absolutangel64

Behold! The Holy Grail!

Yes, the Holy Grail is an orange-colored plastic kiddie cup from “Sea World”! Come and get it, Indiana Jones! Mwaha!

The Holy Grail is my favorite cup. I use it for all my thirst-quenching needs because it holds the perfect amount of liquid, is easy to hold, and, best of all, it has a “Shamu” logo on it! Shamu! That is probably the key behind the Grail’s miraculous ability to turn “7-UP” into “Heaven-UP.” I just know it!

Given that it’s my favorite cup, you’d think I’d be super selfish and keep its awesomeness all to myself—but haha! The joke’s on you! In a show of unrivaled generosity, I always let my V.I.P-guests use the Holy Grail while I take one for the team and drink from one of the ugly “Tiffany & Co.” crystal glasses I won at a raffle.

Oddly enough, the guests were never nearly as enthusiastic about using the Holy Grail as I was. I was giving them an opportunity to be more invincible, but they were too busy complaining about how the cup made beverages look very unappealing and taste a little like plastic! Pfft!

Honestly, what cup would you prefer to drink ice cold “Fresca” from? Hands down you’re going to choose the Holy Grail instead of the hot chunky mess pictured on the right…right?

In an academic setting, raising your hand means one of two things:

1. You have to ask a question, or

2. You want to answer a question.

Everyone is able to predict what your raised hand means before you even open your mouth: if the professor has asked a question, raising your hand means you have an answer; if the professor has not asked a question—i.e., he is just lecturing—your raised hand means you want to ask something.

Considering how basic this is, it is surprising how many people have managed to be annoying even when doing something as simple as asking or answering a question. And their annoyingness results from a bad habit all of them share: beginning every question or answer with an unnecessary preface no one wants to hear.

    I. Annoying Question Prefacing

As I said, there are only two reasons why a person would raise his or her hand: you either want to ask or answer a question. There isn’t a third option here…so why, then, do so many people feel the need to preface their question with this:

Thank you for clarifying that! This whole time I was thinking you raised your hand because you were going to strip down naked and let us beat you with sticks of salami, or that you wanted to draw our attention to the huge pimple on your right cheek that had somehow exploded in the middle of class. I would never have guessed that when you raised your hand you wanted to ask a question!

I’ll bet you’re also someone who writes “loves to laugh” on an “e-Harmony” or “Match.com” application since, you know, most people hate laughing.

Oh, and I really love how some students try to avoid sounding lame by prefacing with “quick question” instead of “I have a question.” Right, because reassuring everyone that you weren’t going to ask a slow question makes a world of difference.

Here’s a question for you: instead of telling us the obvious, why don’t you just ask the freaking question?

    II. Annoying Answer Prefacing

There is a guy in my class who always begins all of his answers with: “I’m not sure if this is correct, but I’m going to give it a reasonable shot…but I might be wrong because I’m not sure, but I think…” He always gives this speech before answering a professor’s question, and then finishes up with, “but I might be wrong.”

I know he spews this crap as a way to protect himself from embarrassment in case his response turns out to be incorrect, but if he really thought his answer was that bad then he shouldn’t have volunteered. Personally, unless I’m 100% sure I know the answer, I won’t raise my hand. Somehow, I don’t think I’ll get any points for blabbing nonsense that doesn’t contribute to the class discussion. If professors did base participation on quantity instead of quality, then I’d be raising my hand at every chance I got:

It’s too bad that’s just not the way participation points are awarded.

To be fair, the guy’s answers are always correct—but, after hearing his speech about how unsure he is, I just want to beat him over the head with a sock full of quarters while screaming, “Homie don’t play that! Grow a pair!” If someone is questioning the existence of your testicles because you can’t answer a question without being annoying, then you seriously suck total ass.

I want to learn how to armpit fart.

The armpit fart is the only reason why we have armpits. Therefore, when you fail to learn the art of hand + sweaty pit + flapping elbow = fart noise, you also fail as a human being.

I, for one, am not content with being a subpar human, so remedying this unacceptable status is a top priority. And I plan to do this by not only learning how to armpit fart, but also mastering it. Scoff all you want, haters, but I’ll show you. I’m going to be so kick-ass at armpit farting that I won’t even need to use my pits—all I’ll have to do is imagine myself doing the motions and a fart sound will magically come out from under my arms.

So bad ass!

I will be the “Kwai Chang Caine” of armpit farting! And then I will open up my own dojo atop some mountain and train the next generation’s masters of the armpit fart, and everyone will look at me as proof that even the biggest dreams can come true!

So…umm…how do you do it? I’ve realized through trial and error that merely putting my hand under my arm and waving my elbow is not enough. There is something more to it than that—some kind of secret. Does it have to do with level of sweat buildup? Curvature of the hand? Elbow angle? What is it?!

Last Saturday, I announced to the world that I was embarking on a quest to find an “Almond Joy” lover. Today, I am announcing to you all that I have achieved that goal.

But first, allow me the pleasure of detailing all the intense preparation that went into my success…

First and foremost, I had to find a suitable hunting ground. I couldn’t just go to the nearest Costco and expect to find my quarry, while at the same time fighting through the crowds of people who had gathered around the guacamole sample station (note to self: quest # 2 should be about finding a Costco that has an easily-accessible guacamole table). It would be impossible to focus on both getting a dime-sized piece of tortilla chip laden with free smashed avocado and hunting down an “Almond Joy” lover. I am just not that strong.

Instead, I did some extensive research on how to find a starting point for a quest no one cares about, i.e., I watched a lot of those shows where people try to find Big Foot, the Loch Ness Monster, UFOs, etc. It appeared that every “investigator” started his or her search in places where evidence of these mysterious creatures was abundant. Big Foot = forest where a clump of fur was found on a tree limb; Loch Ness Monster = large body of water with lots of unexplainable ripples and bubbles; UFOs = “Star Trek” convention.

And “Almond Joy” lover = my law school campus, because recently the vending machine started selling “Almond Joy” candy bars. Coincidence? Probably No! Vending machines only sell unhealthy snacks people will buy. If no one was buying a chocolate-coconut-almond bar, then the company restocking the machines would not have displaced giant “Kit Kat” bars to make room for them. And “Kit Kat” bars are a staple in every junk food diet!

Now that I determined my “Square One,” I next had to devise a plan to lure the “Almond Joy” lover out. I had originally planned to hand the candy bars out to random students, but there was a definite risk of danger: for some of us, receiving an “Almond Joy” candy bar is like finding a severed horse head in your bed, i.e., it’s a really bad sign. Whoever gave it to you wants you to know you’ve moved up his or her sh*t list. And if I ended up giving them to people who felt this way—and there was a good chance I would—I could become public enemy #1 by the end of the day because, let’s face it, no one is afraid of a girl who thinks completing an easy-level Sudoku puzzle in under five minutes makes her a badass.

No, if I wanted to achieve my goal without compromising my personal safety, I had to put some serious thought into my plans. And what better way to do this than extreme mathematical computations! Mwahahahaha!

Uhh…I mean this one:

Mwahahahahaha!

Based upon my extreme mathematical computations, I came up with this awesomely awesome contraption of awesomeness!

Oh man, sometimes I can’t believe how much of a genius I am!

With all this in place, it was smooth sailing from here on out, right? Wrong! So wrong! Do you know how hard it is to find rope around here? Very hard! Even “Home Depot” could not help me, which was sad because I thought they, of all people, would have realized that spare rope is a necessity for every household.

This major setback meant I had to scrap the idea of using my awesomely awesome contraption of awesomeness. Luckily, I was smart enough to come up with a second plan that was even better than the first! I was going to start an “Almond Joy Lovers’ Club” at school! And who would attend? “Almond Joy” lovers! Yes!

And then, another setback: it occurred to me that in order to start this club, I would also have to be a member—and that would require me to present myself as someone who liked to eat “Almond Joys.” There was no way I could be absolutely sure I’d find any “Almond Joy” fan at school at all. For all I knew, the entire student body consisted of anti-“Almond Joy”-ists and I could be ostracized from society if I pretended to be pro-“Almond Joy.”

Again, my own genius sometimes surprises me, as it did when I came up with a solution: I would wear a disguise! That way, I could conduct an “Almond Joy Lovers’ Club” meeting without exposing myself to lifelong ridicule.

And obviously I drew a diagram of my new plan for success:

Having completed the planning and preparation phases of my journey, all that was left was to put it in motion, right?

Fortunately, I can answer that in a negative: the quest to find an “Almond Joy” lover ended before it even began. And good thing, too, because it saved me from making an ass of myself filing all the paperwork needed to start a new student organization.

Turns out that the “you” in the “Almond Joy” jingle could be found right here! On Xanga! And this “you” is *coconut-shell-drum-roll* you! Yes, you! You are “you”! Well, no, only some of you are “you.” The rest of you are…perhaps wondering why I am making you read my inane internal drivel? Maybe all of you are wondering that though…

Hooray for anti-climactic questing!

I hate “Almond Joy” candy bars.

An “Almond Joy”—which I think should instead be called an “Almond Sad”—is a chocolate-covered block made of shredded coconut and almonds. Biting into this nightmarish concoction is like biting into a wad of old, chewed-up, gum with bits of raw asparagus: it has a strangely crunchy texture even though the coconut is gooey and somewhat “sweaty” looking.

I have eaten maybe a total of five of these unsavory “candies” in my entire life. The first time must have been when I was an innocent, gullible child. I say “must have been” because I don’t actually remember the experience. My brain has suppressed the memory to prevent me from punishing myself for ingesting toxic waste, but I am pretty sure it went down like this: an adult I trusted to look after my best interests probably gave me an “Almond Joy” to avoid having to eat it herself. And she, knowing that I held her in such high esteem, most likely told me to try it because it was “yummy.” And so I did. I listened to her. I ate that disgusting mass of compressed filth because I trusted her. And what did she do? She betrayed me!

The other four times I had an “Almond Joy” was to see if my tastes had changed as I grew older. Perhaps my taste buds were maturing the same way my body was, so that now those chocolate-covered-coconut-and-almond turds tasted more like deliciousness and less like defecation. Unfortunately, I was always wrong: “Almond Joys” never tasted better; they actually tasted worse. Not only that, my periodic taste tests always left me with a deep sense of self-loathing.

As disgusting and unpleasant as “Almond Joy” bars are, Hershey’s continues to sell them. The company even goes so far as to include it in its bags of assorted chocolate candies. Imagine finding in the midst of delicious “Nestle Crunch” bars, “Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups,” “Kit Kats,” chocolate and peanut “M&M’s,” “Butterfingers,” “Snickers,” and “Baby Ruths,” a handful of “Almond Joys.” Extreme vomitty madness would ensue!

But someone must be buying them, and this someone is the “you” in the “Almond Joy” jingle: “sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t. Almond Joy’s got nuts. Mounds don’t.” I want to find this “you,” this elusive Big Foot of the confectionary world. And so, starting right now, I am on a quest to find one person whose favorite candy is the “Almond Joy”! I’m not talking about the guy who will eat one because he’s hungry and just grabbed the first thing he saw in the office candy bowl. I mean the guy who goes to a store, heads straight for the stack of “Almond Joys,” and pees his pants when he sees they are on sale. I want to find “you”!

Wish me luck!

Silver Sonic	Loud-N-Clear

The “Silver Sonic” and the “Loud-N-Clear” are both personal sound amplifiers you wear on your ear like a Bluetooth headset, and can be used to do things like “hear a pin drop from across the room.” I don’t know if it’s a coincidence or because there is only one director who specializes in commercials for personal sound amplifiers, but the spots for the “Silver Sonic” and the “Loud-N-Clear” are both so bad I actually thought they were fake commercials produced by SNL. Seriously, the creators had to have been purposely aiming for the douchiest advertisement ever because no one could ever unintentionally come up with an “As Seen on TV” commercial that’s actually worse than the “Snuggie” ad.

I’ll admit I’m not very experienced with marketing. I took a marketing class in college and fell asleep during most of the lectures–but even I have an idea of what to put in a “Silver Sonic” or “Loud-N-Clear” commercial. These things are like cooler-looking hearing aids, right? And everyone knows that hearing aids = the elderly, because hearing can deteriorate with age. Therefore, it would make sense to feature old people successfully living independent lives because they have “super sonic hearing.” Maybe have a scene where grandma is working in her garden, suddenly pauses because she hears a group of people talking excitedly about religion, and then dashes into her house, locks the door, pulls her curtains, and watches as the group’s shadows appear at her front door. The group rings the doorbell a few times, but grandma stays motionless and silent. Finally, when it appears that no one is home, the group slips a “Joys of Cultish Living” pamphlet under the door and leaves. Grandma is safe!

What old person would be able to resist buying a personal sound amplifier after seeing that commercial? I bet those things would sell out in seconds if the “Loud-N-Clear” people went with my brilliant idea. But no, instead they decided it would be better to show this:

I don’t know if Grandma’s “ugh! I had it!” meant she had B3 or she had “Bingo,” but I do know that she appears to have contracted sudden deafness because she didn’t seem to have any problems hearing up until that moment:

Way to go, “Loud-N-Clear.”

Just because old people are the most obvious target consumer group does not mean I’ve forgotten about the young people. They can have difficulty hearing too, and would find the personal sound amplifiers useful for their own needs.

The “Silver Sonic” tried to demonstrate how young people could benefit from its personal sound amplifier by showing a group of college students attending a lecture. If you’ve ever had to attend a lecture in a huge auditorium, you know that sometimes it can be hard to hear if you are sitting in the back—especially when the overachiever in the front likes to participate in the discussion but won’t raise her voice above a whisper, so all you hear is:

    PROFESSOR: What are the exceptions to the requirement that police officers obtain an arrest warrant?

    OVERACHIEVER: Psst…psst…psst…

    PROFESSOR: Excellent, Ms. Overachiever.

I hate that b*tch. The college lecture scene was a good start…until this:

See, now I can’t relate to this situation anymore. You are sitting in the third row right in front of your professor, douche bag! You should be able to hear what he is saying…and so should your classmates who are sitting in the second row! You guys don’t need the “Silver Sonic;” you need a doctor!

Okay, so the commercial people ruined the possibility of making any money by creating a commercial that is neither appealing to the old nor the young–and I think they knew this and tried to pander to one more target group: the eavesdroppers. This group of consumers would benefit from using the “Silver Sonic” or the “Loud-N-Clear” because they can “turn up the volume on what people around [are] saying.” Who knows? In the middle of eavesdropping on other people, you might hear some of them talking positively about you–and then you will catch a sudden case of Douche Face.

The “Loud-N-Clear” demonstration:

The “Silver Sonic” demonstration:

You know what I think is extremely tacky Xanga behavior? When people advertise their blogs on someone else’s comment section.

The really shameless losers will just leave a comment like, “visit my blog.” They aren’t even trying to hide the fact that their only purpose for visiting your Xanga is to gain readership.

The less shameless losers try to downplay their attempts at leeching off your Xanga by complimenting your site, e.g., “nice blog! Visit mine!” The compliment is usually very general because the commenter didn’t actually bother to look at your blog. He was only visiting in order to advertise his own.

I’ve received a handful of both types of advertisement comments–let’s call them Advertisement Comments–and have deleted all of them. And I will continue to do this until I die…and maybe even after that. It’s not because I don’t have anything better to do with my time (although that will be questionable once I am dead…unless you count rotting away as a productive activity), but I regularly devote a chunk of my schedule to cleaning comment-house for several reasons:

I.    I Am Preserving Your Dignity

Someone has to do it, and since it’s not you it might as well be me. When you leave Advertisement Comments on someone else’s blog, you are giving everyone the impression that your site is a steaming pile of garbage that no one would visit on his or her own. Your comment also tells everyone that you are fully aware of your steaming-pile-of-garbageness, hence why you are desperately trying to lure visitors onto your site by promoting it on someone else’s blog.

This, of course, might not be an even remotely true assessment of you or your site. You could actually be incredibly engaging and a worthwhile read–but no one is really going to assume this of someone who has to troll the “Featured Weblogs” list for potential readers.

You are pretty much committing blog suicide if you leave Advertisement Comments, and most people will just relegate your site to their mental Doodoo Ditch and avoid it at all costs. So to prevent you from tainting anyone else’s impression of your site, I will voluntarily erase your comment before anyone else sees it. Yes, I will take it upon myself, out of the goodness of my heart, to save your Xanga soul by wiping your shameless self-promotion off my page. No, no, no need to thank me. I am just doing what all fake genuine guardian angels would do.

II.     I Am Protecting Readers

On the other hand, assuming your site really is the steaming pile of garbage your Advertisement Comment makes me think it is, I don’t want any of my readers to click on your comment and end up being brutally assaulted by whatever crap is posted on your page. And it clearly must be stanky crap considering how low you are willing to go to get attention.

III.    I Am Not Vincent Chase

I’m not Vincent Chase, and this isn’t an episode of “Entourage.” Therefore, even though I am fortunate enough to have subscribers, that does not mean you can hang around my comments section and try to soak up some residual exposure. You will just have to start from the beginning like every other Xangan: your friends are your only subscribers, and your Footprint counter never reaches above 100 per month.

I have been advised not to take this crap too seriously, and to instead view it as a positive sign that my blog has achieved a level of popularity. People tend to advertise their blogs on high-traffic Xangas because they believe more people will see their comments and then visit their sites. Thus, I should actually feel good whenever I receive a “visit my blog” comment because it means someone thinks my Xanga is one that has a healthy flow of Footprints.

Umm, no. I will never think of those comments as a good thing. And by “never” I mean there is a greater chance that I will fart Smurfs before I find an iota of positive value in the Advertisement Comment–and Smurfs don’t even exist.

This is a nightmare no one should have to experience! And yet, people today–in this advanced society of ours–still suffer the cruel and wholly undeserved punishment that is the Toilet-Paperless Toilet Paper Roll!

Unfortunately, the long-held belief that we have wiped this evil off the anus of the Earth is nothing more than a fiction, based on the false sense of security that all toilet paper users live and die by a basic tenet:

You kill the roll, you get some mo’!

Or:

You deplete the supply, you replace the ply.

Or:

If the core is exposed, you replenish the rolls.

Regardless of which principle guides your life, the message is the same: the one who uses the last square of toilet paper has to replace the bare roll with a new one. It’s more than just a common courtesy: it’s our fate; the fate our ancestors chose for us when they decided to create an easier way to clean their butts–since waiting for their poop to dry in the sun and eventually fall off in clumps took too long…and, you know, all those nasty flies…

Now, I know there are a few people who are reading this and thinking I’m full o’ crazy–but they are habitual Toilet-Paper-User-Uppers whose very existences have prevented the human race from totally eradicating the Toilet-Paperless-Toilet-Paper-Roll problem (i.e., just ignore them). All they think about when they use up that last square of tissue is how inconvenient it would be for them to have to replace the bare roll with a new one: they’d have to physically move to wherever the stash of rolls is located, pick one up, move back to the toilet paper dispenser, remove the empty roll, and then, after all that hard labor, attach the new roll. The entire process could take as long as two minutes! Who has the luxury of having that kind of free time?

Apparently, the next person who has to go does…because, I mean, you’re already going to the bathroom…and it only takes two minutes to refill the dispenser anyway.

You know what also takes two minutes? Flinging my dump in your face. Since you made it difficult for me to maintain an acceptable level of personal hygiene, I might as well go all the way by picking up my own waste and throwing it around.

*Awkward silence* …Okay, fine, I’m just saying that for the sake of making a point, but I think you understand where I’m coming from. I don’t like putting off my trip to the bathroom to get a new roll of toilet paper when I wasn’t the one who used up the first roll. Yes, I know I’m complaining about a task that is simple and minimally burdensome, but that doesn’t mean it is immune from concepts of fairness. I didn’t kill the roll, but I still have to get some mo’? Hello! I have to use the bathroom! That makes it automatically more inconvenient for me to deal with the Toilet-Paperless-Toilet-Paper-Roll problem than it is for someone who doesn’t have to go.

And don’t get me started on the Toilet-Paper-User-Uppers who try to avoid refilling the toilet paper by leaving, like, three squares on the roll. Only two squares are actually usable since the last one is practically glued to the core and turns to shreds if you try to get it off. What the hell am I supposed to do with those? Stick them to my butt and hope for the best?

My dream is to someday be able to live in a world where everyone who uses up the roll of toilet paper will replace it with a new one. And I know we can achieve this if we work together…on something. I actually haven’t thought of what our united front would be doing to accomplish total eradication of the Toilet-Paperless Toilet Paper Roll, but I know it will include beating Toilet-Paper-User-Uppers with rubber hoses.

I’ve never been a big fan of the social networking site. I’ll cop to it: I love blogging and I bleed Xanga, and my loyalty makes me biased. Whenever I have free time, it usually goes towards my blog—I’m either writing a new post, rewriting the post, getting really frustrated because I’m rewriting the freaking post again and it still doesn’t sound right, or drawing a Paint picture to go with the now tired-ass post that has been rewritten, like, 7 times before it’s made public.

Blogging is an arduous and very time-consuming task, but most creative processes are and will continue to be that way…unless my wish to have super-creative-writing-in-seconds talent comes true. I’ve been wishing on a lot of stars, my friends, but those balls of gas are extremely cheap or something because they keep ignoring my requests. Granted, most of the stars turn out to be planes—but give me a break! I’m in Los Angeles, people; I’m lucky to be able to see anything underneath the smog cover.

My online time goes towards my Xanga, with the most important aspect being the writing itself. The profile was really the last thing I worked on because I consider it to be just an accessory for my blog. It’s there for people who are really, really bored, so you’re not missing out on anything if you never see it.

I view the social networking site as a blog-less Xanga, i.e., pointless. You put up pictures of yourself, talk about your likes and dislikes, and then let it sit there for other people to view. That’s not to say I don’t use the sites. Whenever I hear a lot of news about the newest trend in the social networking world, I’ll create a profile to see what all the hype is about. I’ve tried Friendster, MySpace, and now am on Facebook because that’s where the migration has been heading. My profiles are fairly basic, and will eventually be abandoned, because again, there is no blogging aspect and therefore no reason for me to devote any more time on it.

The abandoning phase of the Facebook account may come sooner than anticipated because a few people on my “Friends” list have gotten dumped by their boyfriends or girlfriends, and have responded by putting up really lame and pathetic status updates for everyone to see. I’m talking about crap like this:

X really wishes he could take it all back…

Y will never believe in love ever again.

Z don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone?

I find the last one most annoying. The little Facebook status module looks like this:

The little cartoon speech bubble is asking you: “what are you doing right now?” and your response is you’re doing a Joni Mitchell lyric. Okay…

Anyway, the emo status updates, no matter who they are written by, are all created out of the same formula: overly-exaggerated descriptions of a broken heart that are directed at someone who is never mentioned, but whom everyone knows is the writer’s ex.

This crap is loserish on so many levels. First of all, the dumpee is posting these lame-ass status updates for their ex to see, which makes no sense whatsoever. Does he think that by showcasing how much pain he is in, his ex will change her mind and get back into the relationship? Why would she even care? She is the one who dumped you in the first place, you asshat. She doesn’t care how much sadder you make yourself sound because she expected you to feel like dirt in the first place.

Secondly, whatever happened to maintaining one’s cool after getting dumped? I thought people tried to downplay the humiliation of getting kicked to the curb by acting totally unfazed by it. If anything, you do it to give your ex the impression that you weren’t that much into him or her in the first place. That way, your ex loses whatever ego boost he may have had when he thought you were miserable without him, and you get to preserve your dignity.

It’s not that hard–and yet, you’d rather take the route of publicizing your pussification? You deserve to be single! 

People say “ass load” when they are describing something they have a lot of, which is fine and all, but I don’t think it works so well when you’re talking about food:

Classmate: Hey, I went to Costco and got an ass load of Oreos. You want some?
 
Me: Um, no thanks. I’m kind of…yeah.
 
Classmate: You sure? ‘Cause I’ve got an ass load of them.
 
Me: Yeah, I’m not really into Oreos. 
 
I lied when I said I didn’t like Oreos. I actually love Oreos, especially the “Double Stuf” ones. Mmm…! I love dipping them in milk until the cookie part turns to mush, preferably Mush Level 6. That’s when the Oreo has become soggy enough that some cookie particles start crumbling off, but not to the point where half the cookie sinks to the bottom. It sounds easy, but the timing aspect of getting a Mush Level 6 Oreo is not to be taken lightly. The second you allow doubt to creep into your mind is the second you find yourself face-to-face with a semi-crunchy Oreo or, worse, Oreo mash. *nightmares*
 
What was I talking about again? Oh right, Oreos. Yes, I love them. But I wasn’t going to take any from this guy after he said he had an “ass load of them.” That just conjured up this disgusting image of him with his ass full of Butt Oreos, and a bunch of elves working in his anus at the Sphincter Cookie Factory.

Sick…although, I bet that’s something you’d see at one of those weird art shows that feature stuff like a gigantic vagina made of Jell-O. And all the catering staff would be bent over with deviled eggs or crab wontons in their asses, and no one would think there was anything unsanitary about eating food from a server’s butt because, hey, it’s an art show!

Food and ass don’t mix, unless the food is exiting. Beyond that, I don’t want an ass load of anything.