15 Better Ways to Yell Drunkenly From Your Balcony

While I was walking down the street today at roughly 11 am, a drunk man wielding a beer beer bottle yelled at me from his apartment. Aside the from the severe case of alcoholism implied with an 11 am binge, the man had some serious issues. And by serious, I mean failed to articulate anything to me besides, “Hey… Hey… Hey… Guy… Guy… Guy… Hey… Hey…” Communication is a gift that many squander so I think it’s my duty to provide help with this issue. So I now present to you 15 Better Ways to Yell Drunkenly From Your Balcony.

1. “Hey… Hey… Guy… Guy… I have a method for you to make money from your own home. Guy… Hey… Hey… It’s only two hours of work a week. Hey… Guy… HAHA made you look! I don’t have any money making ideas. I’m just yelling drunkenly.”

2. “Hey… Guy… I just saved money on my car insurance… It’s a shame they took my license away for drinking so much.”

3. “Did you know that sea levels are expected to rise by 18 feet due to global warming? Do you think that my pee will affect it? I really got to pee!”

4. “Who do you think would win in a bar fight? Chuck Norris or Jackie Chan? Chuck can end anyone with one fist but Jackie kicks ass with props. There are a ton of props inside a bar. I can be a Drunken Master…”

5. “Speaking of a bar fight… Mitt Romney and Barack Obama. A guy named Mitt is probably a marine that eats people for breakfast. Obama sounds like some ancient fighting style. Dude… I think I’m going to puke.”

6.”If I puke from a balcony, will it dent the sidewalk? I heard if you drop a penny from way high, it will cause black holes and end the world. Or is that the Large Hadron Collider?”

7. “Hey… Guy… I’m feeling very venerable right now. Will you hold me? Not like gay hold me but hold me. Comfort me. It’s a crazy world out there.”

8. “What the fuck, bro! I wanted you to hold me!”

9. “Hey… guy…  I’m sorry bro. I often mistake other men for my father. Dude, seriously bro, I only drink to numb the pain.”

10. “Dude… Guy… Do you think I can be a cage fighter? I can totally kick… people’s… I’m dizzy.”

11. “Guy… I don’t even know you but I already feel like you’re my best friend. Look at all the stuff we have in common. I’m on a balcony and you’re on the street.”

12. “Don’t you fuck with my friend. He’s walking on my sidewalk! THAT’S MY SIDEWALK!”

13. “Sorry guy, that Prius was looking at you funny. I can kick the ass of any car that goes down this street.”

14. “Hey… guy… you want to come up for a bit and drink some beers while I cry about where my life went wrong?”

15. “Fuck you guy! Just keep walking! You are not the only pedestrian who walks down my block!”

The Flush Mob

Science has reached a new pinnacle. They have answered the question that keeps everyone up at night. What if every toilet in the US flushed at the same time? Considering the year is 2012, I’ve always wondered how it will all end. If we could choose the way go, 350 million toilets flushing at the same time would be my choice.

The Flush Mob In Action

Swirl of civil action

So I urge everyone to get together to make the first ever “flush mob”. We can start small in public restrooms with a boombox blaring out YMCA and move to larger displays such as the 1812 Overture in large stadium bathrooms. But rest assured, we will not stop until the entire US is part of the “flush mob.”

Why bother galvanizing the people to get together to help the environment, end violence, bridge the class divide, or other such silliness?

Bystander: He’s going to say it.

We need to start a grass poops movement…

Bystander: (sigh) He said it.

Toilets are the most important issue facing the world today. We should dedicate all our energy and our efforts. I would start a petition for such a noble cause but I am too busy flushing my toilet and giggling. How does the water know which way to go each time? Amazing!

A Sharp Sword Chock Full of Doom

With great joy, I announce that my band has recently been labeled as a combination of Pink Floyd and Doomsword. I don’t know what makes me happier: my band being compared to one of my favorite bands of all time (If I only had a fraction of their talent, my friends would say “Oh! Lucky!”) or the fact that a band with the name of Doomsword exists. What is a Doomsword? The English teacher in me says don’t make wild conjectures and do your research. The humor writer says half the fun is wild conjectures! Wild conjectures it is then.

I’d imagine a Doomsword as the leatherman of the gaming world. Once your Barbarian Elf Raider (dressed like a Ancient Mongol Henchmen from eighties fantasy movies), has the Doomsword, there ain’t no stopping that hack and slash machine. Goblins pillaging peasants, not a problem with my Doomsword. Skull Helmet Guy getting a little bawdy with your favorite tavern wench, Doomsword time. Local lord being a dick because you are some lousy adventurers… You can do whatever you want! You have a Doomsword!

The Great Robot Race

Robots are about to embark on a right of passage shared by Olympians and The Biggest Loser contestants alike, running around a track over 400 times for a marathon. I am all for the robot revolution. I wistfully envy the vacuum bot in most households. Sign me up for the self loading dishwasher. But running a robot in circles over 400 times doesn’t seem like the most exciting sport to watch.

Game day. The crowd silences. The starter pistol fires. Some dude on a floor above is shot in the foot. The crowd cheers. Reporters frenzy with pictures. The tiny little robots start walking. A bit later… they are still walking. Some of the crowd wander away to get coffee. Again later… yep, more walking. The guy upstairs bled to death. Much later…. still more walking… WILL THIS RACE EVER END?

Finally… what feels like eons later… the race is drawing to a close. A robot is almost to the finish line that looks strangely like the last four hundred plus lines it crossed. The crowd, asleep, twitches a little. They are dreaming about pie. A reporter is stirred from his slumber. His ex-wife, whom remarried a diamond baron from South Africa, sent him a snarky wish you where here text message from a private island in Dubai. The robot is about to cross the finish line! Slow motion, as if the race could move any slower!

Queue the Chariots of Fire music! The robot is still crossing the finish line! The historical moment is about to slip by. He reaches for his camera, wondering why he his going in slow motion. He snaps a photo of his penis. Sends it to his ex-wife with a message, “Wish you were here… NOT!” He finally understands! He doesn’t really need her! She treats him like dirt! Why doesn’t he move on? She obviously has. Somewhere in the background, the race finishes with robot controllers hugging and cheering for each other.

The question remains. Why didn’t they make a robot race along a path like a real marathon? At least the scenery would change.