Review of Camping

People are usually surprised when I tell them that I love camping. This is because I have zero tolerance for anything with more than six legs. Except for hermit crabs. Hermit crabs are actually really cute. I had some hermit crabs once, but then they died because I didn't take care of them the right way. I mean, I tried, but... it didn't work out. I still feel bad because that was only, like, a year and a half ago. It's not like I was 5 or some irresponsible age. I was like, 20. Whoops.

Sob stories/I'm a terrible person!

The point of that guilt-speech was that I strongly dislike bugs. I'm not afraid of them, I just really really REALLY don't want them to touch me. That's not a phobia thing, it's a touch-y thing. There's a difference. Theoretically, I don't care about the bug existing on the other side of the room. It's more about the likelihood of the bug tripping and falling on my skin. I do not want it touching my skin. It is NON-NEGOTIABLE. It's the same way that normal people don't want to touch other people's pee. It's not scary, it's just gross.

And you know what else? Bugs are rude. They have no concept of personal space. I don't just go around touching random animals, so why do they not grant me the same respect? It's obscene! The whole issue is that they can't just leave you alone. No, they have to get all up in your space. Like I said before, I don't care if the bug is on the other side of the room, or better yet not on this hemisphere. But no, bugs are all like, "Look, a stranger! Let me touch youuuuu." You know what we do with people like that? We LOCK THEM UP. You know why? Because they are weird and creepy. So to are bugs.

I am totally side-tracked right now. Anyways camping!

Despite my whole thing with bugs, camping is actually super fun. I love the campfire, and the marshmallows, and the fact that everyone is disgusting and hasn't showered in god knows when. I guess I just like being dirty. Is that weird? I feel like that's weird.

And the thing about camping is that when you're completely isolated and immersed in nature, you totally get used to the bugs. I think it has to do with exposure. You know how they say the most effective treatment of a phobia is exposure therapy? Although I did just say that it's not a phobia. Maybe I lied. Who knows.

I will now tell a story to illustrate how tough I am:

Once upon a time (I think all my stories start this way), I went to overnight camp when I was 15. We had bunks, but we spent a lot of time hiking and camping out in random places. We'd spend one night camping, then one night in the bunk, then another night camping. At the end of the month, we drove up to Canada and did this 5-day canoeing trip in the middle of nowhere. It was intense.

For the whole 5 days, we carried everything we needed on our backs/in the canoes. Food, clothes, bug spray, cooking equipment, all that stuff. You know how heavy all that stuff is? Really, REALLY heavy. And every so often we'd get to a land crossing, and we'd have to lug all the canoes and packs on foot. It was SO HARD GUYS. I literally thought my back was going to snap in half.

So I'm hiking along, and I'm randomly just by myself on the trail, and I'm carrying this big-ass pack and it hurts like a mofo. And I'm grimy, and disgusting, and it's been like 4 days already and my socks are all wet, and I can't even sit down to rest because I wouldn't be able to get up again by myself.

And then comes along the most hated bug known to mankind: the MOSQUITO.

Mosquitoes are kind of like Canada's ambassadors, I think. At least that's what it felt like.

The mosquito decided that it would be the best idea ever to fly around my face and maybe try to bite my ear. Obviously that is the perfect place to bite someone. It was buzzing in my ear, and I kept trying to shoo it away, but it hurt my back too much to take my hands off the straps of the pack.

So guess what I did.

I SLAPPED it on the side of my FACE.

Let me explain something: I am a person who has jumped out of a moving vehicle to escape a moth. I shriek if I see an ant crawling on me. I can't kill mosquitoes, I can't go into those butterfly houses, and I will actually run into traffic to avoid cicadas. I'm the last person in the world who would willingly kill a mosquito with their face.

But I am also secretly a wild-beast-man who likes to go out and, like, rip up logs with their bare hands or whatever. And they wear plaid and stuff, and eat venison. Except I wouldn't eat venison because I don't like meat. I might be thinking of a lumberjack right now.

Soooo I slapped the mosquito (which also involved slapping myself in the face, by the way), looked at my hand, confirmed that the mosquito was a bloody mush on my palm, and wiped its corpse on my pants. And then I used the same unwashed hands to eat three sandwiches for lunch. Because I am MANLY.

Review: Pet Peeves

Having a 'pet peeve' is code for 'I am a mean, backhanded person who can only communicate through passive-aggressive snideness and subtle acts of hostility'.

Because really, does it bother you SO MUCH when other people make noises or dress a certain way or engage in behaviors that do not affect you at all? Does it actually, really bother you?

Let's say, for example, that you really really hate ballet flats. That is a shoe style that's popular these days. It's like a ballet shoe, except it's not actually made for doing ballet. Why would other people's shoes bother you? No one's forcing you to wear them. In fact, you don't even need to look at other people's feet. Unless they're in your house and walking on your floors, why in the world do you care? Is your head so empty of interesting thoughts that you have to fill it with criticism of other people?

I actually heard a guy on the radio the other day complaining about how gross and unattractive it is when girls wear ballet flats. You know what I find unattractive? That guy. I could tell by his voice that he was a snobster and was thus unattractive.

Point of contention: it is entirely normal to not like things. It's okay to think something that someone does is annoying, or to have a weird thing about ballet flats or whatever. But when you label something as a 'pet peeve' instead of just saying 'I don't like that', you make it sound like everyone else is so gross and weird and you are perfect and never do anything that bothers anyone ever. Other people are not the issue. People wear ballet flats. People sneeze and crack their fingers and make odd sounds. That is normal. The only person with the issue is you.

This is why:

Let's say that I really don't like when people clear their throats. Maybe it grosses me out or something. I don't know, this is a hypothetical situation.

But let's say that I'm telling someone about this. If I say, "My biggest pet peeve is when people clear their throats," it puts all the blame on other people. It makes the person you're talking to feel ashamed for all the times that they've cleared their throat. It is snobby and not nice.

But instead, let's say you tell your friend, "I have this weird thing about people clearing their throats. It grosses me out for some reason, I don't know why. I'm weird," and then you both laugh at how weird you are because you know what? Your weirdness makes you awesome. You should embrace it and laugh at how silly it is that clearing throats grosses you out, because YOU'RE weird! Not other people!

So next time someone sneezes on you, don't tell your friends that your pet peeve is when someone sneezes on you. Tell them that it is fucking disgusting when someone sneezes on you. It's not a peeve, it's just gross. End of story.

Review of Peas

This is going to be the most terrifying review I've ever written ever. It goes like this:


Once upon a time, there was a girl who went to some kind of community function for her former high school. It had refreshments and h'ors d'oeuvres that were supposed to be fancy, and then after the refreshments was a performance by a Beatles tribute band. They were called something related to the Beatles that I don't remember.

The girl and her parents and sister all went, and a waitress offered them a plate of mini chicken pot pies. This girl was not educated on anything food-related because she only liked foods that were the color beige. When she asked what was in the chicken pot pie, the waitress told her it had chicken and dough. Great, thought the girl, taking a large bite. What could be better than free food that was made out of dough?

As she took the first bite, her sister watched and elbowed their father in concern. The sister and father both had intense passions for food and cuisine knowledge, and so they knew about the other contents in the chicken pot pie. They watched as the girl looked at the other half of the pie that she still held in her hand, her eyes widening in horror. The chicken pot pie had more than just chicken. It had-- PEAS (and carrots)!

These peas are frozen. The ones in the pie were not frozen.

The girl looked at her family in panic. The unthinkable had happened... she had willingly consumed peas. Paralyzed with revulsion, she stared at the half of the pea that was still in the pie. She would rather have found half a worm. There were peas in her mouth. E gads!

Seeing the impending disaster and humiliation that the girl was about to bring upon the family, the sister acted fast. She grabbed the plate with the remaining pot pie out of the girl's hand, snatched her father's cocktail napkin from his hand, and thrust it in the girl's face, hissing, "Spit it out!"

And she did.

Yay!

The moral of this story: don't eat unidentified and/or suspicious foods. Also peas are the most disgusting food on the planet. I would rather eat a million units of flan than one pea (that's a big deal because I hate flan).

That was a falsehood, I would never eat flan. I feel nauseous just thinking about it.

Review of Cicadas

There is a phenomenon in the Midwest known as the 17-year cicadas. It’s possible that these exist in other places too, but I’m not looking it up. I’m not a librarian.

Unfortunately for me, the first summer of the cicadas that I experienced was when I was seventeen. Since the last summer of cicadas had occurred seventeen years earlier, which was before I was born. Finding out at 17 years old that you’re about to be accosted by a cicada swarm is not fun. It is the worst birthday surprise ever. I mean they weren’t actually there on my birthday, but still.

You know what a cicada summer is like? It is a living hell. They swarm around, and they buzz, and they land on you, and it’s the worst. I could put a picture in this post right about now, but HELL TO THE FUCKING NO. Why would I put a picture of a cicada on my blog. WHY.

I know, I will draw a picture with my excellent art skills. Observe:

This is a diagram of a cicada. He is feeling angry.

 
 You see why a being such as this would strike fear into the hearts of men. And me.

According to a Mister Charles Darwin, cicadas should not exist. That's not a direct quote, but I bet he would totally agree. Cicadas do not do anything other than wreak havoc for the 2-3 weeks that they are around every 17 years. They are actually the dumbest animals ever.

Imagine this scenario: you are a cicada, and you are flying around because why the hell not? You're going to die in two weeks anyway. But instead of choosing to fly in circles inside the forest preserve from whence you emerged, you come up with a brilliant idea-- you're going to fly across a large, busy street! Who cares that you can't move very fast and are incapable of traveling in a straight line? Dodging traffic is the best game ever! It's like Frogger, but a million times more horrible!

This lack of simple survival instincts is why cicadas should not exist. But for some odd reason, they do. And they drunkenly zigzag across the road, and if you hit them by mistake they splatter into green goop on your windshield. I promise, it's literally green. I almost had an accident the first time that happened.

Cicadas are the worst of the bugs. Thank goodness, by the time they're supposed to come out again, I'll be 34 and will be able to take myself on vacation until they're gone. You know who is not excited to be 34? Me, that's who. THE END

Skymall Review: One of a Kind Shirt

Skymall is my favorite magazine in the entire world (after American Way). Every single thing that is sold within those scummy germ-filled pages is something that can (and should) be mocked. The last time I went on a plane, I was actually laughing out loud while reading Skymall. In fact, I was laughing so hard that people glared at me and my mom yelled at me to shut up.

Did you know that if you hold in a laugh, it feels like you choked and got your drink stuck up your nose? True story.

One of the best items I've ever seen period, let alone in Skymall, is the infamous..... ONE OF A KIND SHIRT.


Whoever created this shirt is a sick, sick person. Brilliant, but very sick.

You know what makes this shirt so evil? Not just the fact that it makes you want to gouge out your own eyeballs, but also the fact that it costs $99.99.

With $100, I could buy 20 meals at Subway. That's 20 full $5 footlongs. Or, if your meal consists of a 6-inch tuna sub with extra cheese, chips and a drink, that money would pay for 14.8 meals. FOURTEEN MEALS.

But no. Instead, I am going to blow my money on a shirt that looks like... that.


Really what gets me is the description. This shirt is serious business.


"A One Of A Kind shirt allows you to show that you're an individual, that you're a little different than everyone else and you want them to take notice of who you are. These shirts are great for a night on the town, frat parties, bachelor parties, stag parties or any other time you want to stand out in a crowd."


What a coincidence! I was just thinking that I needed a shirt for nights on the town, frat parties, bachelor parties, and stag parties.

Stag. Parties.

(According to the internet, a 'stag party' is the same thing as a bachelor party, except the strippers and prostitutes might actually be victims of sex trafficking. So, you know, wear your classy shirt to that stag party. It fits with the theme of being a terrible, evil person.)


There's another disclaimer in the item listing:

"Because these shirts are a piece of art, the color and pattern is not revealed until the package is opened."


Announcement: these shirts are a PIECE OF ART. You can't control a piece of art. The artist must have a perfect creative environment in order to create the thing of beauty that is this shirt. You savages that don't appreciate the fine arts.

Did everyone know that pieces of art now come in bulk packages of 2 or 3? If you buy 2 Shirts From Hell, you only pay $169.99! If you buy 3, you pay $229.99! The savings are OUT OF CONTROL!



One of a kind shirts, for one of a kind men (not the good kind).

Review: Dragonfruit

Imagine that one lovely morning, you get on a plane and travel to Thailand. You get off the plane, wander into the street, and decide to celebrate your arrival by trying some kind of new, exotic foods. You go up to a stall, and the guy sells you a beautiful pink fruit that looks like it's straight out of National Geographic. The guy tells you that this is a dragonfruit. This makes sense, since the outside has all these petal-flap-thingies that look kinda like dragon scales when you squint.

You sit down on the curb and break open the dragonfruit with a knife. I don't know where you got the knife. Maybe you stole it out of a suitcase at the baggage claim. Maybe you are Edward Scissorhands. Maybe you are a cyborg and used your laser-vision to slice it open.

Whatever method, you get the damn thing open. You look inside, and... HORROR MOVIE MUSIC!!!!!!!

What. The. Hell. Is. This.

This fruit is like one of those kitschy pictures of the fruits that look like other fruits on the inside, like on the outside it looks like an orange but it's sliced in half and they doctored the picture to look like a kiwi on the inside.

You see how this is a tomato on the outside but a kiwi on the inside? That kind of thing.

You feel like Alice in Wonderland. Except you're in Thailand, so it's more like Alice in Thailand. Do they even have dragonfruit in Thailand? I might have made that up.

But for real, this fruit/abomination hybrid proves that there is no God. Or if there is, then He is one sick, messed-up individual. You need help, God. From a professional.