You just made my list!

If only there was a way to combine my love of sandwiches with tennis ball packaging.

From now on when I head to a kickass beach party I’m grabbing a six-pack of Coors Light and a sixer of BBQ chicken sandwiches. I’m also bringing a six-pack of condoms because when the ladies see me pop the top off a fresh sammie they’re going to be like, “I wish that guy eating canned sandwiches over there would get me pregnant,” and I’m going to be like, “You wish,” and then she’s going to be like, “Yeah, that’s what I just said,” and I’ll be like, “That’s what she said,” and she’ll be like, “Wait, I can’t tell if you are kidding or you just can’t understand what I’m saying,” and then I’ll smash the empty Candwich can on my head and be like, “I just ate a canned sandwich so, yeah, I’d say I’m basically the shit. Now let’s do it.” Yet another girl goes home with a little PB&J all over her body. NEXT!

I don’t hate the concept of the Candwich. How could I? Sandwich in a can? Yeah, that’s perfectly normal and awesome. I do, however, take issue with the fact that the Candwich creator, Travis L. Wright, was able to talk a bunch of Utah investors out of $145,000,000 in order to make his dream of canned lunch a reality. Well technically they thought they were investing in real estate and Wright was secretly using their money to cram hoagies into soda cans. The point is, this guy had a dream and found a way to scam people in order to make it a reality. Why don’t I have that kind of resourcefulness?

Oh sure, it’s easy for you to sit there on your high horse and call Travis Wright a thief and a fraud but why don’t you take a bite of this turkey and Swiss before you pass judgment. Here, wash it down with a can of mashed potatoes and gravy.

Apology accepted.

When I heard that melty face Celine Dion spent millions constructing a water park in her back yard for her ONE child, Rene Charles, I immediately knew I had to write about it but I had a hard time finding a justification for hating it so much. Then I decided, fuck it, it’s obscene and wrong, simple as that.

I am not some dirty, tall bike-riding hippie who thinks nobody should be rich. By all means, get rich singing your shit songs, have a big house and a fancy car, but at some point I can’t stomach ridiculous displays of wealth. What fucking 9-year-old needs a private water park? I’m sorry, it’s just kind of sickening when you think about the fact that there are millions of kids who go to sleep hungry every night. Now this is where Celine Dion fans put down their doughnuts (a rare occurrence) and chime in with “Hey jerk, Celine Dion has given X amount to charity.” I don’t care, I will never be on board with shit like this.

Plus, what kind of a monster are you creating when you treat your kid like king of the universe? When I was a kid, all of my toys fit into one toy chest and my childhood didn’t seem to suffer. Somehow I found the strength to face each new day even though a miniature Mercedes with a working DVD player was not parked in my driveway.

I swear to God, if one person says that I am jealous I will hunt you down and I will destroy you with my incredibly potent farts. I wouldn’t mind being rich but I honestly could never live like Celine Dion.

Sorry this one wasn’t very funny. Sometimes I just have to deliver hard-hitting, award winning commentary.

I know I should be happy for guys like Edward Williams who won big in the Kansas lottery TWICE this year, but all I can think when I see his, or any winner’s smiling face, is fuck you. Take that giant check and shove it up your money hole. This turd won $75,000 in September playing a scratch off ticket and just last week he won nearly $900,000 when he matched all the numbers in the “Super Kansas Cash” drawing. Once again, fuck you.

My level of jealousy for these people is sickening. I cannot play any form of the lottery because the second I buy my ticket I am CONVINCED I am going to win. There is no doubt in my mind I will soon be purchasing 4 white tigers (to eat) and a solid gold suit of armor that I will exclusively wear for no apparent reason. I don’t consider for a second that I might not win. I mentally prepare myself for all the begging and groveling my soon to be ex-friends will do at my feet and the various ways I will tell them to eat shit. Of course all my fantasies of delicious tiger sandwiches and diamond-encrusted toilet paper disappear as I realize, one by one, that I have not hit a single number.

So to all you big winners out there, let me be the first person to say, go fuck yourself.

This photo is more beautiful than any piece of crap Ansel Adams ever photographed. I took this photo at a “Waffle House” and I’m planning on having it tattooed on the inside of my eyelids so I can dream about it every night. I LOVE Waffle House. These people are my heroes. Sadly, the amazing Waffle House chain does not reach as far north as Chicago, but you can bet your fat ass that any time I’m on some awesome road trip, being cool and kickass, I will search one of these fuckers out and eat the living shit out of some waffles. Luckily, there are many great greasy spoon diners in Chicago. Unluckily, there are also a ton of trendy bullshit breakfast spots too.

Every once in a while I’m forced to go to one of these horror shows, but never again, I’m putting my foot down. Here’s what you can count on at the trendy places…

1) A long wait. All you want is to nurse that hangover with a plate of fat with a side of fat and a tall glass of fat, but instead you get the pleasure of waiting for an hour and a half surrounded by guys in khaki shorts and dress sandals.

2) A cramped table. After feeling like you might die on the sidewalk, you finally get a table. Yay? Sadly this table is so close to your neighbor’s table, you can feel khaki shorts rubbing against your leg the entire breakfast and are forced to eavesdrop on a conversation about the Counting Crows.

3) Fussy food. These places try to reinvent what short-order cooks already perfected decades ago and fail miserably.

4) A huge bill for your boring, fussy food. Let me just quickly run to the bank an apply for a small business loan so that I might pay for these eggs.

5) GET OUT! Yeah, your waitress (she’s really a performance artist) has no interest in calling you “honey” and letting you take your sweet time.

Nothing beats A good, fatty, greasy, classic diner breakfast. It tastes better, it’s cheaper and your waitress will either be awesome because she is so nice, or awesome because she is so rude. So take your fancy, expensive, bullshit breakfast and place it in the darkest of dark places.

You know what I’m talking about right? You go to 7-11 to buy some beef jerky, a 2-liter of Extreme Mountain Dew and the latest issue of Juggs and when the grumpy clerk hands you your change he also hands you 15 receipts, rendering your hands useless. You’ve got the bag of porn in one hand, your open wallet in the other, and now you have to figure out how to hold dollar bills, a bunch of dimes and 40 feet of receipts. The stress builds, because after all this is a convenience store and the fact that you are paralyzed by your inability to handle all this shit at the same time is becoming very inconvenient to the growing line behind you. You panic and your brow begins to sweat. Holy shit, why is this happening to you, WHY? You fall to the floor and cry in the fetal position. Right? At least that’s what I do.

Is it too much to ask for them to hand me my bills first, followed by my coins after the bills are tucked in the wallet and THEN my receipt? Actually, just put the receipt in the bag. Am I alone in my thinking here?