- Right before you’re about to go jogging. If you take a nice, refreshing shower right before you go jogging, you’ll just want to take another shower after you get home, and then you’ll feel stupid.
- Right before you’re about to go to the beach. Some people take showers right before they go to the beach. I don’t get this. The minute you set your towel down you lather greasy sunscreen all over our body, and then you jump in the nasty seawater. The parasites in the waves don’t give a fig about your Lever 2000, so you might as well just skip the pre-beach shower. Might as well be nasty goin’ in!
- Right before you’re about to take a shower. If you take a shower right before you’re about to take a shower, you’ll find that you already feel clean and smell clean and look clean, and when you take that second shower you won’t be able to shake a guilty feeling that you’re now simply wasting water and time.
- Right before you’re about to mud-wrestle. I know some people that think it’s a good idea to shower before their league mud-wrestling matches because they don’t want to get any dirt in the mud. I just don’t get this at all.
- Right before you’re about to take a bath. Some well-to-do gentlemen take a nice long shower before their scheduled nightly bath. After they’re all clean from the shower and dried off and spritzed with cologne and dressed in a nice pink velvet robe, they wait about fifteen or twenty minutes and then they go ahead and get naked again and take their bath. There are a lot of things wrong with this: wasting water, wasting towels, wasting soap, wasting cologne.
- When You Think That 1 + 1 = 7. If you take a shower at the moment you think that 1 + 1 = 7, then that’s just about the stupidest time you could possibly take a shower.
- When You Title Your Post “5 Stupid Times to Take a Shower” but have 7 Items in the Article. If you title your post “5 Stupid Times to Take a Shower” but then have 7 items in the article, and then you take a shower, that’s actually even a stupider time to take a shower than the time mentioned in item 6. Good job.
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!
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?
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…
While the votes for UWYR 1 are still trickling in (it’s still not too late to have a say!), the time has come for another edition of Ultimate-Would-You-Rather. Today’s installment will challenge your creativity and push your imagination to the limit—this time, in addition to battling jaguars, you must also ponder existence as an inanimate object. Good luck.
Would you rather be Kevin Smith’s underwear for an entire New York/Los Angeles plane flight?
Supplemental Information: He’s wearing Hanes tighty-whities. You are only responsible for the 6-to-7 hour plane flight, but remember that Kevin’s probably been wearing this same underwear for hours (maybe days) leading up to your assignment.
Would you rather be chased up a tree by a large, terminally-ill jaguar?
Supplemental Information: Yes, it’s dying. Won’t be long now. It’s dying before its time from some sad jaguar disease. But it hasn’t quite given over to despair just yet. It’s pissed that it’s dying in the prime of its life and so it has one last rush of energy. Wants one last meal. Can you outplay, outwit, and outlast the jaguar? Is it worth the risk?
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!
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.