The city of Gainesville, Florida has the area code (352). If you wanted to type FLA into a phone you’d use the numbers 3 5 and 2. I defy you to find another place in the US where this works.
Not that any of you didn’t read this in the original, but … there’s the challenge, folks and folkettes!
Featured on Tumblr = love forever. (Though I admit, I am fickle.)
If you’re visiting for the first time, you can check out my Flickr to make up for the post famine. I’m in the middle of a couple projects, but a lot of new things will be posted soon enough.
Prettying up my Tumblr with other people’s work is always awesome. Congrats to Kate! Definitely a little well-deserved publicity.
K, in addition to making monies, research, and Obama campaign stuffs, I have a new summer project inspired by this and my longstanding envy for everything Kate does with a computer and her Vietsorcery. Ready? I am going to teach myself how to design things.
Note the vagueness. I don’t even know what this would entail, nor how to define the parameters of this project. As if that weren’t enough of a train wreck recipe, getting my left-brain, brute-force analytical approach to the world to make things that are pretty will be epic. I may or may not document the process, depending on how embarrassing the results are.
No rant tonight. Not really feeling the anger. Feel free to email me your stories/video clips of teenagers being douchebags and I’ll write up something good and fiery for ya’.
“Your dad was not a metrosexual. Damn right your dad drank it.” AKA, best. poster. ever.
Disregard the ubiquitous Asianette.
Went to the temple today. There was an animal there. Can you guess what kind?
No, just because I’m Indian doesn’t mean I see elephants any more than you do. This was just as fucking awesome as it sounds. Thank god I had my camera with me.
“Is that … is that real?”
“Why yes, yes it is!”
Pure class.
These guys were so fucking chill.
(via x-vii)
I’m buying you a bunny costume for Christmas. Actually, you probably don’t celebrate holidays like Christmas. Let me know what bizarre pagan rituals you observe and which ones are gift-appropriate.
When I don’t have anything to do I like to anger myself. I was already seething over a talentless hispanic woman whose only qualifications for having her shitty songs on the front page of YouTube are an accoustic guitar and 2 C-cups.
I don’t know how to put this any other way. I hit the motherload. I’m thinking “hey, it’s a Saturday, and I’m feeling crazy. Let’s break down this clearly abused child’s multiple social pathologies, shall we?”:
1. It’s a new age of racial integration and equality, but just because we’re in a “post racial” society doesn’t mean “Douchey Iranian” is the new “black.” “Douchey Iranian” is the new “Douchey Iranian,” toolbox.
2. We get it. Your parents weren’t there for you. You were raised by your beagle and an Eminem poster. Once you entered your teen years and discovered the magic that is puberty, you swiftly realized you had no chance with members of your own species, due to your personal hygiene habits, identity crisis, and rodent-like facial features. The desperation visible in your squinty face suggests that you again turned to your beagle and Eminem poster.
“Yes, I did make the beat and also wrote the lyrics and rapped them.”
WOAH! Oh shi … holy fucking shit, dude! Dude. You mean you wrote, produced and even motherfucking RAPPED the hit single “YOUTUBE CELEBRITY OVERNIGHT”? Shit, man. Did you come up with that killer title too, asswipe?
… there is no one, I repeat, no one who hasn’t been severely sexually traumatized who should require so much validation from his peers.
3. Your rap features a bizarre interplay between your “ghetto” self and an annoying, girly piece of shit I can only assume is how you normally are. The existence of these two personalities (protip: most people have just 1) is never really explained, but I have my theories. The empty halls of your local elementary school can get lonely, even in the cozy corner behind the dumpsters where you sleep.
4. This is how you spelled “Amish”:
omish.
omish.
What are you, 4’6”? 4’7”? I had no idea they stacked shit that high.
Tristan commented on my “Facebook for Dummies” post with the following:
I really should have flipped through it, as I am now curious about whether the unspoken rules of Facebook etiquette are included.
Well, ask and ye shall receive, my friend. I give you … the Official Rules of Etiquette for Social Networking (as published by Debrett’s British “etiquette bible.” God, that sounds horrifically proper, doesn’t it?) [ed. note: my commentary in italics]:
1. You don’t have to make friends with people you don’t know. Think before you poke.
Only on Facebook do human beings need advice like “don’t make friends with people you don’t know.” It’s like saying “don’t eat food you don’t like.” Also, “think before you poke” sounds like the slogan for a 6-week long unit in health class.
2. Wait 24 hours before accepting or removing someone as a friend. The delay will help you gather your thoughts.
People don’t wait 24 hours before deciding to have unprotected sex, but god forbid you make a rash decision about something that could really ruin your life forever. “I’m sorry, mom! We were drunk and it just happened! I KNOW I SHOULDN’T HAVE UNFRIENDED YOU AND DAD!” *sob*
Die.
3. Birthdays, engagements and weddings are not “virtual” events. Always send cards or phone friends when there is an important event.
This makes me want to kill small animals, and then blow out my own innards with a shotgun so I never under any circumstances accidentally eat a McGriddle prepared by someone this fucking retarded. If anyone I know in real life ever, ever considers a Facebook message or an email sufficient acknowledgment of my wedding, I hope they get urethra cancer.
4. Think before posting a friend’s photo what you would feel like if it was you.
Unless it involves tits or beer-bottle ass fucking. Then it’s just hilarious.
Wow. Full disclosure: I don’t have a Facebook. Enjoy.
