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Posts Tagged ‘puppies’

Humor is a funny thing. I can write until I develop acute carpal tunnel in both wrists about the funniest subject matter there is (probably extreme tea-party members or mid to late 80’s fashion trends) in the best, most comedic way possible, and still not be as funny as strange animals doing strange things on video. Today, I surrender. Here are my 5 favorite comedic gifts from our furry friends.

5. Standing Cat Is Watching You: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W1NR7oGzcEg

I know I’m stating the obvious, but cats are evil and want to overthrow all mankind. They’re only living with us domestically to scout out our lifestyles and eventually make an assault on all that is good, holy, and American. This video serves as proof that the felines are working hard when they think no one is watching to make the transition to bi-pedalism. Anyone who has seen Shrek II knows that cats are vicious while standing and engaging in sword to sword combat. Note the arm move around 31 seconds. Looks like a threatening gesture to me.

4. BBC’s Take a Walk on the Wild Side: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EQ1HKCYJM5U&feature=channel

British people can hear the thoughts of animals, just like Mel Gibson in the feel good film What Women Want, but with animals, not women. These English-accented conversations are always funny due to the unfair comedic advantage enjoyed by all English folk and give true insight into what is really happening in the animal kingdom. I would encourage you to watch all of the related BBC animals talking videos on youtube, as they are all quite comical, until you feel you have mastered the concept. At this point, you will be able to watch “Life” on the Discovery Channel again because of your ability to mute Oprah’s terrible narration and fill in the commentary yourself.

3. Who Dat Dog: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JYvI_vtYeA8

This spirited pup and his drunken supporters provide one of the top five most awesome instances of man’s best friend being made fun of by man. The dog is decidedly confused because, like most people this past  football season, he doesn’t understand how or why it is exactly that he is a Saint’s fan.

2. Fainting Goats: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=we9_CdNPuJg

Maybe Charlemagne, the sassy beau who graces the banner of this page, has me primed to favor vids of goats, but regardless, this one is a gem. How these guys survived the gauntlet of natural history is beyond me. Hop into their shoes: You’re a luscious goat, and you see a predator coming. You sweat. Your heart rate spikes. Instinct takes over and you and you spring into action! Except that the action you take is fainting, which is the evolutionary equivalent of curling up on a silver platter and putting an apple in your mouth…for presentation. Nonetheless, I’m glad these guys made it, because now, after having seen this video, I feel way less bad about that thing with the girl and the bra when I was 13.

1. Slow Loris: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g9f-6jygRJk

Over 2 million other people decided that his clip was hilarious, which goes to show that there’s something inherently awesome about wide-eyed animals enjoying a bit of massage.  Moreover, zero of the aforementioned 2 million people have the slightest idea what a Loris is. Or if its actually called a Slow Loris? I don’t know either. I’m of the opinion that the Loris (Slow Loris) was discovered by the makers of Furby, who have been trying to keep their existence secret ever since.  I would like to add that if you scratch my chest at any point during the day or night, I will behave in a similar manner.

Honorable mention to “Cat Massage” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TnZhi5gaX8g), which would have made the list, but its really about how unbelievably strange that woman treats her poor cats (for whom I can’t feel sympathy due to my aforementioned feelings towards cats), “Turtle Humps Shoe” (http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=turtle+humps+shoe&aq=1) which is just way too easy to make jokes about, “Karate Monkey”(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=__7L6ht6_Qg) which is just more awesome than funny, and “Dramatic Hampster” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y8Kyi0WNg40) which is the filming of a hamster’s reaction to the news that Sara Palin is running for president in 2012. That guy is Sorry For Staring too.

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This weekend I went to the emergency room. I cut my toe on a metal utility cap that jumped out of the ground and attacked at the precise moment that it saw a niche in my almost impregnable Teva sandal foot-armor. I fell down, my friends laughed at me, I walked inside, I got a drink. No big. Then I saw that I was bleeding profusely from the right big toe. After some sink washing some expert healthcare advice from Cameron, the pre-dental student, and Mike, the future accountant, we decided that I should go to the ER to entertain the idea of stitches. That’s when the fun started.

Emergency rooms are terrible places. I would argue that hospitals are terrible places. With the exception of the birthing of babies, there’s really nothing good happening when you’re on your way to the hospital. It is much like Sanford stadium after a loss – its a large building full of lots of really unhappy people that I don’t want to be in.

I entered, had a great chat with a woman with Austin Powers level bad teeth, got a number, a sweet bracelet that is impossible to take off without scissors, and took a seat with the pledge who drove me to begin what would be the first of my longer-than-thirty-minutes waits. After longer-than-thirty-minutes, I was called back to an examination room. It was here that a series of nurses would have the distinct pleasure of touching and dealing with my feet, that, after 2 showers, were absolutely disgusting from walking around in a mud pit during the tug of war tourney that the fraternity put on earlier that day. I can’t think of a time wherein I have had dirtier feet. Bad luck for the nurses. The first nurse curled her nostrils in disgust while the second went to get a gas mask and a pair of chain mail gloves to wear.

The nurse practitioner, who seemed to be the shot caller and resident medical expert, examined my toe and engaged in a series of painful pokes and prods for which I was not prepared and reacted to with flinches and whimpers. The pledge laughed from his chair in the corner of the room. She then told me that she was going to “give me a little bee sting.” Now, through my 21 years of experience in avoiding pain as often as possible, I have come to learn that when doctors, nurses, and worst of all, dentists, say things like “I’m going to give you a little bee sting” or “You’re going to feel a little prick”, that seem slightly painful, that those things, when they happen, will cause enough pain to make you wish you were stuck in a room watching repeats of The View for all eternity. Last time I checked, bee stings hurt like hell.

The pledge laughed again from his chair in the corner. My eyes got wide and my brow furrowed as the nurse produced a syringe. I clutched the side of the bed, decided to look at the wall in stead of the needle sliding into the base of my toe, and told the nurse to go ahead and “do me.”

The nurse did me. I felt something needle-shaped slide into my toe, which hurt moderately, but then I felt whatever was on the other side of the needle passing from syringe to Randall, which felt a lot like someone had injected vinegar into my toe and that the aforementioned vinegar was seeping out of my wound. Note: I know what this feels like approximately because my older brother once dressed a childhood wound of mine with white wine vinegar in stead of water…as a joke…hahaha. In this moment of crisis and surprise duress, I decided to deliver an F bomb to the wall I was staring at. The pledge laughed hysterically. She pulled out the needle. Damn. Ow. Glad that’s over.

The nurse then re-inserted the needle a few centimeters to the left. I proceeded to let the wall know that I am of the opinion that he is the son of a quite disagreeable woman. The pledge fell out of his chair. One more shot in a new location. At this point, the previously mentioned room with The View on loop has, in my mind, risen to the level of the heavenly place that comes with 72 virgins that jihadists are always talking about. The pledge continues laughing on the floor. I really let loose on the wall this time by hurling a nonsensical combination of profanities at him and adding a physical strike for good measure. Poor guy…none of this was his fault…

The nurse is chuckling at this point, which was probably equally motivated by my choice of vocabulary and the pledge’s reaction to the happenings. She concludes her assault on my toe, which I am starting to lose feeling in already, and says that she will be back in a moment to clean the wound and that we’ll move forward from there. She leaves. I order the pledge never to speak of what just happened.

Being a strawberry-blond–red-beard-pretty-close-but-not-quite-ginger type of ginger, I get to choose when to be part of the club (whenever beneficial) and when not to be (kick a ginger day. Try to kick me. I dare you. I’ll come down on you like you were a cut big toe and I were a malicious nurse with a needle). I’d like to link you over to this very legitimate study that proves scientifically that redheads are less affected by anesthesia than are people of less fortunate hair coloring, meaning that, in short, they require almost 20% more to achieve the same level of painlessness. What can I say? We’re highly evolved.

I had read this study some time ago and the thought of it crept into the back of my mind as I was playing with my numb body part, which is a very strange, unusual, and entertaining sensation. Five minutes had passed. Then seven. Then ten. Then twelve. Then I started to vaguely feel my pokes and prods. The fifteen minutes had passed. I was really starting to feel my toe again. Then seventeen minutes had gone by. “You know…I bet this shot wears off on my red-headed self a little faster than on other people, ” I said to my pledge-friend. Then twenty one minutes had gone by. Then twenty eight. Then thirty one. Then the nurse showed up.

“Hi, hello, how are you? Welcome back!” I said, somewhat testily and with a pinch of sarcastic enthusiasm. “Question for you: how long does that anesthetic typically last?”

The nurse ignored me while she looked at my toe. “I’m going to have to really get in there to clean this…sorry what did you say?”

“Oh, pardon me, I was just wondering how long the anesthetic is supposed to last. Its just that I can kind of feel my toe again…”

“It should last about 17-19 minutes,” she said, not realizing at all that it had been at least thirty since we had last spoke.

A very painful cleaning of my cut ensued, followed by a painful dressing of my wound, followed by an angry signing of my signature and billing information, followed by an angry exit from the hospital premises. Being the eternal optimist that I am, I now, for my sanity, am requiring myself to theorize that the particular nurse that administered my shot just happened to really enjoy giving shots. Dad, I do not wish to know how much this shot ended up costing. Also, If you’ve read this, you’ll probably want to un-read it before you get the bill for the shot.

Question: Would you marry someone, live happily for fifteen years, and then finally get around to moving in with them 15 years after the divorce? Of course not. Do you enjoy not getting the McMuffin you want because you ordered at 11:15 AM in stead of 10:30? I hate that too. Worse, have you ever showed up to chic-fil-a for your post Saturday night hangover breakfast on a Sunday morning? This is one of the top five worst emotions in existence. DO YOU BUY A MOVIE TICKET AND THEN GO INSIDE THE THEATER AN HOUR AFTER THE MOVIE ENDS? NO. NO YOU DON’T. Dear St. Mary’s, Sorry For Staring, but I’ll pass on the shot next time.

❤ Randall

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Apart from de-criminalizing the usual events of my social life, turning 21 opened the door to such awesome things as day-time beers, drinks with dinner, and amongst others, Atlanta. Last weekend I made the trip down to the ATL for a sampling of the night life.

The first time I ever used a fake ID was at a Super-H mart on 141 in north Fulton. I walked up to the register, sweat dripping from my forehead, trembling in my 17 year old bones, bottle of wine in hand. I set it on the conveyor belt. The clerk rung it up. I paid. I left. There was no checking of the ID. It was almost as anti-climatic as the movie Bring It On. They get second in the end. Just so you know.

After having the door of downtown atlanta thrown wide-open to me by virtue of my 21 year old card, I stepped through, ready to partake in everything it had to offer. The first stop was a really good sushi and other strangely-named-asain-things restaurant wherein there was a short wait. We went to the bar. I bought drinks. I paid. We sat down. There was no checking of the ID. It was almost as anti-climatic as the USA loss to Canada in the gold medal hockey game. I can’t help but now own the stereotype that Asain-american establishments could care less about how old you are.

This was the first of many times I didn’t show my ID that night. Oddly enough, I also never saw an officer of the law. In stark contrast, Athens boasts a cop per capita ratio that makes it impossible to not sight one in a night. In a bit of an Athens paradox, you had better show something to someone every time alcohol exchanges hands (or you enter a space in which the aforementioned act could occur), but paradoxically, it doesn’t really matter what’s on that something that you show them. Maybe atlanta cops were too busy fighting crime to worry about a 21 year old having a few drinks with some friends on a Friday. Seems a novel idea, doesn’t it, ACCPD…

The Virginia Highlands is a very cool place. I would liken it to Athens, only after you put a big gate around the city, didn’t let anyone in or out, and let everyone here age five years. Its older and more sophisticated, but with an Athenian unwavering dedication to having a good time. It sports a few really cool looking venues and one really awesome gem of nightlife called Estoria, which, amongst other things, has convinced me that  Atlanta has definite post-undergrad appeal.

In the aforementioned gem of nightlife, I met Chris, a 30 year old tour manager who has worked with various artists, most notably a Mr. Snoop D-0-double-g. Chris’ stories flowed like PBR on an atlanta friday night, and I have since learned that Snoop is a completely dedicated husband who denies 10+ ready and willing women nightly, a vegetarian, and a very poised and articulate individual. Also worth noting is that Mr. Dogg’s entourage will only eat soul food, which is catered at each tour destination. In Dubai, the cooks didn’t know how to make soul food, at which point Snoop’s posse just took over the kitchen and taught the chefs a thing or two about how to apply flour to anything and then deep-fry it.

Nowhere is perfect. Most places aren’t even close. Athens, apart from its accessibility, compactness, party-time atmosphere, male to female ratio, and promotion of going out on Mondays, brings one truly valuable trait to the table -perfect competition. At the aforementioned sushi and other strangely-named-asain-things restaurant, I purchased a Sam Adams and a passion fruit martini at the bar (one was for me, one was for a girl, you decide). It cost $16. At that point, I decided not to worry about dollar signs for the rest of the night because, Dorothy, I’ve got a credit card receipt for $16 dollars that says we’re not in Athens anymore. Bring back the $2 pints on Tuesdays and $1 everything Mondays at The Boar’s Head, the $2 pitchers, the $3 bombs, the $3 white russians, the $1 high life’s, the $2 PBR’s, the $5 endless wine, the $2 Martinis, and that one week where City Bar would sell you a Harp for $1, please.

I don’ t want to try to compare apples to oranges (arches to peaches? Lame? ok, you’re right, sorry.), so I will employ the age old cop-out on a verdict and say that its not that Athens and Atlanta are better or worse than one another, they’re just different. I apologized to the people I was with for continually staring, but I was enthralled by the residential neighborhoods and hole in the wall bars that aren’t ever on my normal course of business when I venture into the big city. I also liked the gay pride flag on 10th street, the homeless guy throwing up into a newspaper dispenser, and the hipsters…which are everywhere. But, I have to say that it was great to roll back down 316 back into the classic city, windows up because it was cold, the sweet sweet sounds of REM’s best effort (Automatic for the people, of course) flowing from my stereo, and strolling into the city bar to have a drink with some friends and watch sorority girl’s parents get ostensibly and sometimes embarrassingly drunk. Its good to be back.

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I didn’t watch the superbowl last year. I was in México, a country that treated the occasion like any other Sunday. I did as well, by drinking tequila and joya in my hammock and being as lazy as possible. Long story short, I eventually figured out that the superbowl was on, turned on my TV, and then watched until I figured out that the same commercials didn’t air at which point I turned the game off and continued drinking in my hammock.

My point here is that for those of us who don’t care about NFL football (and aren’t fairweather saints fans), the superbowl is nothing more than a collection of the year’s most awesome commercials. This year, I found myself staring at a few notables:

The Doritos Series – These 4 ads were some of my favorites. I had previously seen the coffin ad online, but the baby/dad on a date and the Doritos samurai were pretty solid. Something resonated with me about your crazy friend who really would make a samurai suit out of Doritos chips. Matt Lewis? I thought the barking collar ad was particularly funny. I speak to this out of experience. That’s right, when I was about 12, my 14 year old brother convinced me to give our dog Sandy’s barking collar a try on my own vocal chords. Long story short, after the meager-est of utterances, I can now say with confidence that those things bring the ruckus to one’s pipes – don’t put them on your dogs, or worse, let your dog put one on you.

I love the E*trade babies. Milk-a-holic. Get it? She’s a baby, so in stead of being an alcoholic she’s a milk a holic. Hahahahhaaa. And she’s napping around… Brilliant. As the great former OL wrangler Danny once sagely stated “I don’t like babies…they can’t hold a conversation.” The inherent truth in results in that there is something about an articulate, well spoken infant that makes you listen to every word he’s saying. Maybe it’s that for me, this paints a picture of a perfect world wherein I could like small children, but in the present I must maintain as a general policy not fraternizing with things that I can’t reason or communicate with. Where can I adopt one of these e*trade kids?

Brett Farve, MVP 2020 – The best bits of humor are based in truth and actuality. This ad featured Brett Farve accepting the 2020 superbowl MVP award and talking about whether or not he would be returning next season (note: this would be happening currently in a post-game press conference if it weren’t for that interception…). Will Brett Farve be coming back next year? I don’t really care, but I look forward to and welcome the interruptions of the never-ending stream of baseball highlights on Sportscenter all this summer.

Honorable mentions go out to the beaver who plays violin (funny by default – its a beaver. Who plays the violin…), the kid who let’s his dad fall off the ladder because of Megan  Fox’s multimedia message (I’ve almost done this myself, minus the Megan Fox. Sorry dad.), the Kayne/T-Pain style voice morphing bud light commercial (It was a LIttLLllEE LaaaAteEEE, but still applicable) the Punxsutawney Palamoau (shrunken celebs…always funny), and the hangover-style commercial about getting the whale out of the back of the Escalade, which reminds me of my night last night, minus the whale. And the Escalade.

Much like his soon to be pro career, the Tim Tebow ad attracted a lot of hype and delivered nothing particularly controversial or moving. I am, however, disappointed in CBS’s decision to politicize, but look forward to this response that will be run next year by the pro-choice movement.

I would also like to mention that this is the first football I’ve been able to watch this year without mistakenly thinking that the two teams in competition were Verison and at&t’s 3G maps.

And to conclude, I say that this video of the “Who Dat Dog” should have been shown during a commercial break just because it is awesome. Take that thing to Bourbon street tonight, he’ll have the time of his life.

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Class is long, math is hard, desks are small. Sometimes the classroom climate isn’t quite right. Every now and then there is an annoyingly low or high level of lighting. All these things, while decidedly negative, can be easily dealt with. A more formidable foe to your classroom performance, however, which is both far more annoying and twice as tough to relegate, are those issues arising due to terrible, terrible neighbors.

Yesterday I had the distinct displeasure of sitting next to a loud breather. It wasn’t enough for this person to simply fulfill his natural and necessary urge to inhale and exhale – he took it a step further and decided that he would like to announce to the world when exactly he would be doing these things, as if he were proud of them. Being the non-confrontational type, I just tried to press on with the statistics information being thrown at me. It went something like this:

“The standard deviation is the distance SUPER LOUD INHALATION THROUGH THE NOSTRILS and the mean. (Dude. That’s so annoying. Quit. Quit that.) If you follow the standard theory of SUPER LOUD INHALATION THROUGH THE NOSTRILS all of the data. (I wonder what would happen if I just held his nose shut for a couple of seconds…) On the board is the data for the annual salaries of cocaine dealers on the streets of Chicago.  As you can see, the data is relatively bell-shaped and semetrical, which means we can use the standard theory. How many standard deviations (maybe he stopped…I think I know how to do this…I wonder what percentage of the data she’s looking for…If its 75 or 99 I definitely know how to do this) does it take to encompass SUPER LOUD INHALATION THROUGH THE NOSTRILS % of the data? (DSFU&$*^$*%#$**_!!)”

The loud breather can’t really be called out for breathing. Worse, he almost gives you enough time to forget how terribly annoyed you are by his breathing in-between loud-breaths. It reminds me of being harassed by an older brother on a car trip who pokes you in masterfully calculated intervals to achieve maximum frustration and anger on your part. Sorry for staring at your nose man, but I can’t do anything right now but ponder how effective a a small but strategically placed puncture wound made by my ballpoint pen in the bridge of your nose would be in lowering your respiratory volume.

It doesn’t stop with that guy – a whole host of poorly behaved classmates could have sat next to me. For example, the loud typer, who insists upon bringing his laptop to class and pounding out with enthusiasm every letter than may be communicated for the entire hour in fifteen minutes. The loud typer can be identified by the pool of sweat next to him, a result of the extraordinary physical effort it takes to type so very loudly. There’s also the pen-tapper, who, if given the benefit of the doubt, is probably right in time with the Miley Cyrus song that’s happening in their head, but only creates a broken symphony of random taps and spurts of a very distracting nature on their notepad right next to your good ear. There’s a special place in hell for the over-the-top-question-asker – this type of student has an inquiry about every single minuscule thing that the professor has to say, and amazingly, almost always has a loud or shrill voice that is painful to the ears.

The list goes on and on. There’s the fidgeter, the dude who smells bad, the “hey what did she say” guy, your friend who wants to talk to you about last night but doesn’t know how to whisper, the ex-girlfriend in an assigned seat class (self-explanatory. ouch.), the lefty who is always all up in your grill, the loud-texter, the emotional texter, the packmule (brings >3 bags to class which in turn invade your space), the “oh my god can you believe this guy” guy who sighs and makes angry noises as a result of an ideological difference with the professor, the foot-tapper, the dandruff guy, the still drunk guy (more funny than annoying), and finally anyone who would have a level of spohistication so low as to read Perez Hilton’s blog  next to you.

The loud breather sucks, but I suppose he’s better than sitting next to this guy. Thanks to Stephanie Gherini for the link. You’d think the guys at Georgia Tech would be a little more technologically advanced…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o4nwe7cW_og

Surely there’s terrible classmates that I have failed to mention. Ever sat next to a particularly bad one? Tell me about them in the comments section.

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Craig’s list, the internet commerce phenomenon (www.craigslist.com), is a regular internet bazaar of secondary goods. I frequently consult Craig’slist when looking for a random used, cheaper version of this or that. The site is awesome for finding almost anything, from goats (seriously, $60 well spent), to Harley Davidson’s. What I’d like to illuminate for you all today, however, by taking you on a tour of sorts that dares to venture off the beaten path of simple quid pro quo, is the bizarre and awesome world of the Craig’slist underground.

Stop 1: The Free Listings

Craig’s List includes a section of things that are free. Good deal right? In theory, this would save you the trouble of having to dispose of something, and could result in you providing some degree of happiness to a stranger if you’re into that kind of thing. I recently listed an old mattress that I happen to still have laying around my apartment. I have had the terrible luck of having to correspond with perhaps the most particular connoisseurs of free mattresses in history. The body of potential buyers (but not really, its free) has thrown my way a plethora of very particular inquiries concerning the mattress that I am trying to give away, mind you, for free. Its been 3 days and I still have my 1980’s Sealy. The mattress is a pretty standard listing but its “free stuff” listing companions are a bit more laughable. One of many awesome items for (not) sale:

Kids Size Large Pocahontas Shirt

Kids Size Large.
Clean
Has Pocahontas on the front.

I contacted the seller.

Dear Craig’s Lister: Sorry for staring, but I couldn’t pass up your free Pocahontas shirt on Craig’s list. I do have a few questions however. 1) Approximately how many times has the shirt been worn? 2) What is the diameter of the chest portion of the shirt, measured in decimeters, armpit to armpit? 3) What kind of detergents has the shirt been subjected to during its existence? If there has been more than four different types, or one of the less than four types was Bounty, I am no longer interested. 4) Would you consider sweeting the deal a little bit and throwing in some other piece of Disney related memorabilia…I am very interested but I’m not sure if I will have the available funds to acquire your shirt. Please mail me a letter in response.

Stop 2: Barter

The assortment of goods in the “barter” subheading, while less eclectic than the selection in the “free” category, still provides solid entertainment. What interests me here isn’t quite the goods themselves, but rather the equivalences specified by the listers (e.g. will trade x for y). Like a game of redneck word association, the barter section plays out just like you think it would. Here are a few of my favorites:

Have Freezer Want Shotgun.

Chain Link Fence for Wood Heater.

Mink Fur Jacket for Treadmill (or anything interesting of equal value).

Rosetta Stone Spanish Set for Gold Rings.

1 Year Old Male Husky for X Box

I couldn’t pass up the mink coat…but I myself have an endgame.

Dear Craig’slist Barterer: Hello. I am so happy to have come accross your listing. I have this treadmill in my basement, and I have been wanting to get rid of it in exchange for a fur coat made of mink. How convenient is this? P.S. If you know anyone who wants a mink fur coat, I would be interested in trading it for a shotgun. I need to kill my neighbor’s husky (won’t stop barking), I wish he would have invested in an Xbox in stead…and after that i’m going to need a freezer. Gracias. I learned that one on Rosetta Stone.

Stop 3: Missed Connections

Have you ever creepily stared and/or followed someone with the intention of talking to and/or killing them later, but your ambitions were foiled by that person’s timely exit from the wal-mart or split second decision to board a subway train? Missed connections is the solution to your problem. It exists to help people who have had a moment in public but never managed to build a bond of mutual recognition re-connect. In my casual perusing of the m4w (men four? women) section, which was an easy choice over m4m, w4m, and w4w, as desperate men have a nasty habit of being worthy of being stared at, I came across some very legitimate attempts at re-connecting. Here’s one of many:

Hottie at Taco Bell – m4w – 27

“I saw you this past Saturday at the Taco Bell on Gaines School Rd. You were with two little girls and a woman whom I think was your Mom. You were so damn sexy, I could barely eat my food because I couldnt stop staring at you. I remember you saying something about not going to the movies, because one of the little girls was acting up. If you remember, I was the young black male sitting adjacent from you. If you remember me. tell me who I was with at the time. I hope you see this and write me back if you do.”

From what I can gather, this guy’s thought process goes a bit like this: “Sorry for staring, but…well actually not sorry for staring. You know, I shouldn’t say hey to her…I should just go post something on missed connections…I hope she remembers that I was sitting with Bill Clinton..”

Sorry for staring, Craigslist, but I bet you didn’t quite have something so awesome in mind when you started. Congratulations, from me to you.

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Fact: Puppies are cute. Two weeks into the new semester, I’ve concluded that there has been an undeniable increase in puppies per capita. I haven’t observed this in the apartment complex, or around town, but rather on campus. I even have my first class with a dog in it this semester, which is exciting. The presence of seeing eye dogs in training around school has always piqued my interest. I like dogs as much as the next guy, pretty standard stuff – cute, fluffy, playful, splendidly dumb – but the thing that really interests me is the aftermath left in the wake of a passing golden retriever puppy, dressed to the nines in that little vest of his.

People literally stop. Angels sing and the masses part. Girls tear up. Guys eyes widen as they melt a little on the inside, then perform a random act of manliness, like spitting or breaking something, to get back to offest this overtly un-masculine act. I may or may not have witnessed the following outside of the SLC jittery joe’s the other day:

A girl stopped a dog and her trainer, asked the trainer if she could get their seeing eye dog in training to sit, then took a picture of it with their cellphone. Congrats, now you have ample opportunity to explain how much you love puppies every time someone asks about your iphone background. Sorry for staring, but I think that’s a little much.

I also have a seeing eye dog in my 5:00-6:15 international econ class two days a week. In training  a seeing eye dog, I’m sure that there is a system of punishments and rewards. An example: Sit. Good. Cookie. Awesome. A negative example: Sit. Dog doesn’t sit. Bad. No allowance for a week. Worse negative example: No allowance for a week. Dog’s thought: “Dude, bro, what’d I do?” Insight into dog’s thoughts in econ class: “What did I do to deserve this?! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It will never happen again, whatever it was, just don’t make me lay on this floor listening to the rationale for exchange rates and how trade barriers affects prices!” Sorry for staring, but I don’t think your dog likes economics.

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