I started watching the first few episodes of the new Netflix documentary-series Jailbirds. If you're unfamiliar with it, think of it as "The Real Housewives of Jail." The show is set in Sacramento, California; a fact that I'm sure thrills the local tourism board. The prison itself looks like the prison planet from the first  Guardians of The Galaxy  movie. This shouldn't come as a surprise, but this show solidified my belief that I'm not cut out for the clink (that shouldn't be a surprise since I just referred to it as the "clink"). There are too many rules in prison. I'm not talking about the guards, they're the reasonable one's in this equation, it's actually the inmates that are completely ridiculous.  The unwritten rules would drive me insane. I would be so sick of worry about being bludgeoned by a Crip because I set my food tray down too loudly. Speaking of the food; they show the food somewhat frequently...

I visited the grocery store to pick up things for Memorial Day. I won't bore you with my full list. I can tell you I that I didn't buy any harmonicas or small wallabies, so aside from those two things, use your imagination. I finished shopping and made my way to the self-checkout. I'm not one to brag, but I'm an absolute self-checkout stud. I'm so fast that I'm kind of shocked they haven't offered me a gig yet. Using self-checkout is like climbing Everest solo because you felt like you could get things done sans sherpa. There's danger involved, but that's part of the thrill. You don't need some short guy to carry your sleeping bag and tell you if it's snowing. I have an iPhone, sir. I will not be needing your services. I began ringing up items without the safety net of a trained grocery store technician. All went according to plan as I rang up item after item with finesse and accuracy, then stuffing it in a bag (I even ...

I hear people say that they were born in the wrong decade all the time. It's a bit of a hallmark of adolescent angst; feeling like you're so special you don't fit in with an entire generation of people. I'll admit that I was one of these people. * Matt suffers douche-chill induced shiver. I liked music and pop-culture from the 80s. It's when my parents grew up and I always thought it seemed like a fun time. You had the rise of heavy metal, the fall of the Berlin Wall, and ALF . Only recently I realized that I was wrong about which wrong decade I should have been born in. Not the 80s, but the 70s. And now I'm naming the 1970s "The Greatest Decade Ever." That realization came from basking in the glory of this photo of former NHL-goaltender, Rogie Vachon:   Does that not look like a photo of a man living in the greatest decade of all time?  He probably polished off that stogie, changed out of those sweet, sweet Mike Brady bell-...

I'm not one to traffic in "Get Rich Quick" schemes. I usually see myself getting caught up in "Get frustrated For A Long Time And Then Achieve Moderate Success" schemes. However, I think I may have stumbled across the most marketable product in the world, and it's been right under our noses (or should I say, on top of our heads) this entire time: Hats. I think I need to open a hat store. It's the one thing that every person on the planet can use. The only prerequisite for buying a hat is having a head, and even then you could still buy hats for friends who do have heads, or you could still buy a hat and just wear it on your neck-stump. Shoes? Not everyone has feet. Gloves? Nope, not everyone has the luxury of hands. Hats? Last time I checked, unless you're a chicken, you need the ol' noggin to stay on your shoulders if you wish to continue living. And what better head decoration is there than hats? None. None more better. That...

I have music tastes that haven't changed a whole lot since middle school. And even though I went to middle school in the late-'00s, considering I own a phone full of Iron Maiden, Metallica, and any hair metal band du jour you can think of, it seems as though I went to middle school in the late '80s. So, I thought it would be in my best interest to broaden my musical horizons. Little did I know the results would be so disturbing... *** I decided to base my choice of new favorite music genre on the type of person I wanted to become. First, I considered country music. It's hugely popular, women seem to love it, and features simple themes like trucks and large hats. However, this would be too simple to transition to from the 13-minute metal epics based on Samuel Taylor Coleridge poems to which I had become accustomed. Surely, there must be an interim choice.  Fortunately for me, there was. I decided that I would go off the beaten path and eschew ...

You've read the title of this blog... ...Not much else to explain. 6. Tater Tots I know that right off the bat I'm going to lose some of you, but Tater Tots are barely a fry. They're the cousin Oliver of the Fry family. They're kind of weird, but your parents tell you that you still need to be nice to them. Tots are getting by solely on nostalgia. I like nostalgia as much as the next guy, but just because you had something as a kid, doesn't make it good. Napoleon (Dynamite, not Bonaparte. The French are too classy for tots) was a fan, but honestly they deserved to be smashed in his pocket. 5. Curly Fries I like curly fries. The only reason they are so low on this list is because I want to give them bulletin board material that will fire them up, and make them prove me wrong. Of all the fries, curly fries have the lowest self-esteem. They try to be all wacky, but they'd be fine being straight as an arrow due to the delicious seasoni...

I like reading advice columns. It's not because I get much out of the advice that's given; it's usually terrible. When people anonymously share their dirty laundry and problems it makes me feel good about myself. However, I realized that I wanted to take a stab at answering some of these letters from people seeking advice.  Since no one would have any reason to send those to me, I decided to steal them from other columns. So, let's take a look at the letter from our first loser – I mean advice seeker. Dear Passing (if that is your real name):  Yes, people do still read, just not typically the garbage Buzzfeed articles that you send about 16 things that look like Nicolas Cage . If you would send them articles that are actually good, then they'd be calling you so much you'd have to disconnect your landline. You, avidly read (and apparently write to) advice columns, so I assume you still have a landline. To get your friends' att...