Whachu Know About a Nerds Fun Book?

Loud, Persistent Guidette Attempts to Secure Ideal Seat 5 Minutes into Previews for Avatar

NEW YORK, NY--A loud, persistent guidette was overheard asking multiple movie goers if, "anybody [is] sittin' theyuh," roughly 5 minutes into the Monday, 4:15 showing of Avatar at Regal Cinemas Union Square.

32-year-old Angela Guilarducci, a Verizon Customer Service Representative from Staten Island, reportedly went from row to row asking movie goers if "anybody [is] sittin' theyuh," while pointing to seats that were occupied by winter coats and scarves, multiple sources confirmed.

"I don't know what the fuck she was thinking," said Trapper Benningham, 24, from Murray Hill. "I mean, first of all, this is Manhattan. If you want a decent seat for even the worst movie you have to get there half an hour early. Second of all, this is a blockbuster in its first weekend, a holiday weekend, from the same asshole who brought us Titanic. Then you have the fact that it's in 3D, so everybody's trying extra hard to avoid seats in the front and on the side. Add all that up, mix in the the fact that this movie is like 20 years in the making, and you've got people lining up outside the theater a good hour before the show," continued Mr. Benningham.

"Then this fucking idiot thinks she's gonna waltz in here 5 minutes into the previews and find a prime seat in the upper level?"

"Really?"

At one point, Ms. Guilarducci was seen returning to seats she had previously inquired about and looking into their potential availability a second time, "like some sort of crackhead who forgot you rejected her first request for change," said Jeremy Goldstein, 26, of the Upper West Side.

Witnesses say patrons were particularly distressed at Ms. Guilarducci's inability to pick up on nonverbal indicators of seat occupancy believed to be commonplace throughout the United States. "I always thought it was a pretty universal sign that jacket-in-the-seat equals 'seat taken'" said Mr. Goldstein.

As of press time, representatives for Ms. Guilarducci had responded to repeated inquiries with only, "how about heuh? Anyone sittin' heuh?"

60% of the Time, It Works Every Time

Great Moments in Horrible Photoshopping by a Professional Sports Franchise's Marketing Intern

Case File #246-B, in which the Brooklyn Nyets celebrate Christmas.

Shh, Shh, Don't Move

You'll scare it off.

I don't see it! Where is it!

Over there, look. Just a few feet in front of us and over to the left.

Oooooooh. I see it. Kids, look! Over there, just past that stack of books. It's beautiful!

Yes, beautiful and rare. Here, let me set up the scope for you.

That is just amazing! Kids, come over here and take a look at this.

Now the scientific name of the creature we're looking at is toiletpaperus unawaricus, but you may know it as Toilet Paper Stuck to the Foot.

We saw that in Mrs. Daniels' class, Daddy!

Shhh! You'll scare it away, Emily!

It's very rare to see the unawaricus this far from the nest. It only ventures out in times of extreme hunger and when it's looking to mate, which only happens once every three years.

Is it hungry, Daddy?

Shush, David. Didn't you hear what the man said?

I don't think this one's hungry, David. You can tell by the posture. See how relaxed and confident it looks?

It's so fluffy!

Emily! Quiet!

Yes, that's right. It is fluffy. That's actually the unawaricus puffing out its chest, as it were. This helps attract a mate.

Yeah, that and a Swiss bank account.

Oh! There it goes! It must've heard us.

See what you did, Emily? Why didn't you listen to the man?

That's ok. We have a lot more to see on the tour. Practically everywhere you look around here you'll see a rare or endangered species. Just watch your step now, and keep close to the group.

Keys Open Doors

The Gooch: Hey man.

Godfather poster: Whattup, brah!

The Gooch: I wasn't talking to you.

Godfather poster: Whatever, fag. Why don't you go jerk off for the third time today.

The Gooch: Listen, dipshit. The only reason you're up there is because you used to hang in my grandfather's bar, you're in a frame, and I have a lot of wall space to cover. I guess the inclusion of the "Make him an offer he cannot refuse" quote is pretty funny in an aren't-I-ironic-and-witty-and-free-spirited-and-why-don't-I-go-fuck-myself kind of way. But ultimately you're just a juvenile home furnishing that goes out of its way to make me look like someone completely devoid of original thought or unique personality (although the Godfather is one of the greatest movies of all time (and obviously the second one is vastly superior)) and you could just as easily be hanging in some over-heated, cinder-block-walled dorm room thick with the stench of ass-sweat emanating from fake leather computer chairs, with only this guy to talk to:

Godfather poster: Whatever. You know you're not getting rid of me any time soon.

The Gooch: Just shut the fuck up man.

Godfather: Pussy.

The Gooch: Ok.

[a brief, awkward pause]

The Gooch: So what's goin' on, man.

Door: What's up.

The Gooch: Nothin' really.

Door: Cool.

The Gooch: You see that shit about Brittany Murphy?

Door: Yeah, we talked about it on gchat already.

The Gooch: Shit, that's right. I waste so much time at work it's all starting to blend together.

Door: Seriously. All I do anymore is just sit around, bored as hell..

The Gooch: It's gotten to the point where bullshitting is like, more fucking tedious than work. I can only read for so many hours straight, you know? Even if I do have the energy for it, I go through all my favorite sites by like noon. Then it's a struggle to find interesting content the rest of the day.

Door: What about Reader? You're all about that shit.

The Gooch: Yeah, I mean, there's an endless amount of stuff there, but even with that -- shit, especially with that, fucking around becomes a chore. I have so many feeds, and most of them are super active, so unless I'm psychotically going back and making sure each feed has been read as the items are posted, which is impossible, I can't keep track of which ones I've looked at. It's like, "hmmm, did Deadspin have 56 unread items the last time I checked or 58?"

Door: I guess. 

The Gooch: Then you have the "social" part of it, or whatever. You want to read your friends' shared items and everyone's comments on the shares.

Door: Still sounds better than working.

The Gooch: It is, but I'm telling you, it's stressful in its own way. Here's me on Reader: "Hmm, let's see see if anybody gave my hilaaaaarious comment a plus. Wait, was the share with the picture of a crocheted octopus tentacle-raping a Matt Yglesias post on Tiger Woods' favorite computer programming languages this far down on comment view? Maybe I missed it. Who shared it again? Oh shit, comment view just turned bold. Maybe somebody responded. Nope, just a new share about some political bullshit. Hmm, has the sex mailbag been posted on Kissing Suzy Kolber yet? Wait, what was I about to do? Check the Slate feed?"

Door: You're out of your fucking mind.

The Gooch: It's the internet. It's driving me crazy.

Door: Seriously.

The Gooch: Yeah, definitely

[A brief, awkward pause]

The Gooch: So, um, door.

Door: What's up?

The Gooch: I want to talk to you about something.

Door: Are you breaking up with me? Is it the sex? It's the sex isn't it. Fine, we can try anal. Is it that important to you? I'll do anything. What if I tickled your--

The Gooch: Shut the fuck up, man.

Door: It's the spooning, isn't it. Look, I just can't sleep like that. I get all hot and--

The Gooch: You're an asshole.

Door: (laughs) What the fuck is it man? Spit it out.

The Gooch: I wanna talk about the other day.

Door: What about it?

The Gooch: It's just. I'm not trying to start a fight or anything, but I think what went down was pretty fucked up.

Door: What was fucked up?

The Gooch: Dude. Come on.

Door: Seriously. What the fuck are you talking about?

The Gooch: You fucking locked me in the apartment, man! Jesus.

Door: How do you figure?

The Gooch: You're trying to tell me that wasn't your fault?

Door: Fuck yeah, I am.

The Gooch: How do you figure?

Door: Well, let's see. First of all, you're the one who changed my settings.

The Gooch: Yeah. I wanted to see if you could do that thing where you lock automatically when I close you.

Door: Right.

The Gooch: So I hit that fucking toggle switch on the bottom of the lock mechanism. That guy, right there.

Door: Right.

The Gooch: Then when I closed the door, that fucking deadbolt at the top activated, which is great and all, only it could only be opened from fucking outside the apartment.

Door: Right.

The Gooch: Right? What the fuck is your problem man?

Door: What?

The Gooch: You don't feel bad at all for locking me inside my own apartment?

Door: Let me ask you a question.

The Gooch: Sure.

Door: I just want to get something straight right off the bat, because I don't want us to have a big fucking fight over a little misunderstanding.You know what I mean?

The Gooch: Yeah, I get it.

Door: So you just wanted to see if I "did that thing where I lock automatically when you close me," right?

The Gooch: Yeah.

Door: By that you mean you wanted to see if I could lock automatically when you left the apartment, right?

The Gooch: Yeah.

Door: So you wouldn't have to lock me with a key, you could just shut me and go, right?

The Gooch: Yeah.

Door: SO WHY THE FUCK DID YOU TEST THAT OUT BY SHUTTING YOURSELF INSIDE THE MOTHERFUCKING APARTMENT‽

The Gooch:  That's not the point.

Door: THAT'S NOT THE POINT‽

The Gooch: No, it's fucking not. What do my intentions have to do with anything? I could have just as easily wanted to know if you would lock behind me on my way into the apartment.

Door: But that's not what you wanted to know. I heard you, man. You think I don't see and hear everything that goes on in this apartment? Your girl was in town, and you wanted to see if she could leave the apartment after you without a key. And why? Because your cheap, lazy ass didn't get her a spare set of keys yet.

The Gooch: That's not the point.

Door: Sure it is.

The Gooch: Fine, you're right that I wasn't gonna find out what I wanted to know at that precise moment without closing the door from the outside, but why the fuck would a lock EVER have a feature where you could LOCK YOURSELF INSIDE YOUR OWN MOTHERFUCKING APARTMENT? Why would that exist? What the fuck did you used to be used for?

Door:: I can't help how the fuck I was designed. I just did what my maker designed me to do.

The Gooch: Yeah, you just made sure some alcoholic's wife couldn't go to the library and do some book larnin' and get all smart on her husband during the day while he was out trying to make a fucking living for the both of them and she thinks she knows what's best for him well goddammit he's a man and this is America and nobody's gonna tell him what the fuck to do, least of all some rotten, prissy bitch.

Door: Man, fuck you. You didn't ask me what would happen. You just went ahead and pushed that toggle switch. You didn't even hesitate.

The Gooch: Yeah, because in every other place I've ever lived, when you push a button somewhere around there, it toggles back and forth the door's ability to lock automatically.

Door: Well I'm not one of those doors.

The Gooch: Thanks for telling me. Appreciate it.

Door: You didn't ask.

The Gooch: "You didn't ask." Why don't you tell me to stop hitting myself? You prick. "You didn't ask." Go fuck yourself.

Door: Look, it was a dick move, what do you want me to say?

The Gooch: That. Just admit it. You should've told me that button toggled the fucking slave lock.

Door: Alright, shit. I'm sorry that I have a function that allows you to lock yourself inside your own apartment. What am I supposed to do about it?

The Gooch: You just should've told me. I mean, shit, to be honest with you, I think it's creepy and weird that you have this feature, and it makes me uneasy to know that I'm being kept safe by a lock with a questionable history like yours, but I can come to grips with it. I can make the psychological adjustment and deal. Just admit that it was fucked up that you didn't tell me.

Door: Alright, man, fuck. I'm sorry.

The Gooch: That shit was mad embarrassing, son.

Door: You've got to admit it was funny, though.

The Gooch: Not really.

Door: Dude, quit acting all fucking traumatized. Nothing bad happened, really. This is you: "Waaaaa, I'm locked in my big new apartment with nothing to entertain me but weed, booze, food, tv, the internet, a couple of guitars, books, music, and my girlfriend. Waaaaa, my life's so horrible. Waaaaa, I'm a whiny little bitch."

The Gooch: Yeah, I guess nothing bad happened. Nothing bad other than, you know, the fact that I now have a reason to be paranoid at all times. This was me before last week: "Ahh, here I am with a freshly-packed bowl, a frosty Bud Light, Utz brand pretzels, and a giant bottle of Gulden's. Gallinari's draining threes over Lebron at the Garden, OB4CL2 is blasting on the stereo, I just got a "like" on a BFD post via Reader, and my girlfriend's about to come to town. Life is fucking good."

And this is me now, "Mmmm, here I am all warm and snuggly, curled up on the couch on a cool winter's eve. Nothing bad could could possibly happen to me now. Actually, yes, something bad could possibly happen to me now. I could randomly not be able to leave my apartment because I somehow hit a button that makes it impossible to open the fucking door from the inside. WHY WOULD THERE EVER BE A FEATURE LIKE THAT? WHAT THE FUCK?"

Door: Dude, you're not going to accidentally hit that button. That's fucking ridiculous. Plus, like I said, nothing happened in the end. Your sister came with her boyfriend and let you out. Then you, your girlfriend, your sister, and her boyfriend all went out to dinner. Then you came back here, to the scene of this fucking traumatizing crime, and watched Funny People. You had yourselves a nice, tame, middle-aged evening. End of story. Happily ever after.

The Gooch: Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me of another indignity I suffered. Having to call my sister like "Hey sis, I just wanted to let you know that I'm barely a functioning member of society and I've somehow managed to lock myself inside my own fucking apartment. Could you come free me from this prison I've built upon a foundation of my unfathomable stupidity, constructed entirely out of bricks of shame that are being held together with mortar made from my ground-up, liquefied sense of self-worth?"

Door: Yeah, well, maybe it's for the best that you had to call somebody. Now you might finally get some of the professional help you obviously need.

The Gooch: Dick.

Door: Whose a bigger dick? Me, or the guy who doesn't know one single person in his apartment building who could help him out.

The Gooch: I just moved here, and everyone's afraid of me because I'm under 40 and don't wear a shtreimel.

(This is a shtreimel.)

Door: Racist.

The Gooch: I'm serious. They're wary of me. I can see it all over their faces.

Door: Why didn't you just call the super?

The Gooch: I don't have his number.

Door: How the fuck do you not have your super's number?

The Gooch: He lives in the building. I figured if I ever needed him I could just knock on his door.

Door: Figured wrong.

The Gooch: Yeah, well, again, I never imagined such a heinous mechanism could ever exist or that you could be such a smug, inconsiderate prick.

Door: I'm inconsiderate, yeah. The one who didn't make his sister get on a subway to come rescue him from his own stupidity. Remind me again why that was the only option you had?

The Gooch: What else was I supposed to do?

Door: Use the fire escape.

The Gooch: I tried that, but ultimately decided against it.

Door: Yeah, cause you're a drug addict.

The Gooch: What?

Door: If you weren't high you would've trusted your judgment and just went down the fuckin' fire escape without being a huge bitch about it.

The Gooch: That was just one factor.

Door: Oh yeah? What were the others.

The Gooch: When I got to the bottom of the fire escape, I realized that I'd have to lower that attached ladder thing to make it down that last 10 to 15 feet.

Door: So why didn't you?

The Gooch: Well, for a lot of reasons. First of all, there was a bike directly beneath the ladder. I'm talking right underneath the fucking thing.

Door: And?

The Gooch: And I didn't know how heavy the fucking ladder was. I wasn't sure if I'd unlatch it then watch it go crashing to the ground, destroying that bike. I don't have the money to buy someone a new fucking bike right now.

Door: If you weren't high you would've been able to judge that.

The Gooch: PLUS it was raining outside. My high, dumb ass probably would've slipped on a rung and went crashing to my death.

Door: Right, your high, dumb ass. Like I said.

The Gooch: ALSO, it probably would've been loud as shit. If I didn't already freak out all the orthodox families in the building by creeping around the fire escape, I definitely would've alerted them to my presence by lowering the ladder. Then they call the cops cause they think there's a fucking prowler outside, the cops come to check out what's going on, my apartment reeks of weed, and even though I wasn't doing anything illegal by trying to get down using the fire escape, I've got a ticket or am in jail for having fucking weed in my possession.

Door: Again, like I said, you're a drug addict.

The Gooch: Fuck you, man. There's nothing wrong with smoking weed. The only reason it's illegal is because of racist fucking politicians from the 1920s who scared white America into thinking negro jazz musicians were going to rape all their daughters with the help of the Devil's plant.

Door: Save it for your Norml message board.

The Gooch: You're the one who brought up weed. I'm not allowed to defend myself?

Door: Alright, fine. Fair enough. So let's just say, for argument's sake, that the laws against weed are unjust and that you use it sparingly and responsibly like an adult. If that's the case, how come you told your sister you weren't high when she asked you?

The Gooch: I don't know.

Door: Sure you do.

The Gooch: It was embarrassing. What do you want me to say? She asked if I was high because it sounded like I was freaking out unnecessarily. I didn't want her to think that because I was high, I was therefore stupid enough to lock myself in my own apartment.

Door: But isn't that what happened?

The Gooch: No. What happened is that you never told me you had a slave lock.

Door: Or, you got high, made a terrible decision, compounded that terrible decision with a refusal to listen to the reasonable means of solving the problem you were presented with -- because, I must emphasize, you were high and therefore paranoid and freaking out -- then you lied when your sister, sensing that something was up, asked if you were high. Fast forward an hour or two, she came and saved your dumb ass from yourself, and here we are now.

The Gooch: Yeah, I dismissed her suggestions from freeing me from a prison THAT YOU CREATED WITH YOUR REFUSAL TO COMMUNICATE WITH ME a little too eagerly at first, but after we talked it over we both decided that what was best was for her to come to my apartment so I could slip her the key under the door--

Door: What'd you do that with?

The Gooch: A butter knife.

Door: (laughs) Oh man, a fucking butter knife. I love it. I really wish I could've been on the other end of that door watching my dumb ass brother shove a key through the crack with a butter knife. You have to admit, that's fucking classic.

The Gooch: (mumbles)

Door: What?

The Gooch: Alright, it's sort of funny. You're still a fucking asshole.

Door: Look, I'm sorry man. Seriously.

The Gooch: Then stop laughing, you fucking jackass.

Door: Alright, alright. I'm sorry. Look, no laughing. I'm sorry man. Do you forgive me?

The Gooch: Yeah, I forgive you, asshole. Just don't pull any bullshit like that again.

Door: Ok, ok.

The Gooch: You promise?

Door: Yeah, I fucking promise.

The Gooch: Alright.

[a brief, awkward pause]

The Gooch: You wanna smoke a bowl?

Door: I can't. I'm a door.

The Gooch: Oh yeah, sorry. I

Publish Post

forget sometimes.

Door: No biggie. I'll just watch. I always do.

The Gooch: Alright, talk to you later man.

Door: Peace, son.

The Most Pressing Issue of Our Time (via Pitchfork Readers Poll)

My vote is for #5. I don't understand how we all haven't tired of the chillwave/glo-fi trend that has completely saturated the culture this year.

Next on Cool in Your Code

is Cool in Your Code.

That's right, from the maker's of Cool in Your Code comes Cool in Your Code, the show that puts Cool in Your Code.

But first, a word from Cool in Your Code's sponsor, Cool in Your Code.

Cool in Your Code.

And on the Fifth Day, Mostly out of Boredom, God Said...

Found in the Office Book Exchange

I'm Doing My Part to Help the Knicks Clear Cap Space for 2010

Are you?

Why Hello There, Giant Splotch of White Paint

You're looking quite unsightly today, aren't you? I mean, you've really been spilled all over the place! The sidewalk, the street. You've gotta be what, 10, 15 feet long? Maybe 6 feet wide? Nicely done. I'm serious. That's impressive. Really, truly impressive. You are a tremendous eye sore and you should be proud of yourself.

Aaaaanyway, I noticed that you appeared without explanation the other day, and I just wanted to stop by and welcome you to the neighborhood!

My name's Aldous Gooch and I live right next door in the apartment building with all the senior citizens and orthodox Jews. Some of them might not take kindly to you at first, as you're a little different than the rest of us, but I think you'll make a lovely addition to the neighborhood, you inexplicable explosion of white paint, you. Say, you are white paint, aren't you? Lord knows I've been wrong about this sort of thing before.

You are? Great. That's just great. I think you and me are gonna get along just fine. If you ever need to borrow a leaf or maybe a dried up piece of bloody scalp to get stuck in you, please don't hesitate to stop by. I'm in the apartment between the lady who always puts her cat in the hallway and the family who's had the same cheap, plastic Happy Birthday banner hanging from their door for the past month and a half.

Anyway, it was real nice to meet you, filthy white splotch, but I've got to run. I'm running a little late for work. You take care, alright?

Alright.

Hey, Hot Drunken Ambulance Thief!

Yeah, I'm talking to you. Do you see any other other sneaky-sexy ambulance thieves around here? Hold on, slow down, I want to talk to you for a second.

Look, I heard about your whole predicament. You're probably pretty embarrassed, huh?

Don't want to talk about it?

Believe me, I understand. But I think you should know that I'm coming to you as a friend here. I only want to help you out. You wanna know why? Because I admire the hell out of you, that's why. You're a free spirit. Something pops into your head that sounds like fun and you go for it. You do it. You're not afraid to let your freak flag fly. You want to get drunk and drive an ambulance 50 miles to hunt down your ex-boyfriend? You get drunk and drive an ambulance 50 miles to hunt down your ex-boyfriend. You want to give an interview in hand cuffs? You give that fucking interview in handcuffs.

Excuse my language, but this is exciting stuff.

Now let's be honest, here, shall we? I think we all know that just because you're a free spirit doesn't mean you couldn't stand to make a little money. Am I right? We all need to make a living, don't we?

Listen. I don't want to get your hopes up, 'cause these things don't always work out the way you think they will, but I've been around the block a few times, and I think -- now I'm being completely honest with you here -- I think that we could stand to make a lot of money on this thing.

That's right. Money. And the best part is, you've already done all the heavy lifting. Look at this Youtube clip you've got. Now you might look at this and think "Oh no, I'm so embarrassed." But where you see unfathomable embarrassment, I see a mine full of diamonds. Have you ever seen what a diamond looks like when you first dig it out of the Earth? No? Well let me tell you, it doesn't look like much. It's dirty, first of all, completely covered in thick, black soot. It's also got a weird, lumpy shape. When you first see a diamond fresh out of the diamond mine, you think to yourself, "this is a diamond? I don't see what all the fuss is about."

But then you get somebody to come in who knows their way around a diamond, and that somebody will start to mold that diamond. That somebody will begin to brush the dirt off of it and clean it up. That somebody will give it the perfect shape. That somebody will polish it and set it in a beautiful golden ring. That somebody will turn that dirty lump of coal into 10 carats of happiness.

I can be that somebody for you. I can take the diamond that is this Youtube clip, polish it, massage it, then sell it to the masses by the FISTFUL!

How?

Easy.

First you make sure it becomes a viral meme. That's what they call it when everybody emails a video or a picture to each other at work. Trust me, I got that part all figured out. I send this thing to the right people -- and believe me, I know the right people -- and it's all over the internet quicker than you can pull your cell phone out of your pocket.

So now you've got the meme. You've got a little bit of buzz going. You've got that recognizable face, but what do you do then? How do you convert that cachet into cash?

What you do is, you keep the momentum going. You record, let's say, a funny rap song about the whole thing. Look, I already did a mock-up of the artwork for the digital single:

Or maybe you wanna be a singer. We could do that too. Whatever you want. Think of this thing not only like a diamond, but like a key. Like a diamond-encrusted key. Better yet, like a diamond-encrusted key to the city. Only the city is the Universe, and it's sitting on a huge mountain of cash that it's holding just for you.

I'm telling you. This thing right here is the key to a whole new you. Whatever you want to do with your career you can do.

I'm talking music. I'm talking movies. I'm talking clothing lines, fragrances. What's your drink? Vodka? You want your own brand of vodka? Instant best seller, right there.

So what do you say, kid? You want in? You ready to take this thing all the way to the top?

Great! That's fantastic news. Here's my card. Now you just come to this address on Wednesday at 10:00 am sharp. The first thing we'll need to do is take some head shots, so make sure you bring a check for $1,000 made out to Gold Standard Modeling Agency, and we'll get you all set up.

Oh, that's something everybody needs in this business. And with a case like yours, you'll make that money back within a week. Then once we really get rolling, a thousand bucks will be like pocket change to you. You'll laugh about the time you cared about a thousand bucks when you're sipping mimosas on your 100 foot yacht docked a mile off shore from your very own private island.

The name? Well, I run a modeling agency as my main business, but I'm branching out into representing actors, musicians, and what we call instant celebrities. That's what you're gonna be. An instant celebrity.

So will I see you on Wednesday?

Fantastic. Can't wait to get started.

Brooklyn > Manhattan

C'mon

There's no reason to name your bar Bonner's. It's one letter away from Boner's.

I don't think that's immature of me to say.

Why name your bar something even the least bit distracting? Why give your potential patrons thoughts of anything other than the good times, camaraderie, cool drinks, career bartenders, shuffle board hustlers, Polaroids of fat men's asses, anti-Muslim bathroom graffiti, and middle aged women dancing alone to classic rock cover bands they are sure to find within?

I don't care if your dead mother's name is Vulvva McHarrdon. There's no excuse for naming your establishment something that so closely resembles a naughty word like that.

It's naughty, you hear me‽

So do yourself a favor and rename your bar, Connor Bonner. It's an embarrassment to the city of Philadelphia. A city with this building featured prominently in its skyline:

C'mon.

Interior Monologue of the 3 Year Old at Last Night's Phish Show

HOLY SHIT THAT GUY'S GONNA CRUSH ME!

Fluuuuuuuffy. I said-a, I said-a Fluuuuuuuuffy.

Daddy looks happy.

Fluffy-luffy-duffy-duffy, fluff-fluff head.

FUCK! THIS FAT ASSHOLE SPILLED A BEER ALL OVER ME!

Fluffitty. Duffity. Muffity. Buffity.

Mommy has the fire in her mouth again.

Ticky-tocky-ticky-tocky-tick-tock-doo. Poopie-woopie-boopie-toopie-schmoopie-roo.

AH! WATCH OUT! THERE'S A FUCKING BABY DOWN HERE!

Bib. Do the bib.

Do the bib. Do the bob. Do the bib.

My fate was sealed when my father's sperm met my mother's egg.

My my my poker face, my my poker faaaaaaace.

Question You Won't Find on any Psychological Profile Quiz based on Jungian Typologies

Are you honest with yourself?

This Could Be! (An Everlasting Love)

What the hell is that? Hold up, lemme pause this shit for a second.

 

Is that cotton candy? That shit looks hurt. Who's responsible for that raggedy-ass "treat."

 

Who?

 

Oh. Right. You.

 

Makes sense. You would be responsible for this mess. Look, "Supercool Beas." I know you don't wanna be here. Nobody likes charity. Not you. Not me. Not the people you're humoring with your half-assed carny impersonation. It's a goddamn lose/lose situation, is what it is. But even the most disinterested asshole could twirl a better cotton candy than that.

I mean, you gotta give me something.

Well, maybe this isn't all bad. You know my boy the indefatigable weave? You remember him?

 Right. Him. Anyway, I was talking to him the other day and he was telling me he could use a friend up there in mangy inanimate object heaven.

Think you could tell your boy Sorry-Ass Cotton Candy, may he rest in peace

to hit up my boy once he gets up there? They call him Inde-DUB on the inside.

Yeah? You could do that?

Aight, cool.

Peace, man.

Absolut Gulden's

The Life and Graceful Death of a Clementine Peel