Raisins

Who among us has not experienced the exquisite disappointment upon biting into an oatmeal-raisin cookie when you THOUGHT you were actually biting into a delectable chocolate chip cookie? The ensuing shock is enough to bring a grown man to his knees. Especially if he hates raisins. Which he has every right to.

If only all raisins could be chocolate chips. Raisins wish they were chocolate chips. In reality, a raisin is nothing more than a chocolate chip's sub-par fruity and rubbery evil twin. Raisins are wrinkly and sticky and brown-purple and clumpy and have you SMELLED raisin breath?

I don't care what you or anyone else says.

Raisins are nature's boogers and they must go.

Back to School 6: Obnoxious Interrupters.

There are three types of interrupters:

1. Serial commenters. Their body clock is set such that every 5 or maybe 7 minutes, their arm spontaneously shoots their hand into the air during an otherwise fluid lecture. I honestly think some of them cannot control it. However, this does not make me any less agitated when they ask their 9th question, tell their 4th story, or suggest their 20 bajillionth thoery on the purpose of all things.

2. Blurters. A cousin of the serial commenter, once removed. They have the same tendency toward spontaneity, but lack the self control required to actually raise their hand before speaking. I'm sorry you are a college junior and don't understand words like panacea... but is it necessary to blurt out "WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?!" in the middle of the professor's sentence? Twice?

3. Unrelated Questioners. If we are talking about urban crime rates, please do not raise your hand to ask what the teacher's favorite type of ice cream is. Enough said.

Obnoxious Interrupters must go.

Back to School Part 5: Library Zombies

Library zombies are not uncommon. These students mercilessly haunt fellow library patrons with their creepily unbreakable gazes. Most encounters go a little something like this...

There you are in the library, just minding your own business. You are studying or doing something scholastic on the internet. Suddenly, you feel like you are being watched. You look up, only to discover a library zombie's giant, glazed and unblinking eyeballs peering at you from just above the top of your computer screen. He is across the table from you, and you are now his victim. He exhibits a generally greasy or unkempt appearance (complete with wispy mustache and braces), and although you hope he is harmlessly staring into space, you also kind of feel like he is actively trying to steal your soul with his incessant zombified stare. You look around you. The library is quiet but full. There are no other seats available. You are doomed to suffer his awkward gawking until one of you is done studying.

...

Sooner or later, his ceaseless staring causes you to panic like the pheasant from Bambi. YOU JUST CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE. You begin planning your escape route, feverishly packing your things as you look for the nearest exit. But wait. Right before you make your move, you lock eyes with a second library zombie who has fixed his gaze upon you from across the room. He is blocking the exit. Second zombie then proceeds to repeatedly lick the back of his hand. Like a cat. Staring at you all the while. You realize that you are probably safer where you are with zombie starer number 1. You are trapped in a most awkward social prison, and the library zombies win again.

Library Zombies must GO.

Back to School Part 4: Student-to-Faculty Flirting

Most professors (at least at my college) don't flirt with their students, and that's why I'm not addressing faculty-to-student flirting. But I have seen my share of student-to-faculty flirting, which makes me want to puke up my entire digestive tract in one foul purge for the following reasons:

1. Student/faculty romantic relationships are strictly prohibited at most educational institutions.

2. Most professors I have are married.

3. A lottttt of students at here are married.

Which means:

4. Most students who flirt with their professors are super duper skankity-skank home wrecking hooch bags. Male or female.

They should take their gum-smacking cleavage-showing joke-giggling eyelash-batting self as far away from my professor as possible. I don't care if he is dreamy like Mr. Schuester.

Student-to-faculty flirting must go.

Back to School Part 3: Skirts with Backpacks

Sometimes, girls wear skirts with their backpacks. This would be fine, if they were aware that with every step they take, their backpack could potentially expose their bum to the world.

I am well aware of this phenomenon, and I only wear skirts which I have tested for no-ride qualities. I used to take pity on these poor girls who didn't have a clue, and would tell them tactfully that their skirt was tucked up under their backpack.

I always tried my best to let them know as soon as possible. In a best-case scenario I would be able to catch up with them before the exposure actually occured. I once RAN up a hill to catch up with a lass whose skirt was perilously close to panty territory. I breathlessly mentioned that her skirt was getting tucked up under her backpack, and all she said was "oh" as she tugged her skirt back down.

What?! No "thank you"... ?AND I RAN!

I watched her skirt get all bunched up again as she walked away. She didn't even care.

I have now become proud and bitter in my old age. Proud at the fact that I NEVER allow my backpack to eat my skirt, and bitter at the fact that these girls made it all the way to college without understanding the basic relationship between gravity and friction.

Skirts with backpacks must go.

Back to School Part 2: Tall-Fountain Hogs

Most drinking fountains come in pairs. One tall, one short. The short one is awkward to use, especially while wearing a heavy backpack. There is nothing worse than having your backpack avalanche forward onto your head when you are crouched down, trying to get a few sips of water out of a too-low drinking fountain. It almost always results in cranial injury or water up your nose.

BYU has many, many drinking fountains. BYU also has many, many socially unaware individuals who feel it is necessary to fill up their water bottle at the tall drinking fountain.

Why. Why do they do this? Water bottles take for-ev-er to fill up, and most people don't have time in between classes to wait for the water bottle hog to finish replenishing their stupid nalgene before the bell rings.

Ergo, the short drinking fountain is all that is left to quench the thirst of the short, average, and giant-sized students waiting in line. It really irks me when I see dumb-dumbs on their bedazzled cell phones blissfully filling their water bottles while the football player next to them is trying, in vain, to drink out of a water fountain positioned knee-high.

Tall drinking fountain water bottle hogs MUST GO. Use. The. Short. One.

Back To School Part 1 : Walkway Blockers

Walkway blockers.

You know who you are. And if you ARE a walkway blocker, you deserve to be round-house kicked in the face by a sasquatch with a wicked case of athlete's foot. And that was not a hyperbole.

I'm glad you happened to run into your roommate on campus. I'm happy that you are sooooo excited to see her that you make a scene while you greet her with ridiculous enthusiasm. BUT. I am not happy that you are preventing me and the other 500 students around you from getting to class on time. Trust me. You do not want to get into an altercation with me while I am sweaty from feverishly trying to get across campus.

Just like a car parked in the fast lane on the freeway, you are ruining lives and you are a hazard.

Walkway blockers must go.

Back to School

Sorry for the long break between posts. School started up again, and I have actually been concentrating on my school work. (Weird).

The next few posts will be special posts, dedicated to everything that must go when it comes to school. Feel free to comment with ideas for future school-related posts.

Puka Shells (and Kenny Chesney)

Puka shells. Huka shells. Mispronounced, misused and abused all over the united states since the late 90's.

(Note: if you live in Hawaii you are kind of excused. But you should still watch yourself.)

It's rare that people sport these crusty crustacean strands in the contiguous united states, but when they do, it's one of the most ignominious fashion faux pas an offender can ever commit. There once was a time when these necklaces were super in... and that time ended about a decade ago.

Pukas are most often sported by men who think of themselves as ultra-hot macho men. This puzzles me. There really should be a public service anouncement addressing the fact that pukas are a sign of douchebaggery and weakness, and that wearing them does not magically transform you from a tool into a winner.

Your necklace belongs in a garbage can, circa 2001.

Puka shells must go.

P.S. Kenny Chesney can go too.

Screen Creepers

Let's talk about screen creepers.

Screen Creeper noun: An individual, colleague, or cubicle-mate who unscrupulously looks at your computer screen for extended periods of time. Screen Creepers may read your personal email over your shoulder, laugh at the blog you are reading, or give you unsolicited advice on how to articulate your instant messenger responses. These individuals may also belong to the hoverer family, and usually exhibit complete ambivalence to social cues.

Screen creepers drive me bonkers, and I just don't know how to solve the problem. I feel like it might be unreasonably harsh for me to command them to avert their eyes from my personal business as I slap them across their creeper face. On the other hand, subtle clues that you do not appreciate their eyes laser-beaming to your screen every time they have a spare moment would probably be too complex for their socially retarded radar to pick up on.

How to stop a screen creeper: no one knows.

Therefore, screen creepers must go.

Shopping Carts that Shock

I grabbed a shopping cart today at my local grocery store and it immediately shocked me. I didn't think twice about it because it was looking and sounding pretty good as far as shopping carts go. All four wheels were touching the floor, there were no weird squeaky sounds when I turned, it looked clean, the wheels moved smoothly and silently... etc... so I happily continued my quest for sustenance.

10 steps later it shocked me again. Fluke, I thought. Weird, I thought. Probably not going to happen again, I thought.

2 aisles later... shock.

Produce section... shock shock.

What the devil? By this time I already had food in my cart so I didn't want to turn around and switch carts. That would be a weird thing to do. And I'm not weird.

I tried being careful about not shuffling my feet, not touching my hair, staying away from metal objects and anything else I could think of that I may have been doing to build up unwanted static electricity. I had zero luck with that. As soon as I thought the shocks were gone, they would return again with a vengeance. And they hurt.

I guess sometimes shopping carts just hatefully shock you, even when you don't do anything rude to them first.

Shopping carts that shock must go.

Wrinkly Dogs

Wrinkly dogs are gross. Some people think they are "Soooooo cuuuuuute!"

Wrinkly dogs look gooey and weird. I don't think there is anything cute about an animal whose brain appears to have developed outside of its skull. And as they get older, their outer brain appears to swallow the rest of their body. Dog debris probably gets caught in their gelatinous bodily fur crevices.

And ANOTHER thing. Their wierd wrinkly gums can't hold their weird wrinkly dog lips together, so drool flies everywhere.

Not cute.

And then, some people say: "They aren't cute, but they're cuddley!"

Excuse me? Why would I want to cuddle with something that looks like a walking ball of furry entrails?

I don't want to cuddle with that.

Wrinkly dogs must go.

Loud Talkers

Loud talkers. You know the type. They like to scream their comments to others when it is completely unnecessary. Their whispers rival fog horns. Their laughter shatters windows with its sonic boom of obnoxiousness. Loud talkers can often be found sitting all by themselves, as they are usually avoided by passers-by who are attempting to keep their eardrums and sanity intact. In the event that you find yourself in close proximity to a loud talker, or worse, engaged in conversation with one, you can use one or all of the following tactics to tone down the loud talker's volume or stop the conversation dead in its tracks:

• Invest in some high quality ear plugs.


• Look directly at the loud talker, make eye contact, and plug your ears with your fingers.


• Cover the loud talker's mouth with your hand.


• Interrupt the loud talker mid-sentence with a quick fire extinguisher blast to the face.


• Round-house kick the loud talker in the mouth. Make sure they don't see it coming. Repeat as necessary.


• Duct tape.


• Drown out the loud talker's voice with your blood curdling screams every time they begin to speak.

There is a good chance none of the above strategies will provide a permanent solution.

Therefore, loud talkers must go.

(Rest in peace, Billy Mays.)

Men's Skinny Jeans

I just really don't understand the allure of "skinny" jeans on men. I've come to accept today's skinny jeans for women. They are much better looking than the tapered mom jeans of yore, and they can really flatter some (female) figures quite beautifully. Personally, I have never worn skinny jeans because I have yet to find a pair that I can pull up past my knees. Mostly because my thighs are out of control. And also because I don't really try to find them. Anyway.

Tapered 80's jeans = Belong on Angela from Who's The Boss




Skinny jeans on girls = attractive and stylish.





Skinny jeans on boys = oh my goodness someone please poke out my eyes with a javelin.


Wrangler butts do not drive me nuts.


Men's skinny jeans must go.

Drinking Fountain Farters

Sometimes, people just have to fart. Its unavoidable. It would be unrealistic for me to declare that all farters must go, because there would be no one left on earth. However, I do believe that there is a special place in hell for drinking fountain farters.

I was thirsty this morning at work. Really thirsty. It may or may not have something to do with the nearly full bag of pretzels I consumed last night. Anyway. My thirst was scorching the back of my throat with the dryness of 10,000 Saharas when I approached the glorious office drinking fountain. As I leaned over to partake of the delicious water, I found myself surrounded by someone else's putrid bodily vapors.

That may have been the most unpleasant surprise of my life.

Why. WHYYYYYYY???? For the love of all that is good, hold it in.

Or, let it go. BEFORE you come within a 20 foot radius of any food or drink source.

blegh.

Drinking fountain farters must go.

THEY MUST!

Ke$ha

I feel like it's probably not necessary to write out a lengthy explaination as to why Ke$ha needs to go, so I'll keep these sentiments brief. Like a speedo.

• Ke$ha spells her name with a dollar sign.
• She has the most annoying valley-girl voice I have ever heard.
• She thinks it is awesome and unique to misspell the titles to the songs she slurs.
• I tried to pull up some lyrics as further proof that she is a non-contributor to the music world, but her lyrics website gave my computer an electronic STD and I had to shut the whole thing down.
• The song that I was looking at as an example of her idiotic filth uses the phrase "BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH" over and over again and makes several allusions to committing unspeakable acts whilst drunk in a club.
• And finally, she looks like a hot mess. Barfing diamonds.

For the love of all that is musical, and in support of the fight against venereal disease,

Ke$ha must go.

The Mustache

We have a dangerous and damaging epidemic on our hands amongst the young adult males of our generation. It is as vile and viral as they come. And yet, no one seems to be as concerned about it as I am. What is this mystery plague infecting our men, you ask? Athlete's foot? Giardia? Leprosy? No. Worse:

MUSTACHES.

Dirty, nasty, stringly, fluffy, crumby, mustaches. "Moustaches." Cookie dusters. Soup strainers. Misplaced eyebrows. Stalker 'staches. Face fungus.

For some reason, an increasing number of potentially attractive men feel that mustaches are an appropriate outlet for expressing their manly capabilities to grow facial hair. They are sorely mistaken.

Mustaches make me want to hurl. If you are not Burt Reynolds, a police officer, or over the age of 55, mustaches should be strictly prohibited. I am not typically a hater of facial hair. I like me some scruff every now and then, but mustaches just must go.

For example: Take an extremely good looking man. Add the following:


A goatee? Fine.




Sideburns? Excellent.

Manly scruffiness? Superb.

But a mustache?



Woof.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

You have made a beautiful man into an atrocity. Adding a weird patch of lip hair to a handsome face (or ANY face, for that matter) is a recipe for disaster. Please men, be responsible. Grow some sideburns. Forget to shave for a couple days. But I beg of you.... do not, under any circumstance, grow a mustache.

Mustaches must go.

The First Farewell: Speedos

I remember the day that I first became aware of the existence of speedos. It was on a field trip, way back in Kindergarten. Our whole class had traveled to the beach to collect seashells, make sand castles, and splash our little feet in the cool water. Little did I know that within a few short minutes of beach bliss I would behold the atrocity known to most as a "speedo" for the very first time in my life.

Having 4 sisters and being only 5 years old, I had until that time escaped the horror of brief male swimwear. The first offender I observed was a boy in my class named Sean. He was running, jumping, skipping, even leaping around the surf in what appeared to be a pair of panties. I was puzzled. I was disturbed. Why was he wearing panties? And how had he fashioned them out of an American flag? Even at the tender age of 5, I just knew that this unnatural display was wrong. So wrong. I thought to myself... "Wow, whatever that is, it needs to go."

His star-spangled booty would be the first in a long line of speedo sightings through the years that I wish I could erase from my memory, each one a little more disturbing than the last.

My most recent speedo sighting occurred last week, while I was waiting in line to take a turn on a rope swing at a local pond. The speedo-wearing pond perpetrator was in his mid thirties, with the physique of your average NASCAR enthusiast. It's hard to find any appropriate words right now to accurately describe the visual abuse he inflicted on all those who found him within their sight. Suffice it to say, that there were children there who will be asking their parents some very tough questions in the next few days. I really don't want to talk about it anymore.

Dear Universe,

for the sake of the children:

Speedos. Must. Go.