may be an addict, yes. But that being said, he hasn’t had a cold in two years and that’s a coincidence that should not be overlooked. ” I miss the certainty of doing something I know is right. The rest of life’s choices are rarely that easy. Some people want to work hard in life so they can retire and spend their golden years in a  log cabin in the mountains. Others want to set aside enough money to buy a beach house. Me, I’m working towards a period in my life where it will be socially acceptable to cry in my sweatpants at noon with finger paint smeared across my face. I don’t think that’s too much to ask, Universe.

By Danny April

I think the most important civil rights issue of our time is marriage equality. It’s not my intention to preach, but I feel that as a nation we need to broaden our definition of marriage to include all of our fellow Americans.

I think it’s high time for all of us to rise up and call on our government to legitimately recognize the civil union of two people who got married at a Renaissance Faire.

We can’t continue to deny rights to two human beings just because we find them weird or effeminate, or we don’t like the silly scarves and things they wear when they go out on the weekends.

I know for some of you, it’s not the idea that they exist… it’s the idea of them having sex that puts you off – how weird and lumpy they probably look together, or if they leave this awful smell that never comes out of the sheets.

But that’s the last refuge of the bigot… maybe you’re afraid that if you think about it enough, you’ll start to like it. Maybe you catch yourself wishing YOU could have been married at a Renaissance Faire!

I’m sorry if this accusation offends anyone. I wasn’t talking about you specifically, dear reader. You probably wouldn’t even visit a Renaissance Faire – not even in college or when you were really drunk — and you definitely wouldn’t do anything wild like meet up with a girl in a bar, take her back to your place and when you get her dress off you realize she was actually a Renaissance Faire. 

If two people are just in a civil union, a hospital can keep them from seeing each other on their deathbeds. I don’t see why a loving couple should ever be put through that. As long as they check their chain mail and rapiers with security and as long as their doublets aren’t representing any gang colors or the cross of the Papal Crusade, I just don’t see the problem with it.

However, as an aside — the whole marriage issue proves to me that humans could never be entrusted with the power of time travel.

When time travel is invented in the future, people who get married at Ren Faires will still exist – especially if they are allowed to adopt – and they’re going to immediately start having bullshit anachronistic weddings all over time.

“Oh let’s flash back through the ages to get married in the Court of Queen Elizabeth, but … oh no! Sandy left her bullshit steampunk top hat behind!”

Suddenly, everyone in Elizabethan England dies simultaneously from Space AIDS and, because we all share the same past, we’re all fucking dead now. Worse, we never even exist. Because of people who want to get married at the fucking Renaissance Faire.

Look… I’m sorry for the harsh words… but it kind of proves my point. I never said you had to LIKE them — I hate them — but as Americans, they still have the inalienable right to be happy.

*(Editor’s note: The author has been made aware the Crusades and the Renaissance happened during two totally different periods of history. The Last Crusade ended in 1938, Indiana Jones had to rescue his father from Hitler, he shot one bullet through three guys, Salla is back from the first movie and he’s like “He named you after the dog!?”and they find the Holy Grail.)