The following events occurred a few weeks ago on a Saturday and I didn’t think much of them at the time. However, Forrest recently made the same mistake and wanted me to warn others about the Commune that is Trader Joe’s. I’m ashamed of myself for going to this store. I hope you’ll learn from my mistakes.

Saturday, March 21st 1:30 pm
I’m in line at Trader Joe’s surrounded by Prius driving environmentalist liberals, FML. These people would take a bullet if they thought it would stop “global warming”. It’s crowded as shit in here and all I see is a sea of earth tones and tie-dye t-shirts, there’s not a collared shirt in sight, other than the one I’m wearing. I’ve always overheard people talking about how great Trader Joe’s is but have never really paid attention, mainly because I just stop listening when I realize they aren’t talking about the Harris Teeter at Cameron Village. For those of you that don’t know, this store is similar to Whole Foods, except that I can deal with going to Whole foods because it’s inside the beltline and there’s usually a lot of talent at their salad bar. By talent, I mean sorostitutes from State or sluts from Meredith. Meredith girls shouldn’t take offense to the term “sluts”. It’s just that Meredith doesn’t have sororities and I’m not going to refer to them as girls. That would imply a level of respect that I simply don’t have for anyone that isn’t me or my friends. Sorry for partying. I’m not sure how I ended up here or, more importantly, why I’m outside the beltline. Did I miss my exit while I was driving around the beltline trying to raise gas prices again? I know I blacked out last night after Forrest and I had that contest to see who could take the most liquid cocaine shots before bitching out and switching over to jäger bombs (I won after 12 rounds). It’s only 1:30 p.m. so I guess I could still be drunk…..

The point is, I’m in the check out line trying to get out of this communist bloc as soon as I can. Some little kid in the other line is staring at me right now. He must be wondering why he’s never seen his father dress as professionally as I do on a Saturday. I made eye contact as if to say, “Quit f’in staring at me”. He didn’t understand. He’s still staring, standing with his mouth agape, looking at me as if I’m the outsider. His parents are surely at fault for his obvious developmental problems. They probably spend time reading to him and encouraging him to try new things instead of just sitting him in front of the television and making the babysitter/maid raise him during his formative years like my parents did with me. I turned out just fine. I think I just heard him say, “Mommy, why does that man smell like Daddy does when he comes home from work late and falls down a lot?” I’m assuming “comes home from work late” means “the bar”, because I clearly still reek of alcohol. This kid’s Dad must party pretty hard. I know I’d be at happy hour every night if I was married to this woman, who’s clearly let herself go. His mother just looks at me in disgust and tries to distract her son with some sort of health food candy. The kid keeps staring, there’s got to be something wrong with this guy.

I’m looking around and can’t figure out why so many people work in this store. Everywhere I look there’s an employee ready to talk about organic tofu or some shit. From a middle aged woman with a man-haircut to a pseudo intellectual 20-something who probably just got done listening to an NPR podcast on his iTouch (can’t afford an iPhone) during his break, their workforce couldn’t be more unattractive. The only way to tell the difference between the employees and the customers is by their tiny nametags, since everyone is wearing the same green or brown t-shirt, made from hemp or some other hippie reusable shit, that they bought at Farm-Aid. This line is taking forever. Of course the dipshit in front of me and the cashier are discussing all of the environmental aspects of the items being rung up like they’re fucking Ebert and Roeper, breaking down every little detail. No one gives a shit if those oranges were “grown in volcanic soil in Spain” and “have the highest concentration of Vitamin C in the world”. Put the damn food in the bag and let the commie use his food stamps to pay.

Looking at my cart, I still don’t know why I’m here. The food at Trader Joe’s isn’t packaged in eye catching boxes that draw my attention and influence my buying behavior. If they aren’t even going to take the time to make a television commercial featuring a professional athlete or celebrity that will make me want to purchase their products, how the hell am I supposed to know what to buy? The only plus is that they have a good selection of wines. Unfortunately, I don’t know shit about wine, so I just bought a few bottles of everything.

Finally up to the cashier, he’s ringing everything up, trying to talk to me about each item. I’m refusing to respond, busy typing this on my phone, so I’ll just nod in agreement. He’s finished and it’s time to pay. I slide my card, and look back at my phone. What is taking so long?
“Hey, you’ve got to hit this button”, he says.
Apparently, I didn’t finish the transaction correctly because I was typing this and not paying attention. He should have done this for me in the first place.
“…….Oh……ok” I respond.
The machine asks for my PIN again, then my signature, then if I want cash back. I’m furious that this is preventing me from leaving. He tries to lighten the mood with humor.
“….and we’re gonna need a fingerprint, haha, and a blood sample, haha” he says.
I stared back at him blankly. Realizing that his attempt at humor has failed, he continues to try to win me over, this time by talking about something that he thought I would be interested in.
“Watching some basketball today?” he asks.
“……Yeah”
Thinking we have something in common, he continues, “Oh yeah, great time of the year for basketball!”
From the looks of him, and from the nervousness in his voice, I can tell he has no idea what he’s talking about. I must make him feel inferior.
I reply, “Oh yeah, definitely the best time of the year for basketball. You watching the game tonight?”
“Oh yeah, wouldn’t miss it, it’s gonna be a great one!” he says.
“Definitely. So, how many first downs do you think the catcher will have before the third period?” I ask.
“Oh,…………uh, yeah he’ll get tons of first downs I’m sure! He’s so fast!”
Idiot. If I wanted to acknowledge you, I would have. There’s a reason I’m not looking up from my phone as you’re talking to me. Get back to work. I finished paying and am ready to get the hell out of here. I start to exit and out of nowhere the little Rainmain with a staring problem darts in front of my cart and almost ends it all. I don’t blame him for trying to get away from that sad excuse for a mother that’s with him. I come to a stop, barely avoiding him, and am able to get this picture of him as he pulls out of his kamikaze approach.

I have no idea what just happened. I don’t know what I just bought but I knew I couldn’t not buy anything. That would just be letting them win. I basically gave them $135.45 and have no idea what’s in the bags that I’m loading into my SUV right now. Can’t believe I survived that place. I’m going to get another tank of gas before I head home to spend the rest of the day recovering on the couch before doing it all again tonight.

So I got blackout backstage with Jimmy Buffett last night and didn’t have time to preview this year’s TBMF. I’m just reposting my thoughts on TBMF from last year because I don’t want to waste any more time talking about this commoner infested event, and I’m really hungover. It’s pretty much the same line up of bands, commoners, and wife-beaters (both kinds) as last year, so this post should be enough to convince people to avoid this event at all costs. I’ve got a video that shows what goes on in this shit hole but my IT guys haven’t put it up yet. I’ll get around to it next week and maybe post a recap of what I can remember from Buffett as well. So in case you forgot why you shouldn’t attend TBMF, read the following: TBMF: Carolina Cup for Commoners.

Here’s an inside look at what happens when gel heads run out of their most prized accessory…….gel. Seeing their despair has given me a genius idea. If I buy all the gel in Raleigh, these tools will lose self-confidence and stop going out to bars. This would be a great way to start taking back the downtown. All of the normal gel head bars would still be full of slutty girls who constantly update their MySpace page to show off their tramp stamp tattoos and pictures from the time they partied with Brody (whoever the hell that is) from G105. I guess I would know who he was if I was poor and couldn’t afford satellite radio. The point is that I’m ok with going to the same bars as these skanks. My parents would obviously forbid me to date any of these girls, but that doesn’t mean I can’t take one of them back to my place at the end of the night, hook up, make her call a cab to take her home the next morning, then never call her again. My parents don’t find out, the skank’s self esteem becomes even lower, and I get away with committing a social crime that would normally be frowned upon by my peers. It’s a win, win, win situation.

If you’d like to assist in this hostile takeover of all the gel in Raleigh, simply buy every gel product in stock the next time you’re at a grocery store or drug store or wherever the hell it is that they sell this shit. I’ll take care of Harris Teeter and Rite Aid at Cameron Village. To really hit them hard someone will need to venture into the Food Lion on Western Boulevard of Broken Dreams. This is too dangerous for me to attempt, so I’ll need help. Volunteers will be rewarded. Good luck.

It’s almost Easter and you all know what that means, it’s finally socially acceptable to wear my seersucker suit and it’s about fuckin’ time. Since Easter is also a holiday, I’ll be able to meet up with old friends who have come back in town from their real jobs in D.C. or Charlotte to get blackout at Crowley’s before having to get up and go to church hungover the next morning. I usually get so blackout on Good Friday that it takes me three days to get over my hangover and rise from the couch. I was never really good at the whole church thing. However, I do appreciate that we participate in such a high class holiday, although I can never remember what exactly it is that we’re celebrating. When I was younger, I had a hard time grasping the “love your neighbor as you love yourself” spiel, mainly because I knew it wasn’t possible for me to love anyone as much as I loved myself. Confused by this statement, I just sort of stopped paying attention in church, listening every once in a while so I could pretend to know what was going on if anyone asked. Don’t get me wrong, I attended church and Sunday school every Sunday until I went to college and forgot all the shit that was supposed to “make me a better person”. I’m just not sure that I understand what Easter is for. Regardless of what the church says, Easter is a great way to reconnect with people who have moved away (although I look down on them for this) and to spend some quality time with the family by gathering together for a nice catered brunch that required no effort to put on. While some consider this quality family time, drinking on the porch while children roam the backyard in search of designer Easter eggs full of expensive imported candy is not what I want to be doing after a night of getting blackout. It’s a good thing we normally have Bloody Marys, Mimosas, and White Russians at our brunch following church, because everyone knows the best way to cure a hangover is to start drinking again. For those of you who don’t know, inside the beltline Easter brunches are classy catered affairs held on the back porches and sprawling lawns of houses throughout elite ITB neighborhoods. I don’t even think people outside the beltline celebrate Easter. If they do, I’m sure their commoner Easter egg hunts would infuriate me. Rewarding kids with candy for roaming aimlessly around the yard is basically just preparing them for a life dependant on welfare, except people on welfare do even less work for their rewards (welfare checks).

Last Easter, as I sat on the back porch curing my hangover, I realized that I wasn’t benefiting from this holiday at all. Since I don’t care about anything that doesn’t draw attention to me, I decided to hold my own ITB Easter Egg hunt. Forrest and I came up with some details the other day at Village Deli when we determined that hiding eggs full of candy is poor and boring. What could we do to solve this problem? That’s right, hide eggs full of $100 bills, keys to 2009 Tahoes, iPhones, Blackberries, and Rolex watches. We decided to hide the eggs at classic inside the beltline locations and plan to charge participants $10,000 to enter. So just contact Forrest or myself if you’re interested in entering, everybody’s doing it. Combined with the Masters Golf tournament, I’m sure this weekend will continue to be a tradition unlike any other.

Came across this on Twitter earlier today and thought I should share. This cougar does a good job of explaining the rules of “sexting” as she calls it. She describes the advantages of texting and provides some interesting rules to follow. Her article makes me wonder how poor people who don’t have unlimited text messages flirt with each other. As for the cougar’s sexting rules, I’m not sure I agree with all of them. Plus, rules were made to be broken. For instance, rule 2, 4, and 5:

2. Texting has a curfew. Unless you’ve got a 24-7 passion policy for booty calls, most people are not going to be keen on TMs after a certain hour. Know that if you TM somebody after 10 p.m., it’s considered a late-night booty call.

So what? I text when I want. If a girl doesn’t respond to my 4:32am text, that’s her loss.

4. Don’t drink and text. Getting drunk equals getting stupid. And while it can be funny, it’s not so sexy. So stick with sober messages.

This is retarded. Why would I ever need to text (or talk to) a girl while I’m sober? Plus, when I send something horribly offensive, I can just claim that I don’t remember sending it because I was blackout at the time.

5. Avoid breaking major news via text. Texting should not involve first professions of love, marriage proposals or the breaking of bad news. For example, would you want to receive the message “Have herpes. Sux. U should get checked 2” on your cell phone?
And while new love interests may handle rejection better via text, do not dump somebody you’ve been involved with for weeks, months, or years via SMS. That’s just cold.

I guess this rule is for douchebags “nice” guys, because I know I wouldn’t bother wasting a text message (even though I have an unlimited text plan) to tell a girl that I had an STD (I don’t). I also don’t understand why you would have to tell a girl you’re dumping her. Again, I’m assuming this rule is for guys who actually waste their time dating instead of getting blackout and taking down sorostitues on the Felson’s dance floor. Whenever these girls start bringing up the “r” word, it’s much easier to just avoid them until they figure out you don’t actually like them.

Other than that, this cougar is pretty spot on with her analysis and does a good job of explaining why texting is one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. I love texting because it’s a great way to say whatever the hell you want to a girl and not have to deal with the stupid look she gets on her face when she’s offended by your obscene comments. I consider myself to be a pretty solid texter, especially from 2:00am-5:00am. When I don’t get a response after sending a late night text, I just assume the recipient is already passed out. Why wouldn’t they respond to me? I realize that some of my texts contain jumbled letters, but most girls can get the gist of a text that says, “comea ovear leats hoak up”. However, I have run into a bit of a problem lately. Apparently, some of the jumbled words I’ve been using were actually acronyms that I didn’t even know I was using. Forrest showed me this site that lists almost all of the text message acronyms being used today. I went back to see if I had used any of these and it turns out I had, a lot. Below are a few of the mistakes I’ve made and the responses I received. I’ve highlighted the acronyms as well.

2:54am
Original text: hey, ijpmp wanan sfttm and hnag out?
What I was trying to say: hey, you wanna come and hang out?
What I actually said: hey, I just pissed my pants wanna stop fucking talking to me and hang out?
Her response: Sick.

3:34am
Original text: im at late nightg, sip you?
What I was trying to say: I’m at late night, are you?
What I actually said: I’m at late night skiing in powder you?
Her response: Sorry, I don’t do drugs.

3:47am
Original text: lawst weeknd was greart, amrmtyfts do it agin tonaeght
What I was trying to say: last weekend was great, come do it again tonight
What I actually said: last weekend was great, all my roommates thank you for the show, do it again tonight
Her response: Ur an asshole.

4:13am
Original text: nicea to mewet you imezru, lhso latear
What I was trying to say: nice to meet you tonight, see you later
What I actually said: nice to meet you, I am easy, are you? Let’s have sex online later.
Her response: I’m pressing charges.

So as a warning to those of you who frequently drunk text, you might want to make sure you haven’t accidentally texted the acronyms in bold. There are many others that you might want to avoid, but it’s up to you to familiarize yourself with that list. Since I don’t know how to learn from my mistakes, I’m not going to waste my time reading all of that shit. If anyone gets offended, I’ll just apologize for partying, claim I don’t remember doing anything offensive, and continue texting and doing what I want.