December 26, 2009
Everything that’s wrong with American society can be summed up in the existence of one product. A product that was in my Christmas stocking. This:
So, Jelly Belly Jelly Beans, which are outrageously priced to begin with makes pack of jelly beans where there’s two flavors with the same color. One is one of their traditional flavors, the other is a horrific taste sensation, and you have no way of knowing the difference:
The Vomit One Sounds Tasty
Why would anyone want to eat a moldy cheese jelly bean? Why would anyone willingly subject themselves to what amounts to taste bud roulette? And why would anyone PAY to have this taste bud damage inflicted on them in the first place?
This is taking the tendency of human beings to say “Ew, this tastes awful, try it!” to a completely other level.
December 20, 2009
Here’s my runner up for best story of 2009:
NHL hockey player Brendan Witt of the New York Islanders was walking across the street in Philadelphia to get a cup of coffee hours before a game he had that night, when a gold SUV made an illegal left turn and hit him, knocking him to the pavement.
Witnesses rushed to help him, and began calling the police and an ambulance when Witt got up, brushed himself off, began hurling profanities at the driver, and told the on-lookers “I’m a hockey player. I’m OK. No big deal,” and then continued walking across the street to get his latte at Starbucks, went to the arena, where he played his usual 18 minutes of professional hockey that night.
And the winner for best story of 2009 all-time.
An animal trainer/street performer in China taught his team of monkeys to perform Kung Fu on each other for the entertainment of those passing by. But when the trainer slipped during a performance, the monkeys turned on him, attacked him using the tawkwondo moves he had taught them.
“They were leaping and jumping all over the place – it was better than a Bruce Lee film.”
December 3, 2009
I’m on the road, and got a text from my traveling companions: “come down to the hotel bar.”
It was a grand idea. I had a couple things to finish first, so I wandered down about a half hour later… five minutes after last call. So let’s revisit my annual complaint that hotel bars close too early.
December 2, 2009
Monday evening, a scratchy throat spiraled out of control to full blown white-hot rage in my throat. (I’m quite sure the seedy bar I visited Saturday was teaming with disease, specifically the karaoke microphone. Well, also the skanks, but I know I didn’t pick up anything from them).
By this morning, I could talk, but I didn’t want to. Immediately my co-workers noticed and told me to go home.
On my way home, I dropped close to 50 bucks on things to make my throat feel better: Ricola, Chloroseptic, tea, salt, ice cream, and antibiotics to thwart any potential strep throat and then proceeded to sleep until 7 p.m.
Long story short, people think something is wrong if I’m not talking. And I totally dominate at charades.