Sure, the job looks great now, but it’s 8 years of school


First thought:  This woman must have a lot of pajamas.

Second thought:  I’ve always wanted to lie around for a living.  Starting my own franchise and catering to the ladies could be my only chance!  Although, I’d probably get more cat clients than lady clients, and everyone knows cats are terrible tippers.
Or, I’d probably face years of pro-bon0 work with the underprivileged and under-cuddled.  I guess you have to start somewhere though, you know, to get your foot in the cuddle door.

Link to news story

Link to the Snuggery itself, where you can read about Jacqueline’s goal “to make the world a gentler place, one snuggle at a time,” or you can peruse the FAQ section in order to satisfy what I imagine is a pretty obvious curiosity about what happens when a penis gets the wrong idea about all this snuggling.



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Filed under Health, Humor, Sleeping


Without question, that’s a pretty alarming headline.

But, let’s start with the good news.  The good news is, a cheeseburger didn’t stab anyone.  I repeat:  no one was stabbed by a cheeseburger.  Cheeseburgers are still safe to eat, folks.  Chances of being stabbed by a cheeseburger while you go to bite it remain at an incredibly low zero out of one hundred chances.  Cheeseburgers are not rising up against us, threatening global order.  They have not grown arms, hands, and opposable thumbs with which to yield sharp objects.  Humans retain the title of World Heavyweight Champions of the Food Chain.

Also sort of good news and a point of clarification:  No one stabbed a cheeseburger.  That’s right – according to my research, every encounter between a cheeseburger and a human being has ended in a straightforward, although sometimes mindlessly mechanical, sometimes overly ecstatic, consumption.  Nothing weird.  No senseless cheeseburger violence or cheeseburger hate crimes.  Humans and cheeseburgers seem to be getting along fine, as the Good Lord intended.  And while there are some reports of men discussing marriage to a cheeseburger, these thoughts all appear to be hyperbolic in nature.

Which brings us to the bad news:  Someone was stabbed over a cheeseburger.  More particularly, the absence of one.  On first thought, anyone could be forgiven their shock and outrage at this news.  But before you get all self-righteous, maybe you should think about some of the delicious cheeseburgers you’ve had over the years.  I mean, really think about them.  Turn those memories over in that gut of yours.  Savor them, if you will.  There have been some pretty good ones, huh?  That one at three in the morning after bar-hopping for five hours with your buddy, Jerry?  At the time, you called it, and I quote, “life-saving.”

Now, what if someone ate one right in front of you while taunting you in regard to your own lack of a cheeseburger?  If you and that person could just as easily have been eating cheeseburgers together, or even sharing the same cheeseburger, and yet they put you in your place, your sad cheeseburger-less place – is that not its own outrage?

Are you really above confrontation?  What lengths would you consider?  If you were really, really hungry in that moment, could you even make a rational decision?  What line would you, could you, draw?  Your head begins to ache.  You hear the growl of your stomach.  Your vision tunnels straight to the cheeseburger, everything beyond it a blur.  Suddenly, there’s a butcher knife in your hand – how’d that get there?  The other person’s chewing grows louder and louder, ringing in your ears, drowning out the voice of reason.  The crunch of bacon, of lettuce – it’s deafening.  In the heat of the moment, it’s practically instinctual.  Territorial.  Cheeseburger territory.  Could you refrain from gripping tight that knife and cleaving your all-due half?  Fighting, maiming if you had to?

My God, I hope you never have to be in this poor, young man’s shoes to find the terrifying answers.

And what kind of mother doesn’t bring her child a cheeseburger?  This family’s doomed.

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To Be, Or Not to Be (A Cheeseburger), That May or May Not Be the Question

This guy looks pretty happy being a cheeseburger.

I bet I’d be happy if I was a cheeseburger.

The life of a cheeseburger is probably pretty great.  You’re delicious, and you know it.  People desire you, and they know it.

Cheeseburgers never have to worry about money, or time management, or if the thoughts in their cheeseburger hearts come out exactly as they intend from their cheeseburger mouths.

Plus, cheeseburgers don’t have to work – ever.  They don’t have debt and don’t get frustrated calculating interest on repayment plans.  Have you ever seen a cheeseburger crunching numbers?  I haven’t.

They don’t grow bitter over never using their degrees from Cheeseburger College.  Cheeseburger parents are never disappointed when lil’ Whopper Jr. announces his theater arts and journalism double-major, because they’re fucking cheeseburgers and they do what they want.

Furthermore, you’re really famous, especially in the United States, where cheeseburgers are so important you get your own king, like you were a country or something (The Cheeseburger Confederacy).  Idols are made of you and distributed to children as pro-cheeseburger propaganda.  Entire teams of the world’s best in marketing and advertising constantly advocate for your existence, allowing you to relax and just do cheeseburger stuff all day.

There’s talk of replacing Benjamin Franklin with a fatass cheeseburger on the hundred dollar bill, with the bill’s slang name evolving appropriately to “cheeseburgers.”

Sure, there are obstacles.  A big one that comes to mind is, you know, being eaten.  You’re literally torn apart bun from burger by big gross mouths, straight up murdered by a ruthless gang of teeth.  But, it’s a very noble death.  A lot of people die FROM eating cheeseburgers.  You get to die AS a cheeseburger.  That’s a big difference, and most of the time you’re contributing to death’s very opposite – life.  You’re a martyr to the noble cause of delicious gratification, a surefire ticket to Cheeseburger heaven, where you’ll be reunited with your loving French fry and soft drink family.

Or, if you were a dirty, no good cheeseburger, perhaps you’ll be reincarnated as racist taco guy:

Unlike cheeseburger guy, notice that taco guy doesn’t get to maintain his human genitalia, only one of many downsides if you’re keeping score at home.

Actual product description from Amazon:

“You don’t have to drive across town to get your favorite Mexican food with this taco costume! The adult costume consists of a poly foam taco suit that has the appearance of a hard shell taco. It comes complete with toppings including lettuce, sauce and cheese. The suit has holes for the head and arms as well as an open bottom for easy movement. You’ll look good enough to eat in this funny taco costume!”

“An open bottom for easy movement” – that sounds dirty to me.

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Filed under Food, Humor

Diagnosis: Blog

I am no doctor, and the results are far from conclusive, but all my current research indicates that a fierce regimen of naps coupled with reading and eating ice cream in the bathtub can cure a cold and sore throat.

If conditions return, a further prescription will be to lounge listlessly on my patio while enjoying a paired dosing of the setting sun and a cough syrup popsicle.

I probably should have made a Belgian waffle sandwich, but I didn’t think of it until now.  Oh well.  Science is all trial and error, I guess.

Chance of complete restoration of health and vigor?  85%


Filed under Food, Health, Humor

I’m Not Entirely Sure What’s Going on in Canada

…but I’m concerned.

Concerned that America’s dropping the ball creatively, that is.

We can’t afford to rest on our creative laurels while Quebecois wrestlers dress as animals and monsters, performing sexually suggestive acts before a crowd of paying customers.  Put on your creative hats, Americans.  We’re losing our place in the global order!

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Filed under Humor, Politics

You Know who Doesn’t Get Saluted Enough?

Those who drunkenly stuff sandwich meat in their mouths at 2 in the morning.

Those are some heroes right there.
Braving the harsh glow of the refrigerator, courageously opening the in-the-moment complexly-sealed plastic container, navigating the obtuse geometry of folded meat slices through a drunken mouth – these are the warriors in the shadows.

And by God, I boldly step out of those shadows to join my brothers and sisters in (probably flabby) arms.

Because sometimes sandwiches are just too hard to deal with, an Everest to a body barely capable of a mole hill, and I’ll unashamedly have a deli mustard chaser with my shot of ham-sandwich meat, thank you very much.



Filed under Drinking, Food, Humor

I Tried Writing a Blog about Inertia, but it Didn’t Seem to be Going Anywhere. Or, the Physics of Pancakes

Inertia is an object’s resistance to a change in its state of motion or rest.  In other words:  Not moving?  Not going to.  Not until said object is acted upon by an external force.

Or, in my case, I’m not getting out of bed until I smell breakfast.

Unfortunately, unless I slept through a rapid evolution in batter consciousness, I don’t imagine aspiring pancakes have lifted themselves up by their baking powder bootstraps and valiantly thrown themselves onto a hot griddle in martyrdom to my growling belly.

Which leads me to only one conclusion:  I must make or, god forbid, forage for said pancakes.

“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.” – The poet William Blake, blabbering on about pancakes, as usual

Oooh, but inertia is a damnable foe!  It overwhelms me from every angle.  Instead, I believe I will toss and turn in bed, consumed by dreams of a full-service pancake delivery business existing near my home.

While necessity may be the mother of invention, laziness is the doting father of pipe dreams.

By full-service, I mean they wouldn’t simply deliver pancakes to my front door.  Heavens no, this would be delivery to my room, my bed, my mouth.  The buttering, the application of syrup – these things would be covered.  And, unless I’m going for that breakfast-y musk that the makes the ladies swoon in waves, a thorough post-meal wet-nap scrub of the ol’ face whiskers would also be included.

Before I forget, there would certainly be an understanding, even an expectation, of the customer’s/my near-nudity.  Pants are a horrible burden, (See:  The Tyranny of Breeches, my controversial treatise on these cotton and denim shackles) the very mention of which is strictly verboten.  After the meal, I’ll draw the dignity line at burping me like a baby.  A dotted line.

Imagine!  There could be a van with heating bins to keep the food warm, and in case a craving for eggs struck unannounced, it could contain a griddle in order to make them on the spot.

Don’t even get me started on the syrup caddies.  Mostly because I don’t even know what I mean by that, other than large, wheeled jugs of every imaginable syrup flavor:  maple, bacon-flavored maple, blueberry, bacon-flavored blueberry, traditional baconberry, boysenberry, bourbonberry, etc., and that’s just the B’s.  An entire alphabet of syrups could deliver a lexicon of flavors.

If you added Bloody Mary’s and carafes of mimosas to the menu, I’m thinking this pipe dream becomes an unstoppable commercial juggernaut.

The only foreseeable and pretty obvious downside would be to increase inertness.  After a pancake pampering, a buffet of syrups, a scrambled egg side, and a Bloody Mary chaser, the human body would be a breakfast-stuffed object stubbornly resisting a change in its state of immobility.

Regardless, I’m ready for such a service, and I eagerly anticipate the free market’s response to this consumer’s need.  Entrepreneurs, please make it happen for us inert, breakfast-loving dreamers .


Filed under Food, Humor, Uncategorized