You just made my list!

Well, it’s official, the universe will implode on February 5th, 2011 at 11:30 Eastern Standard Time.

The earth will rip apart and just as the molten goo from the center of our planet begins to melt your skin off, you will have just enough time to reflect on all the time you wasted carefully placing 20 pillows on your bed every morning. You will beg God for another chance to live life to the fullest but your screaming prayers will go unanswered, because the instant Dana Carvey and Linkin Park share the Saturday Night Live stage, heaven will be the first thing to explode. Poof… no more God. Satan is calling the shots now, pal. It’s over.

Come on, really? I mean… what? I don’t need this shit, not today, not ever. Why?

Do you have an important funeral to attend but you just don’t feel like getting all dressed up in blue jeans for it? Have you been invited to a wedding and think it’s unfair that you can’t just wear your pajamas? I mean what’s more important than YOUR comfort, right? For years women have suffered the inhumane torture of wearing jeans in public. What, is everyone supposed to be the Queen of England?

Introducing Pajama Jeans, you lazy piece of shit! Now you can wear your PJs to your mother’s funeral and all the other dopes in attendance will think you have dressed up in jeans. Joke’s on them, it’s our little secret.

Pajama Jeans provide the best of both worlds… the laziness of wearing jeans every day, and the laziness of wearing your pajamas in public! Our patented stretchy material works for all shapes and sizes, so cramming your fat ass in there for a trip to Walmart will be a snap. The special interior “Dormi Soft” material is as soft as a baby’s face. It’s like rubbing your sweaty vagina against a cute baby’s face, what could be better?!?

You can wear your pretend jeans with sandals, bare feet, Crocs, or if you have an important court date for your recent D.U.I. you can even wear them with flip-flops.

But wait, there’s more! You can even work out in your magical fake jeans. I’m just kidding, we all now there’s no need for you to work out, it’s McDonalds’ fault you are fat. You should fucking sue!

Order now and we will throw in a free T-shirt that you will most likely use to wipe Slurpee spills off your belly.

Finally, Americans have a way to dress casually! Order your Pajama Jeans NOW!!

All I can do is stare at the screen and wonder what the hell I could possibly say about this.

I honestly think we may have peaked as a civilization. Maybe it’s because I watched an episode of “Wife Swap” for the first time tonight or maybe it’s simply because Taco Bell is jamming Flamin Hot Fritos into burritos, but I’m starting to feel like the human race has reached the top of the roller coaster and it’s time to all put our hands in the air and enjoy the rapid decent into hell.

Can we be trusted with the enormous task of keeping society running smoothly when Fritos are being shoved up the ass of an already heinous “burrito?” I’m not even against the practice of putting chips on things, in fact I like a good PB&J filled with pretzels, but this activity should be reserved for the end user. There is just something so grim about buying a food product already stuffed with Fritos. It’s unfortunate.

Oh, but there is some good news though. The Beefy Crunch Burrito comes with “reduced fat sour cream.” Why bother?

I’ve been working long hours plus trying to get ready for stupid Christmas plus my internet was out last night plus shut up!

If you are one of the tragic gentlemen who choose this horrifying fashion accessory but do not know what vibe you are giving off, consider this… while searching for photos of men wearing choker necklaces I was only able to find photos of shirtless man-boys. I shouldn’t have to say anything else, but I will.

Lest ye think I am calling you and your little leather noodle gay, think again, I am calling you douchey. Even the most fabulous gay cage dancer could not pull this look off.

It is curious that every photo I found to illustrate my point ended up being so homoerotic because I normally associate these chokers with suburban IT guys who suffer from premature balding. They troubleshoot your Microsoft Office issues by day and play in Puddle of Mudd cover bands by night. They drink Miller Vortex and they have strong opinions about Battlestar Galactica.

Either that or they are super gay, I can’t tell the difference anymore.

It’s bad enough that I spend half my day reading and writing stupid emails when I could be using that time to lie face down on the floor waiting for death, but I have to come up with appropriate titles for my little miniature novels too? Why is modern society so God-awful?

I mean what the fuck subject am I supposed to use when sending an email with bad news, for example? I don’t want to blow my wad and give all the juicy details away with a subject like “Accidentally killed a hobo today. Prob going to jail” but I also need to subtly warn the recipient that this is not your average hilarious email with a link to a rollerblader falling off a roof.

On the other hand, I can’t be too casual and write a subject that is overly optimistic, like “Hey” or “Guess what” and then whack them with the bad news of my hobo manslaughter in the body of the email.

I’m left with few options and feel obligated to go with something like “Today sucked” or “Hobo news.”

And I refuse to leave the subject blank, that’s the quitter’s way out! I don’t want to be stuck in some back and forth email exchange with my mom about hobo murder, and have “re: re: re: re: re: re: re:” staring back at me. I simply don’t think that honors the life of Flapjack Pete.

Hey building, thanks for making me look like a dick every time I try to go into you. Here’s an idea, you’ve got two doors, keep them BOTH fucking unlocked! You’re an asshole, building.

What is the point of this little game of cat and mouse? Are you trying to appeal to the gambler in all of us? Should a bolt of adrenaline rush through my body as I approach your precious doors, not knowing if I will be allowed to enter the promised land or be left tugging an immovable door like some big dumb idiot? Perhaps if you actually rewarded me with money when I am lucky enough to choose the correct door I would be more excited about your dumb little game of chance. It’s like you are the older kid sitting on my chest, beating me with my own hands while saying “Stop hitting yourself, why are you hitting yourself?”

Stop fucking with me, building, I just want to go see my dentist without looking like a jerkwad.