That’s what she said

Does this phrase ever get old. Like, ever?

The answer is no.

“That’s what she said” became immensely popular about five years ago. I think it was the NBC show “The Office” that popularized it and officially made it mainstream.

What’s my take on it, you ask? (just say it out loud to humor me before you read the next sentence.)

Is it stupid? yes.

Is it overdone? Absolutely.

Is it immature? Umm, yeah.

But is it awesome? You bet it is!

I will admit that I still say “that’s what she said” about five times a day. For one thing, before the phrase became popular, you never realized just how many sentences people utter in a single day that carry sexual innuendo. It’s startling.

However, the phrase has indeed become old, and it does annoy a lot of people. So you have to be creative. First of all, when you say it, don’t laugh like you’re a 14-year-old schoolboy who just made a funny joke. Because that’s the easiest way to reveal that you’ve probably never seen a girl’s breast before.

When you utter the words “that’s what she said,” you need to be casual. You need to be suave. Imagine yourself wearing a leather jacket, unzipped over a white t-shirt, while leaning against your car with a toothpick in your mouth and your hair flowing in the wind. You’re also probably squinting and staring absent-mindedly into the sky.

A girl walks by you, and as she nears you, she says the words, “Wow, that’s so big.” (what she is saying it to does not matter.)

You tilt your head, look at her briefly and say, “That’s… what she said” in a crispy tone, without the slightest hint of a smile, and then you go back to staring absent-mindedly towards the sky.

Now that is cool. That is the demeanor in which you must always say “that’s what she said.”

Plus, you also need to think outside the box (that’s what she said.) Any idiot can think to say it when someone says “I put it in the wrong hole.” That’s a slam dunk. It’s also not funny.

I personally love saying “that’s what she said” during an instance where it only sort of makes sense. When you actually need to think about it for a second, as to how that could possibly be a sexual innuendo, and then finally come to the conclusion that it can work if you interpret it a certain way. That’s how you do it.

Sure, I suppose that in any context, it’s still immature. But who cares? Guys are immature. We always have been and we always will be. The only reason that we give off the appearance that we are mature is because, as we age, we become wise enough to hold in our immature thoughts. We still think them. And when only guys are around, you’re damn well right that the censor goes out the window.

But why even bother anymore? It’s like how all men hold in their guts pretty much all the time they are around girls. Heck, I don’t acknowledge that I do it anymore, it’s just instinct. It’s even gotten to the point where it’s become so natural that I even fool myself into thinking I’m skinnier than I really am.

However, if all men just decided to stop doing that, and let their guts hang loose, then we wouldn’t become fatter. In contrast, the standards for what qualifies as being “in shape” would become more flexible. We’d all be doing ourselves a service.

Similarly, we should all stop pretending that we’re sophisticated and that we have interest in things like classic literature and politics, and just talk about what’s really on our mind all of the time: sports, women, food and farting. That’s pretty much it.

But, that’s never going to happen. So, this act we’re pulling… we’re just going to have to keep it up.

That’s what she said.

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Can we cut it with these chain Facebook statuses?

As if the mundane, nonsensical Facebook statuses I see on a daily basis weren’t bad enough, lately people have become much worse on Facebook. I keep seeing the same damn statuses pop up, where people try to become noble and save the world via their Facebook status.

First, there’s this one:

‎7yr old with Cancer, from Rosebush, MI ….Hi my name is Amy Bruce, I am 7yrs old and I have a large tumor on my brain and severe lung cancer. The doctors say I will die soon if this isn’t fixed, and my family can’t pay the bill’s. The Make A Wish Foundation has agreed to donate $7 for every time this message is sent on. For those of you who send this along, I Thank You so much. But for those who don’t send it, I will pray for you. Please put this as your status for an hour

Do people seriously believe this shit? Yeah, the Make A Wish Foundation is tracking every single Facebook wall in the world. They have a dude with a calculator sitting in an office and keeping tabs on the world saying, “Ooh, somebody else just reposted it, time to add $7!”

I legitimately think I remember seeing this exact paragraph in a chain email 10 years ago. Amy Bruce is still 7, and she’s still dying.

Hey, newsflash. Amy Bruce isn’t real! Or better yet, there probably is a woman named Amy Bruce in the world, and she is probably a whore.

I don’t know, it just amazes me that people actually lack the intelligence to realize that this is bullshit. But hey, they’re doing the “right” thing. They’re showing that they care. Because if you post about it on Facebook, then everyone sees it and you look like such a fantastic, wonderful person.

It makes me sick.

And I can’t comment on it, because if I say something negative, then I become the asshole. It’s not worth it.

It’s funny, even if this was real, people are so quick to donate $7 of other people’s money, but when they are asked to donate $7 of their own money, well, helping people suddenly doesn’t become as important, does it?

Here’s another recurring Facebook status that I love:

Stupid cancer. We all want a new car, a new phone. A person who has cancer only wants one thing… to survive. I know that a lot of you “who think you’re too cool” probably won’t repost this. But a very little amount of my friends will. Put this on your wall in honor of someone who died of cancer, survived, or who is fighting against it now♥

Okay, so not only am I becoming annoyed with these statuses, but now I am actually being ridiculed and berated by them. I’m not going to repost it, so I guess that means I’m too cool?

Hmm, saying I’m too cool is a weird way of saying that I’m actually too smart. I’m too smart to realize that posting a Facebook status isn’t going to cure cancer. So I’d rather devote my efforts towards something else.

I wonder what the guy who eventually will cure cancer must think of these statuses. I truly hope he doesn’t stop what he is doing to copy and paste them into his status. Although, he’s obviously a genius, so I’m sure he becomes just as angry with them as I do.

These chain statuses are so bad that they actually make me miss all of the “FML” posts and complaints that people love to write about. At least those are original. For the most part.

Again, I’m not trying to make it sound like I’m sitting on my high horse here, and that after I write this I’m going to hit the lab and start testing cancer immunities. I’m not doing anything to help cure cancer either. I wore a yellow livestrong bracelet for a couple of weeks in high school, mainly because I thought it looked cool, but that is really it. But at least I’m not pretending that I am. Hopefully one day I’ll have a lot of money, and I can make a substantial donation.

So that’s what I am striving towards. I’m striving towards bettering myself and my abilities, so that one day I can be successful and put myself in a position where I can do something to help. Posting on Facebook is not going to accomplish that.

Remember the chain emails that people used send to send around when we were in elementary school and middle school? The ones with the purple font and the black backgrounds? I miss those.

Especially now. More than ever.

Oh, so I saw Moneyball today, and it was a fantastic. An absolute must-see for sports and particularly baseball fans, and still a movie that you should see if you just like good movies. There’s a lot of baseball in it, but that is not really what the film is about. It’s about believing in yourself when nobody else does.

And, hey, if you believe in yourself, then copy and paste this in your Facebook status. The Make A Wish Foundation will donate $10 bucks everytime someone does.

Is apple picking actually a thing?

In this world there are extremely boring and dull activities. Things like sodding your front lawn, draining the gutters, vacuuming the rug, etc.

And then there is apple picking.

It astonishes me that apple picking is not only a thing, but something that people actually do often. I get the whole “getting into the autumnal spirit” vibe. That’s cool. But, you know, buy a scarecrow or something. Wear a plaid shirt.

And it’s not like apple picking is something that you could actually just walk across the street and do. People actually travel for hours to the countryside to seek out orchards that contain apples.

Apple picking is something I think about so seldom that I am shocked I even knew what an orchard is for. I don’t think I’ve ever had to use that word in my life. Except that I do have a friend that lives on Orchard Street.

On Saturday and Sunday afternoons, I log onto Facebook and see that people have posted statuses, basically at the crack of dawn, about how they are going apple picking. Is it supposed to inflict emotion upon me? Am I supposed to become jealous? Am I suppose to be happy for you? I don’t get it.

If somebody actually approached me and asked me if I would like to join them for apple picking, I can’t even imagine how I would respond. I guess I’d probably start laughing. Because the mere fact that somebody actually thought that I would enjoy the act of apple picking is highly amusing to me.

People, do you not realize that you could go to your local supermarket and purchase apples? And it’s not like they have a selection of two apples, and you have to take whichever ones are there. They have a lot. Dozens. Bushels. That’s the word, right? Again, I am shocked that I knew that.

So yeah, there’s bushels of apples, so those that like to pick their apples out of a large bunch will still get their picking fix. It’s quicker, it’s more practical, you save gas money, and you still end up with an apple.

Alright, I’m not that ignorant that I don’t understand why some people enjoy heading out to a meadowy glen and picking out their apples in a giant field, while the breeze ruffles their hair and the morning sunshine casts a murky shadow over the thickets. I suppose there is some quaint art to whole process. Perhaps people feel like it takes them back to simpler times to be able to purchase their own naturally grown apples straight out of the tree. It’s like visiting Amish country.

I get that. I see how that might make people happy. But you still couldn’t pay me to do it.

At least with those other activities I listed earlier, like draining the gutters or vacuuming the rug, you are accomplishing something. You are making your living establishment cleaner and more inhabitable, and thus improving your quality of life. Apple picking does no such thing. To me, it just seems like a giant waste of time.

I love how people even post pictures of their apple picking experience. Unbelievably, no two apple picking photos have ever been different. There are apples, there’s grass, and there are idiots sporting a doofy smile over their face and probably exaggerating the entire experience by wearing a stupid straw hat that they would never where anywhere else.

Maybe if apples picked directly out of tree were capable of giving you special powers, then I might understand the appeal. Like if it gave you x-ray vision, or two heads, or something.

But no, all apple picking accomplishes is giving you the knowledge that the apple you are eating was picked directly by you from an orchard, instead of from your local Wal-Mart.

So worth it.

One of those weekends

Allow me to apologize for the mini hiatus that I went on these past few days. I took off from work on Friday, and had a fun-filled weekend packed with assorted activities, and couldn’t really find the time to blog. And by Sunday, I was certainly not in any mental state to blog. But here I am now.

You know, after certain events this weekend, it occurred to me that all the craziest moments in my life always come when I’m drunk. I’m starting to wonder if that might be a coincidence?

Anyway, this weekend, I attended two concerts. The first being in Central Park on Thursday, seeing one of my favorite bands, Wilco.

Whenever I told somebody I’d be seeing this band, I’d say a good four out of five people didn’t even know who they were. This infuriates me because Wilco is one of the best bands currently in existence today. They have been around since 1995 — a decade and a half. That is a long time.

They have eight studio albums, over 100 songs, and not a single one of them isn’t good. They are true musicians and they know how to write a song. If you’re one of the 80% (from my small sample size) that hasn’t heard of them, I highly suggest you get acquainted with them quickly. You can begin by viewing their discography here.

But yeah, the show was excellent, as any show any true musicians would put on. I had never been to a concert in Central Park, and on a cool night like it was Thursday, the setting could have not been more perfect. It was a great concert.

But after the concert was when a few funny/painful incidents occurred.

I ended up at a bar called David Copperfield’s in the Upper East Side. I’m sitting down in a booth enjoying fine food and drinks, reflecting on the great show I just witnessed, when who sits down behind us? Jorge Posada of the New York Yankees.

Now I never have celebrity sightings. Ever. I think the most famous person I’ve ever ran into on the street was a stray cat that I could’ve sworn played Mr. Jinx in Meet the Parents.

So yeah, even though I quickly turned to glance (didn’t want to make it obvious, duh), I was skeptical. I needed confirmation.

He was with a woman — his wife, hopefully, since he is married — so I didn’t want to bother him. But later in the night, when our waitress came by, we asked her if that was Jorge Posada sitting behind us. She said yes. It was confirmed.

So, right before leaving the bar, I approach him and say, “Jorge? (He nodded) I’m a lifelong Mets fan, but I respect you as a player and appreciate everything you’ve done for this city. Best of luck in the postseason.” He shook my hand and said “thank you” and that was that. All in all, a pretty cool experience.

After that, I shared a cab with my friend towards Queens. My plan was to catch a train from the Forest Hills LIRR train station. I saved money on cab fare by sharing a cab, and it would give me a shorter ride home than if I left from Penn Station. It made perfect sense.

However, I didn’t realize how oddly constructed the Forest Hills station was, and upon getting there, I had no idea where to go. I knew I didn’t have much time to catch my train, plus I needed to buy a ticket, so I had to hurry. I asked a pedestrian where the platform was that leads back towards Long Island, and he pointed me in the right direction. As I’m approaching it, I could hear the train coming.

So I ran up the stairs, and I see the train is in sight as I land on the platform. Although you could buy a ticket on the train, it’s more expensive to do so, so I figured I had just enough time to buy a ticket at the machine and still make into the train.

The train stops, and I’m buying my ticket as it sits there with the door open. I’m cursing at the machine to speed up, and finally, my ticket dispenses, so I grab it, and bolt like Reggie Bush taking off from the line of scrimmage towards the train.

As I approach the doors, I’m still running full speed, but I realized that I was indeed going to make it. And then that’s when I completely lost my footing and slipped on the wet platform.

I go flying towards the ground and land shin-first on the exact spot where the platform ends and the train begins (where the gap would have been had there been a gap — the train was extraordinarily close to the platform, thankfully.)

I pretty much literally flew into the train. I ended up landing halfway in, and then had to crawl the rest of the way in before the doors closed on me. For 1:00 a.m., which was the time, the noise was absolutely thunderous. Everyone else was just sitting on the train half asleep, waiting to get home and go to bed. They must have thought I was crazy.

A group of people, about a year or two younger than me, were indeed looking at me like I was insane. But then they noticed that my jean leg was wet with blood. I lifted it up and had a huge gash on my shin, and blood was dripping down it very quickly. They immediately advised me to lie down and keep it elevated while they saught a first aid kit. They were very nice people.

However, apparently LIRR trains do not carry first aid kits. Personally, I think I have legitimate grounds for a lawsuit. I should have neglected to take care proper care of it, and allowed my leg to acquire tetanus. Then I could have sued. I may also have lost my leg if I did that, but at least I’d be rich! Hey, people have sued for much worse.

My phone was dead at the time so I couldn’t take a picture while it was in its worst state, but I did snap one when I got home. Warning: not for the faint of heart.

Cool, right?

So yeah. It actually didn’t stop bleeding until today. But I’m all good now. In the end, it’s just another story to tell the grandkids.

On Saturday, I saw my second show of the weekend, seeing a double headliner featuring a band called Wavves, and another band called Fucked Up. Yes, that is what they are called.

Their music is actually not that appealing to the ears. You can’t actually understand the lyrics because the lead singer is screaming the entire time. It’s not something I would ever put on my iTunes, but for a concert, it was awesome. The lead singer was a fat, middle-aged bald dude who takes off his shirt and moshes with the crowd while he sings. Everyone just follows him and shoves each other around.

When this began, I first thought that I would not be caught dead in the mosh pit. Half an hour later, after all the drinks of the night set in, I was front and center inside that mosh pit, shoving the ever-living shit out of everybody in my path. I took a few shots myself, and by the end of the day, my entire shirt was drenched in sweat — half of which I don’t think was my own. It was absolutely awesome.

Needless to say, I had a severe case of the Mondays in my return to work today. I actually think I accomplished less than I ever have in any day at work. When I got in, I’m pretty sure I spent the first four hours of the day staring blankly at my computer screen, because next thing I knew, it was already 1 o’clock. I’ll pay for that tomorrow, I’m sure.

It was a solid weekend, and a therapeutic weekend at that. Because, sometimes, you just feel the need to beat the shit out of people in a mosh pit.

What is Facebook doing?

Sure enough, like everyone else in the world, you awoke this morning and quickly logged onto Facebook. And sure enough, like everyone else in the world, you saw the new layout and exclaimed, “What the hell?”

Yes. Facebook changed its layout. Again.

Inevitably, everybody complained about it. On Facebook. Does anybody else see the irony in this? That people were complaining about Facebook… on Facebook?

Newsflash: Facebook changes a lot. Like every few months. And every time, everybody complains. Then after a few days, everybody gets used to it and nobody cares anymore about the new layout.

So what did Facebook do differently? Well, for starters, there are now two newsfeeds on my newsfeeds. It’s been a full day, and I still don’t know what it accomplishes. I believe the primary newsfeed is the “top stories,” consisting of status updates and photos.

The minifeed over to the right, meanwhile, has the minor things, such as comments on photo albums, or notifications of so-and-so becoming friends with so-and-so.

If anything, the new changes sure made Facebook look pretty ugly. It’s no longer aesthetically appealing to the eye. I’m sure I’ll get used to it, but for now, it’s ugly.

And those are really the main changes.

I love how I am reading articles, and hearing people comment, about how Facebook changed it’s look so that it can compete with Google Plus.

Okay, first of all, Facebook does not need to compete with anybody. Excuse my crude use of language, but Google Plus is a freckle on Mark Zuckerberg’s ass when you compare it to Facebook.

Did most people create Google Plus accounts? Sure, why not? There’s no downside to giving it a shot. But do people actually use it? No.

Mark Zuckerberg did not change Facebook to “compete” with Google Plus. and he certainly did not change Facebook to “mimic” Google Plus. He did it so that people would be spending their entire day talking about the new changes that Facebook made. Even if it’s in a not-so-positive light, people are still talking about it. It’s still remaining relevant.

The only thing Google Plus did was get people to talk about how this is Google’s first major attempt to combat Facebook. Did it work? No, and it probably never will. However, at the very least, people were still talking about Google Plus.

So, Zuckerberg wanted to get people talking about Facebook again, and only Facebook. And he did it. The man is a freaking genius. The reason Facebook changes so often is so that it stays relevant. It stays current.

It’s like when Apple made the iPhone. Did they call it a day, and consider it a job completed? Of course not. They, like any other intelligent company, kept making tweaks and modifications. Otherwise, they would have been surpassed by somebody else. If you want to stay at #1, you can never rest. And Zuckerberg knows that.

But I will say, the one thing that Facebook did take away from Google Plus is the ability to categorize friends. You can label people as “close friends” or “acquaintances” or “work friends,” which is actually pretty helpful. That way, you can better control what you want specific people to see. That’s probably the one thing Goggle Plus had over Facebook — until now. You can’t win ’em all Marky Zucks. But don’t worry, I still love ya. No homo. Okay, maybe a little homo. Just a little.

So yeah, those 20+ Facebook statuses you saw today, consisting of people complaining about the new layout… that is exactly what mark Zuckerberg wanted. It is exactly what he was hoping for. Google Plus was trying to steal away his thunder, and he said, “Fuck you Google Plus, I’m taking my thunder back.” Like that Selena Gomez song, where she sings about thunder and lightning. I don’t actually know that song, I just happened to hear it on the radio once. By accident. And I was too lazy to change the dial.

Alright, screw you. It’s catchy.

But nevermind Selena Gomez, because it’s really all about this guy:

How would life be if we didn’t know what we looked like?

I suppose you could say that this post is a complete 180° from yesterday, where I was up in arms about my great haircut (which still looks fantastic one day later, might I add). Anyone who knows me should know that was a tongue-and-cheek post, and that I am not actually that arrogant.

But it was at work today, when I was washing my hands in the bathroom and staring at myself in the mirror to observe my physical appearance, when this thought occurred to me.

Seriously, if none of us had any idea what we looked like, what would the world be like? If mirrors, cameras, computers, and film didn’t exist, and thus, we couldn’t look at something to see our own face staring back at us, would our lives be any different?

In today’s age, this seems like an unfathomable question, but believe it or not, there was a time when human beings existed without mirrors. If people wanted to know what they looked like, they either had to ask somebody to describe it to them, or look at their reflection in the water. Or if you had an identical twin, that would give you a fairly decent idea also.

Other people would still be fully aware of what you looked like, so shallowness would still exist. But if you didn’t know what you looked like, might you be more confident? Your physical appearance would be one less thing you have to worry about in life, allowing you to focus on other things, such as improving your quality of life.

I think that people would certainly act different. What you look like gives you certain feeling about yourself. As much as we try to modify our personal appearance through makeup, different hairstyles and even surgeries, we still know what we look like. Deep down, we can say that physical appearance isn’t everything, but somewhere in the back of your mind, you still know if you’re ugly. And it affects you.

I really think that it would change the entire dynamic of our society. Our country caters to beautiful people. And Hollywood is the mecca of beautiful people. You can’t succeed in Hollywood unless you are good-looking. Period. Even the “ugly” people on television are still much better looking than the average person.

Therefore, good-looking people would not be walking around with an undeserved sense of inferiority, simply because the bone structure of their face is more preferable to others.

If we didn’t know what we look like, it would prevent people from relying on their looks to make it in this world. Kim Kardashian would not be relevant.

It’s just pretty eye-opening when you think about how much looks matter.

I guess the big question is that, if we were not aware of what we looked like, would physical appearance still matter? Beautiful people would still be treated the same way, since everyone else would know they’re beautiful. Or would it just be something that people didn’t concern themselves with? Would people actually judge others based on, yelp, personality?

And would pretty girls be aware of the fact that they are just getting hit on because of their looks?

All questions that could probably be pondered for days, and yet, we will never know the answer to. Try turning your mirrors around for one whole day, and see if you can make it. I probably wouldn’t be able to.

I received a good haircut today so now I feel way more good looking than I really am

I got a haircut today. It had been exactly 52 days since my previous haircut, which was pushing it. I was sort of experimenting, and seeing how long my hair can get while still being tamable via hair gel, and I’d say that 52 days is pretty impressive. But I didn’t want to push it any further (that’s what she said?)

I’ve already discussed my haircut-timing philosophies in the past. But for those who missed it, here are my very few — yet very important — rules.

  • You never get a haircut in the week preceding a big event. You never know when the day’s going to come where your barber has an off-day, and if it’s that day, then you’re screwed. This big event that you’ve anticipating for months, well, now you’re going to look like shit for it. So that’s why you get your haircut at least 10 days prior. If you get a bad haircut, then that gives you plenty of time for it to grow in.
  • Try to get your haircut as early in the week as possible. Not on a Sunday, of course. Sundays are devoted for football and relaxing. So Monday or Tuesday will work. The inevitable “I just got my hair cut so I feel self-conscious and uncomfortable” feeling will be there, but at least it gives you three or four days until Friday, so you’ve had a little time to get used to it.

And those are the rules. As I do not have a big event upcoming anytime in the near future, and it is a Monday, I decided to take the plunge and get my hair cut.

Well, the stars aligned, the light shined through and God himself must have been guiding those scissors, because I received a damn good haircut. I could have gone to prom directly after the haircut and felt great about it. Of course that would be really weird because I would be about seven years older than anyone else at the prom. But you know what I mean.

When I walked down the sidewalk back to my car, I felt like John Travolta in Grease. I had a nice little strut going, and I made eye contact with everyone I passed, basically saying to them, “Yeah, damn right I look good, bitch.” Of course, I didn’t actually pass anybody in the 10 second walk back to my car, but if I did, that’s what I would have thought.

It’s a great feeling when you receive a good haircut. Your ego inflates by an absurd amount. At this moment, I think I look so much better than I really do. I have a completely unwarranted sense of narcissism right now, and it’s awesome.

The best part about receiving a haircut is the disparity between how I would feel had I received a bad haircut.

I always expect the worst when I leave the barber shop. I expect to hate how I look, and to have to utter the words, “Yeah, my barber cut it a little different from what I wanted…” several times over the next couple days.

Basically, to sum up, this is how I perceive myself the day following a poor haircut:

Sorry Brian Posehn, but you probably are the ugliest “celebrity” in existence.

That’s how hideous I think I look upon receiving a less-than-ideal cutting of the hair.

Conversely, like today, when I look in the mirror… this is what I see:

Yes, my obsession with James Dean has definitely gotten gay at this point

Tomorrow, I might go to work wearing a short leather jacket, a v-neck t-shirt, and carry around a comb so I could run it through my hair every 10 minutes just to play the part.

Do I really look like that? No. Of course not. I’m not that disillusioned. However, I do feel good about myself solely because of this favorable haircut, so who cares? Positive vibes are still positive vibes, no matter where they stem from.

Thank you guy who works at the barbershop I’ve been going to for the last six months whose name I still do not know, you’ve made me a happy boy.

Oh and by the way, if you’re reading this before 10 p.m., you should know that the Comedy Central Roast of Charlie Sheen is occurring tonight at 10 p.m. That should be pretty good and worth the watch. Of course, it conflicts with Monday Night Football, but, that’s why they invented DVRs.

Well, for that reason, and to make a shitload of money.

And if it’s after 10 p.m. when you read this, then don’t be alarmed because I’m sure it will replay eight times a day on Comedy Central for the next two weeks.

And if you don’t read my blog, and you’ll never see this message, well, screw you. I don’t need you.