“Schnuckums!? Are you listening to me?”

“Uh…” You say, your voice waivering. “Yeah babe, I hear you.”

“Are you ready?” the predator bellows, baiting the prey.

“Ready for what… beautiful?” You reply, hoping that somehow the interrogative will provide you an escape while tossing in the compliment at the end to ease the delivery, like the flavoring those bastards put in NyQuil.

“Don’t even try that crap on me. Get off your ass. We’re going shopping.” The snare tightens around your feet. You’ve been caught. Resistance is now futile.

Now that you’ve been reduced to the status of indentured servant, there are a few things you must remember in order to survive. The full moon that is a monthly sale has turned your once kind, sweet girlfriend into a vicious, bloodthirsty monster. A wereshopper, if you will. Like a lycanthrope, but much more subtle in its preferred murderous methods.  You’re about to venture into a dark, dangerous place. Stick with me, and you’ll be stronger, more courageous, and not single when it’s over. Welcome to the jungle.

Do Not Opine
You are about to be bombarded by lies. She will ask you over and over “what you think” about “this dress” and “these pants” and “that girl’s butt.” She will tell you to “be honest” because she “seriously doesn’t care” and “really wants your input.” She will ask if you are “having fun” or “enjoying this time together” or if you think that shopping is still “excruciatingly painful and torturous.” DO NOT BELIEVE HER. She does not want to know what you really think. These are landmines that she is throwing in front of you, like some kind of horrible Super Mario level. To avoid them you must not under any circumstances give your honest opinion. You must tell her what she wants to hear. To determine what exactly that is, a good general rule is to take your actual opinion, and say exactly the opposite. Examples:

Scenario One: Beauty Contest

Her: Babe, that girl is so fat, right?

Your Actual Thoughts: Nope. She’s pretty hot actually. Do you know her?

What You Should Say Instead: What girl? Oh, that porker over there? Yeah. She’s a giant.

Scenario Two: Fashion Show

Her: Honey, how do these pants look on me?

Your Actual Thoughts: Yikes. Looks like half of your ass is trying to escape suffocation.

What You Should Say Instead: How do they feel?
(Based on her response, choose positive or negative)
Positive: For real, I think they frame your figure pretty well.
IMPORTANT NOTE: If she goes negative, that doesn’t mean you can agree with her. Find a way to agree with her without agreeing with her. Sound like some kind of psychological puzzle? Say hello to the female psyche.
Negative: They don’t look bad to me, but you know European sizes can be pretty weird. Why don’t you try on a few more pairs?

Have fun hanging on the rim comrade, because you just scored a slam dunk.

LET VICTORIA HAVE HER SECRETS
This is a survival tip that came straight from Survivorman Les Stroud himself. Your lady might throw some sort of sexy glance at you and say “hey… wanna help me pick out lingerie?” Sounds like a fun idea, right? You are being tempted by the devil. You might think this is like walking into the Victoria’s Secret Catalog you have stashed underneath your mattress, but you are actually walking into weeks of groveling and having to watch Matthew McConaughey movies. You will not be able to say anything right. See something you like? Here’s how her responses will go:

Her: Of course you like that. All that you think about is sex. You’re a pig.
or
Her: Seriously? That? What am I, a grandmother? You’re a pig.

There is literally no way to win. The best way to win is to stay out. Your feet hurt, you’re hungry, you have to call your mother, you want her to surprise you – it doesn’t matter. Piss your pants if you have to, just don’t go in there. Furthermore, you could gouge your eyes out with golden broaches Oedipus-style prior to walking into the store, but it wouldn’t make a difference. She’d still think you were looking at every other girl’s boobs in there. Not even looking at mannequins is safe. Even if she’s right (and she probably is), she’s bringing you into an woman’s underwear store that is literally wallpapered with scantily clad babes. What the hell does she expect? Unless she thought she was dating a eunuch, she can’t expect you to avert your eyes from every cleavage chasm around you. You can’t put metal next to a magnet and get pissed when it gets pulled in. It’s science.

There you have it my brothers. If any of you have any tips you’d like to add to help your fellow man survive this treacherous landscape, please feel free to add them. Until next time, good luck.

“I could care less.”

Just what the hell are you trying to communicate with that statement? You could care less? Well why don’t you then? What is stopping you from reaching the apex of Mount IDon’tGiveACrap? Maybe you’re just out of energy, sapped from a long, arduous day of being unable to care less about the general goings-on around you. I understand that; everybody gets tired and needs a boost sometimes. They make various consumer products that serve to enhance your energy. Haven’t you heard of them? Here are a few examples: Red Bull. No Doze. Cocaine. Take your pick, drink it, swallow it, or snort it up your cartilage-depleted nose, and please bring your levels of apathy up to their maximum potential.

It’s not that I’m angry that you care about something a little bit or even at all. The problem is that I know what you’re trying to express when you make that statement, and you are making a critical error. Instead of expressing your pure, unhindered carelessness, you are instead saying that you care a little bit. You are trying to act like you’re not burdened by the sophomoric weight that is keeping your peers down in their adolescent naivete. You are the equivalent of a 50′s greaser who is smoking in the boy’s room whilst combing his hair repeatedly and talking about his Chevy; thinking “cool,” acting “cool,” being “cool.” An absolute nerd walks in, pushes his glasses up on his nose and says “Gee guys, I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke in here.” Pffft, doesn’t he know who you are? “Don’t be such a square,” you respond as you make sure the sleeves of your white t-shirt are adequately rolled up, “I could care less.” Then, much to your chagrin, the principle flushes the toilet in the stall behind you and steps out, fastening his belt buckle. “Is that right, Johnny Pompadour?” He says as you swallow your cigarette, choking down the pain and swallowing the upchuck. “I guess we’ll have to see just how much less you can care in detention.” See that, kids? See how you end up in this scenario? You’re not coming off like a cool guy. You sound like a moron, and now you’re going to detention. Mom is going to be pissed.

this guy could teach you a thing or two about properly not giving a damn

This is not to be confused with the more clear statement of apathy: “I couldn’t care less.” See that? That actually makes sense. When you tell me that your mother’s dog recently went to the groomer, I am going to politely respond that my apathetic abilities have been completely depleted. I really want to care less. I want to, but I simply cannot. I am trying, in this moment, to conjure more impassivity from the depths of my being, but I am tapped out. No matter what I could do, were I to do everything in reach of my raw human power to usher more apathy into this situation, I still could not care less. It would take divine intervention for me to give less of a damn about what you just said. What’s that? Yes, you’re right. Let us pray.

And don’t you dare offer up this common but completely ridiculous explanation:  “Look, that’s how little I care. I could care less, but because I care so little, I, like, am not even going to try to not care as much as I could not care.” That doesn’t make any sense, you’re an idiot, and I hate you.

It’s time that we, as a community, start a revolution. This is about social change. I want to live in a world where people who don’t care about each other are free to talk about it correctly.

Yes we can.

Hail to our chief.

America,

I’m disappointed with you. You got plastered-drunk on the Obama administration’s hip-flask of hope, and now you have a reality hangover.

It’s been a month… WHERE ARE YOUR FLYING HYBRID CARS?!? What have they been up to in Washington? A month long Scrabble tournament? What’s the hold up here?

This is not the bright new future you were promised when you chugged Obama’s champagne of change. You were foretold of a world free from genocide, poverty, and large words. A world where bipartisanship and children’s laughter would be the modus operandi. A world no longer bound by tyrannical right-wing policies like Monday mornings, awkward conversations, and confusing song lyrics. Together, we were to usher in a new day where butterflies would serenade us as rainbows sneezed Skittles. This was the vision you had when you snorted the opium of Obama optimism. This was what you signed up for.

Alas, a month has passed, and what progress has been made? None. We’re not one inch closer to that Utopian dreamland than we were in 2000. Loud noises are just as startling as they were under Bush. Parking spots are just as difficult to find as they were last year. Ugly people are still free to roam the streets, and the McRib still isn’t on the Dollar Menu. Let me ask you something, America.  How many times have you made out with a mermaid or ridden a unicorn under the new Obama-stration? ZERO. That was the very least you should have expected when you stuffed your face with Obama’s poundcake of promises.

I understand we’re in a recession and the world’s at war. That’s fine. Those weighty issues take time. But Obama’s margarita of merriment should have at least fixed the little things. For instance, you still have to do quick math in your head. You’re just a middle class person.  You don’t have the resources for that! You can send a man to the moon and harvest electricity from sunlight, but you’re still forced to do quick math at the grocer like you’re some barbarian?! Where is your dignity?!

And now you find yourself with a hangover. The bright lights of recession and the loud noises of nuclear proliferation are pounding your brain. What brought this searing pain? Let’s take a look back at November 4th, 2008 – your most shameless display of public intoxication to date. You had spent the previous months taking shots of Obama’s sanguineness and puffing from his peyote peacepipe of positivity. The media had been force-feeding you dimebags of dreams and you grew dependent on it. So you couldn’t help but stagger into the voting booth and order another serving of the stuff. I get it, I really do.

And that’s why I’m holding this intervention. You need help, America. Look at yourself! You’re stumbling all over the Middle East. You can’t hold down a job. I can see you’re depressed, but that’s no reason to lie in Cap’n Crunch residue watching Fresh Prince reruns all day.  Pull it together, man!!

You’re just ending an abusive relationship with your ex-president, and that can be tough. But don’t you remember the last time you got this drunk?  You thought Johnnie Kennedy and you were gonna be together forever.  Remember how that ended?  Heartbreak and entanglement in an endless, unwinnable war, that’s how! You were a wreck for a good 20 years! Do we really need to go through all this again?
Please, just take this stimulant (its package cost an arm and a leg!), get some rest, and go shopping or something.  That always made things better in the past right?  Whatever you do, for God sake, put down your needle of naiveté. You’re killing your family.

Kindest Regards,

Tory
Tory James Robert Schalkle is currently enrolled as a full time student of life. One of the most sensitive people you will ever meet, he spends his spare time reading at nursing homes and baking for veterans.  He frequently fails to write for us.  Incidentally, he also has two middle names.

After an election season promising “change” and lots of it, many Americans were disappointed to hear the news that yet another old white man will be the country’s Vice President while yet another black man will be moving into government housing. Noted historian and political scientist Wolf Blitzer lamented yet another election lacking historical significance of any kind. “It’s just so hard to get ahead in this country,” said progressive lobbyist Gloria Meshbesher-Spence-Rosenberg.

According to reports, not much is known about the African-American in question, except that he had spent the previous eighteen to twenty months living in a bus. The black man was likely offered the job out of pity in a noble attempt to get him to stop asking passing strangers for “change.” He will take residence in his new “house” as soon as the mob of repugnant squatters are shooed away. Like most government housing these days, the white-washed shanty is surrounded by urban squalor, is extremely old, and has often been used as a rendezvous point for solicited sex.

Submitted by a faithful reader and loyal friend who – for political and professional reasons – wishes to remain anonymous.