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

It's not delivery, it's TAKING FOR FUCKING EVER.

Pizza Luce. Selby Avenue. St. Paul, Minn. Where the beer is cold, the people are friendly and the waiter, who looks strikingly like the guitar player for Incubus, takes 15 minutes to give you refills and an hour to give you two small pizzas.

One hour. Two small pizzas.

That's one small pizza per half hour.

That's one small half of a small pizza per quarter hour.

For ease, I've made the following pie chart. It's functional, and shaped like the whole pizza that took an hour to get to my whole face.



















Had he not been an incredible replica of Mike Einziger, I might've been more pissed. Oh wait, I was pissed.




















These Incubus references working for anyone?

-eb

My heart is on fire

Seriously.

I was going to go on a lengthy tirade about how the U.S. education system is nothing more than an attempt for the state providing said education to receive federal funding, but I can't concentrate on anything else besides the wretched pain that my heart is experiencing.

I am literally pouring everything that could even be considered edible into my mouth so my stomach has something to process besides my own life organs.

Oh yes. All of those items listed have been shoveled down my gullet in the past three hours. I don't know which one of them caused the initial outbreak of lava to course up my esophagus, but I know that none of those items have helped to put an end to my suffering.

If you females think you have it rough by stretching your crotch for child deliverance, I suggest you take a walk in my shoes and experience what heart erosion truly feels like. I guarantee you'll be wishing you could have chosen labor over the grueling death my aorta is currently going through.

(I'm very aware as to how much trouble this picture will get me in.)

I seriously need an IV of Tums at all times to maintain a decent life.

Also, congratulations to our three winners. Your names escape me, but I believe they are featured somewhere in this update along with your likeness. Thanks for playing.

-ab

My thermostat is r-worded

My apartment doesn't have a thermostat. Instead, it has a fan. A fan that blows hot air or cold air ceaselessly unless we adjust the mystical "ON/OFF SWITCH."

Just so everyone knows the difference. Here's how a normal thermostat works:

And here's how the thermostat works in my apartment:

When I consider why anyone building any sort of modern living quarters would not include a self-monitoring temperature system, the only answer I can think of is honest stupidity. 

As you can see by this scientific Venn diagram, at the intersection of heat, the constant flow of hot air and the knowledge that Hamline just straight up did not want to properly install a temperature monitoring system is me being pissed off. 

So while I'm sweating my dick off in bed, you guys are probably wondering: BUT ERIK WHAT ABOUT KIDS IN CHINA WHO DON'T EVEN HAVE HEATING LET ALONE CLEAN WATER EVERY DAY TO BATHE AND DRINK?!

To which I respond: That is just inaccurate, probably racist, and also I don't care. 

-eb