Monday, September 9, 2013

Useful List #1: Top 10 Insulting College Thesis Titles

Participating in life is difficult, especially when you have to write a college thesis (they're so long!). That's why I've chosen to help students tackle one of the toughest parts of the writing process: the title.

Usually, when you are writing your thesis, you have "Senior-itis," and you just plain don't give a shit about school, or grades, or your future in general. We can all agree on that last part, especially: the future. Big whoop! Who cares about the future? It's not like the future is more important just because you have more of it ahead of you. Actually, according to internal research I have conducted inside of my own brain off the top of my head just now, the future should be the last thing on your mind during your senior year of college.

That is why I have composed the following list of 10 insulting college thesis titles. Having a punchy, abusive heading can really help your paper stand out and establish your legacy as a maniac who experienced a meltdown and blew it bigtime. Check it out!

1. I Will Take a Crap on Your Head 
This title delivers a stern, yet predictably empty threat to your professor, letting him know that you at least feel as though a considerably large piece of your own personal crap should be deposited on his head as soon as humanly possible.

2. Eat Beef, then Barf Beef, Buddy
Besides the playful alliteration, this clever injunction has the tendency to befuddle the professor and pique her curiosity. Good lord, what am I about to read? she might think to herself. 

3. Your Class Taught Me to Hate You
This one is nice because it blames your own hatred of your professor entirely on the professor himself, possibly resulting in a temporary feeling of sadness on his part.

4. Balls
Just balls.

5. I'm Giving You the Finger, Always
A feeling of always and forever can really drive home your point, which is that you will be flipping your professor the bird, however metaphorical, in perpetuity.

6. You Smell
Juvenile and brief, a solid "You Smell" can spice up your thesis and make your professor think, Hey, maybe I do smell, or maybe not. Probably not, though. Either way, this student will be getting an F.

7. Nice One
Sometimes general sarcasm is the best kind of sarcasm. Are you saying that your paper is, in fact, not a nice one, because you simply don't care? Are you telling your professor that her assignment was a lame attempt to get you to learn? When you are vague in your sarcastic insult title, you make it more powerful than you ever imagined.

8. You Gotta Be Kidding Me
It's just that he's got to be fuckin' kidding you, all up in the learning environment. 

9. Cut the Shit
Here, you're just simply asking her to cut the crap, like she's coming at you with a whole load of bull-crap, and you want her to quit it, because you're fed up, and you've had just about enough of her nonsense.

10. Who Cares
Exactly. Who cares, indeed? You certainly don't. And that is why you have written a college thesis entitled, Who Cares.

Monday, July 8, 2013

Sticker Vandalism Rage Scrape

I work as a mechanic for a bike share company. The bikes are out there on the streets, being shared by the public. Bike sharing is fantastic.

Unfortunately, there are lots of vandals out there, putting stickers on the bikes. These vandals are vandalizing the bikes, presumably, because they are cooler than the bikes. Also, they do it, presumably, because they are rebelling against the man (since there are advertisements on the bikes). Very rebellious!

Guess what, vandals? I'm in there with the other mechanics, scraping off your stickers, and it's a waste of time. It'd be different if we had no bikes to fix--in that case I might thank you for giving us work to do, and, in turn, job security. But we're all set. We have plenty of work to do without having to scrape off your dumb stickers, which are so dumb no matter what. By that I mean you're dumb, as in, not cool. And your stickers are dumb, in general.

Your stickers are so dumb. For instance, "Robot Love." I don't know who's putting the "Robot Love" stickers on the bikes, but we'd like you to stop. It's not cool (by "not cool," I don't mean "not okay," I mean, "it's not cool, just like you're not cool, as I explained above [you're dumb]").

In order to be cool, you have to be sticking your sticker to the man in some way. Your "Robot Love" stickers are being stuck to the little guy. They stick to me and my colleagues. I know it must be hard to come to terms with this. You're just not good at being cool or sticking cool stickers on stuff. You and everybody else like you seem to have made a huge mistake, and there appears to be some sort of sticker misunderstanding.

Let me put it this way: Last week, I spent a great deal of time spraying your stickers with denatured alcohol and scraping them off the down-tube of our bikes with a razor blade. I scraped your sticker and listened to CONVERGE, and I rocked out to it, and my rage flowed generously. I raged your stupid sticker to pieces and removed every last trace of it. The angry guy who listens to CONVERGE while removing the sticker is the cool guy. By "cool" I mean "not you," or, more specifically, "you as you see yourself, but not as you are." The working man is the cool guy. CONVERGE-rage-sticker-scrape guy is the cool guy.

Every time you adhere a sticker to the bike-share bike, you decrease your coolness points, and increase mine and those of my coworkers. Is that what you want? Do you want 11 bike mechanics to be cooler and more rebellious than you are, wearing our little polyester uniforms and listening to IRON MAIDEN. We listen to IRON MAIDEN and thrash your decals, "Robot Love." We hate-thrash your adhesives and rock out to IRON MAIDEN. The more stickers you stick, the more we become what you hope to be. We're so cool we can't stand it.

You know that part in Return of the Jedi? The part where Luke wears the hood? You want that so badly, but you can't just sticker your way into a Jedi hood, "Robot Love." You can't vandalize your way into the Rebel Alliance.

You want to be a rebel, right? Like Andre Agassi, right? Like Agassi? Well, let me ask you this, "Robot Love": If you're such a rebel, where, pray tell, is your two-handed backhand? Hm? I'm not seeing any groundstrokes. I'm not seeing them anywhere.

Anyway, we're all just listening to CANNIBAL CORPSE and hating your misguided, misapplied artwork.

Sunday, June 30, 2013

A Letter To A Friend

My "friend" Jeff, in Spain. Total flake.
Hi, everybody.

I'm concerned about my friend, Jeff, because he's on a big trip in Spain, and he sent me a link to his blog, Double Daffy, and he asked me to read it. I didn't want to read it, though, because I am worried sick about him. What if he gets hurt in Europe?! Lots of people get hurt in Europe, and Asia. Here is the email response I wrote to him (I used lots of italics to create emphasis and hammer my point into his head):

Dear Jeff,

There's no one on the highway in Spain. 

Why's Kevin there? I have no idea what's going on. I can't keep track of that guy. He's all over the place. 

By the way, Jeff: reality check. Get a real job. I mean, when I see some of these paintings in these museums, I think, What's the point of art? It doesn't do anything. You know? At least contribute something to the world. I don't know why more school districts don't just cut funding for art class and other electives. It's such a waste of time and money. Kids can learn art on their own time. 

Also, we should not talk to our kids about sex, because it will give them ideas! Just go to church, watch the game, invest wisely, scrimp and save, have kids, and make their rooms the right colors (blue for the boy, pink for the girl) so they both choose to be straight. It's that simple, as you drive your Beamer. Afford the Beamer, drive the Beamer, total the Beamer on Storrow Drive. It's that simple. Get it through your thick skull. 

Get it together, Jeff. I'm sick of seeing you not in America. Just get an internship. That's how it starts. Get an internship at a management consulting firm, like Bain and Company, work hard, and who knows? Maybe one day you can look at your savings account and think, Man, I have a lot of money in my savings account; I'm gonna plan a trip to the Hamptons. Have you even once considered what's going on in the Hamptons? A lot. A lot is going on there, but you continue to traipse around in Spain, of all places, with your little beard and your little friend Kevin, while you film things with your camera and literally tilt at windmills. In the end, Jeff, we both know you're tilting at yourself. Hm? Possibly? Perhaps you tilt at the demons that reside in your soul. Stop it. Stop tilting. 

You're trying to live a pipe dream (or is it a PIPE NIGHTMARE?!!!) and it's really starting to make you look foolish. I mean, you're running around in Spain and Grenada--where we once had a war, you know, in the '80s, with howitzers and parachutes and rebel forces and all that stuff, just like Black Hawk Down, or Full Metal Jacket, or The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane--you're running around in these strange countries with your pants around your ankles, marking your territory, like some sort of dog--yeah, dog, you son of a bitch--and you expect me to be excited that you're creating so-called "art" with your "camera" and your "brain" and your "body," which is covered in blood, internally, by the way (but, of course you refuse to go to a doctor and get it checked out, because you don't have health insurance)? You expect me to be happy about that and read your "Double Daffy" blog? I decline, sir. I decline to read your travel blog. Instead, I'll do something constructive and go to the travel agent and book a trip for me and the wife to the Poconos, because Mount Airy Lodge is definitely still open. I'll be drinking a glass of Riesling, sitting in the hot tub, and driving my Beamer, thinking to myself, I hope Jeff's happy making his "art," and wasting his time on his films, because I'm damn happy driving my Beamer through this red light and into a pedestrian. That's what I'll be thinking, pal. 

Reality check. 

Your friend,


After sending him this email, I received an automated response:

I'll be on location in Spain until August 1st for this super fun job I'm doing.
I'm going to check emails as much as possible.


I don't understand why I can't get through to him. The kid's a loose cannon.

Monday, June 17, 2013

Timmy Disgustufson's Haus

I still haven't finished Moby-Dick. It's been about a year since I started. It's not even that the book is hard to read. It's actually not that hard to read. It's just that I haven't been reading at all for these last few months. It doesn't feel good not to read. The problem is that I no longer have a long subway commute. I ride my bike to work everyday, nowadays, and it's really great, but the trade off is that I don't get the train reading time.

I am getting ready to continue the book, though. I have been reading the SparkNotes on the chapters I have already read, just to refresh my memory. I had forgotten some stuff about the characters. For instance, I couldn't remember which guy was a dick: Stubb or Flask. Turns out it was Flask. What a dick that guy is. But Stubb is the one who got disrespected by Ahab. Ahab really put him in check.

The book is just sitting on my nightstand, as I write this. Just sitting there, neglected.

Today I had an artisan ice cream sandwich that really pissed me off. I got it from Cool Haus. They had a truck in the Prospect Park food truck rally. They just took two cookies and shoved a glob of ice cream in the middle, and charged me six bucks. Then, the ice cream melted at a geometric rate and dripped all over my hands and shoes. I was a mess. I had to hurry and finish the ice cream before it melted all over the place. As a result, I couldn't enjoy it. Melted ice cream disgusts me. Also, the chips in the chocolate chip cookies that bookended the ice cream were melting. I hate melted chocolate chips. The whole thing was a shitshow. Cool Haus sucks.

Cool Haus sucks so bad that the name of their food truck should be, "Crappy Chipwich," because that's what they give you. It's an ice cream dump truck that dumps poorly-constructed chocolate chip cookie sandwiches all over Grand Army Plaza. It takes a dump in your neighborhood and in your mouth. That truck sucks. I didn't like the guy in there, either. He would be the type to work in a truck that sucks. Nice sucks. Who wants to pay six bucks to a guy who sells stuff that sucks out of a truck that sucks? I think some dripped onto my shorts, too, because there's a stain there, now, that wasn't there before. My clothes are besmirched like those of a slovenly child. Cool Haus, unfortunately, is the house of Timmy Disgustufson, and I was foolish enough to cross its sloppy threshold.

I had a Nantucket Nectar earlier in the day that was good, though.