You all know the feeling. Well, actually, maybe you don’t because I haven’t told you what said feeling is yet. OK, so in the sentence after this one you will know the feeling. Here it is: the feeling that you have just sort of fallen behind in life. The feeling that, no matter how many times you’ve paid the property tax on a Volvo sedan your parents gave you for $0 plus interest, you just haven’t made it as far as you were supposed to be by this point. The feeling that, when you strip away all the pomp and circumstance and that time you ran into Meghan Edmonds King in a random parking lot due to her yoga studio being located directly next to the Great Clips where you just got your hair cut, you are just kind of stuck in the mediocrity your parents told you would never be a part of after you read at a 6th grade level on the last day of 5th grade and they, for that brief moment, expected big things from you.
Dear Readers,
You all know the feeling. Well, actually, maybe you don’t because I haven’t told you what said feeling is yet. OK, so in the sentence after this one you will know the feeling. Here it is: the feeling that you have just sort of fallen behind in life. The feeling that, no matter how many times you’ve paid the property tax on a Volvo sedan your parents gave you for $0 plus interest, you just haven’t made it as far as you were supposed to be by this point. The feeling that, when you strip away all the pomp and circumstance and that time you ran into Meghan Edmonds King in a random parking lot due to her yoga studio being located directly next to the Great Clips where you just got your hair cut, you are just kind of stuck in the mediocrity your parents told you would never be a part of after you read at a 6th grade level on the last day of 5th grade and they, for that brief moment, expected big things from you.
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Dear Readers,
As all of you know—mainly because, like, presuming you are not a baby who learned to read really highbrow internet content super quickly, you were there—2016 was not, necessarily, the best year on human record. I mean, let’s just take a second to think about all of the terrible stuff we endured: The whole “Trump Presidency” deal officially went down. Ben Affleck’s turned into cyborg that was ironically programmed to be terrible at acting while playing Bruce Wayne in a major motion picture. Harambe, the honorable silver back guerilla that resided in the Cincinnati Zoo, was killed in society’s misguided attempt to do things like not allow animals to tear 4-year-old boys from limb to limb in front of a group of blood thirsty spectators. Princess Lea was murdered by her own heart. Dear Readers,
As all of you should undeniably know—primarily because you are also incapable of driving 0.4 miles down the exact same road that you already live on in order to find the gas station without a woman’s voice telling you to do so—in the year 2016, our cellphones are, in reality, the center of our entire lives. They keep our appointments. They allow us to communicate with the outside world. They tell us how to get to the nearest Long John Silvers. Without cellphones, we would travel through this world alone. Without cellphones no one else on this Earth would know we exist. Editor's Note: When I read the words below, they were in an email that my girlfriend--the author of this post--had sent me. Without even discussing what she had written with her, I could tell that she wanted to write this in order to unburden herself. What she did say was incredibly honest, genuine, and raw. I hope you find it as riveting as I did.
Dear June, We need to talk..... Don't make that face. I can already tell you're starting to tense up and get nervous. That is just going to make this harder. June, I think we should take a break. You might be feeling a lot of confusion at this moment, wondering why I would want to be away from you when all you've done is provide a transition. Dear Readers,
As all of you know--because you willingly read stuff on the Internet that is copying the stuff I write on the Internet some 2 weeks later, since timelines aren't important--The New York Times recently starting a weekly series wherein they invite famous and/or accomplished men and women about town to write a short, to the point article about what it is that they do on their average Sunday. And, for whatever reason, the NYT won't print the Sunday account I sent them in spite of me perfectly meeting their profile, so I decided to publish it here. It is not short. It is not to the point. It is awesome. So, without further ado, here is my account of my average Sunday. Read. Learn. Enjoy. Feel like a piece of fecal matter in comparison. Dear Readers,
As all of you are authoritatively aware of—both because you have tried the product itself and because you are more than likely the fella in this video that mixes the stuff with his shots of Canadian whiskey and Sprite—preworkout is one of the greatest things that has ever happened to these United States, right up there with mom jeans and the Jeep Laredo. I mean think about all the gifts that preworkout powder has given you in its relatively short existence: energy. Muscles. Weird red poops where you are convinced that there must be blood in your stool, when really it’s just the remnants of the fruit punch flavoring. The ability to stare at yourself in the gym mirror with a facial expression combining rage, fear, and uncertainity. Dear Readers,
Let me peep a scenario to all of you. You are in a foreign land, potentially betraying your American roots by using money without Alexander Hamilton's gangsta rapping face on it to purchase an ice cream like substance that is not called "ice cream" for no discernible reason, just walking around the town square in order to get a feel for the culture of a place that Benito Mussolini ensured will never have your complete respect. You are downing pizza. You are chugging 40 ounce bottles of Peroni like you are a homeless alcoholic who somehow developed taste for Italy’s finest, and only, beer. You are trying your damndest to just fit in and not stick out like the sore thumb you are as your wipe your boogers on the side of a church built in 1237. Dear Readers,
Here is the thing about America: it is the greatest country on Earth. Hot dogs. Tube socks. The GMC Yukon. These were all things that are invented here. These are just some of the examples of the might of American creativity, passion, and good, ole fashioned braun. Here is the other thing about America: we work too damn hard. In France they get something like 48 weeks of paid vacation. In Denmark they shut down the country for the Pink Power Ranger’s birthday. In Argentina they sleep for 22 hours a day. Every day. Besides on Christmas. Then they get pissed at their children for making them be conscience for the 2.5 hours it takes to open up presents. If there is one, and only one, thing I would change about America it would be the Holiday system. We have less. We need more. Victory over Japan Day. St. Patrick’s Day. The day after the day where we celebrate the anniversary of Teddy Roosevelt losing his eye. Bachelor Finale Day. Today, the day I am writing and/or reminiscing about in this blog post, was the last day of Season 20 of The Bachelor. And I am spending this part of it here, in my office, working my tush off and watching the final episode of Ben H’s wild ride on a Russian website I am displaying on the bottom of my computer screen. Now I know everything about how poor people in the Ukraine live. This is no way to exist. This is worse than Guantanamo Bay. This, watching The Bachelor at my place of employment, is the exact kind of thing we have charities to stop. But no charity exists for me, other than my own 401K. Thanks a lot Obama. Dear Readers,
Let me peep a scenario for all of you. It is a cold winters night in St. Louis—the utopian society where everyone is a billionaire—and you are sitting on the couch cuddled up next to your boo, or more likely the dog you treat like a person because you are lonely and smell too bad to be sexually attractive. You both (either dog or gentleman/lady caller) sport a Snuggie unironically 5 years after it was cool to do so and eat chicken fingers out of a GoPlate, licking spilled ranch dressing off of each other’s faces and realizing halfway through the ordeal that GoPlate’s are worthless because you cannot fit a Capri Sun in the middle. You pull out your phones, take a picture, and snapchat it to 29 people who have never once cared what you are doing. You are now a walking advertisement. Welcome to real-life product placement in the year 2016. Dear Readers,
As all of you know—primarily because all 7 people who read this blog know my true identity—my first name, in reality, is spelled “Zach.” No it is not pronounced like Bradley Cooper’s name in Wedding Crasher. Unfortunately my parents didn’t love me enough to give me that honor. Sadly my parents decided that they were part of a society, a society wherein children’s names were not pronounced like a pseudonym for “balls.” But I digress. This post is not about my parents. This post is about my name. ‘Zachary,” which I believe is Hebrew for “dude with an overabundance of body hair,” and its radical spike in popularity through the late 80’s and into the 90’s. According to the Google machine, In 1970 289 of every 1 million babies born in the United States were given the name of Zachary Taylor, our 12th, and most distinctive, President that robbed our nation of its greatest leader after dying of diarrhea in 1850. By 1987, the year of my birth and the release of the Tom Selleck hit Three Men and a Baby, that number had risen to 6,775 Zach Attacks per one million babies born in this great nation. The name’s popularity peaked in 1993 (more on this later) at 12,373/million American children that were named Zachary, at least 8 or 10 of whom were girls. |
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