It’s Monday, and you know what that means, don’t you? (Besides that you’re at work and hating your seemingly meaningless life.)
It means that you have to look at more of my shitty pictures.
This weekend, I messed around with my camera and tried to learn something new. I did. Whether it wound up looking cool or not is a totally different story. Apparently, on these fancy shmancy cameras, you can change the shutter speed. And while I knew that was a helpful tool in taking pictures at night, I had no idea you could use it to make really cool, trippy, streaks of light appear on an otherwise boring photo. (See: above) All you have to do is slow down the shutter speed, snap the picture and then shake the shit outta the camera, and you can tell people that you’re artsy. Fuck yea. I’m deep.
There are also a few other new shots on the Flickr page that don’t look like the inside of a laser tag arena, so feel free to check those out, as well.
Ahhhh, Friday. The work week winds down, the beer starts to pour and you start to contemplate life’s most important questions. Why is the sky blue? Why is the Earth round? What would Dennis Bunnicelli say if he could only speak in 140 characters?
Perhaps he would say this:
bout to go bowl with my team and win this money bitches
Yes, Friday. The day you learn that your favorite thugged-out YouTube celebrity is on Twitter… and a Friday night bowling team.
Enjoy your weekend, folks. And if you really need another place to criticize me until Monday, check out the Flickr account. I promise it’ll have some new stuff for you to make fun of.
Filed under: Cheaters, Guilty Pleasures, Joey Greco, Your Pitiful Life Amuses Me
One of the greatest shows to ever grace my television is Cheaters. I have no problem ranking it ahead of Different Strokes, Baywatch or even Silk Stalkings. It’s like Cops meets Blind Date… only 100X funnier.
Take the above clip for example; it’s got all the makings of a perfect shit storm. Maybe it’s the seemingly hot girlfriend who’s probably a lot more psychotic than the video lets on. Or maybe it’s mom. Or maybe it’s the overabundance of trailer park cliches. Or the dumpster diving. Okay, fine, it’s absolutely the getaway car at the 6:20 mark.
Whatever it is, this show is like crack for the eyeballs, and Joey Greco is my dealer.
And in case you were wondering, mom, crack makes the perfect holiday gift…
Filed under: Things I Own
I’m a sucker for type treatment.
Good stuff. Check it out for yourself.
Not 1,100 sq. ft. Not an in-unit washer/dryer. Not the proximity to the nearest Publix.
Nope. So far, the thing that has placed one apartment complex ahead of all the rest, in my hunt for a place to live this summer, is a cookie.
Not even joking about this.
All decent apartments are pretty much the same. They’re all around the same price, offer the same ammenities and have the same creepy neighbors. Usually, after a few weeks of apartment hunting, you wind up deciding by throwing a dart at a list of all the apartments that didn’t have rats.
I was getting to that point on Saturday. I had seen 3 different apartments that were all pretty nice, but none of them really stood out any more than the others. After a full day’s search I was ready to bust out the dart board. Then I remembered that one leasing office set themselves apart from the others and really left an impression…on my stomach. And really, that’s the part of my body that makes most of my decisions anyway, so it was a smart move on their part.
Otis Spunkmeyer Buttercrunch Toffee cookies. Baked fresh, daily.
Smart move, leasing lady. Smart. Move.
Oh hey, it’s Friday. Know what that means? It means I’m stuffing my face with Fuddruckers and you’re watching Dennis Bunnicelli do terrible things to the English language.
I’m really not sure how you survived last week without him, but I promise to never let that happen again. This Friday, Bunnicelli’s World puts two concepts together that should never… ever… ever… be put together. Ever.
Bob Barker and sex tapes.
Now that I’ve successfully killed your appetite, enjoy your weekend of drunken shenanigans. I’ll be out looking for a new apartment. Hopefully the leasing offices understand the importance of my moving into the 18th apartment on the 7th floor, whether it’s vacant or not.
For the last two years, I’ve called this shithole of an apartment complex my home. Since it was the first place I’ve ever lived without my parents, I put up with a lot of ridiculous things that I would’ve otherwise flipped my shit about. But now, after turning over 21 rent checks, I’ve decided to let it all out and finally vent. What follows is a list of things I won’t miss about this place…
The laundry room. If one more person opens that dryer before my clothes are done, I’ll shove a fucking tire iron down their throat. The rules of the laundry room are simple: you put your stuff in, you take it out when it’s done. There’s never a need for someone else to touch my shit. Ever.
My shower drain, which clogs for inexplicable reasons. I have no hair. What exactly is clogging the drain, even after I pour an entire bottle of cleaning shit down there?
My sink, which does the same. See above.
The dishwasher. If it’s not too much trouble, do you think maybe you could actually clean the dishes? I mean, it’s not that I don’t absolutely love two-day old peanut butter, but if I’m already cleaning most of it off to begin with, is it too much to ask that you do the rest?
The cats in the parking lot. I hate you. I wish nothing but road kill and Chinese food for your future. You do nothing but clutter the parking lot and walk on top of my new car. If I catch you on top of my car again, you’ll be sweet and sour chicken by morning.
The fucktard on the 8th floor who keeps feeding the cats. Stop. If you continue to feed them, I will cut your penis off and hang you with it. You need a hobby. Or a girlfriend. Or both. Whatever it takes to keep you from befriending 15 stray cats like you’re the creepy old lady in the corner house. Jesus, I hate you.
The fire alarm. You don’t go off enough. No, really. If I don’t see the fire department outside of my building at least twice a month, then I know something is wrong. Hey management, don’t be afraid to fix that, eh? And speaking of management…
Management. Three months to fix an elevator? I think I might be able to build one from fucking scratch in that time.
My neighbors above. Thanks for letting your water heater go to shit and leak into my apartment. That was fun.
My neighbors to the right. The next time your dog shits on my balcony, I’m rubbing it in his eyes and throwing him off the ledge.
My neighbors across the hall. You don’t speak english and I don’t speak spanish, so cursing you out would be a collosal waste of time. Just know that you’re nothing like the people who lived there before you, which sucks, because those guys were quiet. And also because they offered my roommate a job selling weed, so at least I knew they worked.
I wont miss this place. I won’t miss the people, the management, the constant problems or the giant fucking pitbulls.
I will miss the short distance to Aventura Mall and the Target across the street, though, so there’s that.