They all suck at math

On New Year's Eve I went to the MGM Grand Casino in Detroit with Amy's family for an hour and a half of gambling.

When I first walked into the casino, I realized that everybody in it had something in common. From the young people losing at craps to the really, really old people losing at slots, they all had one thing in common: they all suck at math.

It didn't matter if these people were from Detroit or they drove in from the suburbs. Yes, they all shared that special bond of absolutely blowing at statistics and probability. Sure, they're all there to lose different amounts of money (no matter whether it's supposed to be for tuition or if their grandkids should inherit it), but at the end of the day, it's because they're all horrible with numbers.

Seriously, people. The casino doesn't stay in business because everybody's winning.

(work.)

Lizards are expensive

So I was talking to Amy about ideal pets and she started talking about the leopard gecko, a friendly, easy-to-care-for lizard she worked with at PetSmart (it was for sale, not a coworker).

So I, trying to be a good boyfriend, debating buying her one to keep her company in Chicago. Then I learned the dark secret behind the leopard gecko:

They're fucking expensive.

No one should be allowed to put a price on life because life is precious. And if they do put a price on life, it shouldn't be 100 dollars for a goddamn lizard.

I'm appalled that someone could have the nerve to take an animal out of its native habitat and then lock it up in a store like that. The least they could do (if they had souls) was let me set the lizard free for free. Old school American leaders said freedom has a price, but that usually meant going to war, not spending half your fucking paycheck on a reptile. Assholes.

(Class.)

Until I strike oil in my basement, I guess I'll just have to roam the forest, looking for cute stuff I can give to my girlfriend.

I hope she likes rocks. And not the diamond kind, either (diamonds cost even more than lizards!).

"Vegan" just means "hungry."

'Vegan' just means 'hungry.'

Think of it this way: when you're a vegan, you can't eat anything. You can't eat turkey sandwiches or ham and cheese omelettes or barbeque ribs. You can't even eat Altoids because they're made from animal products.

But come on, if you eat an Altoid, is that really a big hit to the animal kingdom? One Altoid mint is like, what, a pig foot? Pigs don't need feet. Not if they're just going to be rolled in grease and fried up for breakfast.

I'd try being vegan, but then the next time I was at the supermarket I'd pass all the Beefaroni and Pasta Roni and other cheap college food (it ends in 'roni') and I'd frown. So I'd end up buying eight pounds of carrots because I have no clue what vegans are allowed to eat.

So if someone says they're vegan, chances are they're starving.

(Bed.)

So if vegans eat carrots and lettuce, and rabbits eat carrots and lettuce, then why can't vegans just eat the goddamn rabbits to get all the carrots and lettuce? It makes sense to me. I'm sure the rabbits wouldn't mind. They're stupid.

Maybe I'd be more tolerant of veganism if I had the money. I can't let my morals decide what I eat just yet. I'll get morals when I can afford them. Until then, I'm not recycling unless I get money for it and I'm not eating fancy tofu salads until they're affordable and they don't taste like Mother Earth's leafy farts.

Two in a row: money to death

Is there a casual way to tell your grandparents that you can't make rent and that your computer's broken and you can't fix it because you have no money?

If yes, please tell me now, as there's a good chance that I'm trying to do that as you read this.

(Politely begging.)

My grandpa assured me that my money problems are over, at least for now. However, he casually mentioned that a relative recently had a heart attack, then told me that Birdseyes have really bad hearts.

So basically my problems just went from, 'I'm screwed, I have no money' to 'I'm screwed, I'm going to die.'

Looks like I've fallen out of the frying pan and into the ...um... thing that causes heart attacks at a young age. Damn.

(Working out.)

I'm not very good at metaphors.

To succeed in life, fill some bags with newspaper

This weekend Amy and I went out for ice cream. While waiting, this guy started talking to me about his revolutionary ideas about business. He told me that he'd started 14 companies and that hard work doesn't pay off after all. And wow, was he right! He had like 10 shopping bags with him, so obviously he was rich.

Then he bade me farewell and told me to go to his website, thewowfactor.com, where I could buy his book. He picked up his bags and left.

On our way out, Amy and I saw that he had left his bags near the door, and they were all filled with newspaper. And when we got home we discovered that his website did not exist.

And that settles it: all you need is a bunch of shopping bags and a sales pitch and people will assume you're successful. At least until they see that you're full of shit and your fancy Lord & Taylor bags are full of garbage.

(PowerPoint.)

I felt like such a chump when I saw the bags and bags of old newspaper in the exit of the ice cream shop. He said he had a list of 25 false assumptions people had about life, the first of which being 'hard work pays off.' Apparently the second item on that list was 'carry trash with you.'

Up until his website 404'd, I thought he had a business empire. Turns out, he probably doesn't even have a place to live! LOL!

Exercise, ladies

While making small talk at the Cojum Dip concert on Sunday, it was discovered that a woman there not only went to the Dirty Show in Detroit (an art show dedicated to filthy sex pieces), but that she knew my father, too.

So I told my dad this and he got really excited. 'Wow! A woman knew my name! That's just awesome! What was her name?'
I didn't remember her name, so he asked what she looked like. I waffled around for a couple minutes before settling on the fact that she was kinda fat.

Well, that killed the excitement. 'Oh yeah, I know who that is.' No more questions after that.

The moral of the story is EXERCISE, LADIES (and guys, too, but you're ok if you at least have money).

(Work, class, beer, SMASH BROS TOURNAMENT.)

Also, before you internet strangers go assuming my parents are in some freaky open marriage arrangement, know that they're divorced, which is just about the opposite of freaky.

Also also, you big ladies don't have to exercise. Just get some distinguishing characteristic to take the attention away from your huge ass. This can include: a mole, a bald spot, a wooden tooth, a hump in your back, or a penis.

Mouthful of sadness

If a friend tells you he's eating at a banquet, you think, 'oh, that's something special.' But then you pause and realize they said they were eating something made by Banquet, you think, 'oh, he's just broke.'

The biggest difference between banquet food and Banquet food is about 8,000 grams of sodium per serving. Apparently sodium chloride is the cheapest of the chemical compounds, so Banquet saves you money by swapping out all nutrients with fat and salt, and you don't know the difference because you're poor.

Mmmmm. Every chicken nugget tastes like Dad losing his job all over again.

(Banquet, but not a banquet.)

Chicago demands one dollar bills

Chicago taught me that anybody can ask for money, no matter how small a favor they do you. If a guy is juggling in a subway station and you happen to look at him, you owe him a dollar. If a man takes your suitcase out of the trunk once your taxi stops and you didn't even ask him to, you owe him a dollar. It's like people think I'm made of generosity and small bills.

And that makes ME want to do stupid shit so I can get all my goddamn dollars back. I'll learn how to ride a unicycle and then go around town on my one wheel demanding money for my unique trick.

I also thought about inventing a counterfeit money machine that only makes one dollar bills, but that's stupid because you should at least make 20s. Also giving homeless people fake money is really mean.

By the way, you owe me a dollar for reading this.

(Bed.)