But they’re certainly helping me.

She stood there for a good ten minutes, but a P.W.S.I.L.F. is a P.W.S.I.L.F.

I know that I am on the list of most perfect human beings that you have ever made, but I think it might’ve been more practical to give me straight hair even though a slight curl is more perfect. I only say this because I haven’t cut my hair in a while and it’s become quite a burning bush, if you catch my drift.

So, yeah, just straighten it until I get it cut, please. You know the address.

Love,

BJCG

P.S. Could you send me a revised version of the Perfect List?

P.P.S. Wait, scratch that. I would rather have this.

Everyone knows the term for the clasp on a necklace; it is called a “dick”. Apparently, some people at Yahoo Answers (also known as Dumbass Central) also think it’s called a “boob”. This is unfortunate because it completely ruins my joke (see post title).

More ruined jokes after the jump.

Yes, those are almost-Uggs. Yes, that is a Palestine-style scarf. Yes, that is a vinyl bag. Yes, his hair is faux-hawked. But what you can’t see is that the tips of the fauk are blond. Now, I don’t mean to be racist, but I’m going to be: black people should never have any sort of blond in their hair. Never. It looks more unnatural than highlights do to begin with. It also just doesn’t seem to blend as nicely as it could.

The highlights, as horrible as they are, are not the problems I have with this “guy”, however; it’s the fact that I don’t want to call him a male. I know that I really shouldn’t label people with outdated masculine and feminine standards, but there is a difference between what we ought do and what we already do. I would have no problem with this person, if society didn’t adhere to such norms that drew a clear line between what is manhood and what is womanhood, but, because society has drawn such conclusions, it’s hard to take this person seriously. He seems like a joke of a male.

His demeanor, his voice, everything about him was so past flamboyant that I wondered why he just didn’t get the sex change operation. If he had walked up to me, handed me a resume straight out of Yale with a 4.0 and three paid internships that he worked at all at once, I wouldn’t have taken him as seriously as I should have because he acts so out of the norm that it’s distracting. Like I said in my Target post, life is all about balance; you have to apply yourself to these social norms that seem ridiculous (and most are logically so) while taking in a grain of salt (just a grain because blood pressure is a big issue now-a-days).

But I guess that if you look at it and squint a bit, this picture as a whole really has balance.

Spice up your life.

Explanation of spiciness after the spice jump.

There are many different flavors of people in the world; spices, if you will. For example, there are little baby spices, there are the fit sporty spices, the people who hang out in alleyways and are very scary spices, there are posh spices that are married to spices that can “bend it”, and then there are the ginger spices which really make a good pork roast even better.

You may not believe this, but CVS sells spices. Yeah. Look it up, that Cayenne is somewhere in that store. And so is that Baya.

Anyway, I’ve had both good and bad experiences at CVS. Mostly good because of people like Kate who work there. I had a shit ton of shit and she was able to fit it all in one bag. Sure it was double bagged, but that was because she cared about me and my walk to the car and then to my dorm. She even recommended a flavor of Fuze to me. She went past her hourly wages to be the coolest CVS clerk ever. And that means something in my book, guys, because I go to CVS almost every other day. It’s my poor man’s Starbucks addiction. Even though I have that one too. Here is an artist’s rendition of how great Kate is.

I mean, I’m sure that when she takes off that blue polo at the end of the day, she’s ready to fight crime and make sure everyone walks home with a easy-to-handle load of items, right?

And then there’s the one clerk to fuck it all up: Chip. The name says everything, in my opinion. It says that he doesn’t know what Camel Menthol Lights are even when they are sitting out in the open and I am pointing directly to them, it says that he bleaches his hair in the most disgusting way, it says that he probably runs a blog about pointless things no one finds funny or interesting. Here is an artist’s rendition of Chip.

People, if you’re willing to spice up your life with spicy spice, then don’t even think about coming into contact with a spice named Chip.

Jack Skellington has hit rock bottom.

Macaulay Culkin, anyone?

To tell the truth, I’m ready to hit Rock Bottom as well.

More self-destruction after the jump.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but the Nightmare Before Christmas following is sort of as cult-like as the Rocky Horror Picture Show cult following, right? Aside from the fact that people dress up as transvestites and have monthly showings of the movie, of course. I would like to think that NBC fans are a bit….classier, for lack of a better word.

As I assume everyone else does, I have very fond memories of my first NBC experience. When I was three (I didn’t believe it myself but Wikipedia claims that it came out in 1993 so I must have a fairly sound memory of it), my mother took me and my seven year-old brother to see the movie. On opening night no less! About 25 minutes into the movie and my mother couldn’t handle it; she took us out of the movie. Neither me or my brother were upset by this (I was apathetic in my younger years…and my teenage years but no surprise there), but my brother did ask why were leaving. My mother stopped, looked at us, and admitted, “that was the stupidest movie I’ve forced myself to sit through. Did you like it?” My brother just looked at her and responded, “no, I’m kind of happy we’re going.”

That’s it. That was my first and only NBC experience. That’s right: I have never gone back to watch the entire movie. Nor do I plan to. I’m proud of what my mother and brother did for me. I just wish that Jack could say something to that effect.

But, hey, I guess that we can’t all be as successful as you-know-who.

it is 2 e z 2 rebrnd urself now a days. i went frum Amrican Seegull yuppie to Alt Yuppie with a targét cardigun and flasses.

cant wait 4 ur feedbak on my jimmy dean meetz hipster meetz yuppie lyfstile. Jus wan 2 b human after yall.

Tattoos are a way to express yourself. They really tell stories about your life.

This guy’s life story is that he is a douchebag and believes that he is a non-Irish-who-believes-he-is-Irish douche bag. I mean, if you were “Made in America” then what ties do you have to Ireland? Biological ones? If that’s the reason then I’m African and hate apartheid, but we aren’t seeing either of those items coming from me.

One flag is enough. Patriotism is unnecessary, but I’ll allow one flag tat to pass if it’s done tastefully. But two not-tasteful tats? Socially. Unacceptable. It’s not like you’re some Hilton who believes in fairness to all nations.

I was originally referring to the hotel chain hanging flags all over the place and was going to make a joke about it, but I found this image more than too compelling to post.

Juxtaposition of flags are supposed to bring about the unity of diversity, not personal branding. If not for the reason that flags represent groups of people and not one individual, then for the fact that flags are not Alt and if it’s not Alt then you can’t pbrand it.

O’Hare International Airport is an exception, however. ORD is AltPBranded to the highest degree. And God love it more for that.

Make sure to throw up counter-clockwise, guys! And be extra sure to check your water usage, we’re trying to be sustainable nowadays. You know, sustainable as in stain removal. Without water, how would be able to clean up all of the stains for our regrettable nights?

We be movin’ like we da dankest bitches up ‘n hur!

More epilepsy and explanations after the jump, y’all!

Here are some cool people:

Here are some smoking people:

Here are some talented people:

More on Deerhoof and my future modeling career later.

And finally, here are some roar-o-saur:

Epilepsy is love, y’all!

There’s a P.W.S.I.L.F. behind you!

He’s looking sort of bro-esque. Like pre-bro. Like…pledge. He’s a pledge. He has to be a pledge. I can just smell the lemony-stank from looking at the picture.

Reasons? I really don’t have any. Other than the fact that the shoes he’s wearing are probably called “treads” in the store they originated from.

But, it really shouldn’t matter; a P.W.SILF is a P.W.SILF.

P.S.: Fashionista, that is not how a top model should walk.