Posts tagged ‘musings’

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May 4, 2012

Ten Things You Don’t Hear at Your College Graduation Ceremony

by Fred Fingery

You’re graduating near the top of your class in a prestigious Ivy League university. You’re wearing a spare space-shuttle heat-shield tile on your head and there’s a silky golden tassel hanging over your red, hungover eyes as you stare in wonder at the world-wise speaker up there behind the podium. He has your full attention and he can talk about whatever he wants. The sky’s the limit. He can tell you silly, poignant stories about when he, himself, graduated from university. He can share some clever anecdote about a long time ago when he’d met a young Donald Trump. He can share some useful pointers about how to stand out and to rise quickly in the cut-throat business world. He can be as motivational as Tony Robbins.

The sky’s the limit. A commencement address can go just about anywhere, cover nearly any subject, risque or cliche,  and that’s what makes it unique, memorable, and sometimes, exceptional.

With that being said, there are some things you’ll never hear at a graduation ceremony…

Ten Things You Don’t Hear at Your College Graduation Ceremony

  1. “Hello students, this is your Dean speaking. Just wanted to be the first to say,  ‘Welcome to your freshman year at college.’”
  2. The sound of a Tyrannosaurus Rex fighting a Spinosaurus.
  3. Other peoples’ thoughts.
  4. A musical performance by all four of the Beatles.
  5. Professor Steven Hawking singing “My Heart Will Go On,” and nailing it.
  6. “Hello students, this is your Dean speaking. At the end of the ceremony, instead of throwing your hats in the air, please throw your pants.”
  7. “Hello Deans, this is your student speaking. Why are there so many of you sitting there in the audience and only one of me up here on stage? What kind of dopey college is this anyway?”
  8. The sound of one hand clapping.
  9. A convincing argument for the existence of a family of plesiosaurs in Loch Ness.
  10. The sound of one foot smelling.

Posted in Lists, Practically Humorous, Unorthodoxy | 3 Comments »

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April 27, 2012

Ultimate Would You Rather: Kevin Smith’s Underwear vs. One-Eyed Jaguar

by Fred Fingery

Today marks the return of UWYR! But, instead of coming up with a brand new Would-You-Rather question to challenge my readers’ intellect and imagination, I kind of think it’s necessary to do my very first UWYR Revision. Specifically, I’m targeting what turned out to be a rather lopsided UWYR 2. Where UWYR 1 enjoyed perfect balance (the numbers are currently holding at 50/50), UWYR 2 clearly favored one of the two choices by a significant margin.

This I cannot allow.

It seems my readers would rather risk their lives than endure a Los Angeles/New York plane flight as Kevin Smith’s tighty whities.

I simply don’t believe you, Readers. I refuse to believe that you’d risk death in order to keep out of Kevin Smith’s pants. You mean to tell me that, say,  some rich, sadistic Alfred Hitchcock villain captured you and forced you to choose between the jaguar and the Kevin Smith Underwear, you’d choose the option that might possibly get you killed (just to clarify, I’m talking about the jaguar, not Kevin Smith’s underwear)? Oh, come on! I don’t believe that you, the reader, ever took this question seriously. You didn’t give it the proper respect. At least most of you, anyway. Most of you just figured you’d “wing it” with the terminally ill jaguar. Sounds safe enough, right?

Don’t take anything for granted here at UWYR.

I mean, think about it. What if the tree branch snaps and you fall to the ground and break your legs? Kinda changes the chemistry of the confrontation doesn’t it. I mean, I’d already told you this jaguar, though dying, is experiencing one final flourish of big-cat berserker rage. I don’t like your odds against said jaguar in the event that one of your legs breaks from a fall. And, use your imagination! What if there’s a monkey in the tree before you even get there? I never said anything about a monkey either way, so one could very well be there. Do you think a pre-existing tree-tenant would help you or hurt you? Who knows!

Why take the risk?

I want more of you to choose Kevin Smith’s Underwear, and to help you make this difficult decision I will slightly modify UWYR 2. Just enough to (maybe) get you to make the “right” decision.

 UWYR 2.1

Would you rather be Kevin Smith’s underwear for an entire New York/Los Angeles plane flight?

supplemental information: Same deal as last time. He’s wearing tighty whities and God knows how long he’s had them on (or what activities he was doing with them on). The plane flight is nonstop from Los Angeles to New York.

or…

Would you rather be chased up a tree by an otherwise healthy one-eyed male jaguar that hasn’t eaten for days and believes it is going to die unless it eats VERY soon?

supplemental information: You must survive this scenario for three full hours. Then the one-eyed jaguar gets shot with a tranquillizer dart and you’re good to go. There is an insane Orangutan in the tree before you even get there. I have NO IDEA how he’s going to react to you being in his tree.

Choose with your imagination…

Posted in Practically Humorous, Uncategorized | 2 Comments »

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April 13, 2012

3 Unorthodox Ways to Get Your Mechanic to Give You a Break

by Fred Fingery

Going to the mechanic can be a scary thing, especially when you don’t know all that much about cars. You try and look calm, sound tough, pretend you’re dying and therefore deserve sympathy, but still you feel your mechanic’s cold eyes scanning every inch of your nervous face, sizing you up, studying your weaknesses. He’s done this before and he knows what to look for. He has his tricks.

“And, is your vehicle two-door or four-door?” he’ll say in a friendly voice, as if it’s no big deal.

You freeze up. Your cool-guy swagger drains away. The charade is up. If you try and make up a lie it’ll only be worse for you. In a panic you decide to become Honest Abe. With a sort of apologetic smirk twitching on your lips you say, “Ooh. Okay. I gotta be honest with you man, I really don’t know that much about cars.” You figure maybe he’ll respect your sincerity.

But you know, deep down, you’ve just fallen victim to an old mechanic mind-trick, and now you belong to him. All you can do is pray he be gentle, and he rarely is.

You wonder: Is there no hope? Why is it always the same? How do I better prepare myself for next time? How do I finally get my mechanic to give me a break?

It’s easy, actually. You need only think a little outside the box.

3 Unorthodox Ways to Get Your Mechanic to Give You a Break  

  1. Enroll in a technical college, learn the basics about car repair, and then start applying for jobs as an apprentice mechanic. Once you get hired by a mechanic, simply remind him that by law he must give you at least one one-hour break during your eight hour work day. He’ll give it to you.
  2. Tell him you kidnapped his son and currently have the kid hanging upside down above the electrified cage where they keep the velociraptors, but that you’ll happily let him free if you get a good deal on the repair. When he tells you with a straight face that he has no son, call his bluff (and hope he’s bluffing).
  3. After your mechanic charges you $1476 just to replace your front left brake pad, remind him that by law he must give you back the old one, too, should you request it. Request it. He’ll give it to you.

—

For more car-themed unorthodoxy, check out this post!

Posted in Lists, Practically Humorous, Unorthodoxy | 2 Comments »

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April 8, 2012

Cadbury Mini Egg Love, Requited!

by Fred Fingery

It was an Easter miracle! I finally conjured up the nerve to purchase one of those pillowcase-sized bags of Cadbury Mini Eggs that have been haunting my dreams for the past two weeks!

It happened yesterday. I had visited the drug store with plans to buy some cough drops (I wasn’t even sick—I just wanted to do a little maintenance). Of course, it turned out that in order to get to the Cold/Flu aisle it was necessary that I cut through the seasonal Easter aisle.

No problem,  I thought. Yes, I was aware there would likely be Cadbury Mini Eggs there, that this was their territory, but I figured we were all adults here and we could sort of respectfully pretend we didn’t see each other. Easy. Clean. I took a deep breath and did my best not to look at anything. As a precaution I tried to stifle any and all possible temptation by thinking about healthy stuff. About fitness celebrity John Basedow. About six-minute abs. About everything lean and healthy.

But it turned out I had slightly underestimated the tasty glamor of the seasonal Easter aisle. I found myself surrounded on all sides by glossy pink and purple and light-blue plastic baggies of chocolates and jellybeans and peeps. Dazed, delirious, I made the mistake of taking a quick peak to the shelves at my right and that’s when I saw them. They say on a low shelf, neatly stacked like shrink-wrapped Ikea pillows: those terribly huge bags of Cadbury Mini Eggs.

My nervous eyes darted about the surrounding shelves. I needed some countermeasures and I needed them fast! Perhaps I’d get lucky and this particular drug store would be merciful enough to sell convenient single-serving-sized baggies of Cadbury Mini Eggs. Surely they must exist.

No. There were no single-serving bags. And so my thoughts returned to those hellishly large sacks of chocolate eggs. “Tomorrow’s Easter,” I dared let myself think. “It’s now or never.” And I may have been talking to myself out loud because in the periphery of my vision I’m pretty sure I saw one or two children make a run for it. Well aware that I was already showing signs of Mini Egg madness and I hadn’t even eaten a single Mini Egg yet, I gritted my teeth and made my legs keep moving. Miraculously I escaped the aisle un-tackled by security.

A proud smile played on my lips. Once again I had shoulder-checked Temptation. I was a true master of self-control!

Or so I thought.

Somewhere near where they kept the Zicam zinc cold remedy I discovered there was a pillowcase of Cadbury Mini Eggs in my hand. My body had somehow overruled the judgment of my eat-your-vegetables mind. My hand must have shot out and snatched a bag of Mini Eggs while I was looking at the cheap pink wicker Easter baskets. And, as I playfully bobbed the thing’s weight up and down in my hand, I found that the bag felt good there. It felt real good.

Of course, I figured I’d come to my senses soon enough. I figured I’d toss the unholy thing right back down onto some random shelf on my way to the cash register. But at the same time I reasoned it would do no real harm to hold onto the Mini Eggs for just a while. I found that it was quite exciting to hold something so dangerous in my hand, and I didn’t want the experience to end before it had to. I wanted to try and “last longer.”

To do this I knew I’d have to try and occupy my mind with other things. I’d have to avoid thinking about the Mini Eggs directly, and about the rollercoaster marathon of sugar-rushes and crashes they threatened to bestow upon my entire week. I needed to stay cool, not get too excited.

Later, when I was in line at the register, I was only marginally aware that the purple sack of Cadbury Mini Eggs still hung from my grip like an unconscious baby. I knew I was holding something but I didn’t quite know what it was because I was too busy distracting myself with thoughts about baseball. About wrestling. About foreign politics. I gazed idly at the analog clock on the wall and did some quick calculations. “Seven minutes,” I thought. “Embarrassing. I can do better.” I think my intent was to extend the Mini Egg thrill all the way to the cash register. Only then would I pull out of this sugary, chocolaty fantasy and face the boring, tasteless reality of my weekend. Only then would I allow myself to surrender, to abort.

There were some frightening moments of lucidity when I knew exactly what was going on, and oh, in those moments how I wanted to discard the bag right then and there! I wanted to toss it onto the little shelves of sugarless gum and orange tic-tacs and be done with it! “No!” I muttered beneath my breath. “I will push this Mini Egg tease as far as it can go.” So I thought more about baseball and foreign politics. I started to try and remember long forgotten song lyrics to long forgotten songs.

Minutes later the automatic glass door swished open and I exploded out of the drug store into the parking lot, a broad smile on my face and an undeniable swagger in my step.

“Damn, son!” said an old man hanging around outside smoking a cigarette. “You had yourself an incredible drug store shopping experience, didn’t ya.”

I gave the man a confident, cool wink. In the white plastic bag swinging back and forth in my hand there were three things: 1) a baggie of cough drops, 2) a receipt for cough drops and Cadbury Mini Eggs, and 3) Cadbury Mini Eggs. At the register I had been too busy thinking about steroids and Jose Conseco and Iranian Nuclear Missiles to remember to tell the cashier, “Actually, I don’t think I’m gonna take these.”

And so this year I got my Cadbury Mini Eggs after all. I didn’t let my fears and my insecurities get in the way of true candy love.

And then today, Easter Sunday, with about fifteen Mini Eggs stored in each of my smiling cheeks, I saw one of my neighbors with a Skittles-sized bag of Cadbury Mini Eggs in his hand. “What the hell?” I howled. “So they do have smaller bags of Mini Eggs?!?”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “They got these, like, everywhere bro.”

—–

Check out this post for more suspenseful Cadbury Mini Egg Adventures!

Posted in Editorial, Practically Humorous | 6 Comments »

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April 7, 2012

A Master Race of White Socks and Ex-Girlfriends

by Fred Fingery

Someone once suggested to me that I commit sock genocide. They said that if I got rid of all my different pairs of socks, all my socks of different colors, materials, hole-placements, and replaced them with a master race of identical white cotton socks, I’d never again have a problem assembling matching pairs after doing a load of laundry. Any sock would match any other sock and so laundry day would be considerably less frustrating. I thought this was a great idea. Unification of socks!

When I got home I walked to my dresser and I stared at my unopened sock drawer with unsound eyes, disturbed eyes. There was some kind of eerie smile on my face. Maybe I giggled madly, I don’t know. Actually I do know: I did. And when I pulled open my sock drawer I made the exact same face as the villain in Raiders of the Lost Ark when he finally pried open the Ark of the Covenent and peered inside. “It is the dawn of a new era,” I said aloud. “And there is no place there for you wretched uncoordinated misfits! Prepare for death!”

But then my crazy-face wilted into the visage of a mother gazing lovingly upon the skid-marks her beloved son generously left behind in his Hanes tighty-whities. I stared at my miserable sock-sty, at all the different colors, styles, at all the frayed edges and the loose threads and the holes, and I couldn’t help but wax nostalgic.

“Aww,” I said with a sigh, my eyes fixed on a brown wooly pair of Adidas-brand socks. “I remember the Christmas I was disappointed I got you!”

So I shook my head slowly, knowing damn well I didn’t have the heart for sock genocide. Some of my pairs are still kinda good. Still sort of comfortable. Some of them don’t even have any holes. I just can’t do it. And if there’s even one pair of socks that aren’t with the program, the proposed master race of white cotton socks would be tainted. For this to work, any and all variation must be terminated with extreme prejudice, and I am neither extreme or prejudiced.

Bottom line: my loyal gang of sock riff-raff stays! My hometown workin’ man socks will keep on truckin’. I support them. I am their Bruce Springsteen.

And then I had a new thought. Seeing as I really appreciated the theory of sock-unification, could I not attempt to apply the same principal to some other area of my life?

Yes.

Dating.

And it was all so clear to me. I said to the dust-caked oscillating fan atop my dresser, “Henceforth I will date only one type of girl. Only one genre of girl. I will tolerate no variation. And because of this my life will be much less frustrating!”

People come in specific, reoccurring categories. For any one person—man or woman—there is a whole legion of doppelgangers spread throughout the land. Sometimes the same city. The same neighborhood. People with similar body types, similar backgrounds, and similar opportunities end up developing similar personalities and ultimately end up making the same sort of decisions, because for that type of person those decisions are the most logical ones to make. People tend to veer towards logic, I find. They buy the same type of car because they have approximately the same amount of money in their savings accounts. They listen to the same type of music based on what’s trendy and hip during their most impressionable years. They get similar hairstyles because those are the sexiest hairstyles, considering their particular head-shape. They wear the same clothes because those are the sexiest clothes for their body-type. Everything falls in line quite nicely, and a person-genre is born.

I’m not immune. Once I came face to face with a Jeep-driving, beard-having, trendy-glasses-wearing, frayed-grey-sweater-donning, drug-period-Beach Boys-listening “me,” and it was like when Michael Keaton met his first clone in the movie Multiplicity. Me and my doppelganger, after staring at each other slack-jawed for a minute or two, quickly delineated borders we were and were not allowed to cross, bars and restaurants and parks we were allowed to continue to visit, and we agreed to make a strong effort never to risk crossing paths again. And then, with “business” finally settled, we smiled lovingly into each other’s eyes and gave each other a firm handshake and wished each other good journey. “May at least one of us make it to the promised land,” I believed is what I said. Or he said. Either way, an important part of me died that day – the part of me that dared assumed I was in any way unique. As hard as I might try to be original, my sad efforts place me more soundly into my own terrible category: “Guy that tries to be unique even though he already knows he can’t be.”

Knowing this disappointing truth about the human condition, and recently having come upon a new cutting-edge Sock-Unification Technology, it wasn’t long before I discovered a way to put the two concepts together in a way that would benefit me.

Skinny, pale, looks like the “girl next door,” dated a suspicious amount of “total jerks,” drives a beaten-up, oxidizing, 1998 Saturn. Okay, I’ll exclusively date that type. I’ll try that type on for size this year. I’d prefer if all of them even have the same name, though that might start to get a little hard to pull off. That’ll be like hitting the five numbers and then the mega-ball too. They can have different names.

Being that I’m not exactly the Michael Jordan of maintaining normalcy, each of these “relationsocks” will probably run its course within a few months, and then I will simply move to the next sock. My tears will dry and I will sort of pick up where I’d just left off. It’ll be a smooth, convenient transition. In time I will have developed a master race of identical, interchangeable ex-girlfriends, and then the true method to my madness will be revealed. If I am heartbroken over the demise of a recent relationsock, I will text all of my ex-girlfriends, looking simply for a clean sock to complete my pair. There’s always one lone sock buried in the drawer somewhere, right? Scrunched up and hidden in some underwear, perhaps?

It’ll be whoever bites first!

Chances are at least one of my ex-girlfriends will have come to regret letting such a nice guy like me slip away, and so we’ll get back together and I’ll have a matching pair again. Since the identical members of my “sock drawer” will all feel like the same person to me anyway. It’ll feel like sort of like my “girlfriend” and I had had a fight but now made up and everything’s back to normal. It will become literally impossible to not be dating the same girl! It’s a relationship that can’t fail!

Damn. It just occurred to me that my Jeep-driving doppelganger probably has a blog of his own. He’s probably finishing up the exact same post as I am right now. Our detailed treaty never mentioned anything about blog content.

Oh well. More exposure this way.

Long as one of us makes it…

Posted in Editorial, Practically Humorous, Relationships | 10 Comments »

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April 5, 2012

Unorthodox Sex Advice

by Fred Fingery

Mark C.: Hey. Love the blog. Got a question for you. Why does my wife call out someone else’s name during sex? She says, “Oh Mark, Mark!”

Practicallyserious.com: But wait a minute. Isn’t your name Mark?

Mark C.: Yes, my name just-so-happens to be Mark as well. But my wife doesn’t really respect me so much and she never refers to me by name. She has this nickname she always calls me around the house and I really don’t like it, but I’m scared that if I complain she’ll just call me it more. It’s “Dopey.” She says, “Hey Dopey, take out the garbage.” So she must be talking about some other Mark when we have sex. But who the hell is he?

Practicallyserious.com: It might still be you, Dopey. Maybe during the heat of carnal passion your wife momentarily mistakes you for a “man” and thus calls you by your real name. Don’t worry, I’m sure she didn’t mean it. I thought of a quick fix-it. Since you’re too afraid to ask her to stop calling you Dopey, why don’t you just ask her to call you Dopey during sex as well? This way everything will be nice and balanced. No more confusion.

Dopey: Hey, that worked! Thanks!

Practicallyserious.com: No problem Dopey.

 ***

 

Joe R.: I haven’t had sex with my wife at all in the past eleven months, and then all of a sudden she comes up to me and says she has a brand new puppy. How is that even possible? And she actually thinks I’m gonna help take care of something that obviously isn’t even mine? Does she think I’m some kind of idiot?

Practicallyserious.com: Yes.

Joe R.: She should.

 ***

 

Bob T.: Hi! Love your blog. So I have a little problem. One night I caught my wife trying to climb out our second story bedroom window when she thought I was asleep. After I yanked her back in I looked outside and saw the local high school football team waiting down in my front lawn. As soon as they saw me they scattered.

Practicallserious.com: Bad news, man. You can’t divorce her because she’s already dead. So are those football players. They were all on a bus that crashed into your wife’s car and both vehicles fell into the lake. The football players are now on the “other side,” and they’re trying to free your wife from a plane of existence to which she no longer belongs. Next time just let her go out the window. Let her be free.

Bob T.: Okay, so I took your advice and last night I let her go out the window to be with the football players. But then this morning she stumbles back into the house all jostled-looking and a goofy grin on her face. When she tried to sit down on the chair at the kitchen table she shrieked and rubbed her rear end. Explain this.

Practicallyserious.com: Cover all your bases. Make sure there isn’t a tack or anything sharp on the kitchen seat.

Bob T.: Haha. There was totally a thumbtack on the seat. That explains everything. Thanks man!

***

Having relationship/sex trouble? Tell me about it! Maybe I can help.

For more unorthodoxy, check out this post.

Posted in Practically Humorous, Relationships, Unorthodoxy | 3 Comments »

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April 2, 2012

A Tale of Unrequited Mini-Egg Love

by Fred Fingery

As far as I can tell, the only way to buy milk chocolate Cadbury Mini-Eggs is in packages that are simply too big for someone like me. Someone who has a problem sharing. I’m a nice enough guy, but if I’m going to give into one of my ill advised food-cravings I’m going to do it without the least intention of sharing my candy.

The way I figure it, if I’m going to cave in and nail an entire pizza I should do so when no one else is around so I don’t have to feel guilty when I don’t offer them a slice. If I’m going to buy a satchel of Chex Mix I’m going to do so when there’s no one else around so I can commit sodium-suicide alone. If I’m going to manhandle a bag of Cadbury Mini-Eggs I will bear their hellish sugar-rush all by myself. I will fall on that grenade. Slight guys can be heroes too.

I have an addictive personality. My goal is to eradicate anything near me that tastes good  as fast as possible. To make it go away. To destroy it so that it no longer exists and therefore can no longer continue to challenge my physique and/or peace of mind. Rationing comfort food out over a period of days or weeks simply can’t happen when you’re me. Tasty treats, for me, are like Bilbo’s ring in Lord of the Rings, and the volcano at Mordor is my mouth. My stomach acids are the lava. Destroying the Ring is the only way to be free from its temptation, and so I eat my way through my obsessions regardless of the eventual side effects (lethargy, sugar crash, feeling completely gross). With this in mind, I follow a strict policy of consciously avoiding such “quests.” Should a bag of candy enter my life via some random gift-bag or care package I will reluctantly accept the challenge, but I will not seek adventure.

My original Easter-time craving, Cadbury Cream Eggs, were much easier to deal with. You could easily purchase them on an individual basis and so you could customize and personalize your level of temptation. You could buy just one or two, or you could by a whole four-pack. Whatever you want to handle. Get your fix, it’s over! But then came the day that I discovered, quite by accident, that Cadbury’s other “egg” product, the hard sugar-shell coated Mini-Eggs, are actually significantly more “bomb” than their bigger, gooier brethren. I’ve always known that the pleasure in eating a Cadbury Creme Egg owes as much to the deliciously awkward texture as it did to the actual flavor, I now I’d suddenly learned that Mini-Eggs, with their just-hard-enough-sugar-shell and just-soft-enough-chocolate-body, are a texture-lover’s dream come true! I fell in love. After that it was, and still is, all about the Mini-Eggs.

At least in theory.

If they came in Skittles-size bags we wouldn’t have a problem. I’d buy one bag and its contents would vanish before I’d even finished driving home. The bag would be gutted and dead and it wouldn’t be able to hurt me any longer. Perhaps I’d suffer a quick sugar spike, get a bit jittery, but a few hours later I will have returned to normal and the episode will be over.

However, Cadbury Mini-Eggs bags are massive! They remind Derek more of stone-filled pillowcases than bags of candy. At least the ones available in my neighborhood. In the Lord of the Rings analogy we’re talking a WHOLE RUCKSACK of One-Rings. That’s a lot of temptation. It’s enough sugar and chocolate to leave me crawling around my bedroom floor by the end of the day, beaten, broken, twitching like a junky, moaning, having visions of a huge furry Easter Bunny that promptly turns demonic the moment I reach out for its help.

I think for the past few years it’s been the same thing. When Easter comes around I tell myself I’ll “celebrate” by buying “a whole big bag” of Cadbury mini-eggs. I tell me I’ll let me go to town on them. And every year I go to the supermarket and I see the crinkly purple bags of Cadbury Mini-eggs stacked on their own shelf at the holiday end-cap dedicated, this month, to Easter-themed candies. But then I crouch down to the shelf, I pick the bag up and I feel its unexpected weight in my hand and my spirit breaks. My heart sinks. The glossy purple bag with yummy pink letters, drooping heavy and limp from my hesitating hand, feels more like a cumbersome sack of horse feed than something meant to satisfy a wee Easter-time craving.  “Too much,” I say out loud, not caring that it’s generally considered insane strange to talk to oneself in public. But if we’re continuing to roll with the Lord-of-the-Rings analogy, then I guess  at this moment I’m sort of more like Golum. “There’s just too damn many of them, Smeegle, just too many,” And I angrily slap the bag of horse food back down with the rest of its kind.

And so I don’t end up getting my one small bag of mini-eggs after all. I guess because I’m too obsessive and too sugar-selfish. It turns out I don’t have the right stuff. I can’t bear the burden of the One-Ring alone.

I am of the kingdom of men.

—-

Need more Cadbury Mini Egg Adventures? Check out the sequel to this post!

Posted in Editorial, Practically Humorous | 12 Comments »

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March 31, 2012

Foods That Can Make You Less Depressed

by Fred Fingery

Depression is a serious issue that effects just about everybody at some point or another in their lives. Even if you’re only depressed about not being depressed. Everyone has different ways of coping. Some folks seek the help of psychiatrists. Some exercise more. Some exercise less. Some read books by Tony Robbins. Some read the menu at Baskin-Robbins. I mean, it’s almost depressing how many options there are to fight depression because then you know you really got no excuse.

But many experts feel that the easiest, most effective way to help fight off simple depression is by simply by making some key, minor adjustments to your diet. While I’m sure this approach won’t work for everyone, I’m sure it has its benefits.

So practicallyserious.com put together a list of foods that can make you less depressed.

Foods That Can Make You Less Depressed 

Food taken from someone else’s plate.  If you are depressed it’s usually because you consider yourself to be not-very-successful, often because you don’t have a lot of money in the bank. Therefore, a good food to help stave off depression is food from someone else’s plate when you’re at a nice restaurant, food that you quickly transfer to your plate when the person gets up to use the bathroom. This is food that costs you zero money and therefore it will make you less depressed to eat it.

Food that makes makes your body appear less attractive to the opposite sex. Seems counterintuitive, but check it out. A lot of people are depressed because they feel they are not living up to their potential. They feel that they are relatively good-looking and in pretty good shape yet still can’t land a date. They feel like an unknown, unpublished short story of Ernest Hemingway, a good one, having been written hastily on the back of an envelope and then forgotten at the bottom of some dresser drawer, yearning to be shared with the world; they feel their potential is being wasted and this is what makes them depressed. So, if you eat a whole bunch of foods loaded with carbs and fats and sugars and nastiness you will eventually start to become less attractive and less desirable to the opposite sex, and then it will seem refreshingly logical to you why you’re alone, and so your depression will subside. You will have no potential to waste!

Dog Food eaten directly out of your dog’s dish on the kitchen floor. If you do this for long enough eventually your dog will take notice and come to respect you. Your dog will appreciate how you sort of “lead by example,” how you’re not afraid to come down off your high horse and “eat with the men.” After a few weeks of this you will find that your dog actually, for once, snarls when someone makes pretend like they’re going to hit you. Even if the dog’s bluffing it’s a start, and knowing that your dog finally respects you will curb your depression.

Posted in Practically Humorous | 2 Comments »

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March 30, 2012

Dignity Busters: Getting “Bossed” by Cashiers

by Fred Fingery

There’s a liquor store by where I live, pretty close, right on the corner of my street, convenient as hell, and yet I never go to it. Not anymore anyway. When I need some beers I’ll go ahead and pass this place by and walk to the second-nearest liquor store, adding a few more blocks to my “quick” beer run. I avoid this shop, which I’ve come to refer to as “Boss Liquor.” I avoid it at all costs.

Why? What happened? What’s so terrible about this place that I’m willing to inflict undue exercise on myself rather than give it my patronage?

Because the cashier inside is a “Bosser.”

What’s a “bosser,” you ask?

Okay, Boss, I’ll tell you.

A “bosser” is someone who blatantly refers to you as “boss,” sometimes multiple times in a single conversation, when you are not their boss at all. Even when you don’t even work in the same liquor store as them. Even when you don’t even work in a liquor store period! Even when you are not Bruce Springsteen. Even when you are not the massive, trigger-hyper tank/monster at the end of some level in a Nintendo game. None of this matters to them. You are still “Boss!”

The proprietor of Boss Liquor is a five foot tall Indian man, maybe in his early 30′s, who hasn’t fully worked out the English language yet but has mastered the word “Boss” in the same sorry way a kid in school, failing all of his classes, can destroy anyone in “Call of Duty: Special Ops.” He looks friendly enough. He wears a red dollar store baseball cap indicating some minor league team that almost surely never actually existed. He wears heavy-looking square framed eyeglasses with brass frames. His head closely resembles a bowling bowl. He has the body of Wickett the Ewok. Not very imposing. I never said he was. The man doesn’t derive his “bossiness” from physical strength. He derives his bossiness from a thick layer of bullet-proof glass that safely separates him from his all his “bosses.” It’s like the tellers’ windows in a bank.

He cannot be stopped.

I’ve now received multiple reports confirming his powers, and from these I created the following composite scenario:

“Hey, can I pay for this twelve pack of PBR with my debit card?” you ask after spending a minute or two trying to balance your box on the sad wood flap that thinks it’s a sales counter.

“Yeah, you got it, Boss.” He says while chewing his gum, sitting on his stool, his eyes glued on the television set above him.

Your dignity takes a hit in the gut but you decide to push through. “…uhh. Cool. Thanks.”

“No problem, Boss.”

Aw hell. Now your dignity just got shanked. Twice in a row? You’re bleeding dignity juice all over your shoes. You think: “Why? Why would he do it twice in a row? Didn’t he get what he wanted the first time? DIDN’T HE?” But still, a good sport, you try to just finish up the transaction and get the hell out of there. You wisely choose to avoid saying “goodbye” because you don’t want to give him any more opportunities to do what he does.

You miraculously reach the exit un-bossed. You put your hand on the glass door. You push. But then, as the bell above the glass door jingles, you hear behind you:

“See you next time, Boss.”

You nearly drop your twelve-pack to the cement. You feel very much like Willem Dafoe’s character in Platoon as he appeared in that iconic scene where he gets shot up from behind, having been left behind by Tom Berenger to fend for himself. You think, “Why? WHY? He’d already won! He already had his way with me, and still, STILL that wasn’t enough!”

You want to rip open your pack of PBR’s and start firing the cans, one by one, at your “employee,” but you know they’ll simply explode impotently against his semi-invisible shield barrier, much like when humans try to attack invading alien motherships with puny earth missiles. I mean, he’s so safe and secure and comfortable inside his impervious glass fortress he might not even realize he’s under attack in the first place; his eyes still locked on the television set above him, he could conceivably be totally oblivious to the whole affair.

You could try to engage him in diplomatic peace talks but he’d probably just get bossy again right after you signed the treaty.

No. You lose this one, but it doesn’t mean you have to like it.

See you next time, Boss.

You turn your head slowly and you say over your shoulder in a soft tone that throbs with newfound inner-strength and conviction. “Nah,” you whisper. “There won’t be a next time.” And you scamper off before the sound waves of your puny earth whisper can reach the alien mothership.

Posted in Editorial, Practically Humorous | 5 Comments »

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March 29, 2012

3 Unorthodox Ways to Get Into a Can of Tuna Without A Can-Opener

by Fred Fingery

Let’s face it. Unless you got a can-opener nearby a can of Tuna loses a lot of its nutritional value. It doesn’t matter for one second how much protein and omega 3’s are safely tucked away inside the can if you can’t get inside! It’s kinda like what they say about how any color of paint is actually black when it’s still inside the can, because there’s no light. Well in this case the tuna fish would be very black indeed. It might as well be chewing tobacco in there. Or play dough. Or spam. Without a can opener a can of tuna is basically worthless! It’s a hockey puck!

So what happens if you need to get inside a can of tuna, for whatever reason, and you find yourself without a can opener? Is there another way inside? Is it possible?

Of course! Anything is possible here at practicallyserious.com. But you must shed everything you thought you knew about getting into a can of tuna. You must open your mind.

3 Unorthodox Ways to Get Into a Can of Tuna Without a Can-Opener

  1. Be a Healthy White Albacore Tuna. If you are a healthy white albacore tuna, or, really, any popular breed of tuna, you can suicidally fling yourself into the inevitable fishing nets that suddenly appear in your domain. Once you are successfully “caught” by the fishermen you only need to do one thing: survive long enough to get killed, processed, and canned with some water or, if you’re lucky, olive oil. Doesn’t matter. When the smoke settles you will be inside a can of tuna and you never once needed a can opener.
  2. Start Thinking Your Can of Tuna is “Cool.” If you start hanging out with your can of tuna and studying its features, learn to appreciate how the lamplight throws a charming glint on the can’s metal face. Start to appreciate the designs and the fonts of its label. You can even light some incense and then use the can of tuna as a sort of bongo drum. Have fun with it. Look forward to coming back to it and spending more time with it every time you leave the room to use the bathroom. If you do all of this it won’t be long before you can tell your friends, “Hey, so, you know that can of tuna I been hangin with? It’s actually kinda cool. It’s pretty chill. I’m into it.”
  3. Have Your Can of Tuna Start a Subversive Anarchist Organization. If you have your can of tuna found a subversive anarchist organistion, and then quickly volunteer your undying loyalty, then when a friend asks you, “Hey man, I really agree with what that can of tuna has been talking about. I wonder how I join up with it,” you can proudly respond, in a hushed tone, “Hey, man, don’t worry ’bout nothing. I’ll hook you up with the can of tuna. I’m on the inside.”

(If for some reason you enjoyed this post and crave more “unorthodox” information, check out 5 Unorthodox Ways to Help You Save At the Pump. One click and you’re saving tons of money!)

  

Posted in Lists, Practically Humorous, Unorthodoxy | 5 Comments »

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