Monday, September 28, 2015

Shameful Strip Club Stories Part 5: Kohl's Cash

                So, I’m a liar.  I said that Part 4 was the last update to my Shameful Strip Club Stories, but here I am doing another one.  That’s good for you though, right?  This is a bonus!  And it’s short, too, so that’s easy reading for you!  Really, this one isn’t even so much a story so much as it is a bit of friendly advice based on personal experience.  I’m not going to bother with a set up for this one.  You already know the setting (a strip club) and that alcohol is involved. 

                Sometimes, when you’re out and about imbibing adult beverages your common sense takes a bit of a nose dive; along with your motor skills, vision and overall sense of decency.  And small mistakes happen.  For instance, you may accidentally attempt to buy a round of drinks with your Kohl’s card instead of your credit card.  No big deal, everyone gets a chuckle out of that situation, while you politely pull out a card that can actually purchase alcohol in this establishment.

                However, you must not try to recreate that situation at a later time with a different audience, because they may not find it as funny as the first time around.  More specifically, if you find yourself in a strip club, do not, under any circumstances attempt to tip one of the dancers by slipping some Kohl’s Cash into her G-string.  You might think it’s funny, but she will probably think you’re an asshole or an idiot or both.    There is also a good chance that she will get pissed off by this, ultimately resulting in you being told politely, but firmly that you need to leave.  And all of this, in turn, can potentially end up with you having to stand outside by yourself sobering up in a cold, dark parking lot because you rode there with someone else who is still inside making their own bad decisions.

                I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking that none of this makes sense because Kohl’s Cash spends just like regular money and there is no reason to get offended when she could easily just use it to purchase some of the fine items for sale at her nearest Kohl’s.  I don’t think it makes any sense either, but that is the cruel world we live in.   And it's even more insulting when, despite it apparently upsetting her, she keeps it anyways.  So you could end up kicked out and short $10 Kohl’s Cash.

Don't do it.  Trust me on this one.


Sunday, September 27, 2015

Shameful Strip Club Stores Part 4: The Worst Way To Sober Up

If you have not been keeping up with my Shame Strip Club Stories, go back and read parts 1, 2 and 3 right the fuck now.  For everyone else, let's get right into this.

                This is the last one, but it was arguably the worst one for me to experience because of certain liquor laws.  This one also happened on a bachelor party, but with considerably fewer guys because those of us involved just don’t have any damn idea when it’s time to just go home.  What started out as a big group had dwindled down to me and 3 others by the time the bars closed down.  Not ready to call it a night, one of the guys suggested we go to a strip club.   I went along with this because I was in party mode and 2 a.m. was way too early for me to stop drinking.  We called an Über driver who picked us up at a US Post Office Box and we were on our way (none of those details are particularly important, I just thought the whole thing was fucking weird).

                We arrived at the club after a short (and terrifying) ride.  The first strange thing about this was that the building had 3 strip clubs in it, and 2 of them were closed for the night (or forever, who knows).  Upon being directed to the proper door and assured that they were open until 4 a.m., we walked in and were stopped at a desk to pay the cover.  The scantily clad girl working the desk told me the cover was $7, which I promptly paid.  As I started to walk away she asked “Do you wanna stick a dollar in my tits?”  As I’ve already said, I have conditioned myself to say no to pretty much everything at strip clubs, so I didn’t even hesitate when I reflexively turned down her offer.  This girl’s jaw just about hit the floor, as apparently I was the first person in the history of ever to turn down the opportunity to put money in her breasts.   She prodded me about it again by saying, “OMG that’s so mean!  I’m a single mom!”  And I did the only reasonable thing I could do at that point; I panicked and ran into the club without saying anything else.

                By this point, I was long overdue for another drink, as I hadn’t had one since last call at the bar beforehand.  The four of us found some seats around a table and got (sort of) comfortable.  We were approached by a girl with a drink tray and I ordered my customary Jack & Coke.  This was when I received the worst news imaginable, as the girl told me, “We don’t serve alcohol here.  Can I get you a soda?”   See, apparently according to the laws in the city/county/municipality/hell that this club was located in, they were not allowed to serve alcohol at strip clubs (topless bars could have booze, but if they took the bottoms off you were required to be sober so you could really understand the gravity of what you were seeing there).   Realizing that I would now be stuck in this club, sobering up in a dirty chair and having to deal with the fact that every mistake I’d ever made in my life had led me to this awful moment led me to really handle this in the most mature way possible, “No I don’t want a soda! What’s the fucking point?!”

                I didn’t have to shoo away nearly as many sales pitches that night as with other experiences and at no point did I have to break out the outrageously flamboyant voice or buy anyone any overpriced energy drinks.   One of the guys in our group did go for a private dance and reported back that he was given the option of a metal chair or a dirty couch for his dance (I believe he went with the chair).  And one of the girls, Lexis (or Lexus, because maybe she’s a luxury vehicle), made some small talk with me in which she talked about how she had quit stripping for a while but came back because she made so much money doing it (which made me question my own career path).  But we thankfully did end up leaving before the 4 a.m. closing time after far too much time spent with me sitting alone examining my own failures as a human being.

                We walked outside and hailed a cab to get us out of there.  The driver was playing some mix CD as he was driving us home.  The first song on it was some absolutely filthy, hardcore rap song that none of us recognized.  The next song was “Tubthumping” by Chumbawumba.  We all sang along.

That's it for the Shameful Strip Club Stories (maybe)!  Hopefully you enjoyed this series.  If I happen to find myself making some more stupid mistakes (which I usually do), I may have even more stories to add to the series.


Sunday, September 20, 2015

Shameful Strip Club Stories Part 3: Questionable Sexuality, Monster & A Few Men Left Behind

By now, you've hopefully read part 1 and part 2 of my Shameful Strip Club Stories.   If not, go back and do it.  Then settle in for the next installment here.

            This one occurred when I was on a party bus for a bachelor party; as such I had absolutely no say in when or how we ended up at this strip club, which was in a pretty rough area.  As is normal for these situations, most of the guys on the bus had been drinking for 7+ hours at this point, so the bus was just a rolling shit-show as we pulled into the parking lot of this strip club.  I, being a seasoned drinker, was one of the few people actually still capable of being a person at this point in the night, but that didn’t stop the rest of the bus from fist-pumping their way into the club with the free passes that I, for the life of me, have no idea how we got.

                As I’ve already expressed, due to being constantly uncomfortable around other human beings, I’m not really the target consumer for a strip club, so I immediately went up to the bar and started going to town on some Jack & Cokes (I needed caffeine and I like whiskey).   These were considerably cheaper than my drinks in Vegas, which means I had plenty more than $12 in my pocket with which to continue imbibing at an unhealthy rate, as I furiously tried to forget that probably everything around me was covered in some unholy mixture of bodily fluid and glitter.   In fact, since I had more than $12 on me and because the drinks were pretty cheap, I even ended up buying several drinks for one of the other guys on the bus who was in an absolute panic because his debit card wouldn’t work, his phone wouldn’t let him log into his account and his bank’s customer service line does not consider lap dances enough of a financial emergency to keep him on the line until the problem was resolved (I only bought him alcohol, I told him he was shit out of luck if he wanted to spend money on anything else, I’m not that nice of a guy).

                Now, despite the fact that my nose was entirely buried in my drink while I was there, the girls were working hard to make a sale with me.  And, as usual, I was just not comfortable with any part of anything going on around me (with the exception of the whiskey I was pouring down my throat, I was quite comfortable with that).  Eventually, after turning down several girls, a few of them started coming back with harsher tactics in some strange attempt to get me to submit by questioning my manhood.  Girl after girl, upon being turned down by me would ask, “Why not?  Are you gay?”   After assuring several of them that I was not, in fact gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that!), I finally decided to have a little bit of fun with this.  I put on the most flamboyant voice I could muster and just engaged the conversation with the next girl that came across (my flamboyant voice will be in italics because it was so smoothly executed).

            “Hey there, how about a private dance?”
            “No thanks, I’m alright.”
            “Why don’t you want a dance, are you gay?”
Oh, heavens no! I’m not gay sweetie, just here with some of my guy friends for a party.  Those silly boys must have wandered off somewhere and left me all by my little lonesome here at the bar.”
            “Well, since your friends left you all alone, you could come with me and have some fun.”
Aww, that’s sweet-as-sugar of you to offer, hun.  But I think I better just keep my lil tushie right here until they get back.  It’d be awful scary if I got left behind. The boogeyman might just pop out of the shadows and kidnap me!”
“Eh…um, how about a drink?”
You are such a sweetheart! But I’ve already got one.   Oh goodness gracious, you meant for you!  Sure thing, girlfriend.  What’ll you have?”
“A Monster.”
One energy drink, coming right up for ya, pumpkin.  I’m sure you’ll need all those oodles of energy to keep shakin’ it out there!  Great talking to you, but I’ve gotta scoot, I see my friends. Take care, doll face!”

She walked away after that, probably convinced that I was either gay (nope) or out of my fucking mind (likely), but she also didn’t bother me anymore for the rest of the time I was there.  It’s worth noting that the fucking Monster I bought her cost more than my Jack & Coke and I cannot begin to express how much bullshit that is.  Unfortunately, the rest of the night didn’t really go smoothly either.  As the bus was getting ready to leave, we found out how outrageously difficult it is to round up 15 drunk guys in a strip club.  There were 3 of us sober(ish) enough to try accomplishing this, but as soon as we found a guy and got him onto the bus, he would wander back into the club in an attempt to drunkenly help us round up everyone else, making it completely impossible to ever know how many guys were actually outside on the bus at any given time.  Eventually, we had one of the sober(ish) ones stay at the bus to keep all the drunks inside.  And we got everyone on to the bus except one.

It took another 15 minutes of trolling through the club before we finally found the missing guy in a private room.  He was very clear in telling us that he was having a good time and we should leave him there.  This guy was a long way from his home town, had a dead cell phone, was piss wasted in a strip club in a bad part of the city and was absolutely adamant about the fact that he was staying.  Well, as grown-ups, sometimes you just have to deal with your own stupid damn choices, so we all hopped back on the bus to leave, but not before one more guy fucking action-rolled off the bus shouting “I’m staying, too!”

We probably would have held a moment of silence for them on the bus ride home, but the silence was shattered by a guy who was passed out snoring in the back of the bus with his head on another guy’s lap.  The two guys that stayed did end up surviving the night and I hope I never end up back at that club, but if I do, I’m talking to every last person there in that flamboyant voice. And you bet your sweet bottom that I mean it!

We're almost to the end, so keep an eye out for the final installment in my Shameful Strip Club Stores: The Worst Way To Sober Up.


Sunday, September 13, 2015

Shameful Strip Club Stories Part 2: Mind On My Money, Money In My Shoe

                Welcome to Part 2 of my Shameful Strip Club Stories.  If you haven’t already read the first part, go check it out!

                This one actually happened while I was in Vegas with a buddy.  It was about 4 a.m., we had been drinking for somewhere in the neighborhood of 15 hours and he had never been to a strip club before (I think I had been to 1 at that point, so I was clearly an expert), so when we drunkenly stumbled across one, he thought it would be the perfect time to check it out (those commercials about “What Happens in Vegas” really inspired him, I think).  Having safely tucked the bulk of my money into my shoe, I told him to be careful not to spend all his money because they’d try to upsell him on all of their various wares (like I said, I’d been once so I was an expert).

                The cover charge to get into this place was buying 2 drinks each, which came out to like $30 per person, leaving me with $12 in my wallet (and an undisclosed amount of emergency cash in my shoe because I am financially responsible and like to diversify my funds).   We picked out some random seats and sat down with our drinks, ready to double fist these Jack and Cokes (as I assumed by the price that they would be the best drinks we’d ever had in our lives).  We hadn’t been there for 5 minutes before one of the girls came up to me and started talking to me, trying to sell me on a private dance.  “No thanks, I’m just here drinking with a friend,” I said.

“What friend?” She replied.

                Sure enough, in the 20 seconds that I wasn’t looking, my buddy was out of his chair and I could see him disappearing across the room.  The girl grabs one of my drinks in one hand, grabs my hand with her other and drags me out of the chair across the room to some secluded booth.  During this interaction I’m thinking to myself, “That’s my fucking drink and it was damn expensive!”  I think it’s important to point that out because priorities are real.  Within moments of sitting down and making sure my drink was okay, the two of us were approached by the “sales girl.”  This is the one that tells you what all your options are and how much everything costs.  After waiting for her to read off the entire menu to me, I responded with, “I have $12.  What does that do?”

                “That’s not enough but we do take cards.  We have an ATM here you can take out money.”

                “I didn’t bring my debit card.  I knew I was going to be drunk, I didn’t need to be making financial decisions.  All I have is $12,” I politely responded.

                “Well how did you get that drink then if you only have $12?  You’re gonna need more money if you want a dance,” she said, getting agitated with me.

                “I didn’t walk in with $12, I had more money before I bought these drinks.  Now I don’t even have enough for another drink,” I downed half my Jack and Coke before continuing, “I wasn’t even trying to get a dance!  My friend just left me here and now I’m a victim.”  I took out my wallet and pulled out the $12.  “Look, this all I have left.  I don’t even know how I’m gonna get home now.  I’m probably gonna have to start working here, too.  Where can I get an application?”

                “What’s that in your wallet?  I see something else in there, you have more money,” she said, clearly tired of my shit.  

                “This is a slip for 38 cents at the Golden Nugget! Is that going to help my case??”

What she happened to see in my wallet was, in fact, a $0.38 payout slip from a penny slot machine that I had randomly played that day.  She was officially done with me at that point and walked away, because $12.38 was just not doing it for her.  The original girl, however, either from sheer amusement or because she felt terrible for me decided to sit there with me and talk for a while until my friend reappeared.   I thanked her for being nice and putting up with my shit, gave her the $12 and dragged my stupid, drunk friend out of the club.

                I kept the $0.38 slot machine slip.

Stay tuned for Part 3: Questionable Sexuality, Monster & A Few Men Left Behind!


Sunday, September 6, 2015

Shameful Strip Club Stories Part 1: The Set Up

                In my post about how unproductive I’ve been lately, I mentioned that I have some stories about bachelor parties.  As I started working on that, I realized that more than bachelor parties, a lot of the ridiculous stories I have from bachelor parties (and other occasions) stem from events in and around strip clubs.   Actually, that sounds like a horrible intro and if you know someone whose bachelor party I went to, I promise that we never went to a strip club together (interestingly, on more than one bachelor party the groom-to-be had already passed out before that point).  Really, if I’m friends with your fiancée or husband, I just want you to know that every time we hang out we either go to church, walk dogs at the animal shelter, volunteer at a soup kitchen, or build homes with Habitats for Humanity (I’m just kidding about the church part). 

All kidding aside, I will say that I have randomly ended up at strip clubs more times than I am comfortable with.  Don’t get me wrong, I am a big fan of ladies and certainly enjoy some of the…ahem…finer parts of the female form.  And while I have made it absolutely no secret that I have never had the best of luck with women, being in a strip club makes me feel even more pathetic.   Much like how I absolutely know that my server at the restaurant is only flirting with me to get a tip, I am abundantly aware that all of the half (or less) clothed women at the club who are seemingly vying for my attention are really only vying for my wallet.  I don’t think there is anything that could make me feel like more of a loser than paying a woman to be around me (and there are plenty of things that make me feel like a loser).   And damnit, I need that money to pay my rent.

On the other hand, I also know that they’re just trying to pay their rent, too.  And the fact that I’m at their place of business, not contributing to their ability to pay their bills would make me a loiterer at best and an asshole at worst.  There is literally no way for me to reconcile this issue, I will either feel like a pathetic creep or a stodgy asshole.  That’s why the only times I’ve ever been to a strip club are when the rest of the group I’m with suggests we do it and I’m too much of a people pleaser not to go (also, because if I don’t have terrible life experiences then I have nothing to write about).  At this point I’ve conditioned myself to just say “no” to everything offered to me at a strip club (which, as you’ll read, has its own fun consequences), because I’d rather feel like an asshole and have rent money than to feel like a loser and have to move out of my apartment to go live under a bridge.  And also that’s why I make a concerted effort to just get irresponsibly drunk when I’m there so my mind is too busy trying to make sense of gravity that it can’t take the time to have an existential crisis. 

With all that being said, I started writing out a few of my awful experiences at strip clubs.  By the time I had them all written, it was way too long (that’s what she said) so I’m splitting it up into a four part series.  This serves the dual purpose of giving you less to read at any given time and giving me 4 updates instead of one (you have to at least respect the fact that I’m honest about artificially inflating my post count). 

But now that I’ve got you interested, I’m going to end this intro and tell you to keep an eye out for Part 2 of my Shameful Strip Club Stories: Mind On My Money, Money In My Shoe.


Tuesday, September 1, 2015

August Joke Round-Up

                Once again it’s time for my monthly Joke Round-Up.  And, just as with last month, I took full advantage of Facebook’s “On This Day” app to look back on some of the jokes I’d written in years past that I’d since completely forgotten about.  Those will be marked with the appropriate year in which I wrote the joke, illustrating that I’ve been unfunny for years, it’s not just a recent thing.   I’d also like to point out that I had a few days of no joke-writing this month because I got really bummed out about Jon Stewart’s final episode of The Daily Show (sometimes I have feelings no matter how hard I try not to).

Just found out that Eddie Money is going to be in town the same night as my sister's wedding.  So far this year I have already been to 4 weddings and 0 Eddie Money concerts.  Decisions, decisions...

I dropped the F bomb at Wal-Mart and some guy turned around and shot me the most offended look I've ever seen. I don't know if I've had a lower point in my life than when I realized that I'm not proper enough for Wal-Mart.

Apparently, telling customers that you're pitching a tent is not an appropriate way to promote your store's upcoming tent sale

At one point last night some girl started dancing with me as I was making my way through the crowd towards the bathroom. It was definitely one of my finer introductions. "Hey, thanks for the dance but I really gotta pee right now."
For anyone that hasn't noticed yet, I'm pretty smooth

A recent study found that bullies have higher self-esteem, social status and lower levels of depression.  Looks like those stories about bullies really just having a deep-seated hurt and needing a friend were a bunch of BS. That guy was actually stealing your lunch because he knew he was cooler than you and thought he was entitled to your pudding cup.

I think one of the scariest places for me is the bathroom at a public pool or beach, because everything is wet and all I can do is hope that it's water.

I think my biggest relationship goal is to find a girl who would be okay with having the first dance at our wedding be "All My Life" by K-Ci and JoJo.#‎Priorities

There's a dude here in this bar wearing a sweater over a polo.  In fucking August.  Apparently when his friends told him they were going to the club, they meant night and he thought country.

It's kinda sad when you consider the fact that children in the future will never know what made that leg so stanky.

#‎Knuckles: "There's a UFO floating up there in the sky."
Me: "That's the moon..."

Me: "That girl at Arby's was cute."
Josh: "You should just keep going back in there and ordering progressively more food."
Me: "I can see it now, she'll be like, 'Why the hell are you ordering 35 sandwiches?!'"
Josh: "GO OUT WITH ME!!"

I kept seeing people making these. I thought I'd try it.

When you're making a bag of microwave popcorn and the power goes out, it kinda just feels like life is saying, "I want to take away everything that makes you happy."

I was coming home from St. Louis Sunday morning about 3 am, when I had to stop at Moto Mart in Collinsville to get gas and let #‎Knuckles use the bathroom. I was approached by a random stranger who claimed that his car broke down and he needed a ride home just a few miles down the road. After some questions, I agreed to give him a lift home. As a gesture of thanks, he gave us a couple of homemade tie-dye tshirts. So, if you see me wearing a tie-dye shirt, now you know how I got it.

Instead of renting a party bus, I'm just gonna have a bunch of people show up at the nearest bus stop with coolers. Best Metro-bus commute ever.

I believe that America would be in a much better place if people had really taken Vanilla Ice's words to heart. Because I think the biggest issue we face today is that nobody is willing to stop, collaborate and listen. #‎IceIceBaby #‎TooCold

*after watching one of our teammates get a tooth knocked out at hockey tonight*
Jared: "I just want to go home and brush my teeth and be happy."

When I see people with that hair style where one side of their head is shaved, I assume that they're either auditioning for the next Mad Max movie or that's the side they sleep on and they just took an extreme means of fighting bed head.

Since my last post was about hair styles, I'd like to also point out that you can tell that our generation grew up in the heyday of Nickelodeon, because there are way too many guys trying out the Phil DeVille and the Roger Klotz haircuts.

The required test for US citizenship includes all sorts of questions about history, geography, the Constitution, and our government that (judging by the dumb shit I see posted on Facebook) many Americans don't actually seem to know. A better test would be to just put them in a room and play Journey's "Don't Stop Believin" because anyone that doesn't sing along definitely isn't American enough.

I have made 3 trips to 2 different grocery stores in 30 minutes. I've come home with cake mix, Cool Whip and hard cider. I don't even know what I'm doing with my life.

One thing that really annoys me is when other guys don't understand that servers work for tips and think that every waitress is hitting on them. I never think my waitresses are hitting on me. I don't even think women who are hitting on me are hitting on me.

Dear Automatic Bathroom Lights,
I appreciate your enthusiasm for energy conservation, but I wasn't done yet. You're being a bit overzealous. Don't rush me.
Washing my hands by the light of a cell phone

I was called a "misogynist asshole" yesterday because I saw a post saying that we shouldn't call anyone a pussy because it associates a negative quality with a gender; to which I responded by saying that, logically, we also shouldn't call anyone a dick for the same reason and furthermore, we probably just shouldn't be calling people names in general.  I asked several friends what they thought. My female friends assured me that I'm not a misogynist. My male friends unanimously agreed that I'm an asshole.

On December 13, 2014 I posted: 
"My sister just got engaged yesterday. I hope I can find a date in time for the wedding."
The wedding is today. Damnit.

#‎Knuckles: "My hands are full of cheese."

Sometimes the most responsible decision I make all day is not having a beer for breakfast.


Listen to your heart, unless your heart is a dumbass.

So, apparently the power is going to go out every time I try to make popcorn now...

#‎Knuckles has officially been on more dates this year than I have.

I like to give people anniversary cards for their weddings, that way I never have to buy them another card. They can just keep reading the same one every year.

This guy in front of me at White Castle looks just like Colonel Sanders. Not really sure what's happening but either he's defecting from KFC or some shit is about to go down.

Just want to make sure everyone knows that punk's not dead.

But punk likes to get comfortable.

I think it's great when people overcome problems with drugs, alcohol, weight, health, etc. It takes a lot of hard work and they should be proud. But I don't think we give enough credit to people that don't have these problems, either. You never hear anyone say, "Hey dude, I notice that you've never done heroin and I think that's awesome. You probably saved a ton of money on belts. High five! Keep making responsible decisions!"

I'm wearing a shirt with bright pink stripes on it at work today. Pretty sure that means everyone should come up to The Tin Shed to see how fabulous I look and then buy a mattress from me.

I want to open a gym modeled after the rainforest. The treadmills will have a video of a jaguar chasing you. The rowing machine will look like a boat going down the Amazon River. The barbells and weightlifting equipment will look like trees, logs and vines. And I'll call it The Jungle Gym.

I just hooked up my sister and her husband with a sweet new kitchen table and sectional. This means that now when I come over I get to eat dinner at the table and pass out in their living room.
I make the same offer to all my customers: buy a sofa from me and I will come to your house and sleep on it.

I keep seeing people share these things that supposedly give the origin of their name. And apparently, according to this app everyone's name is derived from 2 Arabic words that mean "warrior princess" which is complete bullshit because I don't know a single person named Xena.

A lot of people post memes and complaints about how they don't want to be adults. Really, I think they're just doing it wrong. I never get grounded or told to clean my room. I watch R-rated movies and swear unapologetically in front of my parents. And last night I drank beers til I passed out then I had chocolate milk and M&M's for breakfast this morning. Where's the problem?

#‎Knuckles just told me I'm one of the nicest guys anyone could ever meet.
Apparently he's more drunk than I thought.

Some day I'm going to find a nice girl and want to settle down with her. And then I'll have to explain to her that #‎Knuckles will be living in our basement.

I had cake for breakfast at home this morning (because I'm an adult), then came to work and there was an office birthday so I had cake for lunch, too. Now if I don't have cake for dinner I'm gonna feel like a failure.

Charlie Daniels wrote an open letter to Congress in which he says that they "don't even have the courage to face down an out of control president, even when he makes a deal with the devil."
I think he's just really mad that there was no fiddle-playing contest. #‎DevilWentDownToGeorgia

#‎Knuckles: "Her dad was an undercover cop."
Me: "He wasn't very good at being undercover if you knew about it."

I always have paper plates and plastic forks available at my apartment because sometimes even using the dishwasher seems like too much work.

Generally, people don't tell me that they need me unless it's followed by "to leave."

I think one of the daily struggles that nobody talks about is tucking. Specifically the fact that if at any point of the day you have to re-tuck your shirt into your pants, it's never as good as your first tuck of the day. The initial tuck is always significantly better than all subsequent tucks. It's about time we had some tucking awareness for this tucking problem. #‎TuckIt

I was driving behind a guy who put an extremely large exhaust pipe on his truck and all I could think was, "It would take a lot more than a potato or banana to block that. Like a whole sack of potatoes or a fruit basket. Perhaps a melon of some sort."

I think my next project should be a YouTube series called "The Whenever Show with Ryan Rick." Unlike The Daily Show, or Last Week Tonight, I won't feel any pressure to post updates at regular intervals because I've built laziness into my show title.
Next step: securing correspondents and support staff.

It used to really annoy me when people posted about the mundane things they do every day and tagged themselves at home/work/gym. But now I realize I can use this information about their daily routines to become a successful burglar.

#‎Knuckles is currently mad because he was told that our other roommate's girlfriend is coming over tomorrow and he's required to wear pants.

I woke up this morning and did some cleaning, paid some bills, and did my laundry. Then I started drinking whiskey because I got scared that I was getting too grown up and was not about to deal with that shit.

I'm still waiting for Lou Bega to put out Mambo No. 6

One of the hardest things about being a salesman is that you have to be really strategic about when and where you fart so you don't blow any sales.

          Next up, keep an eye out for my 4 part series; Shameful Strip Club Stories.