Jason Goes to the Fair

My summer of adventure continues!  This time, I took my cute little bottom to the county fair!  Now, our county fair isn’t just any county fair.  No, it’s the fourteenth largest county fair in the country!  Fourteenth!!!!  Walking through the gates, there’s no way to forget that.  There are banners everywhere, giving us something to be proud of!  Parents give their kids pride noogies.

As I walk through the gates, I’m feeling good.  Scratch that, I’m feeling GREAT!  We’ve got something to be proud of!  I start to do a little song and dance number.  “We’ve got something to believe in!  We’ve got a city to feel great about!”  I’m going all out, really getting into my performance when I do a spin and turn to my friends.  “Come on!!” I yell as I’m expecting to lead a musical parade through the fair.  Instead, I’m greeted by dirty looks from everyone in a twenty yard radius.  WHY WON’T ANYONE EVER MUSICAL WITH ME??

I give up my dreams of filming my city’s next ad campaign and realize that I need to use the bathroom.  I find a porta potty and walk in.  What do you know?  Diarrhea in the porta potty!  I’m not surprised at all, everyone knows that there is diarrhea in every porta potty.  It’s a fact of life.  I walk out of the bathroom and have a plate with money shoved in my face.  It’s the “bathroom attendant.”  He says “alright,” and I just laugh.  There’s no way I’m tipping him.  His diarrhea-filled stench closet was the anti-tip.

We’re ready to move on.  While walking around, one of the best parts of the fair is the people watching.  You look one way, you see a toothless grandmother brushing her tooth with a cigarette.  Look the other way, there’s a Native American playing a flute.  Look behind you, there’s a carnie on stilts.  Up ahead, there’s a flash mob parade with thirty horses, pooping with every step they take and smelling up the fairgrounds.  Next to you, a fight breaks out at a charity booth when a drunk old man with a mullet accuses the workers of stealing.  What more can you ask for?

Yeah! Hike those up, daddy!

The real reason that anyone comes to the fair is to eat.  That means you, foodies!  By the way, what is up with that word?  Foodie?  Who decided that was a word that people should be using?  I think it’s just a cute little nickname for a fatso!  The fair is a fatso’s dream come true!  The goal for a fatso like me isn’t just to eat until I throw up.  It’s to eat until I throw up, pass out and have a triangle seizure.  That’s easy here.  They have every food you could ever dream of.  The sticky double fat burger with rainbow sprinkles.  Deep fried hot dogs dipped in chocolate.  Breaded jelly beans.  Fat fuck french fries covered in peanut butter and jelly.  Classy, gourmet food and somehow, you don’t even need a reservation!

If you’re able to move, you can explore the rest of the fair.  DO NOT GO ON THE RIDES!  Do you really trust Michael Carnie with your life while you’re spinning upside down and getting vomit sprayed in your hair on Lucifer’s Loop?  If you said yes, we don’t talk anymore.

Trust me, I am! I can't stand the smell of puke!

On your way out, make sure to stop by the World’s Largest Infomercial.  This is a fair exclusive!  You can’t get this shit anywhere else!  For three weeks only, in one place, united as one, every infomercial you’ve ever suffered through!  The Flapper-Scooper?  Yep!  The Ring Dang?!  You got it!!  EVEN THE SLOP-O-MATIC!!!!!!!!!  How many exclamation marks do I need to use to express how excited I am about the Slop-O-Matic?  It’s everyone’s favorite Irish pig food server!!  If you’re really lucky, you’ll be able to find an empty stand here.  Pretend it’s yours and try to convince the crowd you’re selling human livers on the black market.  Cha-ching!

I didn't know the Crack Shack "Build a Home in Your Butt!" stand would be here too!

Jason Goes to the Rodeo

Yeehaw motherfuckers!  What?  Couldn’t you guess I’d start a formal essay about the rodeo like that?

I know what you’re thinking.  Jason doesn’t seem like the rodeo type.  Jason wouldn’t survive a day on the range tackling donkeys.  Jason doesn’t know the difference between a rope and an umbilical cord.  Stop whispering to each other about me.

Well, the rodeo is outrageous.  Here’s how it starts.  You ride a horse thirty yards from the parking lot to the “no camping in the parking lot” sign where you pay for your tickets.  You have two payment options; you can either pay with a Buffalo (applause, x10million Buffalo points) head nickel or with your old toothpicks.  Toothpicks get you a five dollar discount.

I'd hate to be considered an unauthorized person at the rodeo.

You’re not on your way to your first rodeo yet?   Do you have a disease?

The next step is the beer.  Just like any extremely intelligent festival or event, you have to buy tickets first.  Like they always say, two lines are better than one!  After you survive the lines, you have your choice of two different beers.  America or America Light.  The bad guy cowboy in the black hat tries to convince you to buy a commemorative rodeo beer koozie by strangling a little kid.  You’re convinced to donate to your favorite charity out of fear for the human race.  That’s the only way you can help stop the black-hatted cowboy.  You buy the beer koozie too.

The next stop is the western wear hut.  Here you can try on your favorite flowery western shirt and pink cowboy hats.  The cowboy fashion judges hold up score cards as you walk by and the winner gets a free Harley Davidson belt buckle.  Ok, that part was just from my rodeo fantasy.  It didn’t actually happen.  But you still try on the hats and shit.  Of course, you’re already wearing some top of the line western gear.  Who would go to the rodeo without it?  Cowboy boots, a bolo tie, a cowboy hat and a bandana is the obvious necessary attire.  A western shirt is more or less mandatory.

My pants tent is the most important part of my rodeo outfit.

On your way to the seats, you can grab some food or stop by the hoedown barn and do some square dancing.  The key to this is having no idea how to actually square dance and bumping into the professional square dancers around you.  They’ll love it, trust me.  Make sure you don’t waste too much time though, you need to make it to your seat in time for the opening ceremonies.

The first of the opening ceremonies is America: The Musical Prayer.  This nifty little song and dance ditty features synchronized flag waving, horses jumping through flaming hoola hoops and (I think) Donny Osmond on lead vocals.  The line “Jesus was the first American cowboy” always gets a rise out of the crowd but I’m pretty sure that’s not how it worked.  Not even the Mormons believe that.

I can’t think of anything more boner-inducing than a reasonably attractive female riding two horses at full speed while doing a headstand.  Perfect, because that’s exactly what we are getting ourselves into in this next event.  Cowboys faint as this beautiful daredevil defies the laws of cowboyery.  I’m pretty sure those are the exact words that the PA announcer used.  She gets an awkward standing ovation from the boner-hiding cowboys.  Myself included.

The rest of the rodeo is kind of a bore after this.  Self-proclaimed Rodeo World Champions tie up sheep and chase around baby pigs.  The rodeo clowns tell extremely offensive racist and gay jokes.  The rodeo clown trips.  What a goofball!  A bull gores a junior bull rider and jumps into the stands.  Yawn.  Your usual rodeo activities.

Look at this dramatic shit.

After a few hours, the rodeo wraps up.  This time, we take a short bus from the bleachers back to our car.  On the bus, shit gets wild.  A weird old cowboy man holds a little boy’s hand against his will.  The bus driver swerves to avoid an old western shootout.  Luckily the bus ride only lasts two minutes, otherwise I might throw up on myself or have a heart attack.

When we leave, we blast country music all the way home.  Not really.  Who would listen to that shit?

See you next year rodeo.  I love you.

The Mentor or The Sweatpants

It all started with my fucking pants. I just knew that wearing these pants today was a horrible idea. But how could I resist? They were beautiful. If you’re thinking to yourself in a nasally voice “beautiful is a sacred word that I would only use to describe my girlfriend!” you’ve obviously never seen these pants. The most precious teal color you could imagine, a dime-sized hole in the left knee. Perfection! But the draw string had fallen out long ago.

Normally, I wear the pants around the house but I have yard work to get done today. Going to war with my front yard without those pants was the same to me as leaving a wounded soldier behind. I needed something to hold them up! I settled on some old rope that I found in my basement and went outside. Hey, at least I didn’t use a dress belt.

I’m outside doing man shit. Jumping off of ladders, using screwdrivers as hammers, and screaming words like fuck and God damn it. Just me and my sweatpants. As I ascend the ladder for one last swan dive, my beautiful companion stabs me in the back. Down go my pants! The screaming starts immediately. High-pitched shrieking that can only be described as the sound of seagulls fucking. Surprise, surprise; an elderly lady. I turn to look at her with my pants around my ankles. The shrieks get more intense. Words are finally formed.

“This man! He violated me!” she swoggles (yes, I just made that word up. Can you think of a better word for that weird old lady voice that they all talk in? Yes, you know exactly what I’m talking about).

I’m confused. I’m scared. I try to explain myself. All that comes out is “p-p-pants down!” which doesn’t help my case at all. The neighbors begin to yell words like “Scattergories!” and “taco truck!” at me. At least that’s what I hear. All hope appears lost, I dart inside and start to knit (don’t ask). The cops arrive within minutes.

Not this time China.

I’m brought into a dark room. Two police officers and the old lady. She starts to scream immediately. She swoggles and spits in my face by accident as her dentures grind together. The officers inform me that I will be in court in the morning facing public nudity charges. I’m brought to my cell where I stand in front of my toilet for three hours because of my severe case of Bladdoria (the pee-shy disease). I give up and borrow the harmonica that is conveniently located inside every jail cell.

“I got da pee jail blues, Lord! Got dem pee jail bluuuueeeess,” the harmonica squeals.

Court flies by. I don’t understand a single word that the attorneys say. I get called to the witness stand. I’m able to put together one coherent sentence. “I tied my beautiful babies with a rope.” The courtroom erupts. “Order in the court!” screams the judge as he pulls out a second gavel. “Crime of the century!” yells a reporter from the 1950s that’s stuck in a time warp. I want to tell him that he spelled “PRES” wrong on the index card that he’s taped to the side of his bowler hat.

The judge announces that the verdict is ready. Community service. I cry into my hands and think about how lucky I am.

Fast forward two weeks. I no longer think of myself as lucky. I’m trapped in the county’s mentorship program. State law states that a male can only work with a male and female only with female. But fuck that. The mentorship program is so neglected that there aren’t enough participants for that law to matter. I’m stuck with an eighteen year old female named Peggy that lives in the middle of nowhere. The last two weeks have been Hell. Luckily, I’m down to my last two visits with her. But I’ve been put through shit that no other human being should ever have to endure. High speed chases, threatened with a kitchen knife, you name it, it’s happened.

Peggy strongly resembles the character on the cover of this video game. Ironically, if Peggy doesn't clean up her act, the game's title says it all.

I get to Peggy’s house around two. Her mother is there like usual to give us directions on what activities we can do for the day. She tells me that Peggy has been dying to to chop her hair off and will probably try it today. I need to stop her if it’s the last thing I do. I say “yes ma’am!” and salute her because I’m cute. We walk to the car and Peggy tells me that she’s “getting that fucking haircut.” We start to drive, Peggy brings up the haircut again. I tell her no and she pulls a gun. “This really is going to be the last thing you do. Pull over!” she yells slowly. I get out of the car and the gun is pointed at me every step of the way. After five seconds at gun point, I pussy out. Let’s get that haircut, kiddo!

Peggy hops in the driver seat. One hand on the wheel, one hand on the gun. Gangsta shit. “Ride wit me, ride wit me” she raps out loud. I tell her that I am and she gives me a look like she doesn’t know how she hasn’t killed me yet. She swerves in and out of traffic and blows a red light. She sticks the gun out the window and fires two shots into the air. I’m hanging out of the passenger window screaming like a bitch. We cut across three lanes of traffic and start to drive through the woods. “Shortcut!” she says in her familiar, slo-mo voice.

Finally, Peggy Tokyo drifts into a parking lot. I look up at a sign that reads Big Pop’s Choppe Shop. Again, I feel the urge to point out a spelling mistake. Peggy warns me not to say a god damn thing about the haircut while we’re inside. I use a line from a Disney movie, I’m great with kids. She pistol whips me as a reward.

Peggy gets her hair cut. Actually, Peggy gets all of her hair cut. Peggy is now playing the role of GI Jane. I tell her that I can’t believe she would do this. She tells me that she doesn’t care and plans on telling her mom that I encouraged it. I think about arguing with her for four seconds. She has a gun, dumb-ass. I’m fucked.

Peggy pulls into her driveway, throws the car into park and hops out of her window. “See ya!” she yells as she runs into the house. I realize that she was the voice of Eeyore in the Whinnie the Pooh cartoons. I take off instead of chasing her inside. There’s no way I can face her mother.

Normally Peggy and I would listen to these tapes together. Today, she put on Ja Rule.

I’m five minutes from home when my phone rings. Peggy’s mom. Fuck. I answer in a British accent hoping she gets confused and hangs up. No such luck. There’s screaming coming from the other line. “Jason! Help!” can be heard over Peggy’s Hundred Acre Wood drawl. It’s apparent that Peggy is holding her mom at gun point.

“Tomorrow…Jason…I will be getting my nipples pierced. There ain’t a God damn thing you fuckers can do about it!”

Her mother screams in horror. Peggy whispers bang bang. I hang up the phone in terror. Nipple piercings!?!

I’ve learned my lesson. Don’t wear sweatpants without a draw string.

Ask Jason: Ralphman Returns

Am I really going to start Ask Jason with a bunch of questions every time I write it?  Does it bother you that much?  What can you do to stop it?  Do you really think that would matter?  Are you delusional?  How did you know I was?  Wait, did you say something?  So I might really be delusional?

Woah, that was intense!  What even happened back there?  Whatever it was, I’m glad it’s over.  I’m happy you could join me again for another edition of Ask Jason.  Gather around the fire, kiddies, and I will answer any question that your cute little brain can think up.

Really? Hola was too much?

We’re back down to our usual three questions this time around.  I’d like to take the time now to blame all of you for that.  Maybe if I intimidate you and call you pussies, you will send me more questions.  No, actually, I’m going to take the high road here.  I understand that some people don’t feel comfortable asking questions, especially when they deal with such extremely important issues.  However, I will commend the brave few that continue to to turn to me when things get confusing in their lives.  Don’t be shy, I have the answer.

Go!

Q: Almighty Jason, what happens when you sneeze with your eyes open?
With Love, The Jasonites

A: Thank you to those of you who took the time to vote in the poll.  It is always appreciated.  The options were kind of weak this time, weren’t they?  It won’t happen again, you have my word.  Sneezing with your eyes open is something that has mesmerized me since I was a child.  The first time that the idea of this heroic act even crossed my mind, I was in middle school.  Every week, the teacher would distribute a children’s magazine of sorts that we would read together as a class.  The cover of one of the issues featured the headline “NEVER SNEEZE WITH YOUR EYES OPEN!” in the largest text I’d ever seen.  The headline was positioned over a picture of a cartoon cat with its tongue sticking out and its eyeballs hanging out of the sockets.  Since then, I’ve been looking for volunteers to test it out so I could see the effects firsthand.  What, you thought I was going to try that shit out myself?  Yeah right.  Sorry, but having the ability to lick my bungee jumping eyeballs isn’t the super power that I’ve always wished I had.  But that could never actually happen to you, even if you tried.  Any volunteers?

Wow, it turns out I still had my copy of Happy Kids News Magazine!

Q: Jason, can you describe what a normal trip to Walmart is like for you? What items do you usually buy?
Signed, Jubilee Swanson

A: I think you meant to ask what a normal trip to My Fashion Headquarters is like for me.  But there are a few different kinds of Walmart trips.  There’s the grocery shopping trip which we all know I despise.  Then there’s the random shopping trip.  This one obviously starts out at My Fashion Headquarters, moves to the toy aisle so that I can browse the newest wrestling action figures, then will end up in the health section as I stock up on vitamins and muscle powder to help further advance my bodybuilding career.  The third and final kind of Walmart trip is my favorite.  This is the “it’s three in the morning, I’m bored and Walmart is the only thing open” trip.  Believe it or not, this trip is actually fun.  This one starts out in the action figure aisle!  After ripping open the packaging of the two toughest looking wrestlers and having a hardcore, anything goes match with them, I stuff them in my pocket and sprint to the gun counter.  I ask to test out the telescope on each gun (I think that’s what they call it) but once I get one in my hands, I spin around in circles while pointing the gun forward and making machine gun noises.  I won’t stop unless the guy working the counter yells “atten-hut!” and I tell him that as he’s screaming at me to stop.  Eventually, I get bored with my machine gun game and find as many toy instruments as I can.  I rush to the karaoke machines and make up as many songs as I can think of. That’s right, once every couple of weeks I record a Walmart album.  I normally leave the tape in the karaoke machine so that whoever buys it can have a piece of history.  Once my classic album is finished, I find some roller skates and strap them on.  Then I skate as fast as I can out the door with the wrestling action figures still in my pocket.  Success!

Dance, dance, fashion, Walmart!

Don’t worry guys, Ralph is back.

Dear Jasonites,

What are you thinking?  You are a bunch of idiots!  Jasonites?, really that’s a stupid name.  It sounds like some sort of heaven’s gate cult or something.  So why don’t you all go do us a favor and strap on a pair of white Nike’s and kill yourselves.  By the way sorry you haven’t heard from me for a while but I was on vacation in the Ozarks.  I would have read the blog on my phone but I have to take a break once in awhile as I feel that reading this garbage decreases my intelligence and my sanity.  Also only poor people would suffer through this dribble for entertainment, I’m surprised you can even afford an Internet subscription.  Before you even start I don’t come here for entertainment purposes, what I do is a public service.

Screw you guys,
Ralph

P.S.
Jason, you don’t want to rap battle me again, or did you forget what went down back in ’93.

Rolph,

Woops, typo!  It’s one thing when you come on here and insult me.  It’s another thing when you blatantly attack the Jasonites.  I’m sorry that you don’t find my memoirs entertaining.  But those that do clearly have better taste in entertainment than you do.  Vacationing in the Ozarks?  What’s the main attraction there?  The sister-kissers club?  Ole Ollie’s Down Home Blue Grass Saloon?  You’re right, I’d much rather be doing that right now.  Oh the excitement!  What do you mean reading this blog decreases your intelligence?  This blog has more coherent thoughts in a single post that you’ve had in your life.  Thanks for proving that to me in your latest letter.  No Jasonite is going to kill themselves either.  I know that would really help you get off (suicide loving sister-kisser), but it’s not going to happen.  Jasonites are an exclusive group of people that know how to practice self-appreciation and understand how important they are to the world around them.  I’m sorry that you feel worthless, but the people that come here sure as hell don’t.  As for calling us all poor people, that’s a joke right?  This blog is clearly tailored to those with insanely high IQ’s and stacks upon stacks of money just hanging out in their bedroom.  If what you do is a public service, then what I do is charity work.  Your useless services are going to fall victim to budget cuts, while this blog will go on forever as a useful, free goldmine of love.  Muah.

I will always hate you,                                                                                                                                                                                Jason

P.S. Big deal, you made me cry in the first rap battle I was ever in.  Let’s try it again.  I promise you the outcome would be different.  Remember, I beat Lil Wayne.

I toe-ld him! Hahaha! Oh my God, do you get it?!?

That will do it for this edition of Ask Jason.  PLEASE send me your questions.  Remember, you can ask anything!   You can either tweet me @YourPalJason, e-mail me at JasonNotImaginary@gmail.com or leave a comment here with your question(s).  Any other way that you could get it to me would be greatly appreciated as well and I would specifically prefer a Blue Mountain musical e-card.  Now, please help select the question that will be answered from the poll in the next Ask Jason.

Jase On: Grocery Shopping

There is never a good time for grocery shopping.  In fact, it always happens at the worst possible time.  Sometimes it’s a harsh reminder that it’s back to work tomorrow.  Sometimes you get dragged there during the biggest football game of the year and you can’t really follow along because nobody in real life actually has that stupid NFL subscription that the phone companies always advertise.  Plus, who really wants to pay to watch a few dots move around on a Microsoft Paint-created “football field?”  Oh, Orange Blob 4 scored a touchdown?  Perfect!  He’s on my fantasy team!

Frequently, I get dragged to the grocery store when I’m either secretly drunk or secretly wish that I was drunk.  When I first step into the store, if I’m not drunk, the first thing I say is “fuck.  I wish I was drunk.”  The sad thing is, I know from experience that being drunk doesn’t make the shopping trip any better.  But a boy can always dream.  Just so you are aware, I have just now set the record for the most uses of the word ‘drunk’ in a single paragraph.

So what is it about grocery shopping that I hate so much?  Beside everything, let’s start with the general environment.  Grocery stores are purposely set up to be boring.  When the most exciting thing about a store is the Gatorade display on top of the lunch meat cooler, suicide is more exciting.  Everyone is always so bored in the grocery store.  You can see it in the way that they silently walk around, hunched over their carts like grocery store zombies that have been infected with the deadly disease Blah.  The weird thing about Blah, though, is that it’s curable either by grocery explosion or just leaving the grocery store.

Kill me.

The music is another aspect of the riveting environment that keeps me coming back for more.  I’m always able to stay entertained while shopping for peaches and shaving cream while listening to It Doesn’t Matter What My Name is I Suck sing the reassuring, timeless hymn “Rockabye” to me.  Ok, I’ve just been informed that the song isn’t actually called “Rockabye” (why does anyone know that?) but I don’t care.  I’m sure everyone knows the depression-inducing gem I’m referring to.  One song that comes on every single time that I’m trapped in the grocery store without fail is John Mayer’s “Your Body is a Wonderland.”  There’s nothing quite like watching the sixty-eight year old grandmother in the toilet paper aisle caress her shoulders and swivel her hips as John Mayer reassures her that her body is, in fact, a wonderland; just as she had suspected all along.  Now that I think about it, that same lady is there in the same aisle, during the same song every single time I go grocery shopping.  In fact, this has tempted me to write a romance novel.  I will title it “Your Bounty is a Wonderland” and the climax (I’m laughing because I’m immature.) will include Dotty DoublePly rolling around on the supermarket floor with Quilted Northern’s luscious rose-scented sex roll.

Other than writing a romance novel about the toilet paper aisle, there are very few ways to entertain yourself at the grocery store.  One way is hunting for products with ridiculous names.  As fun as this activity sounds, laughing at a store-brand cereal called Yellow Grahams is only possible once or twice.  Spotted Dick has a longer joke window because a.) I have no idea what it is and b.) it must be canned cheetah dick.  Another way you can entertain yourself is by writing and performing a musical as you go along through the store.  This is only done effectively if you go all out with the dance moves and dramatically jump on top of chip displays and the deli counter while singing at the top of your lungs.  While it’s loads of fun and can also guarantee your removal from the supermarket, it’s not as win-win as it sounds.  Unless you consider sitting in the police station while being given a psychological evaluation win-win.  Take it from the pro on this subject, it’s not as spiritually enlightening as one would think.

Am I the only one that thinks that kidz shouldn't be putting Gorilla Munch in their mouthz?

Another entertaining activity that can keep you busy is trying to pick up women.  Or men; whatever you’re looking for really.  Just no children.  The super market has always been described as a great place to find a significant other.  But how many couples do you know that actually met each other at the grocery store?  How do you even go about picking someone up at the grocery store?  Here are a couple of my ideas on how to do this.  You’re standing at the meat cooler feeling up a prime rib.  Up walks a fine female with some prime rib that you’d love to be feeling up.  While rubbing the tenderloin, look up at her and say “Wow!  This steak sure is bloody!”  Normally that sentence alone should get you a date.  If not, follow it up with “I love blood!  What about you?” Odds are you’ll be married in no time.  Another tactic that you could try also takes place at the romantic meat machine.  This time when your prospective date walks up, be sure to be grabbing some fat from a chicken breast.  Look up to her and say in an extremely loud voice “Wow!  This chicken has a lot of fat.  You don’t.  Come with me!”  You’re welcome for your engagement in advance.

Believe it or not, the worst part of the shopping trip is cashing out.  Standing in line and thinking about paying close to a hundred dollars on bullshit like q-tips and mangos is one of the worst moments of reflection you can have.  Sure, I’m big ballin’ baby baybay but I’d rather spend my skrillerz (did I use that right?) on jets and shit.  The only thing worse than standing in line and hating yourself for spending the money is having a lot of time to think about it.  This can happen to you if you get stuck behind someone that is convinced that they will soon be featured on the riveting docudrama Extreme Couponing.  As this person pulls out their sticky wad of newspaper clippings and make believe coupons drawn out on napkins, they start to talk out loud either to themselves or to the imaginary camera crew that’s following them around.  They remind everyone that they are such a great shopper and the store should be paying them to shop there.  They let the “viewers at home” know that they’re the only ones smart enough to prepare for Armageddon by stocking up on forty-five packages of paper plates.  Their two hundred pounds of canned deer meet will last them seven lifetimes!  Why are we all so stupid?  We don’t even deserve to survive!  Why aren’t we them?

This bored shopper took his musical act all the way outside of his favorite grocery store, Pirits of Al.

Once the extreme couponer finishes up, if you’re really lucky, you’ll get stuck with the cashier that tells her life story to everyone she meets.  Oh, what’s that?  You won Best Little Farmer at your county fair when you were six?  That’s great!  Tell me all about it!  I’ve only been here for two hours, no big deal!  Ooooooh Aunt Edna taught you how to cook broccoli at your summer home in the Adirondacks?  Brilliant!  Please, go on!  You once threw up ham all over yourself after playing tag with your cousins?  Yeah, actually I’m going to pass on the ham.  Yeah, I’m sure.  No, it’s fine just put the fucking ham away!  Get it away from me!

After beating the last level of the Chatty Cashier, you’ve finally completed the cruel game of grocery shopping.  As you leave, roll your shopping cart as hard as you can all the way across the parking lot as one last big fuck you to the man.  Just make sure you get out of there quick and never come back.  That’s easy these days now that every single store carries groceries.  Maybe next week, we can get our groceries at Radio Shack!

The Zombie Shopper

Jobs suck.  Working sucks.  Having to spend your time doing some bullshit that you’d never really want to spend your time doing is unfair.  In my book (in stores now), it’s classified as cruel and unusual punishment.  I’m not too sure why the government hasn’t looked into this more than they have but I’ve already sent about six letters to different congressman about it.  So don’t blame me when you think about how horrible your job has made your life.

Now, I’m not going to sit here and say some bullshit like “but sometimes, something happens at work that shows you why it’s all worth it.”  There is no situation where that could ever be true.  I don’t care if you just helped One Armed Sally find the perfect prom dress.  There are ten thousand better things you could’ve been doing at that second.  But there is some truth in the statement that being at work allows you to interact with some of the most ridiculous people you will ever come across.  Without being at work, you’d never be able to even dream up these people.  Which is normally the best thing that could ever happen to you.  But in this case…nevermind.  It would have been fine with me if I never had to meet this guy.

My day started out like any other day at my place of employment.  I’m not going to tell you where I worked for privacy reasons.  Ok, I lied.  I worked at a paint store.  Since it was a smaller store, I was usually the only employee there when I worked.  I was your typical hardworking employee.  I had been spending my day like I usually did; running laps around the store, playing basketball in the stock room with roller covers and dropping gallons of paint off of ladders and watching them explode all over the ground.

I cartwheeled out onto the sales floor to see if any customers had decided to stroll in when I noticed that the weather outside had gone to Hell.  It was raining.  It was windy.  Tumbleweeds were blowing across the parking lot.  There was thunder and lightning.  It was snowing.  It was fucking thundersnowing.  All of a sudden, everything around me turned to black and white.  The store’s front door swung open but I didn’t think anything of it.  The door was broken, it happened all the time.  I’m not an emotionless robot.  Suddenly, cheesy organ music started to play and a wavering voice that came out of nowhere announced “Jason in…THE ZOMBIE SHOPPER!”

The thundersnow fucked shit up.

Before I could even ask the voice what it was talking about, I looked toward the front door that was still swinging in the wind.  To my surprise, there was a man walking through the door and toward me.  Actually, Frankensteining is the proper term.  He was Frankensteining toward me.  Very slowly.  In his extended arms, he carried at least ten plastic shopping bags.  By the time he reached the counter where I was standing, at least five minutes had passed.  He was dripping wet from the thundersnow and appeared to be drooling.  He started to talk.  I think.

“Gasuh muh muh aaah amuh muh bags.  Noajuh meah bbmbm back.  Bauh uhh muooh.”

“Excuse me sir?” I asked.  I was the most darling, polite employee you could ever dream of.

“Bags,” was all he said.  He set his bags on the counter and turned back toward the door.  He started to Frankenzombie again.  I called out to him, telling him that he had left his bags on the counter.  He completely ignored me.  If I wanted to, I could have chased him down and found out what the hell was going on.  I knew I would never understand what he said though.  Five minutes passed and he had finally made his way back out of the store.  I stood there in shock.  Was he drunk?  Was he a zombie?  Was he an unexplained creature that rode to earth on a lightning bolt in the thundersnow?  The only thing that I really knew was that I had to see what was inside those bags.

For some reason, I tip-toed toward the bags.  I guess I didn’t want the paint cans to hear me.  As I reached to open the bags, what sounded like an angel’s voice started to sing.

“Aaaaaaaaaaah,” sang the high-pitched voice as the bag and it’s contents suddenly turned to color.  Remember, everything else was black and white.  As I peered inside, I couldn’t believe my eyes.  No seriously, who the hell would carry this shit around with them?  Inside the bags there were a few mystery items, at least six Wayne’s World VHS tapes and ten to fifteen ceramic figurines, most of them of clowns.  The voice kept on singing.

What is that? Why is it covered in drool?

“Oh my god, it’s fucking Wayne’s World video tapes!  SHUT UP!” I screamed at the voice.  The singing stopped immediately and the bags turned back to black and white.  Probably a darker shade than they had been before they turned to color.

A couple of hours had passed.  I had spent the time doing back flips off of the counter and making prank phone calls from the store phone.  As I was doing a log roll down the middle of the sales floor, I heard the door swing open again.  I did a somersault and sprung to my feet.  I wasn’t surprised when I saw the male version of Rob Zombie’s Living Dead Girl walking toward me again.  I prepared myself in a karate stance just in case he was coming back to devour my soul.  But after a few minutes, my legs started to hurt and I readjusted to the classical athletic position.

The zombie customer actually started to browse the store.  He eventually made his way over to the discount paint brushes, picked one up and came to the counter.  As he inched closer, I was nearly blinded by the light that was emanating off of the beads of drool that were swaying from his chin.  He set the paint brush down on the counter and pulled out his check book.  For a two dollar paint brush.  He started to write the check as my worst nightmare unfolded.  Slowly from his lip, a fresh string of drool descended toward the check.  Just as he finished writing it, the drool splashed onto the check, covering half of it with zombie slobber.  “Oopfths!,” he said as more drool sprayed from his mouth. He handed the check to me and I maneuvered so that I could barely pinch the corners and grab it, avoiding the toxic ooze. The name on the check was Tauhughuh Muahakuh.  I gagged as I asked him for a phone number that I could use for the check.

Oopfths!!

“Eeh seah soouh fwouggh mieeeeyy nahnahnono seposoewo,” apparently he had his own hotline.

“Was that 861-8757?” I asked, completely making up each number.

“Yahwugugh,” he answered and picked up his magical treasures that he had left behind earlier. He lumbered toward the door until he was out of sight, never to be seen again.  Until the next week.  But seriously, after that second time I never saw him again.

Ask Jason: Pro Wrestling Is Real

Can you hear my voice when you read this? What does Jason’s voice sound like to you? How did you know that? Do I know you? Will you please stop that? I’m sure you would love to ask me one of these questions. Go ahead. SERIOUSLY, JUST COPY ONE OF THEM AND SEND IT TO ME.

Welcome to the answer of the most important question you’ve ever asked. This week, I’ll answer the only respectable three word question, subliminally mimic Daniel Tosh in the intro, and answer the question of my dreams.

Yeah! Wait, what? No? Why?

Ask Jason is blowing up! I’ve been asked questions from all corners of the world this time around and have had more questions asked than ever before! That’s right, we have FOUR!! Ok, maybe I didn’t really get questions from all corners of the earth. But I did get one from Argentina! Ok, that’s not true either. But for the first time ever, the Jasonites from Twitter and WordPress want in on the act. Ultimate excitement. I can’t contain myself. I can’t even imagine what you feel like. I’m sorry to keep you waiting, I know you’re busy.

Q: Man, that was awesome. Ralph was such a dick. WTF?

Answer me right now or else, Maxim’s Madness

A: Our old buddy Ralph. You know, I can’t tell you why Ralph is such a dick. I’ve known him for such a long time and every time I see him, he’s almost kind of friendly. But then when he gets on the internet, and on my blog in particular, he becomes a demonic figure. He feels invincible. He’s reckless. He thinks he can say whatever he wants. He thinks he could kill a small child just by flicking them in the ear. He does have some pretty fat fingers though. So maybe it really isn’t that unrealistic. I think he’s jealous of my blog and my life. I think he’s jealous of the Jasonites. I think he’s jealous that if he had a group of followers or fans, he couldn’t call them the Ralphites because it just sounds stupid. Like, why would you want to confuse your fans with mechanical pencil refills? No, I just meant that it sounded like graphite, sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you, Ralph fans. But Maxim, if I were you, I’d be prepared. Knowing Ralph, he isn’t going to like the fact that you called him a dick. I hope he doesn’t offend you. If we do hear from him again, and I’m about ninety-four percent sure that we will, I will take care of him. Proms.

Ralph didn't write to us this week because he was too busy selling junk out of his van on the side of the road. We miss you?

Q: Jason-do you believe in cake?

I Love You, Dew Nestry

A: YES! Of course I do. When you like to eat as much as I do, cake is like a foreign delicacy that has been hand delivered from the East Indies after a three year voyage over extremely rough seas. I do like certain cakes more than others though. For example, by far my favorite kind of cake, and this may sound strange to those of you that are into the ultra-competitive, breakneck, suicidal reality series Cupcake Fuck or whatever it’s called, is Funfetti. Yes, I prefer homemade cakes to store bought or gourmet cakes. But you can’t overload the frosting, that really destroys the cake. Once, a co-worker baked me a cake for my birthday but loaded it with gross amounts of frosting. It was impossible to eat. I brought a piece of it to her, slammed it down on her desk and screamed “you try and eat this shit! Why the fuck would you ever put so much frosting on this? Learn how to bake a cake next time before you drown another innocent victim in frosting! ” I went to thank her for the cake later in the day but she was crying and wouldn’t look at me. I really don’t know why, I was just trying to give her some advice.

Breakfast. Note the Funfetti cake mix.

Q: Rugby or Water? Pancakes or Prostititis?

Submitted on Twitter by @Attackofthe

A: When I first met my ex-girlfriend, the first thing I said to her was “I haven’t brushed my teeth today.” I actually haven’t brushed my teeth today either. When I initially saw the first of the two questions, I was definitely leaning toward water. But it’s turning out that I may not be as into water as I once thought I was. There was also that time when I almost drowned in the Lazy River at that amusement park. I’ve been scared to death of inner tubes ever since. Rugby wins by default. Now the second question is much easier. At first, I read the second choice as prostitutes. If that was the case, this would be one of the hardest decisions that I’ve ever had to make. Unfortunately, there is no prostitute option this time. I’m not too sure what prostititis is, but it reminds me of the word prostate which in turn reminds me of a prostate exam which brings to mind the words “trauma” and “nightmare.”   My decision here is definitely pancakes.

Rugby's North American cousin Football likes to stick big yellow poles in his butt.

Q: Is pro wrestling real?

Love, The Jasonites

A: Dream question! I really can’t believe it took this long for a pro wrestling question to be asked. I even had to set it up as clearly the best question on the poll and it still almost lost. But I assure you, you will be pleased with your selection. Is it real? Does this look fake to you!? Yeah, like the title of the video says, he killed him! Pro wrestling is so real that forty-five year old men have dedicated their entire lives to it. They tune in to every single program, cancel plans to watch it, and follow their favorite wrestlers around at the supermarket while screaming “wooooooo” at them. I don’t think they’d waste their lives like that on something fake. Some people complain that wrestling is too much like a soap opera. They argue that there’s too much drama and if they really wanted to beat each other up so badly, they would just do it instead of talking about it and putting on a show. This, to them, is proof that wrestling has to be fake. But guess what. Soap operas are super fucking realistic. Don’t tell me that you’ve never come into contact with an alien that was trying to rescue a crystal from your planet…or something. Just like I do with rap music, I have actual firsthand experience with professional wrestling. That’s right, you’re talking to an expert on the subject. I was a professional backyard/living room wrestler for at least five years of my life (yes, I do put that on my resume). I challenge you to go out and get smashed over the head repeatedly with a steel street sign and then have to hide it from your opponent under a “ring” made out of garbage picked mattresses and box springs because you are in so much pain that it is starting to burn all throughout your body for some reason. Or get body slammed onto crushed up CD cases that are made to look like glass and then have to pour fake blood all over your face. Ouch! Fake blood stings! Sounds pretty real to me.

Ric Flair's hair bled in every single match that he wrestled in. Has your hair ever bled? REAL.

That will do it for another fine edition of America’s favorite answer column.  If this edition sucked, the blame can be placed solely on myself.  I was provided with more questions than I’ve ever dreamed of.  That being said, keep it up!  You can get questions to me by commenting on this post, tweeting at me @YourPalJason, email me at JasonNotImaginary@gmail.com, or come up with something creative like sending me a singing telegram.  If you could make the singing telegram guy swear in his song it would be even better.  Like usual, I will leave you with an extremely important poll.  The winning question will be addressed in the next Ask Jason.

Jase On: Lil Wayne

(Editors Note:  I’m still the editor and these opinions still belong to me and nobody else.  Love, Jason.)

The “who’s the best rapper of all time?” debate has been around as long as hip-hop itself.  Several rappers have been included in this argument over the years.  All of the greats like Biggie, Tupac, Jay-Z and Nas and even lesser-known geniuses like Mos Def and Talib Kweli.  But there’s been a disturbing trend that I’ve overheard in this conversation recently.  A name has been brought into this conversation that doesn’t even belong in the argument of “who’s the best rapper to use auto-tune and say waaaoooowaaaoooo?”  How did you guess? It’s Lil Wayne.

Now, maybe I’m not qualified to have this conversation.  I don’t know anything about rap music these days.  I don’t know who The Wizard Khalifo is and have no idea what people are talking about when they recite their two favorite colors over and over again (green and aqua, green and aqua, green and aqua, green and aqua).  But I do know that I’ve heard this before:

A Lil Wayne song is playing in the background.  He makes some noises while his voice is in auto-tune and then does his signature, obnoxious laugh that he does right before every single verse.  What could be that funny?  Really?  Every verse?  I think it’s a joke that I have to hear this song too but it’s not a funny ha-ha joke.  The most irritating voice in the history of music then begins to rap:

“Yo I’m hot like tha sun
You know I’m numba one
I’m also hot like a gun
Cuz you know guns are fun”

“Oh my god!  Listen to those SIMILES!!” -“hardcore gangster rapper” Milton K. Percy Esq. seconds before laying down a track in “the lab” a.k.a. on the computer in the third floor, spare bedroom of his parents’ twenty-five thousand square foot house.

Your Pal Jason: featuring the Sikhest similes!

Yeah, I was in “the lab.”  That will be explained later.  But let’s get back to Mr. Wayne.  Those are not rhymes that make you the best rapper of all time.  I think even my grandma would be aware of that and the only thing that she has ever said about rap music was “oh boy!  That McHammer (she thought he was Irish) has some shiny pants!”   My three year-old cousin actually wrote the same exact poem in kindergarten (he’s advanced) without even knowing that rap music existed.  Sure, he got suspended for talking about guns.  But apparently he’s on the fast-track to becoming the greatest rapper of all time in the eyes of the clueless.

I’ve always been extremely confused about his name.  Lil Wayne?  The only other Lil I know was from Rugrats (or should I say Angelica’s acid dreams?).  Her name was short for Lillian.  Is it then safe to assume that Mr. Wayne’s full, given birth name is Lillian Wayne?  I vote yes.  Weird, I always thought that he looked like a female from certain angles!  Lilian also has the most outrageous nickname I’ve ever heard.  Weezy F’s Babies!?!  Why??  How is he allowed to say that!?  I’m so confused!  And who the hell is Tha Carter and why does Lily keep naming his albums after him?  There have been at least sixteen of them that have come out over the last couple years.  Tha Carter XMCXL just came out last year (I spent hours researching before writing this).  Is Tha short for Thad? Don’t you hate when people give you a “nickname” but all they’re really doing is leaving out the last letter or syllable of your real name? Thad hates it too, Lillian, so stop the bullshit.

Here's a mannequin with a beard. It has absolutely nothing to do with Lil Wayne but they both wear their hair in a ponytail sometimes.

Now, this shouldn’t be viewed as an anti-hip hop rant.  It’s quite the opposite.  I have always loved rap music.  Almost as much as I love Harriet Winslow.  In fact, I’m listening to the 1108 Thugz right now. I even told myself that I was a rapper at one point and recorded some hot trax that you’ll never get your hands on.  For those keeping score at home, that’s when I was in “the lab.”  I was a much better rapper than Milton, though.

I have made fun of plenty of “musicians” here.  This is no exclusive club.  Lady Blahblah, Sticky Ménage, NKOTBSBNSYNC5IVE, Justin Baby, they’re all on that list.  But it’s different when you write about a rapper.  You see, most rappers are sensitive and insecure.  They usually don’t understand jokes or constructive criticism.  You’re accused of starting beef with them and they record a song where they diss you and threaten your life.  I am fully expecting this from Lillian and have prepared my battle rap response.  Since Mr. Wayne has yet to record his future diss, I’m sure that this will be completely misunderstood as me challenging him to a rap battle.  It’s self defense people.  Oh, and every line in my rap will rhyme with Jason.  And it will still be better than anything that Weezy F’s Babies has put out in the last eight years.  Yo DJ Mean Person, drop the beat!

Uhhhhhhhhhh, yes!, what? (that doesn’t count as a rhyme, it’s just the intro.)
DJ DJ DJ Mean Mean Mean Person Person Person (ok, that definitely doesn’t count. I didn’t even say that, it was just that part of the track where the DJ says his name over the beat.)                                                                                                                                                                           Uhhh!  Uh huh, yee, yeeah yeee, uh huh (still doesn’t count.)
There was once a television program called Perry Mason
Either he solved crimes or it was my imagination
I have no idea what he did after cancellation
But hopefully he went out on a very long vacation
And with our luck, he probably got stuck at immigration
Held at the border, ten years incarceration
In football they throw a flag for excessive celebration
And this rhyme has fallen victim to my procrastination
Set the paper I wrote it on on fire incineration
But my flow is mad sick FUCKING EGO MASTURBATION
Chasin’, replacin’, erasin’, caucasian raisin
Do these words that end with -shun really rhyme with Jason?

BOOM! What’s up now? Get this, I didn’t even rap that in a voice that sounded like  a nasally congested baby!  I’m expecting hate mail from thousands of Wayniacs because of this.  Wait a second, Lil Wayne’s fans don’t call themselves Wayniacs?  Who’s in charge of his marketing!?  Suddenly, I’ve had a change of heart.  Please give me a call Mr. Wayne, I think I could do wonders for your career.  I promise not to call you Lillian.

Ask Jason: Seriously, where the f*@% is Waldo?!

Hello again.  Is it that time of the month?  Are your dreams at night 3 sizes too big?  Have you ever loved a Doug?  Does any of this make sense to you?  It doesn’t?  Oh?  These are all examples of questions that I’d be happy to answer for you.  Yes, even “Oh?”  Remember, you can ask me anything and I will answer it.  This edition of Ask Jason features a question on renting vs. buying, the age old Where’s Waldo debate and our buddy least favorite person in the entire world Ralph pays us another visit.  Sit back and enjoy the only answer column that gives you the answers you’re looking for.

Q:  Dear Jason- After years of renting, I have been considering buying a house of my own.  Do you think I should take the plunge and become a home owner?  

Signed, Svetlana

A:  Well here are some questions I’d like to ask you to help you determine if you are ready to become a home owner.  Do you have to store your clothes up in the attic?  Is your landlord a complete idiot?  Does he tell you things and forget them within seconds?  Did he promise to drop off homemade wine for you at least twenty times, forget to do it, ask you how the wine was and yell at you when you told him he never dropped it off?  Does he start conversations with you by screaming the second you pick up the phone over something you had nothing to do with?  Is he in cahoots with your insane downstairs neighbor?  Does your downstairs neighbor send you texts at five in the morning that read something like this:  “thou shalt not walk upon thine own floor with shoes secured around thy ankles once the clock strikes eleven?”  If you answered yes to any of these questions, I think it’s time to buy a house.  Just be prepared to spend all of your free time doing random shit like cutting weeds around your house with scissors and sweeping your driveway.

If this is a regular scene at your apartment building, GET OUT!

Q:  Jason, we have spent a good twenty-seven years of our collective lives searching for that bastard Waldo.  We need your help.  You need to solve this mystery for us.  Where’s Waldo!?

Love, The Jasonites

A:  First of all, thank you to all of the Jasonites that voted in the latest poll, I was hoping you’d pick “Where’s Waldo?” because I have a lot to say about this topic.  Why are we always searching so hard for Waldo and why is it so hard to find him?  You would think a guy that hasn’t changed his clothes in twenty-plus years would be easy to locate based on smell alone.  Speaking of those clothes, have you ever noticed how much of a hipster Waldo is?  Those glasses, that beanie, the tight jeans and the striped shirt?  All he was missing was a mustache.  This guy was the ultimate hipster influence.  You would think he would’ve checked in on FourSquare by now and helped us all out.  But seriously, why can’t we find this guy?  Is he a fugitive or a homeless junkie?  Those are the only two groups of people that I know of that are this impossible to locate.  Has anyone tried to page him?  That might work.  What about just asking him?  Oh, right, you’d have to find him first.  If all of this talk has you pissed off about not being able to find Waldo, you should play his NES video game.  All you kids out there that whine about games like Final Fantasy being soooooo hard, why don’t you check out Where’s Waldo?  But I have no idea where this douchebag could be.  When I do find him, and trust me I will, I am going to hurt him.

How the hell am I supposed to know?

Oh goodie!  Our dear friend Ralph is back!

To Whom it May Concern;

Sorry for the grammatical errors, not everyone can have their mom proofread their stupid blog. Here is a question for you, why? Why do you write this garbage about your life? No one cares. Is it because you have no friends in real life? Perhaps scarring childhood experiences that left you in a bad place mentally, and you feel that you need to do this as therapy. Please explain.

Ralph

P.S. Moustaches are for pussies.

Oh Ralph,

I don’t care if you’re allowed to start a letter like that or not, I’m doing it.  Speaking of having no friends in real life, didn’t I just see you the other day?  Oh yeah, that’s right, you walked up to me and tried to pat me on the shoulder while saying hello.  Luckily, I dodged your shoulder tap but I pretended I was doing the limbo just so I wouldn’t hurt your feelings.  See!  I’m a good person!  Why do I write this garbage about my life?  Good question Ralph.  THAT’S A GREAT QUESTION RALPH!  YOU ASSHOLE!  I’M SCREAMING AT THE COMPUTER SCREEN RIGHT NOW AS I WRITE THIS BECAUSE I HATE YOU!  AND I AUTOMATICALLY WIN THIS ARGUMENT FOR TODAY BECAUSE I’M TYPING LOUDER!!1!!!1  MAYBE I DON’T HAVE ANY FRIENDS IN “REAL” LIFE!  BUT IN IMAGINARY LIFE, EVERYONE THAT COMES HERE IS MY FRIEND!  I SHOULD CHALLENGE YOU TO A RAP BATTLE (foreshadowing) YOU NO GOOD BOZO!  Actually, you know what Ralph?  I’m not even mad.  You could never make me mad.  You can’t beat me.  Not even at checkers, backgammon (which I’ve never even played) or Dominos (not sure if I’ve played that either).  You definitely can’t beat me in an argument.  Can’t wait to hear from you again!

Jason

P.S. If I had a mustache, it could kick your ass.  Who’s the pussy now?

I caught Ralph sleeping at a thrift store. Real class act, this Ralph guy.

This concludes another fine edition of the only answer column that matters.  Did you think that this edition sucked?  Well that’s your own fault!  Submit your questions!  You can get them to me either by commenting on this post, sending an e-mail to JasonNotImaginary@gmail.com or by tweeting me @YourPalJason.  There are several other ways that you can get a question to me that I’m sure you can figure out.  Remember, you can ask anything.

Now, please take time out of your important life to answer this poll.  Once again, the winning question will be addressed in the next Ask Jason:

 

Jase On: Facebook

(Editor’s Note:  The views and opinions provided below belong to Jason and Jason alone.  Please remember that you are partially responsible for what is written here because Jason is one of your imaginary real life friends.  Oh, by the way, this is Jason.  I’m the editor too.)

Facebook got weird for me the second my grandma “liked” a picture of me lying face down, passed out next to a toilet.  All of a sudden, everyone is on Facebook.  You can find hot bikini picz of your old social studies teacher or keep up with the latest drama between people you wished you didn’t know.  You can be reminded how boring most of the people you know are on a daily basis.

Thank you, Ms. McKenzie. It's been great "reconnecting" with you too.

You may ask then, why did I keep these people as my friends?  Wouldn’t it be easy to delete them and not deal with any of this at all?  The answer is obviously no.  How else would I keep myself entertained while surfing da web?  Personally, I can’t think of better entertainment than catching up with the latest edition of Baby Wars:  The Who’s The Best Mom Challenge or marveling at the fact that some of the girls I wanted when I was younger weren’t cast in Transformers with the way that they’ve morphed into Optimus Prime.

Although these aspects of Facebook provided hours of non-stop fun for me, there were still plenty of things about it that I couldn’t stand.  The first thing that comes to mind is all the idiots that let their account get hacked.  First of all, you are putting my account at risk by posting your bogus links.  Second, why would anyone click on these links in the first place?  How are you stupid enough to do that?  You really think that clicking on some link that your old friend Chris Penis is passing around is going to get you four free flights, a pack of bubblegum, free movie passes and the home of your dreams?  Where did you get your cyber-crack? Are you I-dosing?  Just because the world of high speed, dial-up AOL buddy lists is confusing to you doesn’t mean that it’s a magical treasure trove.  I don’t have the slightest fucking clue what a “telegraph” is but I wouldn’t expect it to make me rich just for using it.

Another thing that really irritates me about Facebook are the obnoxious nicknames that people include in their display name.  Now, I can understand people that change their name on Facebook or use their middle name as their last name to protect themselves (although they could be more creative) but this nickname shit does not make sense.  For example, let’s take a look at Chris ‘Woomp There It Is’ Baducci.  For the ease of the reader, I’ve decided to include the quotation marks and the spaces between the words in this particular user’s nickname because we all know that neither exists on their profile.  First of all Chris, you can’t make up your own nickname.  That’s not what a nickname is.  A nickname is a name given to you by your friends, normally because of some wacky event or circumstance that actually happened to you.  Stop trying to make us believe that your nickname is ‘Woomp There It Is’ because you’re a rapper/magician with a Yankees logo on your top hat that yells out your special nickname/catchphrase every time you pull a slimy, hair covered quarter out of Uncle Don Don’s ear.  That isn’t happening now and it will never happen.  In fact, I’ve known you for a long time Chris.  We all know that the only nickname anyone calls you is ‘Pissbasket’ because of that time you drunkenly mistook your little brother’s Easter basket for a toilet.  That nickname isn’t good enough for Facebook?  “Going away to college” doesn’t change anything.  You’re still Pissbasket.

Woomp! There I pissed!

One day when I was really pissed off, I decided I’d go onto Facebook for some entertainment to calm me down.  Unfortunately, the anger that was residing deep inside of my bones took control of my fingers as I tried to type.  Instead of logging on to Facebook, my maniacal fingers of rage lead me to facefuck.com. Although there were still a whole lot of faces and your fair share of entertainment, it wasn’t exactly what I was looking for.  I wanted to read a few whiny status updates to make me feel good about my life.  I knew that the Facebook Drama Club would be good for that.   They’re constantly reminding  their “friends” that they are working for seventeen hours and how unfair everything in their life is.  Yeah, actually, your life does sound like it sucks.  Maybe these whiners do have something to complain about.  They’re working for seventeen hours and crying over it while I’m pissed off because I just ate my last French fry.

Today's Your Pal Jason is brought to you by the letter F!

The reasons that I have mentioned here are the reasons that I decided to quit Facebook.  Don’t believe me?  Search for Jason and I won’t come up.  Trust me, I’m the only Jason that I know of with no last name.  It would be easy to track me down.  Instead, I decided to start my own personal website for Facebook-y things.  It’s called Jasebook.  But please don’t try to find me and friend me.  I will not accept your friend request.  However, if a Facebook fan page randomly sprung up for me, there’s a small chance I’d pay a visit to it.

Here are some tips I’d like to provide to Facebook users that can help make their experience more enjoyable:

• Dudes, stop liking or commenting on revealing pictures of girls.  If she wanted your input on it, she would have sent it to you instead of putting it on Facebook.  Your likes or comments aren’t going to make her want you or consider dating you.  It will be just the opposite.  She’ll realize you’re a huge creep and potentially put a restraining order against you.  Take my advice and stop commenting and liking these photos before girls stop posting them.  Otherwise, you could ruin this for all of the perfectly normal guys out there that enjoy these pictures in peace.
• Learn how to use the Facebook privacy settings.  Too many people end up in strange situations with their family members because of things that happen in regards to their profile.  Do you know how many times I’ve seen moms and grandmas freak out on Facebook statuses and call their son/grandson/grand daughter/daughter a “harlot(?)” or an “impure young man” because of comments that have been left?  Well, I don’t have an exact number either so stop asking me.  But I know that I’ve seen it.  It happens, ok?!?
• Keep an eye out for my favorite types of pictures.  I hate to pick on the ladies exclusively here, but they are the ones most guilty of it.  We’re all familiar with Duck Face.  But there’s a few more that I’ve noticed that I’d like to share with you.  Watch for what I call the ‘camera blowj.’  This is the one where girls (or guys too, I suppose) stare into the camera with their eyes and mouth open wide in an attempt to look like they are shocked or surprised.  Another one of my favorites is what I call ‘flushing away your dignity.’  This one is quite obvious as it features an individual sitting on the toilet.
• Block updates from people that play FarmVille/Mobsters/whatever.  Jesus Christ.
• Like every status that says something like “Just got out of the shower.  Will be watching TV soon.” or “Just woke up.  Getting ready for work and then drinks tonight!”
• Post completely random comments on unsuspecting friends’ pictures and statuses.  Make sure that it’s someone that would never expect this and be as sarcastic and ridiculous as possible.  They might not appreciate it but you will.  And that’s really all that matters.

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