The Majesty of Sandwiches

Let's cut right to the chase: I just decided (while surfing the internet with my Droid while on the toilet) that sandwiches are extremely powerful - not in the sense that they can destroy the entire history of bears with one punch (because we all know that's Chuck Norris' job), but because they command so much respect and value. Much like Rosie O'Donnell.

THE THREE MAIN ELEMENTS OF SANDWICHIAN MAJESTY:

Element 1: Deliciousness

I think we can all agree that sandwiches cause mouthgasms. Something about putting ingredients between two slices of bread (or three if you think you're fancy with your snooty club sandwich, you highfalutin prick.) just makes everything (aside from cauliflower [the devil's legume]) taste amazing.

As the science shown above clearly indicates, sandwiches without bread are a pile of gross play-doh blobs, or something like that. And as we know from basic science, play-doh tastes like Poseidon's salty butthole - a flavor which, while very arousing, is not very hunger-quelling. Hunger-quelling: 2011's top buzzword. Bet everything you own on that.

Element 2: Love

If you are alive, regardless of sensory capabilities, you love sandwiches. Immutable fucking FACT. Therefore, offering to buy/make/burglarize a sandwich for someone is pretty much the most thoughtful and amazingly heroic thing a human or lesser being can do. The best thing ever is having a sandwich waiting for you at the end of a tough day at work.

That's some serious science. I do NOT fuck around with statistics involving rhinos.

Anywho, as you can see, hyper-dense love is embodied in sandwich form - i.e. - if you have a sandwich, you command love from everyone.

Element 3: Power

Similar to how possessing a sandwich comes with great power, giving one a sandwich is submitting great power. Although it garners great honor and love, it also shows that you're retarded, and a pussy. It makes no sense to not eat every sandwich you possibly can, and giving one away or allowing one to be taken before (and in my opinion, after) death is an inexcusable act of cowardess and displays ultimate weakness on the submitter's behalf. "Make me a sandwich" didn't come as a pompous self-superiority phrase out of thin air. Science, history, science, physics, and science, folks. Try and keep up.

Labcoats. Beakers. Chalk.

The Girlfriend Toss

I have decided that I am a terrible person -- this may not come as a shock to some of you that know me well, and this most certainly won't come as any shock to those of you who know me solely through my comics/blog posts. This particular revelation came to me through an entry on TFLN.

"Take this only to mean that we love you, but we're having a serious, half-hour, hypothetical discussion about how far we think we could throw you."

I immediately had the urge to throw my girlfriend, as far as I goddamn could.

As a man of considerable "bulk" (read as: a marginal amount of muscle and a considerable amount of fat), I can easily pick up most people that I know. My girlfriend also happens to be tiny; I'm pretty sure she could find clothes for herself at Baby Gap without an issue.

Being the terrible person that I am, I instantly got excited about the idea of trying to toss my girlfriend as far as I possibly could. I began devising ways to do so with the greatest possible height, horizontal distance, and of course, injury.

After mulling over a few ideas that involved catapults, trebuchets, and other mechanisms, I decided that I should do the honorable thing and stick to throwing her using only my own strength. The three options that would probably work the best would be throwing her up and over my shoulder, holding her by the legs and spinning and letting go, and having her stand/sit on my hands as I shove her at a 45 degree angle into the air. Option 3 seems to be my best bet for total distance, as the spinning throw would probably lose distance due to centripetal force (idiots, read as: the spinney motion), and the fireman throw over the shoulder would have a high likelihood of friction drag. Giving her a "ten-fingers" launch (perverts, read as: you are disgusting but I thought the same thing) would utilize my arms, back, and legs in one fluid motion, and create the best trajectory.

Now all I need to do is find a way to lure her to stand on the palms of my hands.

Nosebleed

As a child, I got a lot of nosebleeds. This was in part attributed to the fact that I was a picker, part because of dry air, and .05% of incidents were because of line drives to the face from a solid Fisher Price wiffleball resulting in a broken nose at age 4.

Anywho, this brings me to a more recent nosebleed occurrance.

It was an icy winter night during my freshman year of college. I was taking the T (for those of you who aren't familiar with this vernacular, the "T" is the Massachusetts/Boston transit system, usually the subway -- A glistening beacon of punctuality and cleanliness) back towards school, when I randomly got a nosebleed.

Now, as some of you may know, blood isn't really easily detectable by touch. It's pretty much the same temperature as skin, so if you're bleeding and you can't see it, you usually dont know it's happening unless pain is involved. Since it was a random nosebleed, I had no idea it was happening. The dry air must have gotten the best of Mr. Shnoz (sounds like a friendly Indian man's name...?), and he began producing quite the waterfall down my face.

At that point, I had no idea what was going on. I was staring at my dim reflection in the window across from me (which of course wasn't vibrant enough to show the blood now streaming down my face and sweatshirt), humming in my head something probably like, "doot doot doo on the fuckin T wanna be back at school bluh bluh it smells like piss in here". I felt a little tickling sensation on my upper lip, so I wiped my face. As I was doing so, I saw something dark drip onto my backpack which I had just placed between my legs. Confused, I caught a glimpse of my hand as I was brining it back to my side, and it looked a little something like this:

Naturally, I was shocked. My instinct was to then keep wiping my face to see if there was more blood. I got it all over my hands and both sleeves, and it had dripped down my shirt all over my pants and backpack. It was at this point that I realized that everyone in the traincar was probably intently watching this all unfold, without making a peep. I began laughing.

It wasn't any normal kind of laughter, it was one of those rare occasions where you start off with a closed-mouth, light chuckle, and work your way up to a disconcerting cackle.

Everyone on the T looked horrified - as they should've. I'd be concerned for my safety if I saw someone like that. I couldn't help but continue laughing. Psychopath.

I eventually got off the T, still laughing, and made my way back to school, stepping in an extremely deep puddle along the way. Pants soaked, covered in blood, STILL laughing as I got to my room... The look on my roomates' faces were priceless. I just wish a small child was on the T that night.

Diversity at University

Now that this year's fall semester is coming to a close, the Class of 2011 only has a few months to go between now and failing to land a job with that worthless, expensive degree graduation. It's times like these that one will panic and begin to accept the fact that there is no more fun to be had in life get excited about the life they've worked so hard to start successfully, and reminisce on the shitty times important events and the douche bags people that have made the past four years a joke touched their lives.

I made up a list All college/university students across the United States have been polled in order to create this list of the most grossly stereotypical, yet true influential people of their college careers:

#1: The repressed homosexual frat boy

#2: The trash bag of a slut sorority girl:

#3: The brown-nosing tool over-achiever:



#4: The other repressed homosexual  power-jock:

And last but not least, #5: The financial aid advisor

Ahh, memories <3

Gift implications

As Christmas draws near, everyone (who celebrates the best [and also most corrupt] holiday) begins to panic about gifts. If you're having trouble deciding what to buy for someone, or even want to make sure you're not giving a terrible gift, here's a helpful guide outlining the implications of certain gifts.

Gift #1: The gift card

What you think you're giving:

What you're actually giving:

Gift #2: A blouse

What you think you're giving:

What you're actually giving:

Gift #3: A plant

What you think you're giving:

What you're actually giving:

Gift #4: Jewelry

What you think you're giving:

What you're actually giving:

Gift #5: A card

What you think you're giving:

What you're actually giving:

I suggest that if you want to make sure you're conveying the right message, give everyone cash. It doesn't pretend you know what they actually want, and they can use it however they please. Sort of a, "I don't give a shit, but here's fifty bucks because I like you".

If you even CONSIDER giving someone a fruit cake, die. Die fast, and die forever.

Alarm clocks are evil - UPDATED!

Over the past 10 years, I've grown quite accustomed to relying on an alarm clock to wake me up in the morning. This is for two reasons: 1) I almost always stay awake too late to get a healthy amount of sleep, and 2) If given the choice, I'd sleep 15 hours a day. My friends tend to relate me to a bear (teddy, grizzly, and/or large hairy homosexual male), and I feel that this is most accurate in regards to my sleeping habits. I love a good hibernation.

As a hibernator, I've always hated alarm clocks. Through middle school, high school, college -- and especially now that I have a full-time job, it seems like it just keeps getting worse. I currently wake up at 5:50am every weekday morning, which makes me want to kick every puppy, ever. Right in their adorable little snouts. Even the fluffy ones.

I've had the same alarm clock for a bunch of years now, and although it's been my reliable and trusty aide, I see it as the embodiment of pure evil.

My hatred for the evil Count Chronologington (I just decided that's its name) is not unwarranted. In fact, I'm fairly certain he conspires against my sanity; I swear he will never go off when I'm ready for it. I can sit there staring, waiting for him to start beeping, but he never does until I get comfortable enough again to be jolted awake.

The war against the Count is endless. I need him, yet he terrorizes me every morning. I need a new angle to fight this early-morning assault, but nothing I've tried works. Turning the alarm down causes me to oversleep, putting it to a radio station just makes me have dreams to the tune of Philadelphia Freedom by Elton John, and phone alarms are never within reach when you desperately need to hit the snooze button. I think I need to turn even more nocturnal, find a night job, and never have to deal with the count again.

Although, I feel like he'd find a way to ruin my life anyways.

Sigh. Fifty bucks.

UPDATE:

Look at him. Watching me in the dark. Like some kind of patient psychopath. I'll get you someday, Count.

The Droid

A few days ago, I was lucky enough to score a very low-priced Droid Incredible due to my brother buying one, and Verizon having a buy one, get one free* deal (send me money for the advertisement, Verizon!).

Ever since, I've been absolutely in love with wasting my time with it. I already have an iPod touch, so the apps and features weren't so new and special, but the ability to access the internet from anywhere* is just a terrible power for me to possess. I feel like a wizard.

I checked my calculations like, seven times. The math is definitely correct.

Anywho, now I feel almost too connected. Omnipotent, even.

Email? LET ME JUST CREEPILY RESPOND THE SECOND AFTER YOU SEND IT.

Facebook? YEAH I SAW HER STATUS LIKE TWENTY MINUTES AGO, NBD.

Instant messenger? EMOTICONS ALL DAY.

When's the movie playing? BOOM 7:45PM YOU PEASANT.

Weather? BRING A FUCKING LIGHT JACKET IT'S SLIGHTLY CHILLY.

I can even write a post for a SUPER AWESOME BLOG, and all of this can be done from the toilet. In fact, I spend way too long in the bathroom now solely because I'm too busy being a wizard to start wiping.

It just so happens that I created a Twitter account whilst being the aforementioned toilet wizard. My handle is @MathieuAntoine - you should follow me like I'm the momma duck and you know nothing but my assfeathers and obedience.

I love technology. I think I'll go take a twitshit.

My first hyperbole: The Splinter

Hello all! After a weekend binge of reading and re-reading my favorite blog, Hyperbole and a Half, I decided to try and adopt Allie's style of story-telling for an every once-in-a-while post. Read this as more of a dedication, rather than a glaring style theft. Please.

I figured I'd regail you all with the story of The Splinter - the monster that ruined wood floors for me, forever:

So, back when I was 6ish, I was in one of those moods where kids do random shit and it's the most fun anyone could ever be having.

This particular day's random activity was running as fast as I could down my bedroom hallway and sliding on the hardwood floor with my socks, skidding to a halt usually just before my parents' bedroom.

Now, a normal person would be thinking, "Hey, if I keep this up I have a pretty good chance of hurting myself somehow", but keep in mind I was a child, in ultra-fun mode. My thought pattern probably looked something like this:

Everything was going fantastic, that is to say, something was occurring and I was a child and I wasn't being forced to eat green beans. Despite a half-hearted warning from my father, I continued on, sliding down that hallway like sliding down a hallway was an essential part of the reason I exist. Then it happened.

Fate befell me. My toddler-sized foot was impaled by a VERY large splinter, which almost poked out the top of my foot. Pain was replaced by complete panic and shock, and I figured this was probably a good time to say hi to my parents.

My father, someone who to this day is still ridiculously calm in most alarming situations, proceeded to try and convince me to let him take me to the hospital. Of course my child-mind had already determined that there was no way in HELL I was going to a hospital, as it was clear to me at an early age that doctors do non-fun things.

My alternate option was to allow him to take the splinter out himself. I was more comfortable with this option, but I had already sunken deep into the belief that if the splinter is removed, I was going to explode in a blast of blood and doom. I finally let him bring me to the hospital to get it removed, which actually was quite a fuss for the doctors, since the splinter had splinters of its own. It took a good 30 minutes or so of digging deep at the tendons and muscles of my child foot in order to finish the "sugery". I spent the entire time in a blind rage, squeezing my father's hand like I was trying to crush it to powder.

Finally, I was free. I was on crutches for a couple weeks due to the extreme depth of the wound, and I got laughed at a decent amount, but I did get to wear a ridiculous bear slipper to school for a while.