Why do you hate everyone downwind of your head?

A few months back, I was taking a cab home after hanging out in houses of ill-repute with some friends. The driver was very nice but he had those things in his ears…what do you call them?...oh right, HUGE GAPING HOLES! Like so big I could fit both fists through one. When I got out of the cab, I tipped very well and SOMEHOW resisted the urge to say,

“Use this to buy staples and fix your unfortunate ear flap situation.”

I don’t know what this practice is actually called, but I’ve always called it “absolutely disgusting beyond all measure.” And a little while later I was proven EVEN MORE right (I know, I didn’t think it was possible either). One of my roommates is obsessed with only the worst reality TV has to offer. Like not the stuff on actual networks, the stuff on TruTV (“it’s not reality, it’s actuality” and actuality is another word for totes fake). So, we were watching World’s Strictest Parents on CMT (Country Music Television for those of you who are woefully uninformed on where to find the best reality TV), which, guys, if you haven’t seen it is…well…it’s pretty ok. Bordering on good in a trainwrecky sort of way. It’s a show where wayward teens (read: spoiled brats) are forced to live with another family that has strict parents (read: parents that actually make their kids do things like chores and shit). It doesn’t have the dramz that other, larger budget shows (Operation Repo) have, but if you hate kids as much as I do, it is intensely satisfying to watch the entitled worlds of these little jerkwads fall apart around them as they realize that FOR SOME REASON not everyone thinks they are a precious little snowflake who deserve to just be handed money for nipple piercings and cigarettes.

So we’re watching this show and one of the “misunderstood youths” has those big holes of bad decision making in both ears. The parents are making him and the other girl that’s there work at this rec center they own for a charity event that night (because they are clearly the devil and if poor kids need money for piercings why don’t they just get rich parents? DUH! It’s not that hard! This kid managed and he literally has several gaping head wounds. GAWD, poor people are so whiney). The parents tell them both they need to take out all of their visible piercings to work with the public, because their business has an image to uphold (the image of being totally old and lame, amiright?). The boy takes out his huge loopidy-doos (totally technical term) and the mom walks by to get something out of the sink AND ALMOST PASSES OUT! No shit, her eyes roll to the back of her head and her body starts swaying like she’s about to fall over. The dad catches her and asks what’s wrong,

“There was this smell. It was really over powering. I think a raccoon must have died in the pipes and the smell is coming up from the drain.”

Dad goes over to the sink,

“I don’t smell anything.”
“I didn’t make it up.”
“I’m not saying you did, but it’s not coming from the sink.”
“Maybe under the house?”
“*SIGH* I’ll get a flash light.”

And then the boy chimes in,

“Uh, guys. It’s not a dead raccoon, it’s my ears.”

To which the parents respond,

“…”
The kid explains,

“No really, when you pierce and stretch your skin like this, it smells for some reason.”

So the dad goes over and takes a whiff, howls, and says,

“That’s the smell of death. Your ears are literally rotting on your head.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you know that would happen when you got them done?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why…you know what? Never mind, just put the plugs back in and let’s go.”

After watching this I HAD to call my sister because she has these stupid things in her ears too. Granted, hers aren’t huge, but they are still fucking idiotic. So I call,

“Hey Toasted Mini-Wheats, it’s Toasty…so how are thingsssss?”
“Gooood. But for some reason I have the feeling you are about to mock me and you are just stalling to make the sweet taste of my shame linger on your lips for as long as possible.”
“You know me so well.”
“Well we are cut of the same cloth.”
“When did you move you 1862?”
“Shut up and get to why you called.”
“So you know those stupid stretcher things you have in your ears that tell the world your brother and I failed as parents and that you clearly hate us for failing so miserably in your upbringing?”
“Yup.”
“Did you know the skin around them is dead and if you take out the plugs they smell like rotting flesh?”
“Yup.”
“Wait what?”
“Yeah, if I take my plugs out they smell really gnarly.”
“Ok now we’re up to 1982 in our lingo but back to the issue at hand, did you know when you made this obviously terrible life decision that they would make your head smell like a corpse?”
“Yeah, a couple of my friends already had them and I had smelled them.”
“…ok maybe I’m missing something. I try very hard, on a daily basis, to do everything in my power to not smell like death.”
“Think about it this way: it could be used to repel boys.”
“Unless they also have plugs.”
“Yeah.”
“So you’ve made it so only stinky douchebags will be attracted to you.”
“Apparently, though I am uncommonly pretty so I bet I’ll still attract normal douchebags too.”
“I hate you so gawddamn much.”
“This kinda backfired on you didn’t it?”
“I can’t hear you over my mind screaming and the waterfall of whiskey falling into this glass.”
“I win this round.”

*click*

Wal-Mart Is Just Another Word For Nothing Left To Lose

Hey y’all! I need to get my southern slang on because I’m getting ready to go home for Easter. All this packcrastinating, packcrasterbating, and maniacally searching for bottles under 3ozs is reminding me of the last time I went home, which was for Christmas. Which in turn reminds me of going to Wal-Mart with my dad three days before Christmas.

It was a barrel of monkey laughs (totally a real saying y’all!).

So I go to my dad and am like, “K here’s the sitch, I have presents for everyone except mom because her and I have literally opposite tastes and she will hate whatever I get her so I’m going to go to Wal-Mart and buy whatever CD I would least want to own. I chose a CD because who the fuck owns CDs anymore? And I realized my horror at CD ownership meant it was the perfect gift for mom. Also, I need to buy Toasted Mini-Wheats [my sister] an iPod and since you guys live in George Washington’s house in a super historic town that is too historic for commerce, Wal-Mart is the only option.”

Dad responds, “So when do you want to go?”

“Now.”

“It’s after sunset! We do not leave the confines of the estate after dark for we are old and feeble and there are roving gangs waiting for us in the evil land known as ‘public.’” Ok, for serious, SOME of that is paraphrasing, but my dad has seriously warned my sister and I of the “roving gangs” that want to kidnap us from the local Target, Wal-Mart, whatever. AND my dad goes to bed at like 8pm so anything after sunset is like snorting cocaine at 4am at CBGBs with some guys you just met, i.e. totally insane and yet teaches you what it is to truly live.

“Well this is the only time I’m going to really be able to go.”

“*sniffle* Godspeed to you, my eldest. I hope one day that we are reunited, but if this is indeed the last time I see you I just want you to know that I told you so. I told you so, so hard.”

“I was kinda hoping you’d come with me.”

“Guffaw! Guffaw AND chortle! Yeah, not happening.”

“PA-LEEEEEEEEZE!”

“Don’t do it Toasty, come on. I mean it, don’t.”

*Lip quiver puppy dog eye combo ATTACK!* “Please…daddy.”

“I already have my coat on for some reason. Let’s get this over with.”

“Pwned.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing dad, LET’S DO THIS THING!”

We drive the 10ish miles to the other end of town where the Wal-Mart is. Ok, before we go on I want to make it clear that I hate Wal-Mart. They are an evil corporation that is helping destroy America. I KNOW GUYS OK! No need to tell me I get it. But seriously, where my parents live is pretty wrecked already. It’s this tiny suburb in one of the areas with the highest cost of living and doing business in the country so no one can afford to buy things and the local market can’t sustain anything but a section of town that is just large retailers like Safeway and Wal-Mart. There is nothing else, no cute boutiques or local owned anything (except for a couple restaurants and they know us there because we’ve been keeping them in business for decades so clearly we support what local business there is and maybe you could get off my back?).

Moving on.

We get into the Wal-Mart and the only way I can really describe it is, “Vast hellscape of empty desperation and anarchy.” Children streaked with dirt and wearing tattered rags who had been abandoned by their parents days, maybe weeks ago were running feral through the aisles. There was nothing on the shelves but a few scattered boxes that only accentuated how empty the rest of the shelves were. And there were no employees to be seen anywhere.

First we go to the electronics section. I find the iPods but they are in a locked case, which requires an employee. We wait and wait and wait and wait. I look over and notice the CD racks are like five feet away, so I say,

“Hey dad, you wait here. If they come over I want this little square thing in orange [because they are out of pink which is the color of everything Toasted Mini Wheats owns including her hair].”

“Wait, why not this other square thing, it’s cheaper.”

“That’s an iPod shuffle, they suck.”

“But it’s cheaper.”

“But it sucks.”

“But.It.Costs.Less.Money.”

“Listen Scroogey McCheappants, you are not buying it, I am, and I want this one in orange, do you think you can remember that?”

“Where are we?”

“Right, I’ll be over here.”

So I go over to the CD rack and begin looking for the Beatles album I would least like to own. Since this is basically like trying to decide which turd smells worse, it’s a difficult decision. About five minutes go by and I look over at the iPod case.

Dad is missing.

So I look around and eventually see him walking really fast with no obvious destination through the main aisles. I go over,

“Why are you not waiting where I told you?”

“No one is coming Toasty. I think they are closed.”

“The doors are open and there are lots of people here.”

“I think they just gave up and abandoned this place. Left it for the roving gangs. Oh also, I need to find a book for your mom, I forgot to mention that part. She needs it to read tonight. It’s the latest in that Girl with a Dragon Tattoo series.”

“Didn’t you get mom a Kindle for Christmas?”

“Yeah.”

“…”

“…”

“Dad, do you know what a Kindle is?”

“Your brother told me she’d like it. Also he took my credit card and ordered it for me. I think through the computer even though I told him not to because using your credit card on the computer is how they find you.”

“They?”

“Communists.”

“And what happens when they find you?”

“They force you to gay marry and then they take your kidneys and give them to foreigners.”

“Really?”

“Bill O’Reilly told me so.”

“REALLY?”

“Or the Pope, it’s hard to keep it all straight.”

“Anyway, back to my point. You bought mom a Kindle. Kindles are like the handheld things on Star Trek that hold all the reports and stuff. It’s an electronic pad for reading books on. In two days mom will be able to buy that book for like $0.99 and read it instantly.”

“That’s preposterous.”

“It’s true.”

“I hate how you and your siblings try to screw with me. I’m not THAT gullible Toasty, you are not going to get me to believe you can buy books for a dollar on a gamboy and read them right then and there.”

“Well you download them so you can read them whenever for as long as you own the Kindle, and when they improve cloud technology you’ll probably be able to save it indefinitely.”

*looks like a deer in headlights*

“What I’m saying, Sir Cheapington LovesMoney Esquire, is that you can save like $10 if you wait until Saturday.”

“Wait, am I a knight or a lawyer? You know I hate lawyers.”

“You are a Knight in the Order of the Penny Pincher and you are certified to uphold the miser code.”

“Wow, I must have worked really hard to rise so high in the ranks and have two successful, though related, medieval careers.”

“We were all very proud.”

“Anyway, your mom needs the book to read tonight.” Translation: my mom will throw a tantrum like a toddler on meth if he doesn’t get her what she asked for RIGHT NOW!

“Ok fine, let me just buy this iPod and CD first.”

And we wait. And wait and wait and wait and wait. I actually saw two employees run up to each other, high five, and disappear. I imagine they said something along the lines of, “HIGH FIVE, not only have we helped no customers today, our presence has given them hope and then immediately more frustration when they see us pass them by with not even a hint of recognition or eye contact. WILD STALLIONS!”

I get a very determined look on my face and start to walk towards the case. Dad says,

“Oh no what are you going to do? Why is your fist like that? Toasty?”

“Don’t worry dad, I’m just going to punch this case until it gives me an iPod…in orange.”

“That sounds like a terrible and illegal idea.”

“There is no law here old man. God and the law have forsaken this place long ago.”

“LOOK LOOK AN EMPLOYEE SHE IS COMING THIS WAY OH THANK GOD PLEASE STOP!”

Indeed it was an employee who saw us, rolled her eyes, got my iPod, and rang me up. She did this with a look of pure disgust on her face. And though she said nothing during the whole transaction, she did manage to stretch it to about 20 minutes. As she was handing me my bag, my dad asked,

“Where is your book section.”

She pointed somewhere behind her as she walked out from behind the register and towards a door marked “Employees Only. This is where we high five at your expense.”

So now I have to find the book section with my father who is basically a tall, gray child. He is flailing up and down the aisles screaming, “WHERE IS THE BOOK SECTION! I NEED THE BOOK SECTION! I THINK THEY ARE CLOSED! WE WILL BE TRAPPED IN A WAL-MART FOREVER!”

I finally guide him to the other end of the store where we find the “book section.” The book section at Wal-Mart can only be described as “a crushing blow to literacy.” It wasn’t so much a section as two shelves facing each other, and one just had magazines. The one shelf with books was divided into three sections: cheesy romance novels, ethnic cheesy romance novels, and “best sellers,” which were a mix of Michael Crichton, Sarah Palin, and Danielle Steele, because she is the CLASSY romance novel writer. Or something.

We start looking up and down the “book” shelf and just aren’t finding it. I DO find however that they have the series of cheesy books I am currently reading. I’m standing there looking at my series when my dad, who is by now completely frantic and out of breath, says,

“Are you helping? That doesn’t look like helping.”

“Oh not even a little.”

“TOASTY! Damnit! I need to find this book and you need to be more helping and less not helping.”

“Buy me this book.” It was the ninth in the series, the next one I needed, and it was only $6. Six fucking dollars. Come on, dad could totally by that for me.

“What?”

“You should buy me this book, it’s only $6.”

“No. Absolutely not. No no no no no.”

“Because it has vampires and you’re super religious? Or because it’s full of sex and you’re super religious.”

“It is because you are not helping!”

“Geez fine whatever.”

So I put my book back and look around the shelf.

“Here, it’s right here.”

“OH YAY! HALLELUIAH AND PRAISE BABY JESUS…wait it’s hardcover.”

“Yeah it came out like yesterday, it’s not in paperback yet.”

“Oooooowwwww, *sucks in air through clenched teeth* I don’t know.” Turns the book over to look at the price.

“Are you kidding me, Miserly Von Cheapinstein? You have been frantic about finding this book for like an hour. Are you really going to go home without it now?”

“I GUESS not. Ok now where’s that book you want?”

“You said you wouldn’t buy it for me.”

“That was when you were not helping.”

“Wait so I just couldn’t have it first?”

“Right.”

“I couldn’t put my book in the cart before mom’s?”

“Exactly.”

“The hell old man?”

“I had to motivate you?”

“That’s stupid. And ridiculous. You are ridiculous.”

“You found the book for me didn’t you?”

“…well played old man.”

“That’s how I became a lawyer knight.”

Noodles are life.

“I feel like crap on toast.”

That is my favorite quote to describe a really bad hangover. It was originally said by Michelle from the Gilmore Girls (a male character, but he’s French so it doesn’t count).

Dear readers, I have some vital advice for you today. If you have people over, and your roommate brings home a half gallon of Jack Daniels (the greatest of all beverages ever), and someone sets up a bitchin’ game of Guitar Hero, do NOT think, “I will drink this tasty whiskey and be a total bad ass on Guitar Hero, but I will not eat any dinner. WILD STALLIONS!” Especially don’t do this if you have to be awake for your terrible job that literally (and I say this with no hyperbole, a first for this zlog) makes you think about killing yourself every.single.motherfucking.day.

Yeah...I did. I woke up at about 4:30 in the morning (two and a half hours before I had to get up for my stupid shit, soul crushing job) and thought I had died. Not that I was dying, that I had literally died and that being dead hurt a WHOLE FUCKING LOT.

Fortunately, one of my roommates had made noodley stuffs for him and the two other people that were still up. Unfortunately for one of those people, I stole most of their food. Well, stole with consent. They looked at me and said, “Ohhhh, you look sick.” “Uhhh.” I then grabbed the bowl out of his hand and ate it while apologizing. To which he replied, “No problem, you obviously need it more.” I ate about three quarters of it (I am SO FUCKING GENEROUS) and went right back to bed. Those noodles saved my fucking life (something that has happened more than once to me in my time).

So yeah, I spent my day at working wanting to die, for physical on top of just the normal, cubicle related reasons. I would have fucking killed for an opiate. Killed anything, not just a human. If some guy was like, “Kill that elk over there and you can have this handful of oxycontin.” That elk would be going the fuck down. With my hands, because fashioning a weapon would take away oxy time.

So yeah, my message today is: eat. Eat often and well. Don’t eat stupid flavorless shit just because it’s supposedly “good” for you, don’t eat only crap because you think it makes you cool, don’t not eat because you think people actually care what you look like, and definitely don’t refrain from eating because Mr. Jack Daniels (or any other commercial brand) tells you it’ll be totally cool if you don’t. It will not be cool. In fact, you will feel the opposite of “cool.” What’s the opposite of cool? Oh yeah, whatever is happening in my stomach right now.

I'm Cautiously Optimistic You Couldn't Get Any Stupider.

The long awaited haiku results are finally in and the winner is...POONTANG83. Like it was even a competition, he’s named after my favorite food. Princess blah blah blah wasn’t even in the running because she’s a vegan and vegan’s fail at life. Even vegans hate vegans. That’s why they deny themselves meat and dairy. That’s a level of self-loathing I can’t even begin to comprehend. Ok ok, I know what she’s going to say, “But I’m a VEGETARIAN now.” Just because you fail and failure doesn’t make you a success.

Moving on. The economy, am I right? Eh? Eh? Ok, the economy blows, but you know what blows just as much? Everyone writing about the economy. I swear if I read the term “cautiously optimistic” one more time, I’m going to punch a baby in its spine. Every fucking market “expert” is “cautiously optimistic” about their respective industry. “No one can buy houses, but I’m cautiously optimistic 2010 will see gains.” “Lending is frozen, but we’re cautiously optimistic the banks will rebound in the coming months.” “The top car industry executives are cashing in cans and sexual favors to buy food, but I’m cautiously optimistic the new era of the American auto industry is upon us.” “Cautiously optimistic” apparently means “SHIT FUCK BALLS we’re screwed.”

No. The Toastygod is here to translate, YET AGAIN. “Cautiously optimistic” means “it can’t get any worse.” Seriously guys. We don’t need a bunch of fucking MBA douchebags to tell any of us that either the economy is going to get better, or we all better start training for Thunder Dome. It’s either be “cautiously optimistic” that civilization will continue, or start hording water in your underground bunker. And we all know that most business executives are worth less than ball sweat on both the slave labor and sex markets.

And that’s advice you can take to the bank.

Actually, don’t go to the bank. Those places are money death. Money under the mattress FTW!

Iron Poet.

Hey there loyal readers (the loyal ones are the prettiest by the way).  The Toastygod is hungover tired today and so I've decided to host the very first Comment Contest of Cozy Delight.  Today's challenge:   haiku!

Here's how it works:  leave your haikus in the comments and I will pick the one I like best.  The judging criteria is nothing more or less than my arbitrary whim and whatever mood I'm in when I read them.  The winner will get the much coveted Mad Props of the Toastygod (redeemable for praise, admiration, and the divine right to rule small island nations) , a get out of lame free card (perfect for those unfortunate acts of accidental lameness), and a pie.  Unless I don't know you in person or you don't live in my town, in which case you get Props, card, and picture of a pie.  I assure you it will look delicious.

Let Battle Haiku begin!

Allez Cuisine!

Note: To see other submissions, please see the mirror zlog at toastygod.wordpress.com

It's Not a Namesake, It's Blasphemy.

I need to clear something up for everyone. Toast is fucking lame. Toast was sent to the world by the evil forces of frigidity to give my name a bad reputation. It takes something as innocuous as bread and something as pure and right as warmth and transforms them into MOUTH SHREDDING TERROR!

And think about it: toast is just overcooked bread. When someone overcooks chicken everyone is all, “Oh this chicken is overcooked, it’s dry and tasteless. I would prefer not to eat chicken like this again.” But when bread is cooked to the point of being dry and tasteless, everyone is like, “OMG, I think I just came. Let’s eat this EVERY FUCKING MORNING!”

…I hate everyone so very very much.

Did people really think this up on their own? Of course not. It’s a plot, by those that would oppose me. I’m pretty sure dentists had something to do with it. Who wants your mouth to be in blood-soaked agony? Dentists. I hate dentists. One yelled at my little sister (Toasty Mini-Wheats) once and I have to drill out his eyes. True story.

So toast has propagated itself to every corner of the globe. What pisses me off the most is when you get no warning of a toast attack. I’ll sit down at a restaurant or deli and order a tasty sammich. I’m sitting there all thinking, “Oh man, I can’t wait for this sammich. It’s going to taste so good.” Then BAM, they throw down what should be my delicious symphony of meat and cheese (let’s face it, the bread is only there as packaging) and instead it’s a steaming pile of burnt bread. What the fuck are you supposed to do with that? It’s sadistic. You can only stare at the savory sammich insides, trapped in a prison of impenetrable, stone-like bread. You are left with few options:

1) Starve.

2) Take the insides out of the sammich and eat it with a fork, totally defeating the purpose of a sammich. Also, because toast is so fucking dry and selfish, it soaks up a lot of the sauce and juice, leaving shriveled husks where juicy morsels of cholesterol should be.

3) Beat the toast monstrosity against the table, breaking it into pieces small enough to fit in your mouth, which you can then suck on like a piece of hard candy. Bread flavored hard candy. Fucking yum.

4) You can TRY to bite into the thing. That can only end in tears.

Restaurants that ask, “Would you like that toasted?” crack me up because it’s like asking “Would you like me to stab you in the roof of your mouth?” or “Your gums aren’t bleeding, let me help you with that.” Yeah no guys, thanks I’m good, your girlfriends insist I keep my mouth in perfect working order. But at least they ask. Even if it’s on the menu I can lead a preemptive strike of, “Seriously don’t toast that shit.” But when there is no warning at all. This is why, no matter where I go or what I order I tell them, “Not toasted.” “I’d like a PB&J, not toasted.” (Yes I order those at restaurants) “I’ll take a Whopper with Cheese, not toasted.” “Vanilla malt please, not toasted.” Mmmmmm, malts. I haven’t had one of those in forever. It’s the perfect mid-morning snack. Ok, I’ll see you guys at the ice cream parlor. I’ll be the one ordering my milkshake, “Malted, but not toasted.”

Get a Real Job.

So everyone needs to get off my nuts about posting. I’ve been in prison and the internet there was spotty at best. “Prison Toastygod?” Yes, prison. “What for?” Glad you asked. I had to kill a man. I’m not exaggerating, I HAD to kill him. He clearly did not want to live. How do I know?Because he was one of those fucking guys that stands on the street corner trying to get your credit card number to save the whales or trees or children or some other ambiguous group that you will never see and can therefore not validate 1) their existence, 2) their need for your money, or 3) the effect your money is or (more probably) is not having on their plight. Taking this job is tantamount to shoving a gun in your mouth. It’s beyond a cry for help, nothing can help now, it’s a cry for someone to fucking kill you.

I used to just tell these people, “Get a real job.” And when they’d be all, “What do you mean?” I’d break it down for them:

“Real businesses offer goods and services that people want. They market themselves and then interested parties seek them out for said goods and services. Customers come to them, they don’t force themselves on anyone stupid enough to go outside. You try to hock the intangible commodities of ‘good karma’ to people who are at best apathetic to you and your cause and at worst hate you for your intrusion into their lives.You are nothing more than snake oil salesmen mixed with panhandlers. But at least most pan handlers will dance or sing or make a sign or say ‘please’ so they have somehow earned my meager contribution. You earn nothing but my scorn and are a blight on all of society. Your existence shames humanity.”

At this point they are speechless from the ruination I just dealt them so I tip my top hat and walk away with a jaunty spring in my step that says, “I’m so much better than you in every way.” My treatment of them has probably led to many an inevitable suicide (I inspire people with the courage to kill themselves), but, admittedly, I have never had to resort to actual murder before. And this was murder. I didn’t just kill him, I murdered him. Premeditated style.

He would not stop talking to me. I tried to walk away, he blocked my path. I told him to fuck off he said, “I will, just sponsor a child, fish, acre, unicorn first.” Then he did the unthinkable. The sin for which no one escapes my realm unscathed. He hugged me. He was some stupid hippie fuck that thought everyone should just get along. He was all, “Here have a hug for your trouble” and the next thing I know he’s leaning in to FUCKING TOUCH ME.

I don’t know what happened next. I went into blind smiting mode. I woke up in a jail cell covered in blood. They tell me there wasn’t enough of the guy left for the family to bury. They’re going to have to fill the coffin with his black light wall art and Grateful Dead CDs. I said nothing, because everyone knows you never talk to cops. EVER. You hear me loyal readers. Let Toastygod give you this life lesson. NEVER TALK TO COPS. For any reason. They could be behind you in line in the Krispy Kreme, and they’d say, “Nice day isn’t it?” and you’d say “Yeah. Sunny.” And the all of a sudden you’re on the floor, coming to after a taze to the temple. True story.

Ok so now you may be wondering, “Well then how DID you get out of jail?” Why do you have to be all up in my kool aid? But I’ll tell you anyway. I waited until they charged me and I went to court. The judge asked for my plea and I said “Not guilty by reason of that guy was a hippie douchebag with a clipboard who wanted my money and a hug.” And the judge said, “Wait, from Children International?”

“Probably.”

“Case dismissed!”

And now I’m free and back on the streets to spread my even-handed justice and make this world a better, more hippie-free place. You’re welcome.