Freestyle Friday: Return of the Graph (Not That It Went Very Far)  

A big shout-out to Brooke from LDR for her help on today's first graph:


However, I'd like to make it known that she didn't contribute shit for this one:



Freestyle Friday Bonus!

I am fortunate enough to be part of a project called The Notebook Journey, wherein the blank pages of a fancy notebook get filled as it makes its way through 10 different countries and the lives of over 100 people. For my page, I went with a locally-flavored drawing that features a particularly recognizable landmark getting a "leg up" on the world.


Or maybe it's about to teabag the world, I don't know. Either way I think the message remains pretty much the same.

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Some Things Are Worse Than Mouth Pain  

I've spent a great deal of time in the dentist's chair. Maybe it's my penchant for power napping right after snacking on a full sleeve of Oreo's, or the merciless way in which I bite down on Jolly Ranchers because I like how it makes my teeth stick together, but my oral bed has been made for quite some time now (TWSS?). After several pulled wisdom teeth, a couple of root canals, filled cavities, and even a little gum surgery, I'm used to having my mouth and my wallet violated in all sorts of voluntary ways. The bulk of this work has actually taken place in the past two years, and the main reason I don't shart myself every time someone turns on a high-pitched drill-sounding device in my presence is because I've got such a great dentist. She's calm, gentle, soft-spoken, and easy on the eyes. She isn't stingy with the Novocain and will always 'script me some lovely narcotics with which to further avoid reality.

However, I didn't always have it so good. I used to not even care if my dentists were male or female, a mistake I once paid for dearly. The last male dentist I ever had, who shall henceforth be referred to as Dr. M (as in Motherfucker), started off well enough. I was pleased with how quickly he brought me in to handle a cavity that had developed on the back of my front teeth, seriously threatening my grill.

A few minutes after the chubby, numbing sensation had taken over the front of my face, Dr. M returned to get started on me. "This should only take half an hour or so" he said, a smug look of self-assurance hiding somewhere beneath his perfect smile. He then geared up -- mask and gloves -- but when he leaned over me I couldn't shake the feeling that something was out of place. In a flash it became frighteningly obvious; the surgical mask had been placed in such a way that it was only covering his mouth. Dr. M's big fat nostrils were now breathing who-knows-what right into my wide open facehole, not to mention all the incidental nicks and scrapes he was opening up with the drill across my gum line. In my mind I envisioned a constant stream of germs and assorted particulates being ejaculated from his nose and settling into my exposed gum tissue. And then, with the Gods conspiring against me, things got even worse.

At first glance it didn't seem like anything of size or consequence whatsoever. A little flake, but a noticeable one nonetheless, of snot was dangerously close to the edge of his left nostril. It clung for dear life onto one of his nose hairs, wildly flapping back and forth with each breath like a towel that had been hung out to dry in a storm. By this point I would have sworn it to be the size of a towel, too. It was all I could look at. He may have very well drilled directly into my brain stem, but I was too focused on willing that little bastard to hold on. Just a few more minutes I thought. Don't let go big guy -- you can do it!

But it couldn't. Like the Rock Biter from The Neverending Story, it just wasn't strong enough to hold on. Only instead of having its friends swept away by the nothing, it shot straight into my mouth. I gagged something fierce. Dr. M pulled back and I sat up, wondering if anyone would blame me for throwing up all over his expensive dental equipment. "Whoa-ho there! You need some suction?" he asked. "No, yoo da sucthun!" was the best I could retort through dead lips and tongue. I considered other, more harsh phrases such as "duh-ee affhoe" or "peef of sitt cweep," but ultimately decided it better to hold off on the insults until he was finished putting sharp instruments inside me.

To make matters worse, in the final moments of the appointment he stepped away for a few minutes to take a call. When he returned he ran gauze over my teeth to check the bite and ensure there weren't any sharp spots needing to be buffed down. After he gave the all clear, I looked over in enough time to see that the hand he had just pulled from my mouth was un-gloved. As in my tongue now knew the taste of the bare, hairy-knuckled hand that he was probably holding the phone with moments earlier. I looked at him in a confused, squinty way and asked "Did yoo jush puh yo un-gwoved hand in mah mouf?"

His response floored me, "Yeah, but only for a second," he said with a smile. A SMILE. Motherfucker. Not just motherfucker, but real slow and angry, like MUUUUTHAFUCKAHHH. I wanted to punch him in his stupid leaky nose. Instead, I told his receptionist that I couldn't find my Visa and to just bill me. A bill which I sent back without payment, save a pair of rubber gloves and the words "I would have paid this if Dr. Knuckle Hair knew how to use these" scrawled across it. In the end I'm happy to report that he never even sent me to collections for the unpaid amount, but above and beyond that I'm even happier to report that that son of a bitch didn't leave any diseases in my mouth. Unless of course you consider reverse gender bias to be some kind of newfangled, ridiculously awesome disease of obviousness.

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Freestyle Friday: Graphing Just Got Slightly Nerdier  

No words today, only graphs. Except for the ones I just typed informing you that there wouldn't be any words. And each sentence I have to type thereafter to create additional exceptions to my first sentence. Shit.


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I May Have More OCD Friends Than I Realized  

The more I thought about Monday's post (which has since been updated with EVEN MORE examples of my alleged dickheadery), the more I began thinking of all the little things that get under my skin because of those who refuse to cater to my quirks. Does this make me a hypocrite? Maybe (OK probably), but I prefer to think of myself as an abstruse dichotomy dipped in anomalies and wrapped in bacon. You know, seeing as everything is better wrapped in bacon. Here are some of the things I choose not to participate in, all of which should be considered a net win for those as crazy as myself:
  • I'm not the guy who puts small food containers on the top shelf of the fridge.
  • I'm not the guy who says "like," "um," or "ya know what I'm sayin" every 5 seconds in a conversation.
  • I'm not the guy who forces other people to use coasters.
  • I'm not the guy who talks obnoxiously loud on his phone in an otherwise quiet, occupied space.
  • I'm not the guy who leaves the toilet seat up. EVER.
  • I'm not the guy who leaves the opening of the toothpaste tube looking like a dirty, crusty butthole.
  • I'm not the guy who takes up two parking spaces.
  • I'm not the guy who doesn't know how the self-checkout at the grocery store works, but insists on using it anyway.
  • I'm not the guy who wants to know more about your religion.
  • I'm not the guy who uses the "reply to all" button without good reason.
  • I'm not the guy who thinks owning a cat/dog makes you a "mommy" or a "daddy".
  • I'm not the guy who leaves hair in the soap.
  • I'm not the guy who puts you on speakerphone without telling you.
  • I'm not the guy who tYpEs LiKe mY KeyBOarD Is HaVINg a SEizUrE.
  • I'm not the guy who uses "literally" as my go-to hyperbolic device.
  • I'm not the guy who put his children on a leash.
  • I'm not the guy who wears electronic devices clipped to his belt.
  • I'm not the guy who accidentally gleeks on your face while talking to you.
  • I'm not the guy who writes in library books.
  • I'm not the guy who shakes hands like a 4-year-old girl.
  • I'm not the guy who thinks that it's pronounced "CAR-MEL".
  • I'm not the guy who constantly nods his head "yes" during meetings.
  • I'm not the guy who allows others to make me re-think who I am.

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I'm the Guy Who Has No OCD Friends for a Reason  

As a follow-up to my last post, regarding everyone's capacity for dickheadery when an elevator is involved, I wanted to try and balance the scales with a confessional of sorts. I'm far from the perfect person, and I know for a fact that my actions are quite often the bane of someone else's existence. A few (if not too many) great examples include:
  • I'm the guy who takes 15+ items into the express lane at the grocery store.
  • I'm the guy who is always driving slower than you.
  • I'm the guy who nicknamed you "Emoticonnie" for putting smileys in the subject line of work emails.
  • I'm the guy who only comes to sports parties for the beer.
  • I'm the guy who takes the last slice of pizza without even attempting to first make eye contact with you.
  • I'm the guy who could give two shits about using your coaster.
  • I'm the guy who grabs a giant wad of napkins from the dispenser and only uses half of them.
  • I'm the guy who infected your computer with a virus in 1999 because I didn't how to properly surf for porn.
  • I'm the guy who doesn't clear the timer on the microwave when I'm done using it.
  • I'm the guy who can't remember your name, so I fake introduce you to someone in order to hear you say it.
  • I'm the guy who always steals the armrest from you.
  • I'm the guy who will sincerely ask for your advice and then do the exact opposite of what you suggested.
  • I'm the guy who is so fidgety it makes some people nervous.
  • I'm the guy who you can hear typing in the background while we're on the phone.
  • I'm the guy who puts ketchup on "good" food.
  • I'm the guy who swears in front of elderly people, falsely assuming that they've heard it all by now.
UPDATED!! Turns out I'm an ever bigger dick than previously realized!
  • I'm the guy who consistently puts utensils in the wrong section of the utensil separator.
  • I'm the guy who thinks french fries belong on top your hamburger and/or hot dog.
  • I'm the guy who has never sent a thank-you note in his life.
  • I'm the guy who writes on your dirty car windshield.
  • I'm the guy who doesn't care which way the roll of toilet paper is facing.
Before you start sharpening your pitchforks, allow me to clarify that I will usually bring some beer to your party, just not as much as I plan on drinking, and well, let's just say I've learned more than enough to ensure I won't be crashing your computer anytime soon.

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Freestyle Friday: I Should Probably Just Take the Stairs  

There aren't many awkward social situations you'll find yourself forced into on a daily basis, save one painful exception for those of us who work and/or live in a building with an elevator. At a glance it doesn't seem like such a big deal; you get in, cover some vertical ground, and ka-blammo -- destination achieved. How hard could that possibly be? Sadly, as with so many other retardedly simple things, you can always count on the stupids to make it difficult for the rest of us.

I'm fully aware that I have pronounced elevator issues. Like when someone rushes into the elevator without first giving others a chance to exit. It's called waiting your turn, people, which is some day 1 kindergarten shit right there. You managed to master wiping your poophole and not stabbing yourself in the eye with scissors, yet you have trouble remembering not to charge the elevator door like it was Wal-Mart on Black Friday?

Don't even get me started on the ridiculously forced conversations that happen once the doors close and the awkwardness hits full stride. I loathe this even more when they think it smart to add mirrors to the elevator walls. Sure, it gives the illusion of space, but it also greatly reduces the number of places I can stare off blankly into.

Hands down the worst part of the whole ordeal begins before you even board the elevator in the first place, when all that's required of you is a simple push of a button and an ounce of patience. Contrary to what seems to be the overwhelmingly popular belief, you only have to do this once. Crazy shit I know. Interesting fact: the straightforward user interface with which you call the elevator is in NO WAY similar to the one that is used to play Mario Party. Meaning that the faster and crazier you wail on that button, the only thing you're speeding up is the formation of onlooker's opinions of your doucheness.

There is also a special place reserved in hell 2.0 for what I like to call the "re-pushers". You might know them better as "A-wads who like to insult your intelligence by re-pushing a button that you've already illuminated". Would you get behind someone in line for something and say Hey buddy. Yeah you. I want you to go right before me, you got it? Or maybe you'd prefer to paint the exact same painting over someone else's work of art? It may surprise you to learn that I'm generally an empathetic, devil's advocate kind of guy, but I've got nothing when it comes to defending people who do this. In fact, to thwart re-pushers, whenever I find myself waiting alone for a new elevator (that I'm not tied to professionally), I adorn the button panel with one of these special stickers I created:


What can I say? You've got to be the change you wish to see in the world. I'm more than happy to share the full sheet, printer label-friendly version of this with my fellow elevator freedom fighters out there... all you have to do is drop me a line.

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After 20 I'm More Like my Grandma (Dead)  

I'm fairly certain that there's also an erectile dysfunction joke in here somewhere, but I think I'll save that one for another day. I've done enough damage with the title of this post as it is.

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Freestyle Friday: Yeeaaaahhhhhh!!  

This meme has been around for quite some time now, but only recently have I found myself inspired enough to play along. I must admit, it's quite liberating to create something where awful and effectiveness are graded on the same curve, much like country music or celebrity portrait tattoos.

For those of you who have never seen CSI: Miami and are clueless as to what this is or why it's (arguably) funny, here are some cute baby animals so you don't feel like this post was a complete waste of your time.

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I'm Switching to Bing  


Now that's just plain uncalled for, Google.

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Freestyle Friday: Crust Integrity Destabilizing  

This week's Freestyle Friday is brought to you by Kenzie, my 6-year-old daughter. I told her I needed a brilliant idea for something to draw, to which she responded "A robot baking a pie. But he burn-ded it. And now he's sad. But it's OK because robots don't have stomachs so this one can just be practice," after which she hops up and starts doing the robot, beep-boop-boop noises and all. It's only because she's my daughter that I'm OK with a 6-year-old being twice as awesome as I'll ever be.

Thankfully, she approved of my interpretation of a cold, unfeeling machine's struggle with the abstract concept known as flavor that we humans take for granted.... and here's hoping the rest of you will as well. Beep-boop-boop.

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