Are Automatic Toilet Flushers The Dumbest Thing of All Time?

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For those who don’t know me well, I get rattled pretty easily. I’m not necessarily a hot head but I wouldn’t bat an eyelash if¬†modern psychoanalysis pegged me as neurotic. In other words, insignificance bothers me a lot more than it should, and I’m not talking bother as in it “stresses me out” or “pisses me off”; I’m talking bother as in it perplexes me to the point where I begin to reevaluate bigger, more significant things like the meaning of life or if I’ve missed my second excise tax return deadline (most likely yes).

So essentially, accept the above paragraph as a disclaimer for the rest of this blog. If minor inconveniences don’t bother/provoke you than I can confidently presume the next two minutes of your life would be best spent doing something else.

That said, I committed the number one Cardinal Sin of adulthood this morning and wheeled into Burger King around 7:30 AM to grab breakfast. My commute to work from that BK is roughly 1 hour so, long story short, I wasn’t going to make it without having to stop at a public restroom. In an act of desperation, I pulled into a McDonald’s off the exit, hobbled past a couple meth heads in the dining room and proceeded to exercise the demons in the handicap stall (like color, I don’t see physical disability).

While I was perched on the throne, one question rattled throughout my cerebellum like a pinball: is the automatic toilet flusher the most unnecessary/least convenient product innovation of all time?

Normally I try my best to avoid hyperbole on takes like this but it HAS to be, right? I mean, think about. Honestly. Just think about it for 30 seconds. Putting a motion sensor on a toilet is somehow less effective than opening a tanning salon in downtown Harlem.

It’s fucking pointless. Any time you readjust or slightly shift your weight left or right, the flush goes off like a gunshot and you have to lift into some Crossfit-esque squat position to avoid getting bidet’d (for you less cultured mouth-breathers out there, a bidet is a common plumbing fixture in European countries that shoots water up your ass after you’ve done your business because, well, Europe).

So yeah, it’s a HUGE inconvenience. And for what? What’s the benefit of the automatic flush? Were people actually up in arms over toggling a flusher. Was that the “final straw” for some psychos out there? We have continents out there where people are literally eating dirt to survive and our best and brightest are brainstorming in laboratories for hours on end to relieve our societies of issues like pushing a button after you shit.

P.S.¬† People who don’t wipe piss off the seat or sweep their toilet paper seat covers into the toilet before they leave the stall should be burned alive in front of an audience of their peers.

Am I a Loser for Watching the Draft?

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So as you guys know, I jumped off a cliff and swan dived into the world of Mock drafts this year. I’m not necessarily a big college football guy, nor do I pretend to be; however, I LOVE the mock lyfe. It’s one of those Twilight Zone subcultures on the Internet where absolutely NOTHING makes sense but everyone’s an expert. Even I stuck my neck out there and put a mock draft together earlier this year.

When I’m bored at work something, there are a couple of those Internet vortexes I’ll spiral into. I spent 20 minutes the other day watching Mike Alstott highlights and followed that up the next day with insect fights. I’m not sure if this makes me a psycho, but for some reason, I could watch a praying mantis go 12 rounds with a scorpion any day of the week.

That said, for the past month, mock drafts have been my vortex. I’ve read about 40-50 mock drafts over the past month and I was no closer to knowing anything about the key guys than when I started back in March. College football is like elevator music to me. I have no legitimate allegiance to any team so I like having it in the background of bars and stuff but I just can’t get up for Alabama/Clemson like other people do.

That said, mock drafts have turned it around for me. I actually spent a large percentage of my night watching the draft last night and even though I hate myself for it, I can’t say I regret it. Cleveland having two picks in the top 4 definitely moved the needle for me. Recently, it was reported that John Dorsey refuses to let Hue Jackson know who the Browns would draft this year and the thought of the coach of a professional sports team sitting on the edge of his seat awaiting the announcement of who he’ll be coaching next year is just hilarious. Not to mention Cleveland has been linked to virtually every quarterback who played college football last year so anything goes.

They ended up going with Baker, who wasn’t in attendance, which I love. Guy literally just said “Biggest moment of my life? Nah, I’d rather crush fortnight or something.” Need that sort of neglect in the Browns locker room. Gotta get used to not going out or celebrating if you play in Cleveland.

Lastly, I love the vernacular during these drafts. Any time someone got drafted, the broadcast would cut to 3-4 different former players who would reassure me that the draftee was “big” or “athletic” or (deep breaths) both! Like really, you mean to tell me the 6’4″ 250lb. Defensive End that ran a 4.9 at the combine is big and athletic? I mean, I would hope so. He just got selected to play a professional sport for a living.

Also, the Pats selected this kid Sony Michel from Georgia and some hack on the NFL Network made sure to alert everyone he has “oily hips.” Oily hips? What the fuck does that even mean? I read the kid’s draft card and you would’ve thought we drafted Shakira for God’s sake.

Today Is One of “Those Days” Where You Just Grind…

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For the record, I don’t like to type angry. This blog is not how I get my rocks off. I’ve always viewed writing as therapeutic but PornHub is normally my outlet for that. That said, today has been a roller coaster of a morning and it’s only 10:00 AM.

For starters, I’m running on about 4 hours of sleep. I showed up to Dunkin’ Donuts today and some jerkoff accidentally cut me in line. Instead of rationally tapping him on the shoulder and letting him know, I deduced it would be more of an effective reaction to literally grab his arm and firmly yank him backwards without saying anything. The woman at the counter saw the exchange and nervously questioned “Who’s next?”, to which I replied “me” with the look of a deranged drug-addicted, serial-killer on his last straw.

Sadly, that was the sane reaction in my opinion. I’ve been binge-watching The Sopranos recently and it’s safe to say the jackass that cut me in line is lucky he isn’t washing up face-down along one of the local Framingham creeks by now. He should know better than to get between me and my toasted multigrain bagel with veggie cream cheese (the breakfast of world class athletes/assistant copywriters like myself).

So anyway, here’s why this day can eat a bag of dicks: anyone who knows me knows I hate them. And when I say “them,” I mean people in general. Nothing against the human race, it’s just that i’d rather hang out with myself and my gigantic brain than spend twenty minutes chatting it up with any brainless mongoloid that Framingham has to offer. The terrorists could literally carpet bomb this town and you wouldn’t lose a single high school graduate. There’d be a total of about 17 teeth found in the entire the disaster zone. Meth heads and government benefit programs–it’s what Framingham does…

That said, I can’t leave work today until 10:30 PM tonight because we have this super fun “team-building” event tonight disguised as an awards dinner. Every month, my company hands out awards that I’ll never in a thousand years get nominated for. Not that I’m a bad employee (I’m actually the buzz saw of our marketing department) but because there’s no award for the marketing department. Great.

Not to mention the Bruins (my team) are literally playing in a do-or-die game 7 tonight in Boston. The ENTIRE season is riding on 60 minutes of playoff hockey and I’ll be smashing mediocre Italian food while a bunch of my fellow employees jack themselves off in some shitty conference hall. Don’t worry though, there will be Yahtzee! Hopefully someone mistakes it for eggplant and chokes on one.

So yeah, make sure to check the 5 o’clock news tonight because I may make an appearance. There’s a decent shot I drive down to Cape Cod and hurl myself off the Sagamore neck-first into the canal. Hopefully you can hear the snap from the rotary.

The Royal Family’s Got Nothing on the Khardashians

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As always, I don’t do research. I don’t. I think research is stupid. If you do research you’re soft. If you don’t shoot from the hip then you’re afraid to to swing and miss. That said, I think I’m done with the Royal Family as well as anyone who cares about them.

Call me uncultured but there’s just something about worshiping an obsolete monarchy that we worked so hard to achieve independence from that irks me. Like, we fought a war to get away from these assholes. Now we’re jerking each other off every time Kate Middleton gets stuffed.

Now, as much as I hate the Khardashians, they’re essentially the American version of the Middletons; and as the American version, they’re way better. Say what you want about the Khardashians, but they throw it all on the line. They’re an all-for-one and one-for-all empire. They get it. Unlike Will and Kate Plus Three, the Khardashians play as a team. It’s not a top heavy operation going down in LA.

In other words, everyone does their part to stay relevant. The OG Khardashian broke onto the scene by rightfully getting OJ off on some bullshit murder witch hunt. Then, he planted the seed and kept it watered until Kim was old enough to fuck some rapper no one cares about anymore. From there, she started some brainless reality show and now America is enthralled over whether or not she burnt toast on an August morning.

But here’s where it gets impressive. The Khardashians, like the Royal Family, could’ve just sat back and coasted off the success of their elders. They could’ve just been content with making millions of dollars for posting filtered pictures of chicken piccata and their asses captioned with Drake and Lil’ Yachty lyrics. But no. They all came together and agreed that, if they were to send it to the next level, they needed to work together like some shitty Infinite War movie.

The reality show is getting old? No problem. The brother will just get fat, fuck some psychotic black chick, and threaten suicide. That story line’s getting old? No problem. Kim will just go out and marry the biggest egomaniac in Hollywood. That story line’s getting old? No problem. Here comes Bruce Jenner from the top rope cutting his dick off.

It’s just a revolving door of cooperation and I can’t hate it. With the Royal Family, it’s Will, Kate, and the field. I have absolutely no clue who the other children in that family are because they don’t matter. They’re wallpaper. They’re luggage. They don’t bring the heat and feel like they can coast off their monarchy alone. It’s sort of sad, but the Royal Family will flame out due to a lack of involvement from their bench and Kate Middleton’s vagina is paying for it.

Real Talk: Is Mike Stanton the Worst Athlete of All Time?

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Listen, anyone who knows me knows I’m not someone who speaks in hyperbole. I don’t overreact. I like to watch the dust settle. I don’t shoot from the hip. I don’t convict without proper evidence. I need to see all the facts. I need a map before I start driving. I read Yelp before I dine at a restaurant. I’m not a product of this sociopolitically-charged social media landscape where you’re praised for harboring a post first/evaluate later mindset.

That said, I wasn’t always this wise. I used to jump the gun. Some of you may remember a couple weeks ago after the first game of the Red Sox season when I wrote a blog about how the Red Sox season was over and I was officially a Bruins fan. Joe Kelly and the Sox bullpen imploded for 6 runs in the eighth, Mike Stanton smashed a couple dongs, and the Bruins bent over the best team in the league on the same night. Who could blame me for that?

Well look at how the times have changed. The Sox are officially a wagon now and the gutless Bruins are coming fresh off a loss to the same team they bull-rushed on that fateful night last month. The Sox are back, the Bruins are 3 games away from throwing away a season, and Mike Stanton’s a glorified puddle. In other words, times change.

So, with all things considered, I think it’s time to ask the question: Is Mike Stanton the worst professional athlete of all time?

I mean, he has to be right? I almost feel bad for the guy. The minute he got signed, all I heard from these so-called experts was that Mike Stanton’s the savior. He’s a monster. Him and Judge are going to roll over this league. Cancel the season yadda, yadda, yadda.

Well here we are in late April and Mike Stanton couldn’t hit water if he fell out of a boat. The guy is just chopping wood out there. He looks like he should be flipping cotton candy in the instructional leagues and I honestly feel bad. Maybe the bright lights got to him. Maybe he was a fraud this entire time, hiding behind the lack of pressure and attention in Miami. Maybe the scouts across the league stuck to looking at box scores, rather than evaluating bat speed and mental toughness.

When it comes down to it, Mike Stanton stinks. The Yankees stink. The Bruins stink. Maybe the Bruins could sign Mike and he could try his hand at a different sport because this whole baseball thing isn’t going to work out. Hopefully he gets help because I’m rooting for him. You’d hate to see a guy with so much promise disintegrate into a mound of dust in just a couple months.

All we can hope is that he realizes what everyone else already knows, retires, and becomes an accountant or something. His future kids deserve better than to watch their dad crumble into nothing like this. Just a sad story, all around…

Joe Bags’ Classics: The Human-Killing Spider Debacle

 

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So I wrote a blog the other day about how difficult it is to maintain consistent blog productivity. Just because I’m a genius with a gigantic brain doesn’t mean I don’t hit speed bumps every once and awhile. Today has been one of those speed bump days. I’m struggling to find some blog inspiration so I just said “fuck it” and decided to start a new blog where I hash out old classics.

So here’s some context: Going into my final year of college, my university sent out 5-50 different reminders regarding housing deposit for my Senior year. If you wanted to secure a room/townhouse on campus, all you needed to do was respond to one of the emails.

Considering only soft serve, candy-coated cucks read University emails, I didn’t respond. I was too busy drinking, ripping bicep curls, and having rampant sex to be concerned with where I would live the following year. Long story short, I missed housing deposit and was randomly placed in a room. On the hole, that sounds like an awful situation to be thrown into but it turned out to be fine. Everyone I ended up getting placed with were cool as shit aside from this one situation…

So anyway, I was upstairs hammering away on my keyboard one day when one of my roommates casually walked into my room and the following conversation occurred.

Roommate: Hey Joe, apparently there was a spider in our common room that is capable of biting and killing a human in less than 24 hours

Me: Wow, that’s nuts. Who killed it?

Roommate: Well noone. We tried to kill it but it scurried under the TV stand

Me: The “moveable” TV stand?

Roommate: Yeah

Me: Okay, well let’s just go downstairs and kill it…

Roommate: Well, I don’t know where it is.

Me: What…? I thought you just said it went under the TV stand?

Roommate: I did. But that was over an hour ago…

And then he just walked out of my room and left for class. So basically, I was just alone in this townhouse with this fucking thing because my roommates didn’t think to move the TV stand and exterminate this spider that, if left alone, could potentially kill every last one of us.

A couple hours went by and I heard nothing but I was ready for war. Spent the night blasting 306 Mafia, shadowboxing, and ripping cigarettes in the corner like some scene out of Apocalypse Now. I must’ve slept a total of 20 minutes that night because I was on full alert. I left for class that day and came home around 5 PM to yelling in my common room. As it turns out, two of my roommates were hovering over this Brown Recluse and arguing whether or not they should kill it or safely bring it outside. Safely, dude? Safely?

For the record, the roommate who was against killing it was evidently some sort of a closet anarchologist of sorts. He knew everything you could know about this type of spider and was ADAMANT that we capture it and bring it outside. He was your run-of-the-mill Jeff Goldblum type of guys who value nature over human intervention.

On one hand, I love animals; on the other hand, this wasn’t an animal. It was a Brown Recluse. This son of a bitch has a bad rap but that bad rap is enough for me to indite without evidence. Once I know something is capable of killing me in less than 24 hours, the scale tends to tip on my morality a bit.

All I could think of was that scene of the original Spiderman movie where Tobey Maguire let that criminal go during that fight scene and 20 minutes later, that criminal led to the death of Uncle Ben. In this case, I was Uncle Ben. In other words, I wasn’t going to get Uncle Ben’d. I immediately grabbed the heaviest shoe we had near our door and squashed the shit out of that mothafucka.

Long story short, the story isn’t that good but I need to hit my blog quota like a God damn speedbag and if this is the way to do it, this is the way to do it…

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