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It’s Goober Friday

The goobers gathered in clumps outside their local Best Buy. Warming themselves with thick blankets and hot coffee, they shared tales of grandeur from years past. The lady who dispersed pepper spray in hopes of creating a diversion. The man who tried to high jump over the mob and crowd surf his way to savings. The old woman in the Rascal Scooter who tried to park herself at the front of the line ten minutes before the doors opened.

That bitch went down hard, and the rest of these scheming bastards failed just as badly. They were beaten back by a crowd of bloodthirsty cheapskates who would sooner trample their own kin than wait six months for that “doorbuster” TV to hit the same price in the discount bins.

Clear a path, you smelly whores! The time of the goober has come! Their fists are clenched and ready to deal damage to anyone in their way. Scratching, biting, spitting, pulling hair. Fighting the way a drunken Swede fights when cornered. Spouses can be replaced, children’s bones will heal eventually, and God himself would be wise to spend the next few minutes dumpin’ a grumper while his disciples take care of the important business.

I usually just steal things from Thanksgiving potlucks

One year I brought a loaf of white bread to the Thanksgiving potluck at work. Another year I brought Halloween candy, most of which I had gathered from work over the previous month. Most years I bring nothing, and when people ask which dish is mine, I point vaguely in the direction of a table and then pretend my phone is ringing.

“Who brought Charleston Chews to the potluck?” said Gladys from accounts, her voice a shrill and fiery disapproval that tore through every hallway in the office like molten lava. “It has bats and ghosts on it! Honestly, how hard is it to use a stove?”

Very hard, Gladys. There are at least six or seven knobs and buttons on my stove, and I have no idea what most of them do. I pressed a button once, and it turned on some weird fan that made the entire room smell like expired lunch meat. The microwave has never done that to me, Gladys. Neither have Charleston Chews. Lesson learned.

Work potlucks are fantastic events. There’s a real lack of caring from everyone involved, which makes the atmosphere very comfortable. It’s a Ghetto Thanksgiving, for lack of a better term. Bring in any trash off the street that appears to be food, and you can trade it for real food made by someone with actual cooking skills. You’d think the skilled people would catch on after a few years and stop working so hard on their dishes, but they’re very stubborn. They believe their good example will cause me to become honest over time. They are wrong.

The Man Who Does Not Care That You Do Not Care That He Doesn’t Hunt

I’ve never shot a deer before. My reasoning is one percent because deer are cute, and 99 percent because ground beef is $3 at the supermarket two blocks from my home. Why go hunting when the saps at Ralph’s will do all the dirty work for slave wages?

As Scrooge McDuck always said, “Work smarter, not harder.”

I can understand why people like hunting. The early mornings, the bitter cold, the endless eerie silence, the long bouts of waiting that make an hour seem like a month, the wood ticks, the lack of toilets or ice cream sundaes, the asking of permission from strangers to shoot living things in their yard, the plentiful cases of Keystone Light.

Wait, that sounds horrible. On second thought, I don’t understand hunting at all. Are people who hunt complete nutjobs? I mean, I hate people a lot, but I still wouldn’t sit in the freezing cold of a glorified treehouse for an entire weekend just to avoid others. There are simpler paths to solitude. I usually just angrily yell at people until they can’t stand being near me anymore. It works well, and allows me a lot of free time for playing video games. I’ve beaten The Last of Us six times!

Co-worker or smelly hobo?

Let’s play a fun game. I’m going to provide a quote, and you’re going to guess whether it was said by one of my hippie co-workers or a random homeless person I met on the bus. This game wouldn’t normally be very challenging, but I live in California, so my co-workers are all eco-friendly, beard growing, hipster enabling, ballerina tea drinking, fad diet abusing, self detoxing, compost loving, yoga mat buying ironic armchair Communists. So pretty much the same as Duluth.

I like the Communist part. It makes it easier for me to take an entire pizza home after holiday parties. No one’s ever watching! Only Castro! But let’s begin the game.

 
”I swiped some coffee grounds from Trader Joe’s for breakfast. I’m so excited! I never have breakfast!”
Answer: Co-worker. Homeless people may be hungry and crazy, but there are few beings in this universe hungrier or crazier than a 20-something California girl on a diet.

Daylight Saving Time FAQ

What is daylight saving time? A pointless, archaic tradition that exists only to make it darker outside for trick or treaters.

Really? No, but the actual explanation is even dumber.

Doesn’t Halloween come before DST this year? So your joke doesn’t even make sense. Shut up.

Isn’t the real explanation something to do with farmers needing more light when they work in the fields? I’m going to be honest with you: I don’t care.