say cheese and die.

Please: DO NOT get your sister, aunt, mom, grandmother or girlfriend a camera as a present. I have been through 12 of them. My discarded cameras lay either dead or dying in the confines of my broken electronics junk drawer or scattered throughout parts of Vermont, New York and/or the Caribbean. 

As a person in a long term relationship, the only walks of shame I've done while in college are back to the geek squad at Best Buy, begging them for a refund or replacement camera after a reckless night of drinking.

You'd think that after camera #6 or #7 I'd realize my fate was not to take less-than-average-quality digital pictures of girls at bars for the rest of my life, but I have not. Its a really unfortunate un-realization. 
so besides the fact that they break whenever they're dropped,
or besides the fact they they're easier to lose than a tampon inside of a large purse, 
there's another reason not to get a digital camera: The people you take pictures of will torture you. 
Now, I'm not talking about everyone. I genuinely enjoy taking pictures of stupid stuff and funny things and pretty-looking people. But then there are people who I loathe and things that I hate and somehow I end up with all of these abominations in picture form on my computer, seared into the softer parts of my brain. 
To keep photo albums free of useless shitty pictures, you just have to learn which sort of people to avoid. 
The Dance Team: The bar could be playing elevator music and the second these people spot a possible photo opportunity, they turn into a choreography group. They'll grab onto each other's vinyl forever twenty-one mini dresses and pull out all the sexy dance moves they learned in their 2001 hip-hop summer camp. Then, ever-so-subtly, they will look at the camera and wait for a flash.

The Raging Alcoholic:....who doesn't really drink that much. This person is desperate to appear as a fun-loving, party-hopping good time. She is also probably extremely single. You'll be forced to stand by, camera raised just so, to capture pictures of her deep-throating a beer bong. She'll grab her mixed drink before getting in a picture and raise it into the frame as if to say, "Look how fun I am!" 

The I-Spy: Perhaps the worst of them all, this person is most likely amazing at the game, "Where's Waldo." Once the pictures are uploaded/printed out, the I-Spy will miraculously be able to find themselves in a majority of the photos. They'll scream out in joy, "THAT'S MY HAND!! THAT'S MY HAND OVER THERE IN CORNER. SEE, I CAN TELL BECAUSE MY NAILS WERE PURPLE THAT WEEK."

-If by the grace of god, the I-Spy cannot locate herself in a picture, she will find a way to relate the picture to herself. "I was sitting in the bathroom when you took that picture." "Wow. That's totally my drink in the corner."
The Picky One: I've got no qualms taking pictures off of Facebook....if I find it necessary. And even if I don't find completely necessary I can usually agree (silently-so) when a friend complains they look bad in a photo and want it gone. However, I'm finding it increasingly hard to sympathize with people who are living in an obvious state of denial. Either I'm completely blind, or people have no idea what they look like anymore. Friends and non-friends alike ooze self-pity as they complain about minor imperfections. "Ew my hand looks manly in that picture." "I don't like the way my teeth look when I'm smiling here." "I just look awkward, don't put that up." Yes, your majesty, I shall not put it up. But all the while I'm complying, I'm very confused. The picture is never drastically different from how they look in real-life, so I'm left to wonder, who do they think they're fooling by not putting it up?

The hyperbolize-r: Everything is a huge deal. It is either horrible or it is excellent and it needs to be discussed. This person, similar to the I-Spy, picks out slight abnormalities in any given photo and expands endlessly upon them. "OMG WHAT IS MY FOOT DOING IN THE AIR? OMG THAT FACE I'M MAKING IS INSANE. WHAT AM I DOING BACK THERE IN THE CORNER?" 
The Generalizer(s): They're an annoying group of friends taking a picture together, all of them doing something goofy or "cute" in it. Suddenly, this picture becomes the symbol of their friendship. This picture is as precious to them as a hand me down pendant from a dead grandmother, that is until next weekend when they take a new picture. Expect comments or captions with the words 'basically' and 'nutshell.' Such as "basically our friendship in a nut-shell." "basically this is why I love my friends." Basically defines our life....love us." 

So basically, in a nutshell, just try to avoid these people.

save the photo shoots for models.

Come to think of it, since 90% of the people I know think they're models, that strategy might also land you in hot water. 
*note: If you're hanging out with me, let that be indicator #1 that you are not a model.
Next time my camera gets lost in the ocean ill let it sink
or left on top of a ski mountain in Vermont, ill let it freeze
or "forgotten" in the bathroom of a bar, I'll let someone else find it and pass on the curse. 

Beverly Hills Ninja Moves To The Bronx.

Yesterday, October 31st 2011, marked the second anniversary of the day I was stalked by a ninja. 
Last year I took my building's stairs from the 6th floor to the 4th. Under usual circumstances, I would have taken the elevator, but these were not usual circumstances. A couple days earlier I had been yelled at by an angry group of male and female basketball players for using the elevator to travel "only" one floor. Fearing that I would once again run into the disgruntled sports team, I was forced to go against everything I believed in, and to waste unnecessary physical exertion, by taking the stairs. 
Black dress, white face and slit throat walking down the hallway, I realized I was the only person on the floor. Taking one last glance back out into the hallway before I headed down the stairs, A ninja appeared, materialized as eerily as a ghost would have. He waved at my with his fake sword in hand and I waved back. Not thinking much of it, I continued into the staircase. 

As the door closed behind me, His masked ninja face appeared once again. It was pressed up against the glass window that separated us.
Walking down the first flight, I noticed how putrid the stairwell really looked. Fluorescent lights and blue walls. It was as if the word despair was a color and the all the walls were painted of it. Wobbling down the stairs in heels with the grace and femininity of Rosie O'Donnel, I began thinking of a more suitable wall color. 

There to snap me back into reality was the ninja. He was standing in the staircase, just a few steps behind me, staring off into space, unmoving. A nervousness grew in me and I started to run. The ninja followed my lead. He chased me like a real ninja would, crouching and leaping his way down the stairs. I transitioned into a full on sprint and reached the fourth floor where I opened the door to the hallway and slammed it shut hard behind me. 
Walking backwards towards my room, his face appeared once again pressed up against the glass from inside the staircase, each foggy breath making him less and less visible.
After leaving the staircase, he leapt into the common room and ninja rolled behind a couch.
People later told me security referred to him as an intruder.
I never saw him again
......
That is until last night.
My suite-mates, unaware of the history I had with the villian, came into the room half laughing about some creepy ninja they'd just seen crouched into the corner of an elevator. 
Like the surviving member of a Nightmare on Elm Street movie just figuring out that Freddy Krueger was after them again, I screamed out in terror. I ran into my friends room across the hall hysterical and in disbelief. 
On cue, the brave friend of the overly paranoid victim went out into the hall to investigate. Sure enough, the ninja had arrived. He was standing four doors away and staring straight at us. We slammed the door screaming. I stood against the wall clutching my weapon of choice, a baby blue coffee mug; Probably the least intimidating thing  I could find.
His footsteps had finally reached us. He began to drag his ninja sword across the door in swirling patterns and then started to bang on it (a little out of character for the silent ninja, I thought). Then, like the most arrogant ninja I'd ever met, he began tapping his foot outside of the door to convey his impatience with us. Ten minutes later he was gone, off to stalk the rest of the building. 
Roaming the halls with the pervertedness of Freddy Krueger, the silence of Michael Myers and the pure unadulterated evil of Michelle Bachmann, the ninja was a force to be reckoned with. 
And while we've all got our demons, whether inside or out, mine just happens to be a ninja. But in the same way that I hate him, I also love him, for he has given me one more reason not to take the stairs.

these are a few of my favorite things

Sugar On Cereal And Yelling At Strangers
Watching Roseanne And Hermione Granger

When Ashley Simpson Pretended To Sing
These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things


Confetti Frosting And Offensive Doodles
Grape Juice And Midgets And Standing Up Poodles
Gold-Digging Whores Who Go Dizzy For Rings
These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things


Guys With Long Hair And Radical Fascists
Popping A Blackhead And Harmless Car Crashes
Horrible Sex Stories Of Mid Summer Flings
These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things


When The Llamas Spit
When The Dub Step Plays
When I'm Feeling Sad
I Simply Remember My Favorite Things
And Then I Don't Feel So Bad.

see the amazing monkey

Please come one
Please come all
Come see our monkey
His name is Paul


He does front flips
And back flips 
And side acts
And clever quips 


He'll do anything
To make you laugh
Anything for a prize
Peanuts, praise or some cash


But sometimes the peanuts
Get stuck in his hair
And he begins to feel silly 
For working in the fair


The monkey goes home
And takes off his tie
And hangs up his vest
And lets out a sigh 


Seems he has no substance
He's not strong like Poseidon 
A monkey in a funny hat
He's no one to confide in 


Cause he's only good for dancing
And only good to sing 
And to drown in the dunking booth
And to make him jump through rings 


Maybe tonight 
He'll hang up his suit
Jump a train leaving town
Throw out his dancing shoes


Or maybe tonight
After the fair has cleared
He'll practice his routine
The sounds of crickets got him scared. 

Poor, poor white kids.

Facebook; It should be used for what it was intended:

a) Stalking “friends” who don’t know you exist.

b) Making fun of people from behind the computer screen.

c) Uploading pictures to make your life look cooler than it really is.

And not used for: 

a) Religious opinions. 

b) Political debates. 

c) “Modeling portfolio.” 

Facebook indicates that over a decades worth of education has fallen on deaf ears; The deafest being young white people. 

More than a few of my unnamed Facebook “friends” have begun using Facebook as a medium to relay their political and racial beliefs. 

Week after week I see privileged white people complain about something they refer to as, “Reverse Racism.” 

“BLACK PEOPLE HAVE B.E.T, WHY CAN’T WE HAVE A WHITE ENTERTAINMENT NETWORK. BLACK PEOPLE ARE RACIST.” 

Years of history classes and inborn common sense would deter even a stupid person from this kind of thinking. But maybe I’m too quick to judge these poor white people targeted by BET and America’s heavy duty storm of reverse racism. Maybe these kids were absent during the days when we learned about racial things. Things like:

White Americans enslaving black people for hundreds of years.

or black people being considered only 3/5ths a person.

or Jim Crowe Laws. 

or the Civil Rights Movement. 

or people getting sprayed with fire houses and attacked by dogs in the fight for equality. 

or Rosa Parks. 

or lynchings. 

or the word nigger. 

I’m just assuming that no one in their right mind would want to watch the hypothetical “White Entertainment Television.” We don't need W.E.T for the same reason we don’t need a heterosexual alliance. 

What would that network even consist of?

-A brief history in time of our founding fathers?

-Documentaries of hairy faces and bear bellies toting guns out into the woods to kill and eat squirrels. 

-The offensive nature of the word “Cracker.” 

-QVC-esk broadcasts that sell Toms toothpaste and Barry Manilow CD’s. 

-Laguna Beach re-runs 

It’s human nature to want attention from any endured suffering. As people, there is an always-there desire for recognition. Unfortunately, Facebook tells me that there are a number of white people who can’t quite accept that, “Caucasian” is not yet a race worthy of recognition. That's not to say that white individuals are not worthy of recognition. Getting an A on your paper, helping an old lady cross the street, starting your own organization against racism or shaving your vagina without awakening a fury of red bumps. These things all deserve some kind of high five or pat on the back. But like the past of yourself, the past of your race can bind you with a bad reputation. 

            The white race is kind of like a girl who started giving blow jobs in 7th grade, moved onto anal in 8th and earned herself a pretty well-deserved reputation as a whore by the time high school rolled around. The whore has to learn some lessons, slow down on the road head and wait a number of years until she can even begin to earn a new reputation. 

            If black pride apparel, bumper stickers or one entertainment network is all that these Facebook people can scrounge up and rename as racism, they should consider themselves extremely lucky. After this reconsidering, these people should then delete their Facebook’s, and then delete themselves in general. The world won’t be missing too much. I’m able to say this with some confidence after I realized that most of these “victims of reverse racism” are also young know-nothings who have adopted the ill-made opinions of their parents. 
            They are the self-proclaimed heros working dead end jobs and forming dead end opinions as they deliver a plate of sliders to a table of black people with a smile and then later refer to them a bunch of niggers. They are the most useless freedom fighters that have ever existed, for what freedoms are they fighting for that haven't already been handed to them on a silver platter? 

Can You Guess The Breed?

An interesting breed of human has emerged. Though their origin is not yet confirmed, social scientists believe the breed came from an assortment of highly taxed suburbs. Social observation has shown that the humans are extremely primative and lacking in speech development. 

Chest bumps, high fives, grunts and loud bursts of unnecessary laughter seem to be their only means of communicating. Body language experts are being brought in to try and assign meaning to these apparently meaningless behaviors. 

Although national security has deemed the breed too undeveloped to pose any real danger, they are urging citizens to beware of their weapons. Doctors originally assumed that the specimens were born with sticks attached to their hands, but further research has disproved this theory. Doctors discovered that the breed voluntarily carries around large sticks with small butterfly nets attached to the ends. Interestingly, observers have yet to see them do anything except walk around with the stick and occasionally deep-throat it. 

They appear only to have 2 skills: They can throw a small ball with some accuracy and manufacture their own Roofalin. The breeds minimal skill level has done nothing to hurt their self-esteem. Although these stick carriers appear primitive, hunch-backed and monkey-like, they have insane amounts of confidence and believe all women are attracted to them. It has been observed that if denied by a woman, they will resort to date-rape and tea-bagging. After such sexual victories, the breed high fives their sticks and makes gay jokes. Their odd treatment of women, constant gay bashing and contradictory homoerotic behavior led psychologists to a conclusion: This is an all gay breed.  

Until further research has been conducted, Professionals are urging citizens to stay away from the breed. Watch for large packs of men carrying sticks, sporting tiny boners and screaming FAGGOT. To avoid the breed, stay away from freshly mowed fields and frat parties. 

Scientists predict that the new breed will eventually beat each other to death with their sticks. Extinction is near and people are looking forward to it. For now, professionals are referring to the temporary breed as case #1002398374856 or, "The Lax Bros."

One More Minute.

If it takes you an hour to get ready for your boyfriend, it's taking him 55 minutes less than that for him to get ready for you. From curling your eyelashes to getting rid of your secret mustache, girls seem to be stuck in a constant state of "getting ready." But what are we getting ready for? Women in denial would say that to look good is to feel good even if no one's watching. Logical people would argue that we do all this 'getting ready' stuff for the benefit of everyone but ourselves. We do it for people. But more specifically than just people, we do it for men. And even more specific than men, we do it to create and sustain their boners. 
So what exactly do women do to get ready for men 

and what exactly do men do to get ready for women? 

Showering

Women- There was a time when I shaved everything except my eyebrows. Any non-albino woman can empathize with me on this hairy situation. Men would be horrified to see what women shave and the contorting positions that allow them to do so.
Men- Jerks off after shampooing and forgets to wash anything else. He may or may not shave his face. 

Moisturizing 

Women- Puts lotion on every body part even though men are only interested in touching a few of them, (a couple of which should not be moisturized.)

Men- Nothing.

Nails

Women- Clip, file, polish and do whatever it takes to make toenails attractive.

Men- Will trim if completely necessary. Nails will be clipped into jagged points resembling tiny weapons.

Hair

Women- Untangle blowdryer and straightener from 17 cords belonging to appliances you don't use. Blow hot air at scalp while standing naked in a steamy bathroom that's now reached 110 degrees because of your incredibly long shower. Fuse blows. Need to kill someone. Finish blowdrying hair once the fuse is fixed and end up looking like you just survived the electric chair. Plug in straightener to calm down the craziness and kill hair in the process by cramming it into a 450 degree steel trap. Finally, you start to look human. 

Men- Rub hand or towel over head 4 times. Hair looks fine. 

Make-up

Women- Use the following to create your everyday mask: foundation, concealer, bronzer, blush, eye-shadow, eye-liner, mascara, eyelash curler, eye-brow filler, lip gloss from 6th grade and for the sluttier ones, glitter. 

Men- Nothing.

Clothes

Women- If you're anything like me, you're still running from room to room like a naked James Bond trying to dodge anyone in your house who shouldn't see you naked. Try on 12 outfits. Hate all of them. Pick the one you hate the least and then search for slutty underwear. Make sure the bra is padded enough to add 2 cup sizes. NOTE: Upon removing your bra, he will be extremely disappointed to watch your 2 D's deflate to 1 large A-cup and 1 funny looking B.

Men- Walk around room until they find a random shirt to match with a random pair of pants. Specifically pick out underwear with a hole in them.  

Finishing up

Women- Spray perfume and then twirl around in the mist. Look at yourself in the mirror and wonder if your shirt makes you look fat. Change outfits. Look at yourself again before grabbing a purse containing lip gloss, phone, birth control and plan B. 

Men- Possibly spray cologne. Pat pants pockets to make sure they have their phone, keys, condoms and wallet. Somehow this pat is enough to tell them everything.

The women of the world still stuck in the bathroom even after their date has arrived have to wonder if the minimal amount of time a man takes to get ready is symbolic of their minimal interest in her. And although I don't believe there is a correlation between the time it takes a boy to get ready and the amount he likes you, the hole in the underwear keeps my mind in a constant state of wonderment.