Skip to content

Posts from the ‘Life’ Category

20 reasons why my wife is the most ridiculous person alive

Let’s get right to it, OK?

1. My wife is on the verge of drooling most of the day. Sometimes she’ll laugh and then quickly close her mouth – a humiliation-preventing move to keep saliva from dribbling down her chin and onto her feet.

2. My wife takes my phone when I’m out of the room and sends my brother text messages — in my name — that say stuff like, “Some days I just wish I were a pretty little girl.”

3. My wife constantly picks at her fingernails, making a sound that grates on my nerves so badly that I might someday put her fingers in a paper shredder.

4. My wife would probably sell our child for a side of sour cream.

5. My wife sautés kale for breakfast every morning. Sautéed kale smells awful. The worst part? After she “cleans” the skillet, there are still little bits of kale chillin’ there, like floaties in the toilet.

6. My wife is one of those deranged humans who thinks a cast iron skillet should never be washed because “it retains all the flavors from previous meals.” So there’s essentially a garbage can sitting on our stove, and we cook with it.

7. My wife introduced my friends to a game called Sneaky Snake, wherein you surprise someone by poking them in the butt with your finger. She was the only one who ever played the game.

8. My wife recently bought a new, expensive curling iron because she thought the old one damaged her hair so badly that it was falling out by the handful. Truth is I cut off a chunk while she was napping.

9. My wife once ripped off the petals of a bunch of carnations, wadded them into a ball and threw them at a stranger’s crotch as he walked toward us. She laughed hysterically, and he just kept walking because what else do you do when someone throws flower petals at your crotch?

10. My wife recently spilled coffee in the car, and when I asked her if the brown, very visible stains on the door were from coffee she spilled, she said, “Oh yeah, I wondered where the rest of it went…”

11. My wife loads the dishwasher with the organizational skills of a blind gorilla.

Spry Mug


12. My wife uses a “mineral salt deodorant” and buys only one stick per year. The instructions say to get the stick wet and rub it in — meaning she just rubs water on her armpits every morning and calls it good.

13. My wife wakes up early to do a workout and go on a jog while I sleep an extra hour.

14. My wife believes me when I tell her that she doesn’t snore as loudly as the dog.

15. My wife once wanted the words “Practice patience” tattooed on her wrist. Other general life reminders she considered: “Take out the trash” and “Wipe after you go pee.”

16. My wife once said the words, “I love being someone’s mom more than anything.” And then she grabbed her glass of wine, turned on “Vampire Diaries” and handed me the baby monitor.

17. My wife read all 591,434 words in the Twilight book series.

18. My wife doesn’t have a favorite alcoholic beverage. Her only preference is that she can open the bottle and drink whatever’s inside.

19. My wife’s Instagram is filled with pictures of our son, and her bio reads, “A boy’s best friend is his mother.” That’s a line from the movie “Psycho” about a guy who lives with his mom’s rotting corpse. So that’s super creepy.

20. My wife became my wife 10 years ago today. She’s the best, and it ain’t even close.


A guide to laughing on the Internet

This is what humiliation looks like: The other night I was with a group of people, including one woman who is due to have a baby next week. As we all gathered to leave, I put my hand in the air to give the pregnant lady a high five. (After all, high fives keep the hope alive.)

My hand was maybe two feet from her face and near her line of vision. Even Ray Charles could’ve seen my hand, and he’s blind and dead. But she didn’t see it and kept talking to someone else. So I put it down, waited for a pause in conversation, and then tried again.


The pathetic scene made my wife incredibly happy. She was the only one who noticed my high five failures, but she laughed enough for the other seven billion people on Earth. She literally laughed the entire drive home — and not just a chuckle, but eight minutes of loud, continuous, tear-evoking laughter, the kind that’s typically reserved for a Chris Rock stand-up special.

That is what it means to truly laugh. In an age where so many of us prefer to type on a telephone instead of speak into one, our ability to laugh out loud has been replaced by a few overused letters — and you probably aren’t even laughing when you type them. I know this because I’m guilty of it, too.

LOLBecause a sizable portion of my conversations take place via text message or on the Internet, not only am I not laughing as much, but my text responses probably mislead you into believing you’re funnier than you actually are.

So if you ever want to know how truly funny your comments are on Facebook or text message, simply use this guide. It supplies all the answers you need and pulls back the curtain on a society that thinks laughter is optional:

Ha. I acknowledge the fact that you just made a joke.

Ha! Your comment made me chuckle.

Haha. Not funny at all.

Hahaha. You made me laugh and gave me reason to believe that you might be a funny person in general.

Hahahahahaha! You either said something very funny or so stupid that I’m laughing at how much of an embarrassment you are to your family.

Ahahhahaa! That was so funny I temporarily forgot how to spell.

Bwahahahahaha! You said something so hilarious that I just typed a sound that no one in human history has ever actually made.

LOL! I am 13 years old and I think everything is funny.

LOLZZZZZZ: I am brain dead. Please help.

ROFL! I’m a member of a message board community and I spend so much of my day typing words on this forum that I had to abbreviate this phrase, which no one has ever said aloud.

LMAO! I don’t know how to properly communicate with humans, so I type this all the time, even when something isn’t even remotely funny or intended to be funny.

Heh heh heh… I think this is funny, and I might also have a history as a sexual predator.

A word from the wise: Take a break from all the texting and empty, heartless hahahas and go actually speak to someone. You’ll be a happier person, and it’s much nicer to tell someone to their face that they should never attempt humor again.

Dude looks like a lady

Brad Pitt

I’ve always thought I’d be pretty as a girl. You might say that’s because I sort of look like a girl or have girlish features. I don’t think that’s true, but I’d probably be a solid 6.5 or a 7 if I were female.

I mention this because I went to dinner with my wife and sister-in-law the other week, and I was mistaken for a girl. Specifically, I was one of the “ladies.”

We settled into our table at one of South Tucson’s best Mexican restaurants, eager to nosh on food so good it couldn’t possibly be American. Anyway, I wore a navy blue T-shirt that night. I had on jeans and tennis shoes. My hair was and is cut short, like many guys. I spoke in my normal, medium-manly voice. At no point did I ask someone for a tampon.

None of that screams “that’s a dude,” but neither did it suggest I was a girl. It was as “me” as I’ve ever been. If it were an audition for the role of Most Average American Male, I would’ve been cast.

Nonetheless, someone thought I had a vagina.

Our waitress came to our table and said, “Are you ladies ready to order?” I assumed she was doing the proper thing and asking the real women to order first. But, admittedly, I wondered to myself: Does she think I’m a girl?

Nah, no chance. I quickly dismissed it and ordered a bean and cheese burrito. Shortly thereafter, though, the waitress brought our bill, and this time she made her perception clear.

“Thanks for coming, ladies. Have a good night.”

I was initially embarrassed, mainly because my wife and her sister cackled like they had just heard the funniest joke ever told. How could I be mistaken for a girl? I instantly scrutinized every move I made during the meal. Nothing I did was outright feminine. If anything, I was gender neutral, so maybe our waitress thought it was 50-50 and she just flipped a coin. Heads a boy, tails a girl. And tails never fails.

Or maybe (being the obvious non-native English speaker she was) she thought to herself, “These Americans say ‘you guys’ to describe groups of girls, so it probably works for ‘ladies,’ too.”

But I know that’s not the case. Something about my appearance convinced her that I was capable of giving birth.

It’s interesting. I’ve looked that same way practically my entire life. If that appearance led someone to mistake me for a female, then maybe one stranger each day thinks the same thing. How many people walk past me and think, “That girl’s face is too shiny” … ?

I mean, what am I supposed to do? I can’t be expected to make my manhood known at every meal.

“Hi, I’ll have the cheese enchiladas and, by the way, I have a penis in my pants.”

I didn’t genuinely care then and I care even less now. She probably thought I was a nice lady who tips well. Besides, I’ve got a wife, and although I wouldn’t say I’ve mailed it in, I don’t really need to impress anyone for the rest of my life. I can just be Plain Ol’ Jane until the day I die, and I’m fine with that.

20 things more enjoyable than a migraine

I went to bed at 5:47 p.m. last night because I had a migraine. Apparently, the only way to get rid of a migraine is by going to bed no matter what time of day it is or how wide awake you are. (Doctors can prescribe magical pills for these headaches, but rumor has it that the pill is either laced with heroin or takes you inside The Matrix.)

A migraine is the most god-awful ruiner of life there is. For me, it starts with a flickering light that leaves me temporarily blind in my left eye. It’s at that point that I know I will soon be tormented by a vicious whore of a headache.

The forewarning is the worst part. If I just suddenly had a throbbing headache, maybe I wouldn’t hate it so much. Instead, the blinding light lasts for 30 minutes before the pain even sets in. It’s like a friend telling you, “I’m going to borrow your car, leave a smelly dead body in the trunk and then break your taillights so a cop pulls you over.”

Yes, it is that bad. That’s the perfect comparison, actually.

I can’t say for sure that my night would have been very exciting sans migraine, but it sure as hell would’ve been better than going to bed before 6 p.m. like a 5-month-old infant.

While trying to fall asleep as sunlight still poured through the bedroom window, I tried to think of experiences that are worse than migraines. I couldn’t think of a single thing. But in 18 seconds I came up with a list of 20 experiences that, despite being torturous, are still better than having your life ruined by a Nazi-approved headache.

20 things more enjoyable than a migraine

1. Death by bulldozer

2. Eating trash

3. Wetting your pants in front of your boss on the first day of work

4. Wetting your boss’ pants on the first day of work

5. Tying your shoes together and trying to run from a bear

6. Being a drug mule

7. Having voluntary surgery to remove your eyelids

8. Telling Mike Tyson he can throw the first punch

9. Swallowing a hammer

10. Playing the Chuck-E-Cheese band’s music on repeat

11. Wearing underwear made of fiberglass

12. Swimming in shark-infested waters with no arms and a bloody nose

13. Asking a police officer if he wants to try some of your cocaine

14. Using a rattlesnake as a pillow

15. Tandem skydiving with a piano and no parachute

16. Running as fast as you can down the face of a mountain

17. Putting out a campfire by smothering it with your body

18. Robbing a bank and telling the teller to take his time

19. Snorting dried bird poop

20. Delivering a 19-pound baby while rotting in prison for a crime you didn’t commit

Enjoy your day.

My high school glory days as a Chinese gymnast

That’s me, far right, throwing my hat in the air like I just don’t care.

There I stood in the middle of a stranger’s living room, 24 hours removed from my high school graduation, bear-hugging one of my best friends as we cried for an hour like a couple of 4-year-olds who were just informed that Santa Claus was dead and birthdays were canceled for life.

In our defense, many of the tears were brought on by the incredible feat we achieved that night. Four friends and I joined The Century Club, which requires drinking 100 shots of beer in 100 minutes. That equates to one beer every 12.5 minutes and, yes, it was way more difficult than it was to graduate from high school.

Naturally, the alcohol opened the floodgates of sadness that built up over the last couple weeks of high school. The night ended with one friend wearing a toddler’s pair of Mickey Mouse undies on his head and four people puking everywhere, and often not in a toilet.

It all signified the same thing: Life after high school was going to be messy, smelly and hard to clean up. Oh, how true it was.

These memories — not just the ones of me acting like a stupid teenager — come roaring back every May, and I yearn for a return to high school. I wasn’t particularly good at anything or popular, but nothing can match the carefree nature of those life-altering four years, when my biggest concern was getting to the cafeteria before the pizza was all gone.

Without question, those were the glory days.

Me and my compatriots at the Olympics.

I started at Sahuaro High School in Tucson standing 5 feet tall and weighing a robust 72 pounds. (I was literally equal in size to a female Chinese gymnast, but my English was much better.) I knew zero people on the first day and probably ate lunch alone because no one wanted to sit next to the fourth grader who wandered away from recess and onto a high school campus.

It was an ignominious start, but Sahuaro quickly established itself as The Best Place on Earth. I loved every day there, even the day my Spanish teacher told me to pull up my pants and “stop acting like a punk mama’s boy.”

I expect a lot of great things from the rest of my life, but nothing will compare to the pure enjoyment of my high school years. They were filled with unforgettable moments — some bizarre, some funny, some embarrassing, some all of the above. For instance…

• I met my wife in high school. She was a braces-wearing twerp of a freshman, and I was a senior, disinterested in the cute little brace-face who stared at me as she walked past my classroom and into hers. I decided to prank call her one night, and she quickly found out it was me. I denied it anyway.

(She got the last laugh, though. Four years later — once she was all grown up and I convinced her to break up with her boyfriend to start dating me — she puked all over my bed. But then I accidentally dropped her into the puke face-first, so maybe I win.)

• I liked to hang out on campus after school, and one afternoon I was with a friend and his girlfriend. They went to another part of campus and returned 10 minutes later. That night I learned he lost his virginity on the floor of the girls bathroom.

• I inadvertently started a fistfight between two classmates junior year by asking Guy 1 when his girlfriend dumped him for Guy 2. Guy 1 said I was mistaken, but then I regretfully informed him I saw Guy 2 kissing his girlfriend before school that day. He angrily asked, “Are you sure?” and I said, “Definitely.” So Guy 1 crossed the classroom and decked Guy 2 in the jaw. Turns out, the girl I saw Guy 2 kissing was Guy 1’s sister. Whoopsie daisy.

Garth’s song didn’t help me find luck with the older ladies.

• As a freshman, I anonymously gave a very pretty senior a love song I’d written her. It was Garth Brooks’ “Shameless,” but I assumed she’d never heard it and wouldn’t discover what a fraud I was. She never wrote back, and I couldn’t tell if it was because of the plagiarism or the fact that I never told her my name. Either way, I hate her.

• My freshman year, I wrote an article for the school newspaper that said our football coach wasn’t as good as our hated rival’s coach. Our coach and his players really didn’t like me after that, but I wasn’t scared. Only a coward would hit a tiny gymnast.

• I got ejected from a basketball game senior year when I hurled a string of obscenities at the opposing team’s star player and told him we were going to kick their asses. I failed to notice the referee standing right next to him. Timeout was promptly called and a police officer politely escorted me out of the gym.

• I told my honors English teacher the horrible lie that I couldn’t take her (more difficult) class freshman year because it violated my religious views. (God hates persuasive essays.) I still feel bad about this one.

This all seems trivial and makes me sound like a terrible person, but I promise I did some good things, such as playing classic rock records in student council and eating Golden Grahams for breakfast every day. I was also an honor student and can say with certainty that at least seven people thought I was a pretty nice guy.

Given the opportunity to time travel, I wouldn’t do high school over again. I milked it for everything it had the first time, and I enjoyed the experience more than anyone in the history of humanity.

So bring on the nostalgia and another trip down memory lane. I might not cry over days gone by anymore, but if I do, I might need you to hold me and then wipe my mouth when I’m done vomiting.

Life is easy once you stop trying so hard to ruin it

Three things about me are undeniable: I’m not very smart, I have virtually no skills and my life is devoid of any major accomplishments. That’s all etched in stone.

Somehow, though, I’m not a complete failure and I’ve managed to become a happy person along the way. I don’t know how this happened. The only goals I ever set were to win the school spelling bee in sixth and seventh grades. (Check and check.)

So it’s either dumb luck or life is actually pretty easy. I say life is easy.

I began to realize this when I was 15, the age at which all boys are rotten and should be beaten with a sack full of staplers. One night I was causing unnecessary tension at home when my brother, Jake, told me in a very sincere and kind way that people wouldn’t like me if I remained an annoying assface.

Lesson learned: Don’t be an annoying assface who no one likes. Simple, right?

Honestly, it was perhaps the best advice anyone’s ever given me. Without it, I’d probably be homeless and living inside a recycling bin in Guatemala.

Shouldn’t life be this simple for everyone? I assure you I’m not doing anything special. Why are so many people made miserable by their friendships, relationships, marriages and family members?

I’ve had the same group of best friends for 17 years, and we all get along as well as we ever have. Everyone enjoys everyone. Do you know how much of a collective effort that takes? Absolutely none whatsoever.

The truest sign of a good friendship.

A friendship is one of life’s purest sources of happiness, but many people screw that up by expecting more out of it than they should. These people will find a reason to be unhappy about anything. They could win the lottery and be pissed that they didn’t win it while also making out with Katy Perry at Disneyland.

Instead, here’s the perfect way to approach all your friendships: Sally is my friend. Sally is not perfect, but she is enjoyable. The end.

Another helpful tip is to wisely pick your battles instead of always picking the worthless ones. Quarrels begin over the most insignificant matters, and they typically end, for example, with you telling your boyfriend that he humps like a dying giraffe. Or you telling your brother that you’re gonna drown him in his own blood.

You can easily trade that life of drama for one of contentment. Conan O’Brien – a happy and successful man – once said that if you work hard and treat people well, good things will happen to you. It is a simple truth, even if you don’t really work that hard.

My wife and I have been married for almost seven years, and we have no formula for being happy. Someone asked her recently how we’ve managed it, and she just shrugged. That’s the same answer I would’ve given.

But now I think I have a better answer: You have to care, but only sometimes. If you care about every little thing, you’ll eventually want to blow yourself up. Realizing that you’re occasionally a moron helps you care less and admit you’re wrong, and that eliminates a lot of would-be conflicts.

Don’t make music a life-or-death matter like Radio Raheem did.

Take last Saturday, for example. We’re driving to Portland, and she’s fiddling with the iPod adapter and trying to eliminate all the static noise. She wasn’t doing it properly, though, so I turned off the music entirely.

She asks me what my problem is. I tell her she’s lame. She tells me I’m ridiculous, and then we sit in silence for five minutes.

Finally, I apologize for being rude and kindly ask her to stop ruining my life all the time. And like that, everything was OK again. One minute, I wanted to kick her out of the car at 75 mph, and the next she’s my sweet ol’ wifey. Piece of cake.

Life isn’t really easy, of course. Lots of bad things happen to good people for no reason, and jobs suck and money is tight and Arizona State still exists. Sadly, those things will never change.

But if you want a happier life, simply stop being a terrible human being. Don’t be the kind of person your girlfriend would like to feed to an alligator. And don’t be the kind of hate-filled son that your parents hope gets locked in a Mexican prison.

Now you stick with that, and everything else is cream cheese.

How Oregon turned my wife into a hippie

I saw the warning signs and chose to ignore them. Only now do I realize how much blood is on my hands.

Two years ago my wife was a (mostly) normal person, but I didn’t mind her abnormal traits. Those made her enjoyable, specifically her groundbreaking work as the choreographer who spawned the “What? Dance” — a shimmy that involves bizarre gyrations, shrugged shoulders and a puzzled look on your face similar to this.

Then we moved to Oregon, the Home of the Hippies. Guess which club my wife now belongs to?

She doesn’t have dreadlocks that are a nesting place for squirrels, nor does she smell like she just emerged from inside a homeless man’s corpse, but her actions over the past year lead me to believe that she might someday suggest we wash and reuse our toilet paper.

I desperately wanted to believe it was a fleeting phase, one that would pass as quickly as her foray into knitting (total time: 19 minutes). But there’s something in the water in Oregon that, at least partially, forces a person to wrap their arms around hippiedom.

My wife and me in 50 years, if this trend continues.

Let me make a quick clarification: I know the difference between a) the original hippies of the 1960s, who protested global injustice while dropping acid and having sex with everyone whose name starts with a letter, b) the modern hippie, who rails against the ills of plastic bags while eating an algae-and-tofu sandwich on gluten-free cardboard, and c) the pseudo-hippie, who is mentally unstable and randomly declares that nearly all mainstream food and manufactured goods are agents of death.

My wife is a rising star in the pseudo-hippie culture. The past few weeks have been especially alarming, and one incident in particular is causing me notable anguish.

Here’s a curious question: Am I able to amend my marriage license to include the clause, “Both parties must use real deodorant for human beings and not a stick of chalk that a group of chimpanzees stuck in a plastic container and miraculously sold to the local hippie store” … ? Is that legal? Because that’s the No. 1 thought in my brain today.

Last week, my wife read an article on the dangers of anti-perspirants because they contain aluminum that may lead to breast cancer. So the natural solution, she thought, was to find an aluminum-free deodorant. I understand her concerns, but deodorants don’t really deodorize anything, especially not the brands made by people who drink tree bark-and-dirt smoothies.

Everyone needs anti-perspirant. This is non-negotiable. If you merely wear deodorant, you’re trying to mask an unmaskable problem. It’s like chopping off all your fingers and then saying, “I’m going to wear this new wristwatch to divert your attention from the pool of blood gathering at my feet.”

I should state clearly that my wife doesn’t stink, at least not to non-husbands. She’s well aware of how ineffective her salt crystal deodorant is at close range. The sticker on the bottle says it’s “cruelty free,” but I assure you that I’m suffering.

Sadly, she’ll use this deodorant for the rest of her life.

This is just the latest of the many changes to our lives since moving to Oregon. We now make our own laundry detergent, a painstaking process that requires you to grate bars of soap into a fine powder that results in about 1 cup of detergent.

But, lucky us, we only need to use a tablespoon of soap for each load of wash. (I’m gonna go out on a limb and say your clothes are cleaner than mine.)

Mmmm, stomach bile. Bottoms up!

We have a juice maker the size of a small car, but it has only been used to make healthy (nasty) vegetable smoothies. These are all the rage in Oregon. My wife blends kale, chard, broccoli, apples, celery, spinach and water into the most horrid-looking concoction the world has ever seen.

Have you seen the fluid that comes out of a woman when she gives birth? That’s what our juicer produces, only the birth goo probably tastes better.

There’s also been a switch from normal milk to almond milk; the purchase of environmentally friendly light bulbs that require an act of God to emit any light; an effort to recycle everything that enters our home, including used Q-tips; and a desire to conserve water by her peeing outside on the grass instead of in the toilet. (OK, so I made up a couple of those things, but you get the point.)

You might say all this makes her a healthier person and one who has less of a harmful impact on the planet. I agree. It also makes her a weirdo. In fact, Merriam-Webster’s definition of hippie is exactly that:

hippie [hip·pie] n. a weirdo

I could have done more to prevent her brain from malfunctioning on such a severe level, but I was in a state of denial. And I blame Oregon. Surely you understand. I hope you do, because I’m probably gonna need to come to your house soon and borrow some toilet paper.

A list of people who are trying to kill you

Hey, kid. Wanna know what heaven looks like?

The world is filled with fearmongers, people who will have you believe that terrorists and criminals sit next to us on the bus or stand behind us in line at the grocery store.

But I can’t live with that much mistrust in my life, so — to paraphrase Rudyard Kipling — I prefer to believe the best in everyone.

There are a few major exceptions, though.

The following types of people are the scum of the Earth and are actively trying to kill you. You’ve been warned:

Adults who no longer like kids’ cereals: At what age do you murder your own soul and decide that you dislike Lucky Charms or Cookie Crisp? If you don’t want to start your day with a bowl full of mini chocolate chip cookies, then you don’t deserve happiness. Worse than that, you thrive on being unhappy, and you want to see other people suffer.

If you see someone sleeping like this, the world might soon explode.

People who can fall asleep anytime, anywhere: Think about it like this: If the world were about to end, what would you do? Call your loved ones? Say a prayer? Not me. I’d take a nap. That way, when the meteor hits Earth, I’m dreamin’ about Cookie Crisp and won’t feel a thing. People who can fall asleep at will are aware of this, and they are hardwired to know when Armageddon is coming. So every time I see someone just randomly nod off, I run to the nearest bomb shelter. You should, too.

People who don’t drink water with their meals: How is it possible that someone eats an entire meal without drinking liquids? My wife does this three times a day, and it’s completely unnatural. If you don’t drink something, you will choke. If you choke, you can’t breathe. Clearly, people who don’t drink with their meals cannot breathe and are lifeless zombies who should be destroyed.

People who don’t own a VCR: If you grew up before the year 2000, you had your home movies filmed on a VHS cassette tape. But most of you don’t own VCRs anymore, which means you don’t want any part of your past and obviously have something to hide. How many puppies did you kill in the third grade, jerkface? God sees your sins.

People who have no idea what a cassette tape is: I’m looking at you, youth of America. You have no redeeming qualities, and this is Exhibit A.

People who don’t wear socks with their shoes: Women do this with slip-on shoes in the dead of winter, willing to let their feet freeze as part of a fashion statement. Men do it with loafers in the summer and let pools of sweat gather under their toes. If you don’t wear socks with your shoes, something is clearly wrong with your brain and you’d probably shank me if you had the chance.

Guys who wear skinny jeans: ‘Cause anyone who walks out of the house looking that ridiculous doesn’t give a f*** about anything.

“Look, Dolores. This is where we’re gonna drop the nukes!”

Elderly ladies: They all smell the same. It’s a good smell, but it’s like they belong to a secret society in which they share the same lotions, perfumes and detergents. And those items are all filled with chemicals. So let’s add it up: A group of women no one would suspect of any wrongdoing + a secret society + chemical agents = the world’s most dangerous terrorist group. But, hey, at least the bombs they drop will smell like lavender.

People who don’t like movies: Even at their worst, movies provide a nice escape from the everyday rigors of life. People who don’t like movies obviously revel in life’s misery and want to be best friends with Satan.

People who don’t like dogs: There is not a single redeeming quality about someone who doesn’t like dogs. You can be more of a “cat person,” but if you don’t like dogs, then you’re on a bullet train to hell.

People who eat mushrooms: Let’s ignore for a moment that they grow in poop. Just kidding, because it’s impossible to ignore the fact that mushrooms grow in poop. If I gave you a T-bone steak and said, “This was created in a big pile of manure,” would you still eat it? If so, you’re probably a murderer.