The easiest way is to use it heavily for several years. However, most of us don’t have several years on hands to idly lounge in bed and…uhh…watch Doctor Who for six hours a day.
One way that I just thought of using my coffee-addled brain is to take out a screw every night for about a week, so the bed gradually starts losing its sturdiness and then eventually collapses and comically injures the person(s) on it when it does.
Another rather humorous way of breaking a bed would be to create a black hole underneath it, thereby sucking the occupant and everyone they love into the black void of the unknown. But you can’t do that, because I wanna do that and I don’t know if the fabric of reality can take more than black hole at a time.
So it turns out the reason why we have the abstract concept of one is because without one we wouldn’t have any punchbowls and I think that’s beautiful.
Stephen Hawking needs to write a book about it called “that one time Shelby was really tired and rambled on for thirty minutes about the number one to his girlfriend on the way back from a show”. We’ll be millionaires.
People often ask, “Coffee or tea?” and it makes me wonder: “Why not coffee and tea?” After all, you don’t have to try to assassinate the prime minister of Portugal just to prove you like Spain, and you don’t have to strangle a waxwork statue of Abraham Lincoln just because you’re not a fan of stovepipe hats. I may have learned this the hard way last weekend.
In this modern world we live in, I think we can all agree that American “cheese” is the most disgusting thing ever.
Firstly, it isn’t even cheese. It’s a horrible monstrosity of nature that causes angels to weep and sad teenagers to play the guitar. The only resemblances between it and cheese are merely passing–you might mistake it from twenty feet away, but when you get close the mirage fails. Too late, though, you find; you have already been pulled into its trap. You are being smothered in an avalanche of cheese-like goo. You barely have time to make peace with your personal god when the goop enters into your mouth and smothers you. At last, you feel a strange sense of peace. The warmth of the cheese-like product–once destructive–becomes inviting, beckoning you to close your eyes. You do so, never to open them again.
1. You know that root beer is not just a delicious beverage, but also a color and use it in this sense regularly.
2. You own more than one article of purple clothing, because purple is rockin’ and you’re a sassy mofo who don’t give a poop if anyone tells you purple is gay because it makes you look fabulous.
3. You wear bow ties frequently. By which I mean almost every day. And on the days you don’t wear a bow tie, you feel like you’re missing a golden opportunity and you hate yourself a little more on the inside for it.
4. You read the style section in GQ. It doesn’t matter if it was only once–if you have ever read the style section in GQ magazine, regardless of whether or not you found their fashion tips insightful, then you are a metrosexual. They make you fill out a form alleging your metrosexuality before you’re even allowed in that part of the website.
5. You often find yourself (quietly or otherwise) judging people on their clothing choices. Especially socks. God, I hate people who wear socks that clash with the rest of their outfit. That’s my number one pet peeve of all time. IF YOU CAN’T FIND THE ENERGY TO COORDINATE YOUR SOCKS YOU DON’T NEED TO BE OUT IN PUBLIC.
I love making people feel awkward. I like to think of it as one of my hidden talents. Sure, any old chap can say something off-kilter and produce a few moments of awkwardness, but maximizing the awkwardness potential takes true skill and a propensity for making bizarrely sexual faces out of nowhere. As anyone who knows me can attest, bizarrely sexual is my middle name.*
An example picture of one of the many bizarrely sexual and/or downright creepy faces I make on a regular basis for the hell of it
*Actually it’s Wayne but who cares.
I love being home alone. I live in a house with six other people (most of whom are female and all of whom are related to me) and so if I want to walk around naked–which is actually most of the time–seriously, the only thing better than lounging around home with no clothes on is lounging around home with nothing but a bow tie on–I have to wait until everyone else is at work, or school, or the grocery store. If I’m lucky, that’s maybe once a month. My overwhelming urges to color naked, therefore, are generally not satisfied. Even worse, though, I frequently find myself in the disagreeable position of wanting to run around my home in the nude streaming flowers all over the place without being capable of satisfying this primal longing. My life has become a living hell.
I long for future days of bachelorhood, wherein I will sprawl on the couch and watch Doctor Who in my birthday suit and consume large bowls of ice cream. In this vision of the future I will not have a cat for fear it will accidentally pounce on my doodle and cause me serious bodily harm. However, I will have my own ironing board that I will use to keep my clothing nice and fresh when I’m not wearing them (which will be an often) and, if I’m really drunk, to use like a surf board.
This, my friends, is my dream–the American dream.