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Girl drink drunk

Well hello there, Sutter Home Pink Moscato “wine”. I see you there on the corner of my work desk, looking all pink and feminine. I see you every day, but never taken the time to say hello. To be honest, I always thought of you as a bit of a joke. But there’s something different about you today.

You’re not normally my type, as I’m a grown man with dignity and self respect. But it’s 95 degrees outside and the air conditioning at work is broken. Small beads of condensation are running down your classy plastic bottle. Your cap is pink and unopened by any other man.

Pardon the old cliched pickup line, but is it hot in here, or is it just you?

Please hire more ugly people

The local toy store is a sacred place. Change must happen slowly, because grown men who collect toys are a particular bunch. They’re obsessive. Once you get them in a comfortable routine, any altering of that routine is like taking away their security blanket. Even the slightest change in the store’s atmosphere might scare them away to another store. One must be careful with such things.

“Grown men? But toy stores are for children!” you say. Nonsense. What do children do? Wander around and not buy things, that’s what. Once every few months their parents buy them something, and the store owner earns $7. Big whoop. Grown men who collect toys buy entire cases of figures! They sometimes pay hundreds of dollars for a single toy. They’re the deep pockets that keep toy stores alive.

Catering to these weird adults not only serves a financial purpose, but a community service as well. Without the creative outlet of collectible toys, these people would have to get their freak on through socially unacceptable methods like huffing paint, stabbing homeless people or finding dates through Tinder.

I should know. I’m one of them. I almost stabbed a random person the other day, just to see what it feels like. But I couldn’t, because my local toy store was releasing the tenth colorway of a “rare” toy and I didn’t want to be late for the store opening. It’s in yellow this time! Yellow! Super limited, just like the other nine versions!

A perfect 35th birthday

Well hello there, pretty lady on the bus. You’re looking quite . . . pretty. Sorry, I’m a professional writer, but I usually have a thesaurus. Anyway, I’ve noticed you don’t look angry or bitter. Perhaps you haven’t been hit on by a creepy stranger yet today?

Excellent! I love being the first! You may be wondering why I approached you. Well first, I’m looking to bang. But more importantly, I’ve noticed you have one eye that’s twitching and weird. I figure this flaw knocks you down at least two or three points on the social scale, causing general anxiety and low self-esteem. This may drag you down into my league.

All my life I’ve dreamed of meeting a beautiful woman with a lazy eye. It’s like finding a used car with a manual transmission or canned food at the supermarket with dents in them. Better suitors are scared away by these noticeable flaws, but not me. I’m out hunting for a bargain!

The complete guide to training a dog

Command List

”NO” is one of the hardest commands to execute properly. It’s important to use a tone of voice that lets your dog know they’re being disciplined, but doesn’t entice them to bite you in the groin. Before using this command on your dog, try it out on elderly family members or customers at your workplace. If your dog doesn’t respond, bribe him with treats and affection. If customers or family members don’t respond, beat them unmercifully.

“SHUT UP” communicates to your dog that you didn’t pay the pet deposit in your apartment building, and continued barking will likely land them back in the pound where they will be euthanized. It should be said with a forceful tone, using body language that shows the process of euthanization.

”GODDAMN IT, DOG” is a great phrase that lets your dog know that pooping in the laundry hamper, swallowing your car keys or humping your six-year-old niece’s bare legs is not “indoor behavior”.

A polite note from The Easter Bunny

Eggs! Friggin’ eggs. Everywhere I look, there’s eggs. I’m a rabbit. What the hell do I have to do with eggs? I don’t lay ‘em. I don’t eat ‘em. I have no thumbs, so I can’t hold that wire thing kids use to color them. So why is it every year around this time I’m asked to hide eggs?

“Forced” is probably a better word. I’m forced to hide eggs. It totally sucks. I have to get up early, which is rough because I like to stay out late drinking on Saturdays. I don’t get paid for it. There’s no health insurance or 401k involved. Hiding eggs sucks. Do you have any idea what I smell like after hiding 10,000 slowly rotting eggs? I smell like eggs! Jackass!

They’re fetuses, y’know. Dead babies. There was once a life in those eggs. I don’t want to get all Michele Bachmann on everyone here, but boiling eggs is like a third trimester abortion. How would you like it if chickens went to Planned Parenthood, bought all your dead babies and then painted them silly colors and hid them in their yard?