If I were a cop, I’d just park across the street from a KFC/Taco Bell every night. I mean, it’s gotta be a 100% arrest rate when people drive out of the drive-thru, right? Anyone buying an actual bucket of chicken or a sandwich with two pieces of fried chicken used as the bread are on drugs 1,976% of the time. If you are a policeman and you are reading this, congratulations. I just got you promoted to a job where you don’t have to sit outside of a KFC/Taco Bell arresting people.

I am confused by people who sign up to be urologists for a living. Look. I’m just sayin’. I don’t know how much the money differential is, but I’m guessing it’s a lot or most of these guys are closeted, because I have one and even I would argue that I don’t really want to look at penises for a living. Like, you had a choice. Of ANY body part, and you said, “Penises. I choose to look at Penises for a living.” Really? Were the check boxes like this?

YOUR CHOICES:

Face Doctor – 200k w/ benefits.

Foot Doctor – 300k w/ benefits, because feet are weird.

Penis Doctor – 1 BILLION DOLLARS. ANY AMOUNT OF MONEY YOU WANT. SERIOUSLY. YOU’RE GOING TO LOOK AT PENISES ALL DAY.

*My favorite part about writing this…when I did about two months ago…was finding out approximately one week later that my cousin Laura is a urologist. I’m sorry Laura. I’m a dick. HEY-O!

I have a pediatric electrolyte supplement drinking problem. You should read that back, but out loud this time. It turns out it’s a killer way to cure a hangover. The only catch is that you’re drinking something that a baby drinks when it has diarrhea. So, you can imagine how that conversation is when you ask a Walgreen’s employee where the baby formula aisle is with no baby in sight. Or what it looks like when you are feverishly pounding a bottle of grape on your way to work and people in other cars are looking at you. Ready for this? I now even eat the FREEZER POPS that they sell, because that’s not weird. But hey, guess what: I’m hydrated, motherf*cker. What are you?

I don’t understand how people design traffic light systems. It just seems like it would be really complicated. I know, because in Sim City I was terrible at it and it had to be the most stressful thing in the world when my not real people were getting in not real traffic jams that were making them late for their not real home lives, which presumably caused them to get not real divorced and THAT’S ON ME AND I LIVE WITH IT EVERY SINGLE DAY.

Oh, Republicans. You guys had it so easy in the coming election year. I say that because America is generally batshit crazy and I just figured that they wouldn’t be cool with having a black guy as our president for more than four years before they had a “THE CIVIL WAR ISN’T OVER” panic attack. To be fair, it sort of still sounds like that’s happening. And in that instance, it seems like to win the hearts of your batshit crazy cohorts, all you had to do was nominate two “not black guys” and…no, you know what? You honestly had to just nominate anyone who didn’t sound like they had been drinking all morning before they started filming things and you probably would have had the next President elect. But you sure found a way to…not do that. Your current nominee options are Rick Perry, Mitt Romney and Newt Gingrich. So basically:

1) The only guy in Texas who manages to make George Bush look like a Rhodes Scholar.

2) A crazy Mormon who believes in magical underpants. (!!)

and

3) ….Newt Gingrich. Who I’m pretty sure has been running for president since 1848. (Probably not gonna happen, big guy. Maybe sit this one out.)

What’s even more amazing is that you ruled out one other guy because he was quoting Pokemon in his speeches. (!!!)

So, in advance, may I say thank you from every Democrat. We’re running against the equivalent of mouth breathers in sweatpants with weird mustard stains in the corner of their lips. Things are looking up.

There are too many toothpaste options these days, and my neurotic brain can’t handle it. 

Toothpaste Brand: “Do you want whitening?”

Drew: “Sure.”

Toothpaste Brand: “Do you want tartar control?”

Drew: “I mean, I’d assume so, sure…you guys are the experts.”

Toothpaste Brand: “Do you want extra whitening?”

Drew: “…well, sure. Why didn’t you just put the ‘extra’ in the last batch..”

Toothpaste Brand: “3-D whitening?”

Drew: “Wait, what?”

Toothpaste Brand: “How about cavity protection.”

Drew: “Dude, what the f*ck. Why wasn’t I getting that before?”

Toothpaste Brand: “How about an extreme clean?”

Drew: “…”

Then again, I guess I’ve never been able to make up my mind about this. Ever.

Rocket Shoes Mixtape 56: A Mix For Cops To Listen To Outside of a KFC/Taco Bell

Stream the whole thing at the link above (or by clicking on the picture with too much toothpaste in it).

Or.

Download the entire thing in adorable little MP3′s right here.

The other day I was talking to my friend Lesley on the subject of how other people are doing that we haven’t spoken to in a while.

By that, I mean we were casually judging the shit out of people’s lives that we:

- Don’t know that well anymore.

- Never knew that well to begin with.

- Actually do not know. Are we friends with them on Facebook? Of course. But we are in no way friends in real life with them because we share absolutely nothing in common besides a casual like of television. Or eating (which are amazing things to be able to “like” on Facebook, ps).

But that’s my point: we were sitting there talking about people’s lives as we know them to be, entirely based upon facts we’d gleamed from reading their Facebook status updates and monitoring the crap they hit “like” for on the internet. Which is the equivalent to deciding whether a baby is doing well or not based on what he made a noise at that day. Spoiler alert: presumably everything.

Which brings me to the amazing portion of the conversation.

Drew: “Have you seen (name of person I am judging) lately? He seems to be doing really well.”

Lesley: “Oh, you’ve talked to him recently?”

Drew: “No. But I saw him standing in front of an expensive home with a nice car and a girl with fake boobs. So, you know. Did the math there.”

Lesley: “Yeah but, who puts shit on Facebook that’s actually happening in their life? If you did, it would be wildly hilarious, or depressing.”

Yes, Lesley. Yes it would.

So I began to think about a world where people actually wrote on Facebook and took the statement, “What’s on your mind?” a bit more…literally.

And these are the funny things I think people would actually say if they were telling the truth on Facbeook.

“Today was pretty great! Went for a run and thought about my ex-girlfriend the entire time and the guy she’s probably sleeping with! I feel great, physically, but mentally I’m a total trainwreck!”

“Sarah is attending ‘Tara’s 31st Part-ay’ on November 6th. She has no idea why, she fucking hates Tara. But, I dunno. Other people are going and she doesn’t want to look like a bitch.”

“Drank an entire bottle of wine last night. Woke up borderline worried I’m an alcoholic.”

“I just made weird faces in the mirror for no apparent reason.”

“I don’t know the capital of Montana.”

“I just paid too much rent for my apartment that I can’t afford again. Tonight I will go to bed terrified of things like bills and whether or not I’m on a good enough life trajectory.”

“I just cried.”

“Just spent a good portion of the night stalking that one girl I saw the other day. I feel a little weird about it. But at least now I know her favorite movie is Weekend at Bernies. Which, to be fair, surprised me a little.”

“Just read my ex’s Facebook wall for about 20 minutes. Who the fuck is Paul? Why is he writing all over her wall? Also: if you want to check out his profile, he always takes out of focus pictures and he’s not funny. I can’t believe she’s dating this douche. (Jenny, if you’re reading this…this is the guy you’re dating now? Are you dating Paul?)”

“I just had an awkward conversation with my boyfriend about moving in together. We fought. So now I’m posting a funny inside joke on his wall that will detract from the conversation that I will bring up again in about a week when I’m drunk and we’re out with friends!”

“I just liked…I mean you know what, I have no idea why I just liked that. Wait, that shit showed up on my newsfeed?”

“Just posted a really great picture of myself someone took two years ago as my profile picture! I never look like that, i’m actually much heavier these days!”

“I just searched ‘male pajama onesie’ on Google. To detract from that, here’s a picture of me without my shirt on looking masculine.”

“I wonder if I’ll be alone forever! LOVE YOU, GIRLS, SAT NIGHT WAS TOTES FUN!!”

“I have diarrhea. It’s pretty terrible.”

“I just liked a photo on my friend’s wall. But only because there was a hot girl in it, and I wonder if she saw that I liked it and then checked me out. Probably not. Mike, are you dating that chick? I mean, if not. Just sayin’.”

“I just watched an entire season of The Wire in one sitting. I haven’t showered yet today. I smell terrible.”

“I just went to the bathroom.”

“I am now friends with your friend Jenny. Because I slept with her after the party last night, so logically, now we’re Facebook friends, in a roundabout way of letting everyone know that yes, we’re sort of into each other or at least had relations.”

“I haven’t gone outside yet today. I have no itention to.”

“I went to a fancy restaurant with a one word name so I could tell people about it later!”

“I just played the song ‘A Milli’ by Lil Wayne over and over again until I memorized that one really hard line that I could never get, so that the next time it plays at a party, I’ll know it and recite it and people will notice and be impressed with me.”

“I am searching random diseases I may have on WebMD right now, because I’m neurotic. Oh, and it’s a Saturday night.”

“I just searched ‘Kim Kardashian’ sex tape. For no apparent reason. I’m surprised at how easy that was to find.”

“I just talked to my dog. Like he was a person. I’m home alone.”

So.

You know.

I basically just explained Twitter.

Rocket Shoes Mixtape 55: Unicorns Aren’t Real, Just Like People’s Emotions on Facebook.

Stream the whole thing at the link above.

Or.

Download the entire thing in adorable little MP3′s right here.

I was informed today by someone with a medical degree that I have not been able to close my eyes my entire life.

I’ll wait while you digest that.

No, seriously: A doctor told me that I am incapable, and have been my ENTIRE LIFE, of closing my eyes. (!!!)

This was the actual conversation.

Drew: “My eyes just feel really tired. And dry. Pretty much always. So there’s that.”

(Doctor inspects eyes.)

Doctor: “Well. You can’t fully close your eyes it appears.”

Drew: “…”

Doctor: “Yes. You have a slight opening between your eyelid and your eye. Has anyone ever told you while you were sleeping that your eye is sort of open?”

Drew: “Wouldn’t it be more strange/creepy…take your pick, really…that they were just staring at me in my sleep?”

Doctor: “Well, you can’t close your eyes fully. So you’re eyes are just permanently dry. We’ll have to get you some eye drops and..”

Drew: “Can we go back to the part where I’ve never closed my eyes my entire life?”

Doctor: “Sure.”

Drew: “Could we fix that?”

Doctor: “No. I mean, technically you’ve always had one eye open!”

(Doctor laughs at her own joke.)

(Drew does not laugh at doctor’s joke.)

I’m clearly presented with two options: be wildly depressed that I’m always going to be sort of tired looking, or simply embrace the fact that oh my god there are so many funny jokes that could come out of this.

I’ll obviously choose a healthy dose of both. But the latter is way more fun.

Here are some things that I now know about my life, and/or things that you could laugh about due to the fact that I have theoretically never actually closed my eyes.

I have technically been cheating at hide-n-go-seek my entire life. So, sorry if I ever was “it” and found you really quickly. Apparently I was looking.

I have never lost a staring contest. Ever.

I’m apparently better at not getting shampoo in my eyes than you are. Because we weren’t on an even playing field. On that note…

It totally makes sense why I ALWAYS get suntan lotion in my eyes. This has been a running joke with my friends ever since we were little. We figured I was just the worst at applying suntan lotion, ever. And that may still very well be the case. But still. This makes so much more sense now.

I have never kissed a girl with my eyes closed. So technically, I could be that “creepy guy who always kept his eyes open” to some girl. Sorry, some girl. I was trying.

I could be in a few films and they’d be sort of amazing. 

FILM 1: Don’t Blink – The story of a man whom, after scientific testing by the government gone horribly awry, could no longer keep his eyes closed. Though a tortured soul, I’d become a huge asset to the government, as I would be an ideal sniper and/or guy who stays up on watch all night. Sample dialogue:

Bad Guy: “Blink and you might miss it.”

Drew: “Don’t worry. (GUN COCKING NOISE). I won’t.”

FILM 2: Cries WIthout Tears – The story of a man born into a Native American tribe who is originally cast aside…but then brought in as one of their own when they realize he can’t close his eyes and they realize his gift for “seeing everything” they cannot, both metaphorically and literally, of course.

I can’t wink. At least now I have a bad/good excuse.

I have a really good excuse for having red eyes if anyone ever says I look high. I can just tell them that my eyes are open ALL THE TIME and i’m NOT LYING. Like, what?

And finally…It’s always going to make me laugh now when Aladdin says “Don’t you dare close your eyes!” during the song A Whole New World.

Because I can’t, Aladdin.

I can’t.

Rocket Shoes Mixtape 54: Songs That Are Great, Even If You Can’t Close Your Eyes. Ever.

Stream the whole thing at the link above.

Or.

Download the entire thing in adorable little MP3′s right here.

I am not a competitive person by nature. I’m certainly not someone who’s ever going to get something by means of bargaining or having that “killer instinct” that people speak of that gets you ahead in life.

(Side note: Can we talk about how messed up the term “killer instinct” is? We casually throw around that people have an instinct that gets them ahead in life because it resembles a cold blooded human being who kills other people for sport. That’s cool. You can have the last Tostito.)

I was thinking about this the other day, and I realized that this is why I’ve always been terrible at board games. And, inversely, why I’ve been terrible at a lot of rudimentary things in life. Money management. Property acquisition. The ability to completely screw someone over without wanting to talk about their feelings afterwards.

And when you think about it: board games are actually just a really f*%ked up way to learn about life and how it’s going to go down. Essentially, we’re providing children an oddly solid grasp of how the world works through a man with a monocle and a game revolving around murdering people in rooms with silly names.

So. Of course. I went fifteen steps further and started overanalyzing it.

Here’s a breakdown of a few popular board games you probably grew up with and the life lessons they were probably striving to teach you.

Monopoly

Monopoly is a game that, title alone, should be a red flag. When you grow up, you learn that having a “monopoly” over anything is everything that is wrong in the world, so much so that we’re having a bunch of protests regarding such behavior right now. But guess what: slap a shoe or a small terrier and some colors on it, and you’ve got yourself a hilarious game in which you strive to push your friends into bankruptcy.

Let’s go through this.

The point of the game is to buy property while every now and then crossing an ambiguous place called “go” to sustain a bank account (pssst: in the real world it’s called “paycheck every two weeks”). The larger goal is to “monopolize” the board. To literally buy everything and charge anyone for going near it. From time to time you go to jail (which oddly just sorta flies under the radar, I mean..who’s like “Whoops! Carl went to jail again, I sure hope he rolls doubles!”). Oh, and also? There’s a part of the board called “chance”, slightly indicating to children that from time to time things might go horribly wrong or great for no apparent reason. Oh, and once a friend gets poor? You become a maniacal, horrible person who sits and waits to literally charge the crap out of them for nothing.

This game apparently did nothing for my property owning and renting skills, as I still seem to be playing the board game in real life, except now I make the same horrible fiscal decisions but with real money:

Drew: “So the place comes with -398 sq feet, the bathroom is pretty much inside of the room, which, let’s be real Bob, we’ll just call it a room because the bedroom is a part of the ‘room’ i’ll be renting out. The stove doesn’t work. There is a Mexican coke dealer who lives next door, and my hallway looks like the scene from The Shinning with the two little girls.”

Landlord: “It’s about $1400 dollars and..”

Drew: “I’LL TAKE IT!”

The game takes 4,978 hours to play, is run by an adorable man with a silly monocle and most people die before they can even finish it or reap the benefits of their investments.

Just sayin’.

Battleship

Battleship is a game that lets people know how the world works if you were to ever go to war. Basically: fire missiles with blatant disregard as to who or where you are shooting them at, hope they hit something, and if they do continue to do so until someone dies a horrible death. If this game is correct, it takes approximately 3-5 ambiguous missiles to destroy ships.

So that’s cool.

Life

Life is probably the most wildly accurate of any game. Ready?

The game literally emulates life in the most depressing regard ever.

It’s tag line? It’s a game of twists and turns/Where will your choices take you? (I mean, Jesus.)

You go around a board and either get a good job or a bad job. If you go to college? You can make more money and eventually end up at a place called Millionaire Acres. If you don’t? You can actually go to a place called the poor farm (I mean, again..Jesus).

When you have children in the game, they are identified as a peg you throw in the back of your car. If you obtained a fifth child, you had to lay them sideways in your vehicle because that was the board game way of saying use a goddamn condom.

And there was a tile on the board that you could land on titled “Revenge.”

That shit’s real, kids.

Guess Who

During your childhood, you are taught to never talk to strangers. When you grow up, you learn that the entire goal of life is to talk to strangers until one of them eventually sleeps with you and you make babies with them.

Guess Who emulates for children the practice of going to a bar: you throw out random attributes that someone may or may not have. When you eventually get close enough to guessing what you’re looking for, you win.

Fairly accurate.

Operation

When you grow up, you may want to go into the field of medicine. When you do, if you want to make the big bucks, you should look into being a surgeon (or a lawyer, Mom, I know…I KNOW).

If you do become a surgeon, this game is really going to f*%king pay off.

Essentially, just try to open someone up and do not hit the ambiguous “sides”. Make sure to use tweezers to remove the bad things. If you do this successfully, you make a shit ton of money. If you don’t, their nose will illuminate. That or the red light that signifies their heart has stopped beating.

I was bad at this game. Sorry, Jewish family.

Clue

Clue was pretty amazing. A big no-no in life is killing people, in general. A big yes-yes in life is pointing the finger at people and blaming them without much real reasoning or backing: just have a vague idea that they were the one that did “it” (‘it” being anything, really) and throw the book at them (turns out the legal system is pretty close to the game Clue, which is in no way terrifying).

The best part about Clue is that they didn’t just let children know that people are probably going to kill people when they grow up, they let them know that they are presumably going to do it in some of the most f*%ked up ways possible.

For instance, one day you may be trapped in a place where an attractive woman will either have a lead pipe, a gun, a rope that she will hang you with, a candlestick or a wrench. When people aren’t looking, she is going to kill you. Good luck.

So, you know. Don’t kill people. But if you are ever in a situation where someone has a lead pipe, a gun, a rope that they will hang you with, a candlestick or a wrench? It’s best to at least know what room they are going to do it in.

At least then you’ll win.

Sorry

Sorry is, without question, my favorite board game. There doesn’t seem to be a lot of real life going on here. But ohhhhh that’s where you’re wrong.

The whole point of Sorry is to just get home. That’s it. You just want to get your people home. Which, metaphorically, seems sort of heartwarming.

But here’s the catch:

Do not EVER turn your back, kids, because some fucker is going to come out of nowhere and he/she is going to ruin your goddamn day and completely stab you in the back. To make matters worse, they are required to say, “sorry” when they do.

But. I mean.

At least they’ll say sorry.

It’s the little things, I guess.

Rocket Shoes Mixtape 53: In Retrospect, Board Games Are Sorta F*%ked Up

Stream the whole thing at the link above.

Or.

Download the entire thing in adorable little MP3′s right here.

Play Jenga. It’s really anticlimactic when you play yourself.

Go to a farmer’s market on a Sunday. Seriously, go without a cute girl. “Yeah, just pickin’ up my organic blueberries. You, uh…you come to this…stand…often?” It’s like a really, really refined creepy.

Pronounce words like acai, or have any idea what that is. For some reason, girls just know these things. Like they grew up, got a “smell amazing” kit and learned how to pronounce fruits with strange accent marks in their spelling.

Figure out if it’s “it’s” or “its” in that one sentence you just wrote. Because everyone has their grammatical achilles heel. And couches don’t know the difference when you ask. Also, see what I did there? I hope so.

Watch Sex and the City. Yeah. I think it’s a good show. And when you own these DVD’s and you’re a male living alone, a lot of questions start coming into play. A lot. And I dare you to watch it on Netflix. Oh, I dare you. Just pray that it doesn’t make suggestions for you after that. “That’s so weird that Netflix recommends other shows about women that only women would watch, I usually only watch action films where things explode and people die. Strange.” (FUCK YOU, JUDGMENTAL GUY. DID YOU KNOW THAT ROGER STERLING FROM MAD MEN WAS ON IT? YEAH. HE WAS. AND HE WAS GREAT.) (OH, AND I REALLY LIKE THE CHARACTER STEVE. HE IS A NICE PERSON.)

Fart on accident. Because your television doesn’t care when you do. And that first time that you do around someone you’re dating is always sorta funny: turns out both of you have a butt.

Rationalize going to Bed Bath and Beyond on a sunday to buy throw pillows. To be fair…they really brought the apartment together. 

See if your bald spot is growing. For some reason, taking a picture of the top of your head is wildly depressing. Especially when you forget to delete it and then someone looks through your phone and finds pictures of the top of your head…that you took. That’s worse than like, midget porn.

Stay in. For some reason, the only rational reasons for staying in on a Friday or Saturday night are: you’re dying, you’re working, you’re working while dying, or you’re in a relationship.

Argue with a girlfriend. Which, face it…though sort of miserable sometimes, there’s always the fun part where you pretend nothing was ever wrong and then you think she smells of cinnamon again and you want to buy a dog named Bob with her, because wouldn’t it be funny if you got a dog and gave it a human name? “You hungry, Bob?” Just sorta sounds like some dude who lives at your house.

Wear a scarf. Because if you wear a scarf and no one likes it, I just assume you can say that “fill in the blank name of my future girlfriend” liked it, so I wore it for her. And then casually take it off when no one is really looking.

Wear hilarious two person costumes on halloween that require a male and a female. Can you do this with a friend? Sure. But…look. I was Cookie and Gerry Fleck with a girl one year. And let’s just say the “in character” shots and prep of it were enough to wife someone up. Because someone who’s willing to publicly embarrass themselves for you and be completely and totally blind to the fact that it’s happening in the process? That’s love.

Watch Disney movies that you know the lyrics to…and sing them. You know what? No. Forget that. If you can’t accept that I like the song Under the Sea, you’re a bad person and I will treat you like a pedophile: please stay at least 1,000 feet away from me.

Tie a tie. Because I still don’t know how to do that. And I will look forward to the day that I can go to big boy events because my girlfriend teaches me how to do this in the mirror. So that I can not comprehend it. But at least it’ll be endearing.

Rocket Shoes Mixtape 52: It’s Okay For Guys To Watch Sex and the City Because The Word “Sex” Is In The Title.

Stream the whole thing at the link above.

Or.

Download the entire thing in adorable little MP3′s right here.

When my friend Ryan and I heard that Nike was finally making the shoes Marty wears in Back To The Future 2, our heads exploded. Then we were bummed out that there was no way we were going to get a pair, because they are only auctioning 1,500 pair. Then we got a plan.

This is our craigslist ad below.

–

SUBJECT: It’s time to go back to the future, motherf*%#ker

Guess what: the future is finally here and Nike made those badass shoes that Marty McFly wears in Back To The Future 2.

Guess what: there are only 1,500 pair that are going to be auctioned. So, they are unaffordable for anyone you and I know (you’re on craigslist, so don’t argue that), and the only people wearing them are going to be “that d-bag who made a startup missing a letter in the word who got a round of funding for an app that’s going to fail in 3 months.”

Fuck that.

It’s time to go back to the future, mothefucker.

We want people as nerdy as us to go in on the ultimate nerd timeshare: part ownership in a pair of shoes that will do the opposite of getting you laid, but totally get you TONS of high fives from other nerds:

My friend and I want to create a strong enough bid to get a pair of the Air Mag’s in the eBay auction.

Imagine going to a bowling alley and dropping one of those puppies on the counter and being like, “you got anything in a LACELESS SIZE 10 1/2 YO?” BAM. I’M NOT MESSING AROUND (Drops Gray’s Sports Almanac like the mic, walks away).

Here is some criteria.

- You should probably be between a size 10 and 11. To be fair, this sh*t is from the future and laces itself, so it’s probably better to have a smaller foot than a larger one if you don’t fit the criteria, because we figure it’d be like BAM, size 9? We can adjust to that.

- We’re not looking for the $1 “haha that’s cute, i’m in!” bidders. Hell no. Be serious. Bring like, $200 bucks to the table or nothing. This is a time share, so you’re gonna get these shoes for a little bit of the year and then mail them along to the next Marty McFly. If 52 people gave $200, that’s about a $10,000 bid. So if we won, we’d all get them for about a week of the year, which would probably be the coolest week of your life.

- Ability to quote BTTF 1 or 2 is a plus. 3 was kinda crap. Let’s be real (only one of the founding member’s opinions).

All the money from these auctions will go to Michael J. Fox’s Parkinson’s charity. So think of this like “Toms for Marty McFly.” Plus, Elizabeth Shue was in Part 2, and she’s really hot.

If you’re interested, contact us at hoverboarddontworkonwater@gmail.com. If we actually get enough serious people, we’ll kickstarter the shit out of this shit.

Amazingly? hoverboardSdontworkonwater@gmail.com was taken. So we know you other dorks exist.

Make like a tree and get on board. SEE WHAT WE DID THERE, BIFF TANNEN??

13 Year Old: “What’s a pager?”

Me: “Oh. It was this device that I wore on my pants. My friends would call a number that would sound like an answering machine. And when they did, they’d enter in a number for me to call them at. It’s like, someone saying…’hey, call me.’ It was like…analog texting.”

13 yo: “What does analog mean?”

Me: “I don’t know. Not fancy.”

13 yo: “What’s an answering machine?”

Me: “There used to be machines. That literally picked up the phone and recorded things when you weren’t home. Like a..”

13 yo: “Why wouldn’t you just text them?”

Me: “Oh, we used to not actually like, have cell phones. So texting didn’t exist. People would just go outside. And hang out with other people. You had to, you couldn’t just text and shit.”

13 yo: “So instead you wore something in your pants that couldn’t make phone calls?”

Me: “Don’t say it like that.”

13 yo: “Why, you wore a robot in your pants. I’m just saying what you said.”

Me: “It wasn’t a robot.”

13 yo: “It sounds like a retarded robot.”

Me: “You’re a retarded robot.”

13 yo: “I don’t get what that means.”

Me: “That’s because you’re young and don’t understand dry wit.”

13 yo: “I don’t get what that means either.”

Me: “See?”

13 yo: “But I still don’t get a pager. Why wouldn’t you just call people?”

Me: “Because we would be out and wouldn’t have phones. So, friends could page you. And you’d call them from like, a pay phone or whatever. And you could write things in “pager code”. Like 07734 was hello. And 143 meant I love you…which, in retrospect, is a bit aggressive for a 13 year old. Don’t tell anyone you love them yet, you don’t. Christ, I sound depressing.”

13 yo: “What’s a pay phone?”

Me: “They used to have phones all over the place that you could call people on. You’d put money in it. Didn’t your generation see The Matrix yet?”

13 yo: “What’s The Matrix?”

Me: “Jesus.”

13 yo: “Nobody calls anyone. Why don’t you just write them on Facebook or tweet at them.”

Me: “We didn’t have Twitter or Facebook then. You had to meet people. Like, for real. And wait, why do you have a Facebook account? Or a Twitter account? You’re too young for that shit. And wait, do you read my stuff? Don’t take that stuff seriously.”

13 yo: “Why wouldn’t I have Facebook and Twitter. And yeah, I’ve read your stuff. You swear a lot. If you didn’t have Facebook or Twitter how did you know if you liked a girl?”

Me: “Oh, we talked to her. She’d tell us about things. Like, interests. And then I’d tell her things. Like, interests.”

13 yo: “That sounds exhausting.”

Me: “How do you know the word exhausting?”

13 yo: “I’m 13. Are you serious?”

Me: “Just seems like a big word. You’re very little. Like, physically. So I just figured you wouldn’t know that word.”

13 yo: “That makes no sense.”

Me: “You make no sense.”

13 yo: “Every one of your jokes just seems to be you saying what I just said back to me.”

Me: “I know. Because it’s hilarious. What are you looking at?”

13 yo: “Instagram.”

Me: “Unreal that you know what that is.”

13 yo: “My friend just posted a picture. She’s hot. I liked it.”

Me: “I’m worried for your generation. You guys are gonna just stop talking altogether. Like, little ‘like’ buttons just walking around. BOOP! I ‘like’ you.”

13 yo: “You have a blog.”

Me: “What does that have to do with anything?”

13 yo: “You’re worse than me. Have you seen your blog?”

Me: “We’re not talking about me.”

13 yo: “I am.”

Me: “I miss when you were dumb and just listened to anything I said.”

13 yo: “I miss when you thought I didn’t understand sarcasm.”

(FIVE DAYS LATER)

13 yo: “Hey. I saw The Matrix. It sucked.”

—

Rocket Shoes Mixtape 51: Songs To Say 143 To

Stream the whole thing at the link above.

Or.

Download the entire thing in adorable little MP3′s right here.

Attending a music festival is fantastic. It’s like a hipster football game: you throw on your gear (Toms, American Apparel hoodie instead of your favorite player’s jersey) and do as much as you possibly can to break the rules of the venue without getting thrown out. I am so jealous of anyone who is going to one for the first time: it’s basically like getting dropped off at college when you were 18. If this is your first year going to one, this is me being a protective parent adjusting your coat before I send you to the bus stop…

This is generally what I’ve come to know about going to a music festival.

Bring your alcohol in plastic bottles that are from eco-friendly companies and put them in an unassuming tote bag that also features a nice cheese or sandwich.

What ceases to amaze me is how not difficult it is to bring in copious amounts of alcohol to a music festival. Apparently, the crack squad at the door usually doesn’t suspect much/care much about you if you appear to wash your hair 3-5 times a week, aren’t wearing tie-dye and bring in an artisan food of some sort. My friends, two years running, have brought in large bottles of alcohol (of course in Nalgene bottles, because anything that’s good for the environment is okay), and I stand to reason that they only reason they don’t get a hard time is because they also brought in a cheese that no one has ever heard of. It works. Promise.

*Writers Note: I just attended Lollapalooza, and apparently this is not the case there. You don’t even have to hide it in Chicago. The rules there seem to be akin to jail, where even though you “can’t bring anything in”, the guards seem to be pretty loosey goosey on this, as everyone has a shiv and/or drugs (which I know entirely from television and not actually attending jail). At Lollapalooza, you could honestly bring in four bombs and a case of vodka and they wouldn’t care. Oddly, though, the minute you bring in aerosol suntan lotion THAT IS IT. OKAY, THAT IS IT.

Smoke Drugs. Just know what you’re getting into.

Odds are, if you are going to a concert there is a chance you will do drugs. Odds are that drug is marijuana. If you are doing other drugs at concerts, you probably aren’t reading this, because you are a drug addict and are too busy making a to-do list or acquiring drugs somewhere.

Weed is fantastic. It’s hilarious, you laugh a lot, music sounds good. But here’s the thing:

Music festivals are good for at least one or two awkward run-in’s. And do you know what you don’t want to be when you have an awkward run in? On drugs.

San Francisco is not a large city. The fact that everyone talks to everyone on the internet every five seconds does not help the matter. And the fact is, a music festival is a very large steel cage match in which all of your obstacles will be placed: your boss, your ex, your other ex, the person you gave the casual “fade-out” to who doesn’t quite constitute “ex” status. They are all there. So if you smoke weed? Just remember that it’s “drug law” that you will run into these people in the most uncomfortable situation possible. Namely the bathroom line where there is nowhere to go, and everyone is listening to (and judging the quality of) your conversation.

The beach ball thing has gotten out of control.

During any show, it is custom for people to inflate a beach ball and smack it in the air. People at music festivals are like small children and/or cats: we are amused by flying objects and giggle at the idea of smacking it. Lately though, the beach balls are getting smaller, and people are literally going after them like foul balls at a baseball game. You may as well bring a helmet, because “guy on E” is probably going to try to play whack-a-mole with your head. It’s funny the first time, but unlike watching a cat go after a string…it gets real old real fast when your head is the string. Spoiler alert: people on drugs have poor accuracy when trying to hit a flying object.

Break the seal wisely.

Music festivals (well, concerts in general) are a tricky peeing playground. It is all rather backwards, but you have no choice: people pay money to go stand in a cattle-like herd of people and challenge themselves to drink more liquid than the human body is capable of retaining. Considering I have the bladder of a small field mouse (which I generally assume to be small, simply due to body mass), this is always a serious anxiety-inducing problem for me: when do I break the seal? Do I really wanna do the “guy who’s gotta pee dance/uncomfortable face/abrupt fragment sentence conversation” thing for the rest of my afternoon/evening when I will inevitably have to pee every 14 seconds? Is there any other way? So just know that if you gotta pee a lot, you’re either gonna be wildly uncomfortable or you are going to have to stand on the outskirts of every show, giving yourself the easy out. One positive take away here: “Guy who’s gotta pee dance” is also what most white guys look like dancing anyway, so…odds are you might get away with that look.

Bring a sweatshirt and expect to have no idea what to do with it for most of the time you are there.

Considering I’m mostly writing this about Outside Lands in San Francisco, it’s a foregone conclusion that you will need to bring a jacket or sweatshirt of some sort. As you know, San Francisco’s weather is quite similar to a person with bipolar disorder. This means that, throughout the day, the over/under on you taking off and putting back on said outerwear is roughly at about 4,297 times. The thing is, you really have nowhere to put the damn thing if you’re not wearing it. As a male, your choices are:

1) Look like a douche and wrap it around your waist. I haven’t found a way to make this look cool since it was okay for me to wear sweatpants to school in the third grade.

2) Wrap it around your neck. But you’re not on a boat. And you’re not a douche, so you can’t do that.

3) Hold it awkwardly, which is frustrating because you are now missing an alcoholic beverage hand.

4) Throw it on the ground. I have done this every time I thought I had only had a few beers. And it turns out Drunk Drew forgets that he put his wooby on the ground every time.

5) Wear it. Whenever you do this, it’s like God is watching and brings the sun out…like changing lanes on the freeway only to find that the 89 year old Asian woman is going to pull right in front of you as you do (it’s okay to be racist if you’re Jewish, feel free to make a joke about my nose or something and we’ll call it even).

On that note…

A music festival is like Halloween.

You could literally show up wearing a snorkel and Uggs and people wouldn’t even flinch. I mean, if you ever wanted to wear some weird shit, now’s the time.

I actually got to thinking about this looking around Lollapalooza…it’s funny how everyone hates the girl whose Halloween costume is “slutty cop/cat/slut”, and then it’s always that judgmental girl who hated that slutty girl who ends up dressing all slutty to a music festival and now it’s “artsy” or “hip”. Look, i’m not complaining…I’m just sayin’.

(Wait, please don’t stop dressing slutty, though.)

There are 320,000,000 bands that play every festival. 

Let me ruin the surprise for you and let you know that you aren’t going to see every one of them. And if you have that one friend who is way too aggressive with their game plan, I’m sorry for you in advance. Please do not bring an excel spreadsheet and a calculator to Disneyland, type a festival goer, we’ll get to Space Mountain on time.

You’re going to have fun no matter what show you see. So just drink beer and relax. By this time next year, there will be 14,208 new bands that other people haven’t heard of yet that you’ll get to see and missing “buzz band x” will be a distant memory. Adjust your Ray Bans and smile.

Leaving is terrible. There is no way around this.

You have to think like it’s the apocalypse at music festivals when you are leaving: it’s essentially just a group of zombies wandering around and any form of transportation is what they are looking for with blood and overpriced beer dripping from their mouths. Music festivals are always in gigantic parks and a grand total of “everyone” wants to attend them. The thing is, there are not teleportation devices yet, so the only way to get home is to walk (turns out this is really far) or to try to take the bus. Guess who else is going to take the bus: everyone at the music festival. It’s gonna be a while, so save some of that alcohol that you didn’t sneak in to the concert. The good news is, the people watching at this moment is worth the price of admission, so soak it in. Try playing a game like “how many people just came out of that bush” or “how many more miles do you think girl with the face paint and feathered hair makes it before she throws up or cries.”

And finally..

Dance. Everyone looks stupid, so just go with it. Don’t pay $300 to stand there and look depressed, Johnny Raincloud.

Rocket Shoes Mixtape 50: A Music Festival Is Just A Hipster Football Game

Stream the whole thing at the link above.

Or.

Download the entire thing in adorable little MP3′s right here. 

Monday

Horrible news arrived today: our eggs have been stolen. No huge surprise here, people have been stealing them for quite some time now. It’s the culprit that boggles me: a malicious pack of angry green legless pigs who may or may not be retarded. Seems like a sick joke, really. We get it: we don’t have wings and we’re a bit vulnerable. But seriously? Malicious green legless pigs? I’ve seen some pretty weird shit in my time, but this is pretty high up on the “what the f*%k” list. To make matters worse, they are apparently building an elaborate obstacle course to get them back. How they’re doing it without legs, I seriously have no idea. Honestly: it’s like Stonehenge threw up on a wooden house frame out there. They’ve even got balloons like it’s some sick and twisted 8 year old’s birthday party.

To keep the flock alive, we don’t really have a choice but to do something about it. We have a meeting a bit later to discuss how to move on from here, but one thing is clear…we’re getting those f*%king eggs back.

Sorry for the sailor’s mouth, it’s just, I dunno…

I’m really f*%king angry.

Tuesday

To no surprise, we’re going with the Mama bird’s son’s plan. I swear to God, a baby chick could have come up with better shit than this. Ready?

He wants to build a slingshot to launch ourselves off of. No, seriously, that’s what our crack squad came up with. I guess we don’t have wings, so lemonade out of lemons and all. But I mean…a slingshot? Really, guys? Hopefully we’ll have an arsenal of helmets, but it doesn’t seem like the plan was really thought out that far ahead.

I’m at a loss for words. I guess all I do is make weird noises, anyway, so that’s not saying much. I have no choice but to report for duty tomorrow when our army assembles. I’m curious to see who I am to go to battle with.

Wednesday

We reported for duty this morning, and if this is what we’re going out there with, my mind is seriously blown. Let me go through the chain of command to illustrate my concerns.

The Reds: Most of my family falls under this line. Basically, we’re a tough crowd with pretty aggressive eyebrows. We don’t have a lot of experience, but we’re angry and we’re willing to throw ourselves into whatever it takes. Modern day bird vikings, really.

The Yellows: They came from another village, and I’ve only heard rumors, but the verdict is out on them. Not exactly one for camouflage. They’ve got some speed, and seem to have a kamikaze mentality, but I’m a bit concerned about the fact that they seem to kind of bitch out when it comes to stone blocks. Great, guys. No problem, that’s pretty much everything we’re going up against. It’s also a bit disconcerting that they are shaped like triangles, but Mom told me never to make fun of how people with deformities look.

The Blues: Freaky sons of bitches. I was about to talk some shit, but when one launched and split into three (!!) I had to show a little respect. They have a bit of a Napoleon complex (one wears a bunch of MMA fighter shirts with corny statements like “size DOESN’T matter” on them…awkward) but I’m proud to have them on my side.

The Black Ninjas: Pretty introverted, but apparently they come from some f*%ked up village where they are trained to kill themselves for honor. The girls are all swooning because they even have exotic ginger eyebrows, which I’m pretty sure should make you a social leper. OooOoOoO I’m a ninja bird. Gimme a f*%king break. Show-offs.

The Whites: We all laughed a bit when these walked in. Basically the poster children for bird obesity problems, and we’re guessing all of them have diabetes…but they have explosive eggs. Which is both disgusting and weird, but could be a huge asset. If fatty wants to help the cause, I’m not gonna argue. Just don’t ask me to carry your cupcakes, Augustus.

I’m not sure how we really plan to do much damage with this rag-tag squad…but I guess to put it in context, we’re going to battle against a clan of mentally retarded green legless pigs. Kind of seems like we could walk in there with squirt guns and a piñata and we’d still probably dominate.

Thursday

We had our first few battles today, and my fear is fading fast. Honestly: the “fortresses” the pigs are building look like something a kindergartner built in homeroom. And we’re really starting to work as a team. These crazy ass birds are my brothers now, and I’d go into any oddly constructed battlefield that mentally retarded green legless pigs built with them any day of the week and twice on Sunday. One thing that’s been getting under my feathers: our captain gives us this vague “rating” after every battle, and it feels like he’s literally just doing it to piss us off. He said we were a “three” on the first one, and then when we were celebrating after our third victory he informed us that we were only operating at a “one.” Way to keep morale up, dick. He keeps asking if we’d like to try again, but that seems a bit masochistic. I want my f*%king eggs back, man. Stop being all judgey-wudgey.

Friday

Shit’s getting real. It took us what felt like hours to destroy one retard pig battlefield today. Seriously: we started at like, 9:15 in the morning and I swear it took until like 7:00 tonight to destroy them. Those retarded pigs are getting smarter. Don’t ask me how they came up with this, but they’re resourceful: they’ve been wearing these giant stone helmets and those little bastards don’t crack easily. I guess when you’re a retarded legless pig you gotta get a little crafty.

In other news, apparently they got an ice machine. They’ve been making finely shaped ice sculptures. Which sorta blows my mind: do they have one pig with like, one arm that is a master ice sculptor? No time to ask questions, though. The eggs are near. I can feel it.

Saturday

In the middle of battle today, some assclown flew in asking us if we needed any help. Calls himself “The Mighty Eagle.” Hey, narcissism, how’s it going? Pretty clear he’s on steroids, but no one wants to call him out on it because he doesn’t seem that emotionally stable.

Hey, guy…know when we needed some help? When our f*%king eggs were stolen. That’s like someone asking you if everything’s okay after you just got shot. No. Everything is not okay. I just got shot.

A few of the guys are really big on him. They think we should take him up on it, but I think that’s some bullshit. Seems pretty douchey to know everything the pigs are doing and then withhold information.

Oh, and get this: he wants us to pay him. First of all: we’re birds. Our currency were eggs, so way to be a dick and rub it in. Also. A dollar? That’s all you’re asking? Something seems a bit off if you have a way to end a war and it costs a buck. Go eagle it up in Rio, brah. And get some Rogaine.

Sunday

In a final epic battle, we took down those legless green retards. I’ve got a pretty bad headache, and the doctors are trying to sort through all of the concussions, but all in all we’re feeling pretty good. I gotta admit, that slingshot turned out to be a pretty sweet idea. I’m willing to eat some crow on that one.

Big party tonight to celebrate. Can’t wait. There’s been talk that the colonels have a surprise for us. Something about using the slingshot to fire us into a birdbath with naked chicks. We could sure use it: we’re exhausted and it’d be nice to finally just be happy. Being this angry is exhausting.

Monday

THOSE F*%KING RETARDED PIGS STOLE OUR EGGS AGAIN.

Rocket Shoes Mixtape 49: Songs I Imagine Angry Birds Listen To On Headphones Before Gametime

Stream the whole thing at the link above.

Or.

Download the entire thing in adorable little MP3′s right here.

There are a lot of very nice people on the internet.

They read things, relate to them, maybe even give you a gold star and go on their merry way. It’s nice. It makes you wanna keep throwing your macaroni art on the fridge. Because, hey, if it makes someone feel good? That’s certainly cheaper than therapy for both of you.

For every nice person, though, there’s “that guy.”

If you’ve ever read anything on the internet (which I know you’re doing right now so we’re one step ahead), you know exactly who I’m talking about. Angry Comment Guy.

He’s certainly allowed to do it if I’m allowed to post anything I want, right? And hell, not everyone is going to like everything you write. Actually? A LOT of people won’t. But that’s why we have amazon.com, the iTunes store, and Google: you can go buy or search for the “anything but this” you desire. I’m okay with that. I guess the minute you post something on the internet and say, “now does anyone have any comments?” You might wanna realize that a few of them aren’t going to be rainbows and butterflies. But it certainly leaves you scratching your head as to how people get so angry. 

The thing that I’ve noticed, though, is that there’s a real art to being angry on the internet. If you analyze it and look closely, there are Rain Man-esque patterns that they follow. It’s captivating to watch Angry Comment Guy fly out of control…like watching a drunk guy challenge an inanimate object to a fight.

I’ve had the recent luck of experiencing Angry Comment Guy in all his glory in the comments section, and wanted to share a few things I’ve noticed about how it works.

This is how to sound angry on the internet.

1) Misspell words. Nothing will convey to people how angered you are than the misspelling of words. This way, we’ll all be able to imagine someone so instilled with rage that they, “culd nat even try to spell theyr werds currectly!” We will be able to imagine an actual argument that would occur in the real world. Loud noises! Sighing and grunting! Overreaction!

2) Read something you already knew you would dislike; react to it. It is in your best interest to find something that you will strongly dislike and read it in it’s entirety. Think of it like this: are you a vegan? Go to a steak house and act outraged that there is no almond butter. Your anger will be predictable, yet deserved: we should have made the steak house vegan for you. Makes total sense.

3) Give an anonymous email in your response, so others cannot react to you. This will hammer home the fact that, while you are upset and want to react to someone’s transparency? You in no way want to reciprocate, but still want to voice your opinion. If this seems like it’s a little too easy…

4) Give a humorous fake email address in your response. This will say, “you are not clever, I AM clever” while also giving the audience a hearty chuckle at just how much more humorous you are. If someone tries to respond to you? What an idiot! die@ihateyou.com isn’t a real email address! Silly happy internet goer. Some sample email addresses to get you started: fuck@you.com, ihate@you.com, youreastupid@face.com, angryangry@hippo.com.

5) Use big words. This will say to everyone that you have gone to college (undergrad at least!) and probably nailed the verbal on your SAT’s. A “vapid” here and a “loquacious” there will go a long way in hammering this home. The internet isn’t fun: it’s serious and it is about huge words. Don’t let people forget that. Bonus angry points: use a cuss word after the big word, but use a “so crass it’s something only an intelligent person would use” cuss word, like c*nt.

6) Make vague allusions to the fact that you went to grad school. If there’s one thing we know about bloggers: they didn’t go to grad school. Heaven knows that you can’t write something if you didn’t read James Joyce.

7) Latch on to other angry people and comment on everything they say. Make sure you only say things like “agreed!” or “yeah!” This will surely let everyone know that you agree with other angry people, and that if you two were at a cocktail party? You would point and laugh while eating dull foods together whilst complaining about everyone at the party, even though you are attending the same party as them.

8 ) Comment at least 6-8 times on the same post that you dislike. One time says “I read this in passing, I dislike it and you.” Anything over one time? That says you disliked it so much that you in NO ironic manner reread the thing you disliked. It also says, “i’m not sure if I’m making myself clear.” This way, it will most definitely be clear.

9) Write an entire blog post in the comments section of the blog you strongly dislike. This way, people will have to come to that blog and read it themselves to read your strong, yet well thought out criticisms of said blog. Now you’ve got them where you want them.

10) Discuss how no one cares about this post. Because that’s why you are taking the time to write about it: you don’t care. If people can’t see that, they probably didn’t go to grad school. If that didn’t make sense, please revisit #6.

If none of this is working for you: go to a site called “Rocket Shoes”, in which the author states that he has a “black belt in feelings.” If this guy isn’t a Proust scholar…

Man, the internet is in trouble.