Happy snowday, Hamline

-eb

No. Put that down.

Consider this a preview for a verbose rant on how much I hate Saint Paul's Skyway Patrons. My school is only four blocks away from my apartment, and those four blocks are the worst fucking part of my entire day. I'm constantly blocked by rotund administrative assistants - who just wouldn't be able to sleep at night if they couldn't block the entire fucking walking path to browse the gourmet chocolate kiosk inside of Macy's - amongst a myriad of other failures that do nothing but cause me extreme anxiety. I've got about 12 pages of college ruled hate ready to be thrown on the internet; I just need to get better acquainted with Adobe Illustrator. (Seriously. The drawings below took me two hours because Illustrator does NOT have a "paint bucket" tool; Illustrator is just that fucking future.) However, today I just had to update about the homunculus I saw during my lunch break.

I was browsing for a cheap Chinese take out place, when I saw a new side cart; it's specialty was ice cream. I started to walk towards it to get a better glance at its name, but I was almost trampled to death by a foul beast as it stormed to the ice cream cart to make sure it arrived at the diabetes water hole before the rest of the herd. It was short, dense, and I couldn't find it's feet with my eyes. This is a rough sketch of what I had seen.

After I realized it was a fat, middle aged secretary, I became filled with rage; I was ready to boast that I had successfully escaped a feral razorback onslaught. For a brief moment, I watched her shovel the vanilla scoops (Seriously? All that fucking effort and energy for a cup of vanilla?) down her throat. This was my reaction:

 

I hope you at least had time to taste it. Moo cow.

- ab 

The UFC is challenged

Considering the immense amount of sponsors* currently supporting ultimate fighting -- the straightfoward "Cage Gear," the scary and ambiguous "Hostility," the scarier and a little more direct Pain INC -- I shouldn't have been surprised with the latest addition.

Manumission Skin Care touts itself as "Skin Care for Men Who Get it Done." Clearly, it's made for the GRIZZLY BEAR** in all of you.

And it's got a name that literally has no meaning. It's not even punny. The closest thing it could possibly be referring to is "submission," or a set of grappling moves used in mixed martial arts and wrestling alike to attempt to force the opponent into throwing in the towel.

But after staring at the word for a good 30 minutes, I still couldn't figure out why they would combine MAN with SUBMISSION and get MANUMISSION.

Then I decided to Wikipedia search for Manumission. 

click for a larger image

Which is when I came to the realization that the UFC just might actually be retarded. 

No where on the Manumission website or Facebook does it mention the racist*** history of this term. 

In fact, they provide a pretty paltry definition considering the centuries of Black mistreatment actually supporting their namesake. 

People who support this level of brutish stupidity are one level above the intelligence found in a pair Corona bottle-opening sandals**** -- a metaphor (at least half of which) most of these bros will understand.

 -eb

 *Manly sponsors.
**Man grizzly bear.

***Manly racist.
****Mandals.

Drew Carey is not funny

If I've learned one thing from watching TV, it's that fat people are funny and skinny people aren't. 

Drew Carey has a new show coming out on Game Show Network. It's titled something stupid like "Improv-a-smorgasbord-a-palooza-fest." Unfortunately, Carey has lost a great deal of weight since his earlier years in comedy. Also, unfortunately, nothing about that show seems to be a game show.

Regardless, it's clear Carey didn't learn his lesson from Drake and Josh. The once popular Nick teen show fell immediately down the tubes once Josh lost weight in the third season. The show would last only one more season and garner a meager 12 more Nickelodeon Kid's Choice awards, a paltry 6 times as many as they received in their first two seasons.

It's clear here: 

What did the writers expect? Seriously, we don't want to see Skinny Guy Meets Skinny Guy. If we turned the lights off, and could only use our hands to communicate, how am I supposed to tell them apart? By beard length?

What a ridiculous assertion. And now it seems Drew Carey has fallen to the same fate. 

For scientific purposes, I have included two individual scales used to monitor funniness to fatness: The Farley Model (perfected in a 1996 study comparing how fucking hilarious Chris Farley is when compared to that squirrelly guy from the 7 Up commercials with whom he always seems to be standing next to on stage) and the newly devised Carey Scale, which I've used to compare Carey to Nicole Richie, who is neither fat nor funny.

Best of luck fishing your career out of the toilet, Carey.

-eb

Well.

I said that I'd update this thing at midnight and I didn't.

I promised myself that I'd finish it tonight. It probably won't happen. (I'm going to see Mozart's Magic Flute in its entirety. Fucking stoked.)

I have a good chunk of it written out, but the problem I am facing is whether or not I want to draw pictures for the update. I don't want to use pictures because it's symbolic of the point I'm trying to make in it. But goddamnit, there are sooooo many good picture ideas I have.

So. I decided to draw pictures. This will take me longer than planned.

Yes. This is your fail of an update. 

But! I will give you a preview of it. Here is a quote of one of the funnier lines from the post currently being written:

"The squatty, plum of a human waddled her way to the front of the classroom and spoke to us in a voice that would make Mother Goose purr."

Enjoy that.

To keep you more entertained, I will post a picture below. This picture seriously had me laughing for about 5 minutes; I was crying.

(Do we have the same sense of humor?) 

Thanks for your continued patience. I just want to make sure that I have a quality product for all seven of our followers. Let me know if I should list more rationalizations.

I love you.

- ab

Snooze will be the death of me

I can't wake up in the morning. And I don't mean "I'm not a morning person," or "I'm lazy and don't want to wake up." 

I mean I Cannot. Wake. Up. In the morning. 

If my body had its way, the day would be 36 hours long, and I could wake up at 3 p.m. every day. This way, Erik would have time to sleep in, and still do normal human things like eat lunch at an appropriate time, and also to eat snacon, a meal I had to make up because I added 12 hours to the day.

To try to wake up in the morning, I've taken to setting three alarms on my phone and one clock alarm because Sleepy-Erik is smarter than most and he is able to do simple arithmetic.

Here's the equation that goes through my head when I am trying to wake up.

Which puts me out of bed 5 minutes before class. Which puts me in class in the same clothes I wore yesterday. Also sometimes without shoes.

This has happened on numerous occasions. 

The non-presence of shoes is a dead give away that Sleepy Erik won round one.

This past Friday, I didn't have class, but I had work at 4:30 p.m. I set an alarm for 3 p.m. just to make sure I wouldn't oversleep. 

Past 4:30. P.M. 

In the evening. 

As in nine hours after most working Americans wake up on a Friday. As in four hours later than most lazy, unemployed Americans wake up on a Friday.

I am convinced the only thing that would wake me up is if my bed was on fire, a police squad car was parked in my room sirens blaring, a jackass parrot was mocking me using 1950s terminology and Flava Flav was present in my room belting out a rendition of Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire."

Get on it, Sony Dreamscape.

-eb

I probably don't belong in my gender comm course

I am taking a course on gender and communication. It's four days a week for three hours each day. 

It's really hard to keep my white-male cool for that long of a time.

-eb