6 Old Acquaintances Who Conveniently Came Out Of The Woodwork Right When I Won A Lifetime Supply Of Angelo Parodi Sardine Portoghesi AllOlio Di Oliva

After winning a lifetime supply of delicious Angelo Parodi Sardine Portoghesi All’Olio di Oliva, I thought I was going to be on easy street for the rest of my life. On the contrary, I had no idea how many old “friends” would suddenly show up looking to get a taste of my haul. Here are six old acquaintances who came out of the woodwork as soon as my pockets were overflowing with wads of tiny fish.

1. My college roommate, Mark Ericson: Mark basically acted like I didn’t exist back when we lived in the same dorm freshman year of college, but I guess all it takes is a few thousand pounds of premium Angelo Parodi Sardine Portoghesi All’Olio di Oliva for someone to completely change their personality on a dime. Suddenly, Mark accepted the Facebook friend request I sent him nine years ago, he’s trying to get the only existing picture of us trending on Twitter with the hashtag #AngeloParodiSardinePortoghesiAllOliodiOlivaBoys4Life, and he keeps offering quotes about our “incredibly formative friendship” to our college newsletter for their upcoming story “Alumni Wins Sardine Contest.” Mark can try to rewrite history all he wants, but if he thinks he’s getting even one tin of Angelo Parodi Sardine Portoghesi All’Olio di Oliva, he’s got another thing coming.

2. My old bandmates: The last time I saw anyone from my old Pearl Jam cover band was when I was dramatically kicked out and told to never come back after I missed too many shows to care for my elderly pet tarantula. Well, it turns out that, in addition to being a great source of Omega-3 fatty acids, Angelo Parodi Sardine Portoghesi All’Olio di Oliva also has the power to shorten people’s memories! Mere days after I hit it big in the sardine department, all four original band members came crawling back to my door hoping we could run through “Jeremy” like old times to the “smooth backing track of southern Mediterranean fish broiling to perfection” as if I had forgotten them screaming, “You’ve chosen your tarantula over Bellow Ledbetter for the last time!” at me not so long ago. I saw the Tupperware containers hidden in their guitar cases and told them that the only kind of music I make now is the perfect symphony of flavors in my Angelo Parodi Sardine Portoghesi All’Olio di Oliva smoked paté, of which I don’t intend to share a single bite.

3. My first love, Kim Johnson: When I look into Kim’s eyes, I don’t feel like a big hotshot with an unlimited amount of Angelo Parodi Sardine Portoghesi All’Olio di Oliva at my disposal; I feel like a kid with a regular amount of sardines who just wants to love and be loved in return. Perhaps that’s why I pushed away my doubts when Kim, my crush since high school, suddenly decided she wanted to “hang out” after years of ignoring my Facebook invites and “Happy birthday” texts. Unfortunately, the reason for Kim’s change of heart became all too clear when I went to bed one night with the love of my life in my arms and 300 crates of Angelo Parodi Sardine Portoghesi All’Olio di Oliva in my garage only to wake up the next morning completely alone with just 297 crates of Angelo Parodi Sardine Portoghesi All’Olio di Oliva in my garage. Lesson learned—it’s lonely at the top.

4. My sixth-grade basketball coach: Interestingly, when I was an awkward 12-year-old with a horrible free-throw average, my basketball coach, Devon Gherrity, would only refer to me as “Princess Butterfingers,” but now that I have enough Angelo Parodi Sardine Portoghesi All’Olio di Oliva to feed a small island nation, Coach apparently remembers me as the “single greatest player in the history of the team.” In fact, he even said he’d consider “honoring my legacy” by putting my face on the official team jersey if I was willing to hand over just a small percentage of my Angelo Parodi Sardine Portoghesi All’Olio di Oliva cache. I guess for Coach Gherrity, it doesn’t take hard work and perseverance to become a good basketball player, it just takes enough sardines. And frankly, that’s just sad.

5. My pediatrician: No more than a week after my apartment became a veritable emporium of Angelo Parodi Sardine Portoghesi All’Olio di Oliva, I received a phone call from my childhood pediatrician urging me to come in for an “emergency appointment.” When I arrived, Dr. Jacobs said that my blood work indicated a deficiency of vitamins D, B2, and B12 as well as early signs of cardiovascular disease. “That’s weird, because a healthy diet of Angelo Parodi Sardine Portoghesi All’Olio di Oliva should specifically prevent all of those conditions,” I said. Dr. Jacobs gasped and said, “Oh my goodness, you’re right! I totally gave you MY charts by accident. Looks like I’m the one whose health could benefit from an increased amount of nutritious Angelo Parodi Sardine Portoghesi All’Olio di Oliva.” Then he kept loudly repeating that he felt faint until I had no choice but to fork over one of the 17 tins I carry on my person at all times. How silly of me to think that my old doctor might actually be concerned about my health and not just thinking of his own twisted way to get his hands on a piece of the Angelo Parodi Sardine Portoghesi All’Olio di Oliva pie.

6. My nephew, David: I’ve been trying for years to make a connection with my moody nephew, David, but I’m pretty sure he’s never said a single word to me. That’s why I was so excited when I heard that he had written about me for his “my hero” essay in school—and then I read it:

How sweet…not! Even if his play for my sardines wasn’t so desperate, it hurts that David didn’t even mention my years in the Peace Corps or my extensive work with shelter dogs. I’m not just a walking piece of Angelo Parodi Sardine Portoghesi All’Olio di Oliva, David! I have feelings!

Read more: http://www.clickhole.com/article/6-old-acquaintances-who-conveniently-came-out-wood-7463

Breaking The Cycle Of Addiction: Heineken Has Unveiled New Bottles With Extra-Long Necks To Give Alcoholics Time To Think About All The People Theyre Letting Down

When it comes to corporate responsibility, so many companies are quick to pass the buck, but it’s heartwarming to see a big company step up and take matters of public health into their own hands: Heineken has unveiled new bottles with extra-long necks to give alcoholics time to think about all the people they’re letting down.

Wow, what a thoughtful gesture. This is definitely going to help a lot of people break free of the vicious cycle of alcohol addiction.

While the beer will still have the same classic taste Heineken drinkers have always enjoyed, the bottles have been redesigned to feature an extended neck that will give anyone with a destructive relationship to alcohol a few extra moments before the beer reaches their lips to reflect on the people who love and depend on them and all the promises they’ve made before they throw it all away. Whether it’s a spouse their addiction has put through the ringer or the children they may never see grow up if they don’t make health a priority, the extra moments it will take the beer to travel all the way out of the totally cool, elongated bottle will give those succumbing to their alcohol dependency time to really consider the consequences their drinking might have on the people they love the most before they decide to take that sip.

“We’re excited to debut bottles with longer necks than ever before so that valued Heineken customers who habitually drink our fresh, high-quality lager to excess will have a bit more time to think of their families and loved ones before indulging in that world-class Heineken flavor,” said a spokesperson for the company in a press release. “We at Heineken hope that these extra-tall bottles will encourage people to reflect on the people they’ll be letting down and the lives they’ll be destroying if they choose to take that refreshing sip of delicious Heineken.”

That sounds pretty awesome, if you ask us! It’s amazing to see a company that truly cares about its customers. Our hats are off to you, Heineken!

Read more: http://www.clickhole.com/article/breaking-cycle-addiction-heineken-has-unveiled-new-7517

Hard To Watch: This Girl Who Wont Go In The Pool Because She Just Got Her First Period Is Way Overselling Her Lie About How Her Religion Doesnt Allow Swimming

If you were looking for a heartwarming story, you might want to stop reading now, because the scene currently unfolding at a neighborhood pool party is sure to make you cringe: Thirteen-year-old Katie Moore isn’t going in the pool because she just got her first period, and now she’s way overselling her lie about how her religion doesn’t allow swimming.

Jeez. This is definitely hard to watch. Everyone got the hint when she said her religious beliefs forbid swimming, and she really could’ve just left it at that.

From the moment her friends jumped into the pool, Katie’s been leaning way too hard on her lie about how her family belongs to a little-known sect of Christianity in which swimming is forbidden, both recreationally and for survival. Although everyone at the party was immediately cool to just let her chill out by the side of the pool without any fuss, she proceeded to tell everybody her family’s faith stipulates that her soul will be damned to Hell for an eternity of unbearable torment should she swim.

“My family’s priest will excommunicate me from the church if I even get my feet wet,” Katie said as she ignored her friends’ offer to just get out of the pool and go on the trampoline with her instead. “A few years ago, my uncle went swimming in the hotel pool at our Christmas celebration, and now we’re not even allowed to say his name.”

Sadly, even though all of Katie’s friends are nodding and saying it’s fine if she doesn’t swim with them, she’s continuing to pad out this unnecessary lie with excessive detail, including a made-up biblical story she says her family holds sacred about twin sisters named Victoria and Zemirah who swam in a river instead of preparing supper and, as punishment, were beheaded by their father, who was anointed with scented oils by the king as a reward for slaying the blasphemous swimmers.

Damn, Katie’s really going to some incredible lengths to avoid telling people she just got her period. Someone should probably tell her she can take it easy. Party guests say that when her friend’s mom came outside with a box of popsicles, Katie didn’t even give her a chance to ask why she wasn’t in the pool before launching into a convoluted explanation about how the only day her religion will permit her to swim is on the eve of her wedding, and that when she does finally get in the water, it will be a really beautiful ceremony at a lake, which is something she says she knows because she saw her cousin swim before he got married last summer.

Yikes. You’ve gotta feel for this girl. Her elaborate lie about her anti-swimming religion is becoming more labyrinthine by the moment. It’s definitely not easy to have your first period at a pool party, but this is total overkill. Hopefully Katie finds a way to wrap this up at some point before she digs herself into too big of a hole.

Read more: http://www.clickhole.com/article/hard-watch-girl-who-wont-go-pool-because-she-just–7425

Fresh Perspective: The NFL Has Announced That Instead Of Studying Whats In The Players Brains, We Should Be Studying Whats In The Players Hearts

From flat-out denying the science behind CTE research to discrediting those who tout it, the NFL has long countered the neurological disease’s stigma with its own blunt force. But now it looks like the league is offering a fresh perspective on the matter altogether: The NFL has announced that instead of studying what’s in the players’ brains, the real focus should be studying what’s in the players’ hearts.

Wow. After years of total pushback against the CTE conversation, it seems like the NFL is ready to pivot the focus and look at things in a whole new light.

The league’s new approach to player safety and research, which prioritizes how players tackle life’s adversities over how they’re tackled on the field, marks a serious break from the CAT scans and lab studies that have dominated the conversation in recent years. At a press conference announcing the NFL’s new point of view, commissioner Roger Goodell insisted that overanalyzing player concussion data has been a dead end, and that the only things under the microscope should be the passions and dreams that flow out of the players’ souls like the sweetest poetry.

“The well-being of our players is the NFL’s No. 1 priority, and we now see that the best way to move forward is not by studying their brains, but by studying what’s right in here,” said Goodell while repeatedly pointing to his own chest and dramatically scanning the room. “Instead of trying to understand what repeated blows to the head will mean for these players over time, we should be listening for the songs that live in all our players’ hearts, set to the tick-tock rhythm of a little thing called life. And that’s something you can’t learn from some medical textbook.”

Incredible. When it comes to an issue as hotly debated as CTE, you’ve got to give it up for the NFL trying to bring a fresh perspective to the table. It’ll be interesting to see how everyone reacts to the league’s new approach, and whether this will be the step that finally gets everyone on the same page to prioritize player health.

Read more: http://www.clickhole.com/article/fresh-perspective-nfl-has-announced-instead-studyi-7229

Youre A Germ! Can You Make Bruce Springsteen Sick Enough To Cancel A Concert?

Bruce Springsteen…the world’s greatest man…

With his band, the E Street Men (And Also My Wife), he has sold more than 120 million records and performed 18 world tours in over 50 countries…

He’s got a best friend named Little Steve, who is also in the E Street Men but isn’t his wife…

Yes, The String Man has done it all—he’s sang, he’s worn earrings, and he’s gotten married—but there’s still one thing he has yet to do…

Bruce Springsteen has never been sick.

Yes. Bruce Springsteen has never once been sick. After all those years of traveling the world and being married, he’s never once sneezed or vomited or vomited off a boat.

And that’s where you come in.

No, that’s not a lie. Bruce Springsteen has never once been sick. After all those years of traveling the world and being married, he’s never once sneezed or vomited or vomited off a boat.

And that’s where you come in.

Yes. You.

This is Bruce’s mouth, or “The Cave.” This is where you live.

And this is you. You’re a germ.

As a germ, it’s your job to make Bruce Springsteen sick for the first time in his life. You’ll need to travel through his body and do what no germ has ever done before: get him so sick that he can’t play his next concert.

So, can you do it?

Good. Then let’s get started.

Yes, you are.

And, as a germ, it’s your job to make Bruce Springsteen sick for the first time in his life. You’ll need to travel through his body and do what no germ has ever done before: get him so sick that he can’t play his next concert.

So, can you do it?

Good. Then let’s get started.

Okay! Here you are, in what Bruce and his wife affectionately call “The Cave.” This is where sounds and gases exit Bruce’s body, and where sickness should enter.

As you travel through Bruce’s body, click [Zoom out.] to see how your attempts to make him sick enough to cancel his big concert are working.

Where would you like to go?

Okay! Here you are, back in what Bruce and his wife affectionately call “The Cave.” Where would you like to go now?

You choose to go up, and follow a long, wet tube that Bruce calls “Little Steven,” in honor of his best friend, Little Steve. It feels a lot like The Cave, but Bruce isn’t famous for it. What would you like to do here?

You choose to go back, and follow a long, wet tube that Bruce calls “Little Steven.” It feels a lot like The Cave, but Bruce isn’t famous for it. What would you like to do here?

Bruce is chomping on handfuls of antibiotics and women’s health supplements backstage to make sure he’ll never get sick, which he won’t.

You continue upwards, and suddenly, things start to narrow…

You go backwards, and suddenly, things start to open up again…

Suddenly, you come upon a narrow hallway.

You continue. The hallway leads to a mysterious door.

“Hello, small germ. Welcome to Bruce Springsteen’s brain,” says a voice, echoing loudly. “Congratulations on getting this far. Few have ever seen Bruce’s vast tub of knowledge, which is, to be honest, mostly about New Jersey and being healthy.”

“But before I continue any further with you, I would like to ask you something,” says the brain. “See, Bruce is so healthy that I’m worried he’s actually too healthy. I really want to make him just slightly less well, but the only thing is, I don’t want to make him sick. If I gave you three options, would you tell me the one you would choose?”

Good call. One of these options could make Bruce sick!

“Thank you so much!” says the brain. “So, option one: I have this on/off switch, and I’m not sure what it does. I was wondering if I should hit it.”

“Great choice!” says the brain. “I think this is going to make Bruce slightly less unhealthy, but not quite sick!”

He flicks the switch.

Bruce runs out onstage in front of thousands of fans, feeling healthy as ever.

“I’m a healthy god!” he sings. “I’ll never be unhealthy and I’ll never be sick / No, no, no / Not this boy from New Jersey / Nothing can ever hurt me and I’m going to live forever.”

The crowd is going nuts. Then all of a sudden, he falls to the ground.

“Bruce, are you healthy?” shouts Little Steve into the mic. “Bruce, if you’re healthy, wake up.”

Bruce doesn’t respond.

“Not this boy from New Jersey / Nothing can ever hurt me and I’m going to live forever,” sings the crowd.

Well, you killed Bruce Springsteen. Unfortunately, what that means is that you got Bruce sick, but you didn’t get him to cancel the concert. Not only did all the fans not get their money back, but The String Man is dead. If you want to get Bruce sick and cancel the concert, you’ll have to start over and try another way.

“Okay, I see why that might not be the best idea,” he says. “So, option two: I wrote this song called ‘I’m Not Sick At All But I Want To Go To The Hospital.’ Should I have Bruce sing it tonight?”

“Great choice!” says the brain. “I think this is going to make Bruce slightly less unhealthy, but not quite sick!”

Bruce runs out onstage in front of thousands of adoring fans, feeling healthy as ever.

“Hey everybody, I’ve got a new song I just wrote that I’d like to play for you all today,” he yells at the crowd. “It’s called ‘I’m Not Sick At All But I Want To Go To The Hospital,’ and I hope you’ll all raise your hands and sing along.”

The crowd is going nuts. Bruce begins to sing.

“There once was a Jersey boy named Bruce and he felt great / That boy was healthy his whole life, and never once twisted fate / No , no / No one lives forever, but the one exception is me…”

“Except right now / Because I’m not sick at all but I want to go to the hospital…”

“That’s right! / I’m not sick at all, but I want to go to the hospital! / I’m so damn healthy that I’ve never ever been…”

“So, someone, someone / Please call 911.”

Well, the concert was canceled. An ambulance came onstage, picked Bruce up, and took him to the hospital, just like he asked. Unfortunately, though, you didn’t actually make Bruce sick—you just gave him a hefty medical bill and ruined the show. If you want to make him sick next time, you’ll have to start over from the beginning!

“Totally makes sense why I shouldn’t do that,” he says. “So, your third and final option: Bruce loves to dance with fans. If there is someone in the audience with a disease, should I make Bruce dance with them?”

“Great choice!” says the brain. “I think this is going to make Bruce slightly less unhealthy, but not quite sick!”

“Hey everyone!” shouts Bruce to the audience as he runs onstage to start his concert. “Is there anyone out there who has a deadly disease? If so, I would like to dance with you.”

“You, honey, right there. You look like you have a debilitating disease.”

“I have Zinka,” she yells. “I have Zinka, and it sucks!”

Bruce pulls her up onstage.

“I love Zinka, baby,” he yells. “Dance with me, Zinka lady!”

They dance and dance for several hours, until…

You did it! You got Bruce so sick that he canceled his concert. After dancing for hours with the mysterious and sick woman, Bruce came down with Zinka and had to cancel his show. As of now, you’re the only thing that’s ever successfully gotten Bruce sick. Congratulations!

“Okay, we’ll go through them again, but this time, pay attention.”

Bruce is writing down a list of doctors he would fight if they were to tell him he weren’t the healthiest man on earth. He will then read it out loud to the audience.

Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you!

You enter the nose. It’s dark and moist in here.

Yikes. It’s so dark and moist in here that, unfortunately, you’ve started to panic. Suddenly, though, you spot a bright light.

You walk toward the bright light. The closer you go, the more blinding it becomes.

Wow. You adjust to the light and look around, and then you realize you’re outside! Just as quickly as you entered Bruce’s nose, you left it. Now, you’re not just a germ—you’re a germ who is even more disgusting because you’ve left Bruce’s clean body and entered the filthy world.

So, now that you’re outside, what kind of nasty shit do you want to touch?

You get into the nasty shit that is Bruce’s big messy hog, Little Steve, and roll your filthy germ body around all over him. How would you like to become worse and get Bruce sick?

You travel down Bruce’s body to get into the nasty shit that is his foot. You roll your filthy germ body around it and try to make him have an itch onstage. How would you like to become worse and get Bruce sick?

You travel down Bruce’s body to get into the beautiful place that is his butt. You roll your filthy germ body around it and try to make him have an itch onstage. How would you like to become worse and get Bruce sick?

You decide to multiply, and it is disgusting. Now that you’ve split in half a bunch of times, what would you like to do?

You continue to multiply, and you become, somehow, even more disgusting. God, look at you—you’re a biological monstrosity. Now what would you like to do?

You’re back inside and stronger than ever. You take your new germ body and fuck and shit all over Bruce’s nose. You take everything you picked up in the nasty outside and use it to go to town on The String Man in a way he’s never felt. But, my God—have you changed too much? Have you, perhaps, become too strong?

You begin to mutate…

…and continue mutating…

…until you become…this. Wow. You’re noticeably spikier, fatter, and more disgusting. What would you like to do now?

Its 2:51 A.M. Can You Fall Asleep?

This is your bed.

Your bed is one of the most comfortable places in your apartment to fall asleep. The only times you don’t sleep in your bed are when you are on vacation or staying at a friend’s house. Tonight you are at home, so you are going to sleep in your bed.

You stayed up very late tonight preparing your big presentation for tomorrow. You work at the company that comes up with slogans for salad, and if you do well on this presentation, your boss says you will start getting paid.

Tomorrow morning you will pitch “My Vegetables Are Damp With Pleasure” as the new slogan for salad. But tonight, you need some sleep.

Your alarm is set for 6 a.m. sharp.

It is currently 2:51 in the morning, so you need to fall asleep as quickly as you can. You only have a few hours to get all the restful sleep you need before your big day.

The stakes have never been higher for you, so please fall asleep immediately.

You close your eyes as hard as you can and attempt to fall asleep, but you’re having a little trouble. What would you like to do?

Hmm. You have successfully turned your entire body, but you did not fall asleep.

Ah, tossing didn’t work either. Looks like you’ll need to fall asleep the old-fashioned way—by not moving at all.

Hmm. You have successfully tossed your entire body, but you did not fall asleep.

Ah, turning didn’t work either. Looks like you’ll need to fall asleep the old-fashioned way—by not moving at all.

As you tense up your entire body and prepare to not move a single muscle until morning, a thought flashes through your brain:

You forgot to brush your teeth.

*Ding-dong.*

Someone has rung your doorbell! It’s almost 3 a.m.—who could it be?

*DING-DONG.*

Your visitor has rung the doorbell again, and this time they have somehow made the bell much louder.

“Hello. My name is David Jenkins, I’m a volunteer dentist, and I’m going door to door to remind people about the importance of oral health. May I ask if you brushed your teeth tonight?”

“Please do not scream at me in front of my family,” David says, as his wife, parents, and children reveal themselves from around a corner.

You feel a massive pang of guilt. You did not know they were there and would never intentionally harm the three generations of family that stand before you.

“Apology accepted,” the man says. “But please, if you have not already done so tonight, brush your teeth immediately.”

You assure the man that you will, give him $50 for his troubles, and bid his family goodnight.

“I really want to believe you,” the man responds. “But I think you might be lying to me. Go to the bathroom and get your toothbrush so I can feel if it’s wet.”

“Please, do not ever lie to me in front of my family,” the stranger responds, as his wife, parents, and children reveal themselves from around the corner. “Go brush your teeth right now.”

You apologize profusely to the three generations of family standing before you, give the man $50 for his troubles, and shut the door.

You walk into your bathroom and flip on the lights. Yikes! You forgot how bright the bathroom is. Now you’re even more awake than you already were. Better make this quick.

What kind of toothpaste would you like to use tonight?

Excellent choice! This toothpaste was created as part of a promotion for the 2006 reboot of The Pink Panther, and Beyoncé still hands them out at all of her concerts to remind fans that she starred in the film.

Buongiorno! You’ll feel like you’re riding a gondola down the canals of Venice as you brush your teeth with the colors of the Italian flag.

Okay. It’s currently 3:02 a.m., and you have to be up in less than three hours for your presentation. In the interest of time, how would you like to brush your teeth?

The vast majority of the teeth in your mouth are just spares, so let’s narrow this down to the five that most desperately need a cleaning tonight. Which of these teeth would you like to brush?

Smart choice! With proper brushing and flossing, your Oral Horn can sometimes grow up to 3 feet in length.

Nice choice! People usually get their Vanessa’s Molar around age 13, when an adorable preteen girl shows up at their front door and shoves it deep down into their gums. The young girl’s name is Sarah.

Ah, the Lateral Wisp. Perhaps the most ephemeral of the teeth in your mouth. It barely exists, yet it needs constant brushing. Careful not to brush too hard, or you might corrode the mist.

Excellent choice. Your mouth actually has two Lil’ Biters, as circled in the image above. But time is of the essence tonight, so you should only choose one to brush.

Wise choice. Your Essential Tooth exists absolutely everywhere in your mouth, and is imperative for countless functions including slurping, grinding, stroking, gnawing, and milking.

Brushing every single tooth in your mouth is an arduous process, typically lasting anywhere from four to seven hours. But you’ve got to be up bright and early tomorrow, so please make this as quick as possible.

The American Dental Association (usually abbreviated as Amrcn Dntl Assctn) provides an easy mnemonic to help you brush your teeth. All you have to do is remember your ABCs:

Assess your mouth.

Brush your mouth.

Close your mouth.

Ready?

1) Assess your mouth.

Open your mouth (or any hole with teeth in it) and examine it in the mirror.

Count to make sure that all your teeth are still there. Log any missing teeth in your Brusher’s Journal. If a tooth feels particularly sharp, smooth, or regular, write it down. Give each tooth a name, and do not use the same name twice. Log these names in your journal as well, and then dispose of the journal immediately.

2) Brush your mouth.

Firmly grasp your toothbrush with your non-dominant** hand, and slowly apply bristle to bone. Scrub until no bristles remain on the brush.

**IF YOU ARE AMBIDEXTROUS, DO NOT BRUSH YOUR TEETH.

3) Close your mouth.

Spit out any remaining toothpaste, blood, or gum skin into the sink, and then close your mouth to prevent a bug from entering it.

All done brushing! And it only took a few minutes. Well done.

The time is now 3:10 a.m., so please get back into bed immediately. You really need to get some rest before your big day.

Great pick! Nature’s Elegance proudly sources its toothpaste only from ingredients that animals or plants have secreted into a farmer’s hand.

Awesome! Patriot’s Choice toothpaste has been an American favorite since the year 1776. Rumor has it John Adams used this star-spangled toothpaste before he hacked Paul Revere to bits with an ax.

Excellent choice. Did you know that Mint Authenticity toothpaste has more mint per serving than three pounds of beef?

You don’t want big bags under your eyes as you stand up in front of the entire company tomorrow and pitch your slogan for salad. That means you need to fall asleep ASAP. You should have been in bed hours ago. Time is running out.

Suddenly, you remember something:

Your boss said that if you don’t do well on your presentation, he is going to punish you by coming to your next family dinner and slapping a chicken drumstick out of your grandmother’s feeble, arthritic hands.

He’s done things like this to your family before, so you know he really means it.

Speaking of chicken:

When you were 12, someone at school showed you a video of a monk setting himself on fire, and your classmate remarked that his burning flesh resembled that of a rotisserie chicken.

When you got home that night, your mom had made drumsticks for dinner.

You don’t know why, but you ate 15 chicken drumsticks that night. Your mom said it was the most food she had ever seen you eat. She seemed proud as she watched you, but she didn’t know about the monk thing. You wanted to throw up the whole time, but you just kept going.

Why did you do that?

After that night, your mom started making chicken drumsticks for every single one of your birthdays. She thinks they are your favorite food. There’s so much your mother doesn’t know about you, come to think of it.

Last week, you saw a monk at your local mall. And although you’ll never say it out loud, it made you fucking ravenous.

It seems as though you’re having some trouble falling asleep. What would you like to do?

Are you sure? Your doctor did give you a loose handful of sleeping pills at your last physical, but she warned you that taking them could be extremely dangerous. She even made you sign a waiver agreeing that she was an idiot for giving them to you. Remember?

You walk into your bathroom and flip on the lights again. Ugh. You always forget how bright it is in here.

It’s a good thing you’re about to take a pill that will make you fall asleep, even if it carries a small risk of making your organs explode.

You reach for the pile of assorted pills that your doctor, Mrs. Virginia, gave you. You hold them in your hands.

You’ve been saving these pills for the perfect moment. You’ve never needed to fall asleep as badly as you do tonight.

Suddenly, it occurs to you:

Mrs. Virginia never gave you a bottle with these pills. She just slipped the whole handful right into your cargo pants as you were kissing her goodbye.

Without a bottle, you don’t have any directions on how to take the pills.

You take a magnifying glass from your medicine cabinet and hover it above the pills.

Bingo. Each pill is inscribed with the exact same message.

HELLO, AND WELCOME TO MRS. VIRGINIA’S SLEEPING PILLS!

PLEASE USE ONLY AS DIRECTED.

TAKE ONE SPOONFUL OF PILLS WITH DINNER, OR WHILE THINKING ABOUT WHAT IT IS LIKE TO EAT DINNER.

IF YOU DO NOT DIE IMMEDIATELY AFTER TAKING THESE PILLS, THAT IS GREAT. YOU WILL ENJOY A RESTFUL NIGHT’S SLEEP.

DO NOT OPERATE HEAVY MACHINERY AFTER TAKING. IT IS THE ONLY RULE.

FOR MORE INFORMATION ABOUT MRS. VIRGINIA, PLEASE SEE REVERSE SIDE OF THIS PILL.

ABOUT MRS. VIRGINIA

AS A SELF-DESCRIBED MEDICAL DOCTOR, MRS. VIRGINIA IS WILLING TO PRACTICE ANY FIELD OF MEDICINE YOU THROW HER WAY. SHE DECIDED TO BECOME A DOCTOR IN THE MID-TO-LATE NINETIES, AFTER DISCOVERING THAT SHE HAD A TRUE PASSION FOR TELLING PEOPLE THEY HAVE SCOLIOSIS. MRS. VIRGINIA WAS BORN AND RAISED IN THE STATE OF VIRGINIA, WHICH IS HOW SHE GOT THE IDEA FOR HER NAME.

Remember: You’re supposed to take these pills with dinner. But since you already ate your dinner hours ago, Mrs. Virginia says that you can just take them while imagining what it is like to eat dinner.

Chicken drumsticks…Saigon…salty and savory…oh God, a gallon of gasoline…sour cream dipping sauce…the flames licking flesh…room for seconds, thirds…he isn’t even screaming, why isn’t he screaming…that signature buffalo kick…the dark smoke, it won’t stop…marinated overnight…make it stop, please God…why…why…

why…

Okay! Down the hatch!

Congratulations. You have successfully swallowed the entire spoonful of pills, and you did not die. This is a major relief—it is logistically impossible to fall asleep when you are dead.

It usually takes about 30 minutes for the effects of a sleeping pill to fully kick in. What would you like to do in the meantime?

Technically, Mrs. Virginia advises against operating heavy machinery after taking her pills. But just once is probably fine, if you’re careful.

What heavy machine would you like to operate this evening?

You walk into your garage and take a seat in your tank. You figure you’ll just take it for a little joyride around the neighborhood. Driving always makes you sleepy.

Admittedly, you’re already feeling a little bit woozy from Mrs. Virginia’s pills. But one little drive around the block won’t hurt.

Can You Keep Up A Conversation With Your Dad?

We’ve all thought about it at one time or another: Should I have a conversation with my dad? There are many cases for and against, and in the end, it is a deeply personal decision that we each must make for ourselves.

Sometimes, we talk to him because we need something. Other times, we talk to him because we feel guilty that we haven’t talked to him in a while. Or maybe it’s a third thing.

So, are you ready to have a conversation with your dad?

Okay, you are definitely ready to have a conversation with your dad. But first, you have to find him.

Hmm. Nope, not here.

You are shocked not to find your dad in the kitchen, a place he can often be found.

No dads here on the patio.

You walk into your dad’s office building.

“Oh, you must be Dad’s kid,” says your dad’s boss, Mrs. Clakswaby. “He’s not here right now.”

There he is! Of course your dad is in the den.

Here he is! Your dad! Time to see if you can keep up a conversation with him. He’s even taking a break from his beloved iPad to talk to you.

What do you want to talk about?

Your dad blinks a few times. Looks like he’s getting a little steamed. Better hurry up and figure out what you want to say about the weather!

“Sure,” your dad says.

Whoa! Kind of a curveball there.

“Why, I think that’s a marvelous idea,” says Mrs. Clakswaby. “You can start right away! Have these flowers in congratulations.”

You may have never spoken with your dad, but you did land a plum job with a six-figure salary and health benefits, which is better!

“The American Civil War?” your dad grunts. “That is one of my favorite civil wars.”

Whoa! Looks like maybe you’ve found some common ground here, so what you say next is crucial.

“186,500,” your dad says immediately.

Hmmm. That didn’t seem to really spark a conversation.

“I think it’s best if you changed the subject,” your dad says.

“You want advice?” your dad says. “Or do you want to talk about the concept of advice?”

“Oh, okay,” your dad says. “Advice is a social contract in which a person, or group of people, offer their analysis and insights in an attempt to solve or mitigate a problem of a second party. The second party can ask for, or request, these insights, or the first person or group can offer them unsolicited. Both of these outcomes would be considered to fall in the category of ’advice.’ Shall I continue?”

“Very well,” your dad says. “The concept of advice is perhaps best illuminated by an example. Let me bring up a helpful illustration I’ve made on my iPad.

“In a common advice-seeking scenario, Person A approaches Person B and Person C, who are typically older and have more life experience than Person A. Person A lays out a conflict he or she is currently experiencing and then asks Persons B and C what they would do if they were presented with an identical conflict. Person B says that he would do one thing, while Person C says she would do a different thing. Both of these suggestions, while opposite in nature, are considered ’advice.’ The fact that one word describes both of them is an inherent foible of language. Shall I continue?”

“Very well. The concept of advice relies heavily on the theory of linear time, or that time passes sequentially. Linear time theory is what enables events to occur, and therefore what allows events to have occured. It is these events that have already taken place that allow older, wiser people to give advice, because they draw on these past experiences, guaranteed by the theory of linear time. Shall I continue?”

You notice that your head feels a little funny and that blood has begun to pool in your eyes.

“Want to talk about Matchstick Men (2003)?” you ask your dad.

“Never heard of it,” he says.

Uh-oh. That didn’t go so hot. What do you want to do now?

“It stars Sam Rockwell,” you say.

“Never heard of him,” your Dad says.

Yikes. You are really blowing this.

“It’s a movie,” you say to your dad.

“Never heard of it,” your dad says.

This is turning out to be a notably bad conversation with your dad.

“It’s a series of still images that are strung together in rapid succession to achieve the illusion of motion, typically for 90 minutes to two hours.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” says your dad.

“It’s basically” but your dad cuts you off.

“Look at these seeds in my hand,” he says.

You look up.

“You’re not my dad,” you say.

“No, I’m not,” the man says. “We switched places while you were looking at the seeds.”

Looks like you blew it!

“If you do find your dad, make sure to tell him that I understand, and that I’m sorry,” Mrs. Clakswaby says.

Where do you want to look now?

“Okay,” your dad says. “But just be warned that I hate giving and taking advice.”

“Wish I could say the same,” your dad says as he walks away. The den is empty.

You did a bad job keeping up a conversation with your dad!

“Okay,” your dad says, admiring his iPad. “What do you want to talk about now?”

“That’s an odd way to put that,” your dad says.

It looks like he could leave this conversation at any moment. Better step up your game!

“Oh,” your dad says. “Yes, that sounds good. Thank you.”

He takes a peanut from your hand and eats it happily.

“Yes,” your dad practically shouts. “Please give me another peanut.”

Your dad’s eyes light up with greed in a way you’ve never seen them look before. He grabs the peanuts from your hand and knocks your bag of peanuts to the floor. Finding his hunger uncontrollable, he drops to the floor to scoop up the peanuts, shells and all, into his selfish mouth. He makes animal noises and slobbers all over the rug in the den.

By offering him peanuts while asking for nothing in return, you taught your dad that boundaries do not exist, nor must they be respected. Now, you have no hope of holding a conversation with your dad.

“I’ve always thought that too,” your dad says. “You know, it’s really easy to talk to you.”

Whoa! Things are going great! Can you keep this up?

“Took the words from my mouth,” your dad says. “If you ever want to borrow my iPad, you feel free.”

Your dad loves tablet computing, so that’s a big deal! You’re quite the dad conversation hotshot! Can you bring it home?

“Okay,” your dad says. “Just don’t come crawling to me if you want the concept of advice explained again.”

“Maracas?” your dad says. “Now we’re talking!”

A lengthy and interesting conversation about maracas ensues.

Okay, so you technically kept up a conversation with your dad, but you used the tried-and-true shortcut of abruptly bringing up maracas, which is essentially akin to cheating.

Try again, and do it with dignity this time.

You lie down on your belly and begin to sneak toward your dad. Without turning around, he begins talking to you.

“You can’t sneak up on me,” he says. “In Vietnam, I was in charge of shooting at people.”

You throw a rock to create a diversion for some reason. Your dad, without turning around, sticks out his hand and snags the rock out of midair. He crushes it in his fist.

“Pipe down,” your dad says, standing up. “I’m right here.”

“It’s good,” your dad says. “More of the same.”

“Yeah,” your dad says. He coughs errantly. “What’s new with you?”

“Ah, good. Now you can stop using our HBO password. Haha.”

There is a short silence. Your dad scratches his nose a bit.

Your dad continues to not say anything.

“Yeah,” your dad says. “They didn’t look great, but a win is a win, I guess. You watch it?”

Oh, man. This is brutal.

“That’s a good point,” says your dad. “I didn’t think about it like that.”

“Dear God, why would you say that?” your dad says, recoiling in horror. “You know very well that they are dead and that they meant quite a lot to me. You are a horrible person.”

Your dad galumphs away.

Wow. Why would you do that to your own father? Looks like you blew it pretty bad.

“Very well. An issue with linear time is that it can only guarantee the present. Therefore, Person B can remember past events (which he or she can draw on to give advice), but the memories exist only in the present. The events themselves are not accessible, and cannot be 100 percent guaranteed to have existed; only the recalling of the event can be said to exist, merely because it is happening in the present. Shall I continue?”

You notice that your headache has intensified and that blood is still pooling in your eyes, clouding your vision. These are classic aneurysm symptoms, just FYI.

“Very well. This phenomena can potentially lead to a false memory, or a memory that the advice-giver thinks is genuine but is actually untrue. This means that the advice may actually be bad, even if the intention is good. In this scenario, Person A will have to choose whether to accept or deny advice given to him or her by Persons B and C that is potentially based on flawed conclusions arrived at through inaccurate recollections. Shall I continue?”

There is now an intense yet somehow distant throbbing in your head. Your vision is nearly clouded entirely with the significant amount of blood that has rushed into your corneas.

Nutritional Shake-Up: The FDA Now Recommends That Americans Eat A Bowl Of 200 Eggs On Their 30th Birthday And Then Never Eat Any Eggs Again

If you’re at all concerned about maintaining a healthy diet, there’s a new update you definitely need to hear! The Food and Drug Administration has just released a new set of nutritional guidelines recommending that Americans eat a bowl of 200 eggs once on their 30th birthday and then never eat eggs again.

Looks like health nuts are going to have to start adjusting their diets!

The FDA says its new egg-consumption guidelines maximize the nutritional benefits of eggs by concentrating all the eggs you’ll ever eat in your life into one terrifying, mountainous serving of eggs on the day that you turn 30 years old. The food safety organization specified that the eggs be served without salt or any other seasonings, and also that the eggs be consumed “as quickly as possible or as slowly as possible” in order to optimize the effects on your health.

“Eggs are high in protein and vitamin D, but also very high in cholesterol, so we strongly recommend that the average American eat a single serving of 200 eggs from a bowl as soon as the clock strikes midnight on their 30th birthday,” the FDA said in a nutritional guide published on its website. “Also, the 200 eggs in the bowl should be hard-boiled. While more studies are needed, the FDA currently believes that if any of your 200 birthday eggs are not hard-boiled, you will immediately die.”

The FDA further noted that the 200 number it recommends for your once-ever serving of birthday eggs isn’t a hard-and-fast rule. Depending on your height and weight, you might need to eat a few hundred more eggs. The most important thing from a nutritional standpoint is that when you turn 30, you eat hundreds of eggs all at once, and then don’t eat any more eggs for the rest of your life.

For anyone who wants a handy resource to help keep their egg consumption within the new recommended guidelines, here’s a useful chart straight from the FDA’s website:

Major props to the FDA for working hard to keep Americans healthy! Changing your diet is always a challenge, but if eating a single bowl of eggs on your 30th birthday and then never eating eggs again is the way to stay healthy, we’re pretty sure we’re up to the task!

Read more: http://www.clickhole.com/article/nutritional-shake-fda-now-recommends-americans-eat-6849

You Lied Your Way Into A Job As A Surgeon! Can You Avoid Killing Anyone Long Enough To Collect Your First Paycheck?

Surgeons. The masters of the flesh. The gatekeepers of the organs. The doctors who get to shave patients.

These are the green-wearing gods who know that the human body is but a chessboard, and that the nipples are the king and queen, and the belly button is the opposing king or queen.

Today, finally, you are beginning your journey as one of them.

You have already gone through the arduous process of becoming a surgeon. After calling the hospital over and over every day for three weeks straight and praising Tylenol in the deepest voice you could muster to whoever picked up, being hung up on by countless doctors and nurses, you finally hit the big time.

Yesterday, you managed to get the chief of medicine on the line, who offered you a job after a mere 50 minutes of you bellowing to her about the white-and-red pill. Congratulations!

Okay. Being a surgeon is sweet as hell. You get to wear patients’ clothes around a hospital once the chemicals put them to sleep, you can eat as many tortilla chips as you want, and you can hide all of your favorite DVDs and family heirlooms inside toxic waste bins, the one place thieving pricks are too grossed out by to steal from.

Cool. But the best part of being a surgeon, bar none, is that incredible surgeon paycheck.

It’s no secret that surgeons are paid well, as every single day at 8 p.m., hardworking surgeons all over the world reap the fruits of their labor: a plastic bag filled with $600, given to them by their chief of medicine on their way out the door, in addition to a goodnight kiss on the forehead.

Exactly. So now that you’re a surgeon, you better do everything in your power to make it your $600 payday, because there is one universal stipulation that could jam you up: If a surgeon kills someone, everything completely goes to shit.

1) For starters, once a surgeon kills someone, they are NEVER allowed back in a hospital, ever. Even if you just want to go to hang out or to meet new lovers.

2) Your professional reference completely goes out the window. If a new job calls to ask about you, instead of a recommendation, the HR department hands the phone off to the absolute sickest pervert patient they have, and lets them air out whatever they’ve got kickin’ around up in their minds.

3) Lastly—and this one is the worst of all—you don’t get paid a dime, which would mean all of your efforts to become a surgeon were for NOTHING.

So, if you want to get to that sweet paycheck, you’re going to have to make it through one entire day as a surgeon without killing someone.

The hospital. The place where people come when they are bored to take off their pants and scream. This will be your new surgeon home, and today is your first day of work. As far as anyone inside is concerned, you are now a fully qualified surgeon, so if you want those 600 clams, you’re going to have to hold your own and stay off everyone’s radar.

“Please give me a surgery.”

Ah, shit. A sick kid is waiting for you right inside the lobby, and he looks all kinds of fucked up.

“I need a surgery pronto. I am dying, and it feels like none of my bones are connected to my other bones. I also have a rash that comes and goes. Please do surgery to me with your other doctor friends.”

“If you don’t give me a surgery right now, I will scream. I will scream so loud and for so long, and I will point at you the whole time. It will go on for so long that the rest of the doctors here will have no choice but to send you to jail.”

That was close. You’ve pissed your pants real good, and now you’re in the bathroom splashing your pants with water, the best way to clean pants that you’ve urinated in.

“You sure know your way around cleaning a pair of pissed pants, sport. Not bad at all.”

You look over and see that it’s the hospital’s janitor talking to you. He somehow opened the door in perfect silence while you were inside splashing your pants, and has been watching you for upwards of 90 full seconds.

“I’ve been watching you for upwards of 90 full seconds, and I can tell just by looking at you, you’re no surgeon.”

“Easy, easy. I’m not gonna rat you out. I’m gonna help you.

I take it that you’re in here lying to be a surgeon, hoping to get ‘The $600 Bag Treatment,’ huh? Well, you’ve got a friend in me. I’ve seen it before, and I’ll see it again. All you gotta do is make it until 8 p.m. without killing a soul and you’re in the clear. So whadya say you come lay low with me for the rest of the day, spend some time hanging with a new bud so you don’t end up killin’ no one before you get that money?”

“I, uh, how do you mean?” he says, visibly becoming self-conscious about the entire interaction so far. “I’m just tired today, so if I’m acting weird, that’s what that’s about, probably. Allergies are being weird, too.”

“Follow me!” the janitor says before sprinting down the hallway. You do your best to keep up with him as he weaves in and out of patients and doctors before you finally arrive at a huge metal door. He slides open the rusty door to reveal a set of long, winding stairs that lead to a dark, desolate basement, and turns to you with a half smile.

“It’s not delivery, it’s DiGiorno,” he says before letting out a quick, uncertain laugh, looking over his shoulder at you to kind of check in and see if you’re laughing or anything at what must have been some sort of joke.

“That was dumb, never mind,” the janitor says, shaking his head as his shoulders slump, trying to explain his joke before slowly progressing into full-blown self-deprecation. “I was thinking, like, how in the old commercials, I’d be the delivery guy and you’re the pizza—I don’t know, forget it. It was dumb. Sorry.”

You follow the janitor down the stairs and into the basement of the hospital, and lo and behold, it’s a full-blown bachelor’s pad! The janitor has stocked the place with some of the best things: a ping-pong table, a “Forever 27” poster, an old-timey popcorn machine, and a bunch of orange pill bottles filled with Frosted Cheerios.

“This is my chill zone. I’m down here almost all the time, which is why the hospital is filthy and patients always seem to get sick immediately after they get better.”

“We got all day, brother, so we could either sit down and talk about that important-looking guitar I have mounted on the wall over there, or we could stand near the stairs and wonder if Slash has ever signed a guitar and sold it for $20,000 online before, or maybe we could lay down on the ground and trade stories about the most expensive thing we’ve ever mounted on a wall. Your call.”

“I can’t lift my arms above my waist because of a power-washer accident.”

“You got a good eye, kid,” he says as though you brought it up completely unprompted, proudly looking up at the guitar he somehow mounted unnecessarily high on his wall.

“Believe it or not, Slash signed that guitar, and I was lucky enough to spend all of the money I have on it. I usually don’t do this for anyone, but for you, I’ll climb all the way up there and get it if you want to hold it.”

“I’d climb anywhere for one of my boys.”

“I’ll put a very wet towel over them. I’m sure that will be fine.”

You’ve killed! You’ve killed!

You put the janitor in grave danger by selfishly asking him to grab his Slash guitar off the wall. After the janitor put a soaking-wet towel on top of his countless basement wires in order to walk over to the wall and begin his climb, he was immediately electrocuted and fell crashing to the ground without the ability to raise his arms and break his fall. It’s unclear if it was the electricity surging through his body that did him in, or if it was the way his neck snapped on a nearby stool because of the horrible, unnatural way he fell. But either way, he is definitely dead, and it is your fault.

You’re no longer a surgeon, and you can kiss that bag of $600 goodbye.

As you go back up the stairs and start heading toward the lobby, you can hear that he starts to follow you, but then locks himself in the bathroom you were in earlier and begins screaming at himself in the mirror for messing up what could’ve been a nice day. His screaming gets louder and louder before it comes to a halt after you hear the sound of him snapping his mop over his knee in fury.

“I need you to give me a surgery right now.”

Ah, damn. It’s the sick kid from earlier.

“I feel like I’m on a boat at all hours of the day, and my elbows are dry. I need you to cut me open and drain me out, if that’s what it takes, and to please get me home by later today.”

You pick the kid up, throw him over your shoulder, and walk through the hospital looking for a good room to cut him open in. After 20 minutes, you finally find the room with all of the surgeons in it, and you slam the kid down on the empty table they’re all staring at.

Now all eyes are on you. You’re going to have to step up and say something pretty incredible to get all of these surgeons on your side.

You’ve killed! You’ve killed!

After you said that ridiculous, dumbass comment, every surgeon in the room became furious at you and began hammering you with questions about your qualifications. You tried mumbling through more Tylenol facts, which went much worse in person than it did on the phone, and somewhere during your 25-minute verbal beatdown from the other surgeons, the kid died on the table.

You are no longer a surgeon, and you will never get a plastic bag filled with $600.

Share Your Results

Everyone starts nodding and smiling and patting each other on the back. Good shit.

“Ha, nice,” a woman says, whose voice you recognize from the phone as the chief of medicine at the hospital. She quickly anesthetizes the patient to finally stop him from grabbing and clawing at everyone’s surgical masks, and within seconds the little spaz is sleeping.

At that moment, the tallest doctor you’ve ever seen walks into the door wearing a backwards hat and confidently drinking Barq’s Root Beer out of a 2-liter bottle.

“I’ve never seen you around here,” he says after putting the root beer down firmly into the lap of the unconscious kid and eyeing you up and down suspiciously. “Enlighten us, fresh meat. Now, what surgery are we performing on this little man, exactly?”

Ah, this guy is onto you. Need something big here to throw everyone off your tracks.

“Doctors, you two can be mean to each other in the parking lot all day long if you want to, but that’ll be enough fighting in my hospital,” says the chief of medicine after banging her fist down onto the kid’s chest like a gavel to get everyone’s attention.

“This little boy is in dire need of a heart transplant. We need to start immediately.”

“Doctors, that’ll be enough talk about whether or not there are actually types of surgeries or not, because there simply is not a correct answer,” says the chief of medicine after banging her fist down onto the kid’s chest like a gavel to get everyone’s attention.

“This little boy is in dire need of a heart transplant. We need to start immediately.”

“Doctors, please stop winking at each other,” says the chief of medicine after banging her fist down onto the kid’s chest like a gavel to get everyone’s attention.

“This little boy is in dire need of a heart transplant. We need to start immediately.”

After noticing that no one is reacting to you pissing yourself, you look around and realize that every surgeon in the room has also already pissed themselves. Then you remember that surgeons are constantly pissing themselves during surgery, like bicyclists during races, for reasons completely unknown.

The chief of medicine takes out a toolbox from underneath the surgery-room sink and hands each surgeon a tool. She takes each tool out one by one and starts passing them down the line. One doctor gets a small shovel, one gets a large knife, another gets a pickax, and on and on it goes, until you finally end up with the flashlight!

“Um, yeah, that’s my flashlight, pal. I’m always the flashlight man around here,” says the root-beer doctor.

“No,” interjects the chief. “New guy can hold the flashlight today. I have a good feeling about this.”

Your new rival is stunned. He shoots you a dirty look, threateningly crosses his thumb over his neck, and then does it again with his other thumb, but slower. Then he quietly mouths something that you didn’t really get a good read on, but from what you did see, your best guess is that he was saying something like “Fracking mountains,” or “Simply delicious.” Then he is handed the worst tool: the blood napkin, the tool that wipes up all the loose goo and pus.

“Ah, c’mon, man. Quit it. What the hell.”

The surgery is now well under way. The chief is slicing and dicing and moving parts around left and right. It’s pretty much a one-woman show.

Most of the other doctors are using their tools just to kind of scrape some bones and stuff when they feel like they should get in the mix, usually after not doing anything for a couple minutes straight and getting nervous that someone will notice how they’re not really that crucial to the operation.

You’re getting bored by the whole thing at this point, but at least you’re holding your own with these docs and, most importantly, haven’t killed anyone yet.

Surgery still going. Getting kind of repetitive. A couple doctors shuffled out for a minute and came back with crackers, but the crackers are all gone now. You didn’t even notice they had crackers until there were only, like, four left in the sleeve, so at that point, asking for some really wouldn’t have been cool.

Surgery is getting boring.

Surgery is boring as hell.Your arms got tired from holding the flashlight up, so you put it down for a minute and no one seemed to notice. You’re back up now.

Kid woke up and started screaming LOUD, but now he’s sleeping again.

“You were scared!” “No, you were scared!” “I wasn’t scared, you were scared!” The surgeons are all ragging on each other and having fun again. Finally got some juice in the room. Whole crew got a good laugh out of that one.

Woah, wait a minute. Oh, man. You see something inside the kid’s body. Wedged deep in between his rib cage and his liver, there looks to be something shining and throbbing, and you’re pretty sure you’re the only one who sees it.

Two doctors broke away from the surgery about 15 minutes ago to arm wrestle on a nearby stool, and the rest of the surgeons have all one-by-one walked over to form a circle around them so they can gamble. Meanwhile, the chief is still hacking away at this kid’s organs with all of her might, and seems way too dialed-in to notice the game changer you’ve found.

You’ve killed! You’ve killed!

You thought you were being a hero by yanking out what you thought were some sort of wet, shining metals, but were actually the poor kid’s veins. You are no longer a surgeon, and can go ahead and kiss that sweet paycheck goodbye.

“Those are veins. They are not ‘evil copper and metals sticking out of this poor bastard’s guts.’ Do not call them that.”

Damn. Misread that one. The chief is totally onto you now.

“But I appreciate you speaking your mind when you think something is amiss,” she continues, looking up and making eye contact with you for the first time. “That takes a commitment to the job that some of my other doctors lack at times,” she says, motioning to the doctors across the room who are now attempting to disguise their arm-wrestling gambling ring by draping a hospital gown over the two meaty, dueling arms.

The chief reciprocates your unblinking eye contact and begins nodding in perfect unison with your nodding. This goes on for a good 20 seconds or so, the grunts of the two arm wrestlers and the slaps of cold, hard cash hitting the tile becoming the only sounds in the room.

At that moment, you and the chief simultaneously feel a romantic charge between you, and it feels beautiful and right. But that romantic feeling is immediately followed by a simultaneous paternal feeling, but it’s unclear who is the parent and who is the child. Then the two feelings of physical attraction and familial protectiveness fuse together into one singular emotion, and it feels disgusting to both of you.

“Yeah, yeah, go catch up with them. I’ll hold it down over here, cool,” the chief kind of half-mutters to herself and to you while shaking her head and getting back to surgery.

You walk over to the gambling circle and see the two exhausted surgeons pulling and pushing as hard as they can to win. The two doctors are so evenly matched that their arms aren’t moving or shaking in the slightest. If it weren’t for the veins about to explode out of their temples and the tears streaming down their faces, you’d have no idea how intense the duel was.

All of the other surgeons are quietly going apeshit. Almost all of them are either gently pounding their chests, gingerly slapping the ground, or shaking their fists in the air, all the while whispering bad arm-wrestling advice like “Win the skin!” or “Make him smooth!”

It’s definitely a pretty sweet scene, and you decide that you want to get in the mix.

As you go to ask the doctor next to you, your rival doctor steps in front and interrupts:

“Looking to get in on the action but lacking the funds, newbie? Don’t worry, fresh meat. I got you covered. Also, we’re rival doctors, just in case that wasn’t clear.”

Whoa, pretty cool to get a rival doctor on your first day on the job. That probably usually takes years.

“That’s my coat over there,” he says, pointing to a white lab coat being worn by one of the arm-wrestling surgeons. “Go ahead and take my wallet out of the pocket and take out as much money as you want.”

He then lets out a weird little laugh and looks around to see if anyone else is laughing. One other doctor did laugh, but he’s in the middle of a conversation with another surgeon, so you’re pretty sure the laugh had nothing to do with your rival.

“I have coats all over this hospital that you wouldn’t know a thing about,” he says, raising his fist up to your chin real quick, trying to get you to flinch. You stand your ground and don’t flinch at all, though, and he sheepishly brings his fist back down to his side.

You’ve killed! You’ve killed!

In a brilliantly executed scheme, your rival tricked you into reaching into the coat of one of the doctors who is arm wrestling. When the arm wrestler saw you trying to steal his wallet, his mix of adrenaline and dangerously high blood pressure caused his heart to explode.

Your misconduct has resulted in a death, meaning you can no longer be a surgeon, and you will never see that sweet, sweet bag o’ cash.

You Are The United Nations Secretary-General! Can You Use The Bathroom For 5 Freaking Minutes Without World War III Breaking Out?

This is the United Nations, the center of global diplomacy. Countries from all over the world gather here to bicker about their differences and get nothing accomplished. This may seem like a huge waste of time, but it’s actually much better than the alternative, which is World War III.

Yes, it would be very bad. Every human would die, and the Earth would become a radioactive cinder. World War III is one of the worst things that could happen.

No, it would be very bad. Every human would die, and the Earth would become a radioactive cinder. World War III is one of the worst things that could happen.

You are the U.N. secretary-general, the director of the United Nations. This is you.

Running the United Nations is a challenging job, but you know how important your work is. Without your tireless diplomatic efforts, World War III could erupt at any moment.

This is the start of a new day, and it’s bound to be a stressful one. You have just enough time for a soothing chamomile tea before you talk to world leaders and try to delay nuclear holocaust a little bit longer.

Soon the weight of the world will be on your shoulders, but right now, for one brief moment, you can revive your spirits with the calming taste of chamomile.

The second you swallow the tea your bowels seize up in knots. Number one and number two are stirring through your guts like a pair of incestuous pythons, angrily slamming against the walls of your intestine and bladder. What the hell did you just drink?

Oh no. You wanted to make chamomile tea, but must have grabbed the wrong box. You have to find a bathroom, fast.

Maybe you should do a little diplomacy first though, before you visit the toilet. You’ve already left the world unattended while you had your tea, and there’s no telling what mischief the countries are getting themselves into.

Diplomacy can wait five minutes. You desperately waddle straight to the bathroom.

While you’re in the bathroom, World War III occurs, and a nuclear shockwave obliterates New York City, which is where the United Nations headquarters is. You are instantly killed without even realizing there’s a problem. Soon every other city on Earth is also erased by nuclear hellfire.

Within minutes, a global population of billions is reduced to millions. The survivors struggle on for several decades, their numbers continually dwindling due to radiation sickness and famine caused by nuclear winter. The few that survive are often infertile from constant background irradiation.

Fifty years after World War III, fewer than 100,000 humans remain alive on the face of the Earth, surviving in scattered hunter-gatherer tribes. They eke out a tough existence on the toxic husk of the Earth, but even those hardened nomad bands are slowly killed off by the inhospitable wasteland.

Five hundred years after World War III, only two humans are left on Earth, a mother and her son. They live on the outskirts of the radioactive ruin of what was once called Cincinnati, eating cockroaches to survive. She dies of cancer when the boy is 10 years old. He lives the rest of his life alone on a dead planet, making up imaginary friends to keep himself company. He dies at the age of 49 from an untreated tooth infection.

This tragic fate befell humanity because you couldn’t hold in your feces for a few minutes before using the bathroom. It didn’t have to be this way.

You visit the conference room where ambassadors hang out to argue with each other. “Good morning, Mr. Secretary-General,” the diplomats greet you in unison.

Your stomach is rumbling like a blender full of rocks. You really need to wrap up this diplomacy stuff, pronto.

You deliver a long and eloquent speech on the importance of diplomacy, ignoring the furious writhing of your intestine. Unfortunately, you take too long. As soon as your finish speaking, your colon erupts in a geyser of shit. Liquid rivers of warm dung flow down your pant leg, over your shoes, and spread across the floor like the Exxon Valdez spill.

“Hey, the secretary-general just shit his pants!” screams the Belgian ambassador.

“Whoa, what a loser!” shouts the Japanese ambassador. “We used to respect him, but he can’t even keep his crap inside his body where it belongs.”

“All these years, we’ve listened to him when he told us that World War III would be bad,” says the Chilean ambassador. “But now that we know he’s actually an idiot who shits his pants, what if that means World War III would be good?”

Excited murmurs start to fill the room. “Yeah, World War III!” “The Big War!” “World War III would be good!” “Nukes nukes nukes nukes!”

The ambassadors ignore your desperate pleas and phone their home countries to tell them to start World War III. It doesn’t take long before a nuclear shockwave reduces the United Nations to radioactive ash, and you with it.

The French ambassador clears his throat. “Yes, we are about to go to war with our hated enemy England.”

Uh-oh, he’s lifting weights. This is a traditional form of diplomatic saber rattling that countries use to show their power. If he’s doing exercise at the United Nations, that means armed conflict could erupt between France and England at any second.

“The arrogant and imperialistic British have been hogging Stonehenge all for themselves. Why do they get to own Stonehenge? They didn’t even build Stonehenge, it was druids a long time ago. France should get a turn owning Stonehenge. If not, we have no choice but to start World War III.”

The diplomats watch you in puzzled silence as you struggle to control your spastic bowels. After a few perilous seconds you manage to resist defecating, for at least a little bit longer.

The English ambassador scoffs disdainfully. “How dare the devious French try to take our Stonehenge, when they’ve been selfishly hoarding the Eiffel Tower all to themselves for years. If France wants to do World War III, England welcomes the chance to best them in a contest of nukes. After we win, we’ll bring the Eiffel Tower to London where it belongs.”

With your blessing, England and France begin lobbing nuclear weapons at each other, destroying both Stonehenge and the Eiffel Tower, as well as all their cities and buildings and people.

The destruction of two countries would be bad enough, but England and France were both NATO signatories. As soon as they went to war, that invoked Article 5 of the NATO treaty, which declares that an attack against one NATO member is an attack against all and must be responded to with military action. All the other NATO members fulfill their obligations to defend England and France from England and France by bombing England and France. Attacking England and France invokes Article 5 of NATO again, which forces all the NATO nations to start bombing all the NATO nations that attacked England and France, including themselves.

You are killed in a nuclear explosion when the United States retaliates against the United States by bombing the United States.

Knowing that your bowels could evacuate the entire frozen package of hot dogs you ate this morning at any moment, you have to propose a peace treaty between England and France on how to equitably divide Stonehenge and the Eiffel Tower, and pronto!

The British ambassador falls silent for a long moment, then takes a nude photo of the queen out of his briefcase. “This photo of the queen’s glorious bare body is one of England’s most treasured possessions,” he says gravely, handing it to the French ambassador. “England will not trade it for anything less precious than the Eiffel Tower.”

The French ambassador examines the photo for a few seconds. “She looks pretty good for her age,” he says with utter solemnity.

The British ambassador nods. “Yeah, she’s in her nineties. Not bad at all.”

The two ambassadors shake hands, signaling a new era of peace between their countries. Now that you’ve averted war, nothing stops you from running to the bathroom.

“The Mona Lisa is one of France’s most valued treasures,” says the French ambassador in a hushed and reverent tone. “We stole that painting from the Italians, and it’s ours now. Until now, we’ve had a policy to never paint on the Mona Lisa, but we would break that rule in exchange for Stonehenge.”

“Manchester United rules!” shouts the English ambassador. “They kick the ball very well. We’d be honored to have Mona Lisa become a fan of Manchester.”

The two ambassadors shake hands, signaling a new era of peace between their countries. Now that you’ve averted war, nothing stops you from running to the bathroom.

You sprint toward the toilets, using every ounce of willpower to contain the furious contents of your twitching asshole. The door of the U.N.’s bathroom beckons to you like a lighthouse in a storm.

You stride triumphantly toward the toilets, ready to drop your pants and destroy the plumbing. There’s no time to spare either, because shit is ramming against your sphincter like Vikings at the castle gates.

There are four stalls in this bathroom. Which one do you want to use?

Wow, you just offended a Nobel Prize winner, and you still have a runaway brown train chugging down your colon, next stop sphincter junction. And without your guidance, World War III could break out in the general assembly at any time. Better make this quick!

Which stall do you want to use?

You open the door to the first stall, and a young woman sitting on the toilet shrieks in alarm.

“Excuse me, this stall is occupied!” screams Malala Yousafzai. “What the fucking hell is wrong with you? Can’t a Nobel Prize winner take a dump in peace?”

“Well, fucking knock next time! Now get lost, so I can finish up in here and get back to a conference on the importance of women’s education in the developing world.”

The Dalai Lama is sitting on the toilet. “Suffering must be our teacher, not our master,” he says while smiling at you benevolently. There is a quiet continuous sound of trickling urine.

“You are filled with sorrow,” says the Dalai Lama. “Instead, be joyous, for the world’s beauty is all around you!” Urine continues to steadily trickle.

“Our needs and wants are roadblocks on the path to nirvana.” The sound of urine slows down to intermittent spurts, and eventually stops entirely. Five quiet seconds pass as the Dalai Lama smiles at you. Then suddenly urine starts pouring again twice as loud as before.

You drop your pants and seat your bare ass on the Dalai Lama’s naked thighs. In response, the Buddhist spiritual leader calmly takes a can of mace out of his robes and pepper-sprays you in the eyes.

The world is a painful blur. You try to fumble your way to the sinks to wash the pepper spray from your stinging eyes, but instead accidentally wander out of the bathroom into the U.N.’s hallway, right in front of an elementary school tour group.

There are shocked gasps and giggles from the students as you waddle around with your fallen pants, reluctantly shitting a breadcrumb trail of turds behind you.

Police handcuff you and throw you in the back of a squad car. You face some pretty serious charges. Shitting in front of minors will get you put on the sex offender registry, which will get you fired from your job at the United Nations and make it impossible to ever get employed again.

However, you’re never charged for your crimes. On your way to the police station, World War III happens, and you’re disintegrated by a nuclear explosion.

Former Libyan dictator Muammar Gaddafi is sitting on the toilet. “Occupied,” says the brutal tyrant. “My bad, I should have locked the door.”

“No, they only killed one of my body doubles,” says Gaddafi. “I was at the United Nations for a diplomatic summit when my government was overthrown, so I decided to lay low and live in the bathroom here.”

“Sure, help yourself,” says Gaddafi as he stands and pulls up his pants. “Heads up, though, I just dropped a monster deuce, and this toilet is completely clogged. Sorry about that.”

The odor from the toilet is absolutely horrendous. Gaddafi’s dump smells like a combination of dog sweat and spoiled cheesecake. You flick the handle a few times, but it doesn’t flush. You definitely do not want to sit on top of that mess, but you need a toilet and you’re getting desperate.

You sit down on top of the steaming dung and defecate. It’s pretty gross feeling the polluted Gaddafi-water splash up against your ass cheeks, but at least you get rid of your diarrhea.

You have succeeded in using the toilet for five minutes without World War III breaking out, so congratulations! Technically, you win! On the downside, you get all kinds of weird diseases from exposure to Gaddafi’s shit, which is to be expected from someone who slept with thousands of prostitutes and sex slaves over four decades. A few hours after using the bathroom you start hemorrhaging blood from your anus and then die. After your death, there’s nobody around to prevent World War III, and humanity is eradicated by nuclear warfare.

If you’re okay with this, you can quit now and consider this a victory, but maybe there’s a way to take a shit and also prevent World War III from happening at all.

You open the door and find Bill Gates sitting on the toilet, but not actually defecating. The toilet lid is down, and Bill Gate’s pants are up.

The billionaire philanthropist is lost in thought and doesn’t notice you enter.

“Oh, hello, Secretary-General,” says Bill Gates. “No, I don’t need to use the bathroom. I just came here to think about all the strides the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation has made in the fight against malaria. The bathroom is one of my favorite quiet places to think about doing charity.”

“Sure, of course you can use this toilet,” says Bill Gates. “Unfortunately, not everyone on Earth has a toilet. And other unfortunate people have malaria, a serious and sometimes deadly disease spread by mosquitoes. There are over 200 million cases of malaria each year. It’s an enduring problem that I hope to fix in my lifetime.”

“Oh right, you need to use the toilet,” says Bill Gates. “I forgot because I was talking about malaria, a serious disease endemic in tropical climates. Combating malaria will require a threefold approach: 1) reducing mosquito populations by eliminating standing water sources and employing judicious use of pesticides; 2) developing effective drugs and vaccines to protect at-risk populations from malaria; 3) employing barriers such as mosquito nets to prevent contact between humans and mosquitos.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I will get off the toilet immediately so you can use it,” says Bill Gates while remaining seated on the toilet. “Diarrhea is also one of the symptoms of malaria, a serious disease that is sometimes fatal. Other symptoms of malaria include fever and vomiting. Over half a million people die each year from malaria, a grim annual toll that is too often ignored in the Western world.

“The good news is that the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation has made huge strides against malaria, reducing deaths by 20 percent since the year 2000. Our scientists have made promising breakthroughs experimenting with recombinant protein-based vaccines, and we intend to keep funding grants to pursue that area of research.

“Eradicating malaria is a long-term goal, but an attainable one, that will require ongoing cooperation between government health departments and NGOs. By the way, didn’t you say you needed to use the toilet? Sorry, I got distracted talking about malaria.”

Bill Gates stands up and gestures at the toilet. “It’s all yours.”

You shit your pants because you let Bill Gates ramble on about malaria for too long. There’s no way you can conduct diplomacy like this. None of the ambassadors will take you seriously if you have sopping-wet shit legs. You have no choice but to go shopping for a new pair of pants.

You and your befouled pants squeeze onto a packed subway train. The other straphangers give you disgusted looks and inch away.

In your worst nightmares you never dreamed that you, the secretary-general of the world’s most esteemed diplomatic institution, could become a social pariah stinking up a train car. You pray the subway gets to your stop quickly so you can reach Macy’s and buy clean pants as soon as possible.

You’re traveling through a tunnel when the subway comes to a screeching halt. The lights flicker, and the car shakes as the ground trembles.

The train conductor’s voice crackles over the intercom. “Sorry passengers, this train is experiencing service delays because World War III just happened on the surface and everyone up there is dead. Thank you for your patience.”

You climb a service ladder to the street level and behold the grim aftermath of World War III. Charred corpses litter the streets amidst burning rubble. This is the exact kind of situation you tried to warn people about when you said World War III would be bad.

Fortunately, you managed to survive doomsday and become a nomadic scavenger. You spend the rest of your grueling life searching through the radioactive ruins of civilization for canned food and bugs to eat. However, in all your decades of wandering the nuclear wasteland, you never find a clean pair of pants.

“Don’t worry, I’ll squish it!” shouts Bill Gates. He runs out to the United Nations parking lot, hops into his car, and drives into your car at 90 mph, totaling both vehicles.

Bill Gates dizzily climbs out of the wreckage of his car. He has a long gash bleeding on his forehead where it hit the steering wheel. “I don’t see the mosquito,” he shouts out in warning. “I think it got away. Don’t let it bite you, or you might get malaria!”

You’ve successfully tricked Bill Gates into leaving the toilet.

You drop your pants and lower yourself down. The ring of the toilet seat feels cool and refreshing on your buttocks.

Just as you prepare to tense your colon and expel all the filth within, there is a loud commotion from outside the bathroom. You hear angry shouting. Someone screams, “If World War III is what you want, then World War III is what you’re gonna get!”