Posts tagged LOL
The Fourth Judge Laments the State of Health Care in America
When I was a kid my family used to go to a restaurant called The Ground Round. The gimmick was that your parents would pay a penny for every pound you weighed. Adult meals were “full price,” but your hot dog and popcorn (popcorn was sort of The Ground Round’s “thing,” weirdly) would only set you back 85 cents.
The host, who was responsible for procuring this information, wasn’t just going to take your word for it. You had to get on a scale while everyone looked on, revealing your scarlet number to friends, family, and strangers.
I wasn’t a particularly chubby kid, but I hated getting on that scale. It became a competition with all the other little jerks in the room, and if you were five pounds heavier than Timmy Rottencrotch it was like finding out someone you hated grew armpit hair before you did (a truly devastating revelation). I can only imagine what that experience must have been like for fat kids. I have no doubt that the fear of a public Ground Round shaming compelled many children to live healthier lifestyles than they would have otherwise.
The Fourth Judge Doesn’t Feel Sorry for Vin Baker
A few weeks ago I read a story about Vin Baker, notorious NBA drunkard — not that I’m judging — reportedly losing $86 million in bad investments.
On the one hand I feel bad for the guy. $86 million is a lot of loot to flush down the toilet. But on the other hand, the hand that knows its ass from its elbow, what the fuck was he doing investing $86 million? You invest money so you can GET $86 million. Once you have $86 million you stop what you’re doing and you buy a bunch of coke and an island and a whole mess of shallots (they make everything more delicious). If there’s enough money left over you send your kids to Rutgers.
The Fourth Judge Won’t Buy You a Beer
I’m friends with a dude at work who, all things considered, is a great guy. He’s supportive. He’s honest. We get drunk and cry together. But he has one habit in particular that makes me want to spray him with accelerant in a Brooklyn elevator and light him on fire with a Molotov cocktail.
We go out to eat for lunch a lot, and, as often happens in these situations, someone winds up owing someone else a couple of dollars after the bill’s been settled. Every time I wind up owing him a dollar or two he says, “just buy me a beer or whatever.”
I don’t know if this is just a colloquialism for him, but we work in Manhattan where beers are routinely between five and ten dollars at a bar, plus tip. If I owe you one dollar, spending six bucks for a beer is not an appropriate form of repayment.
Chuck Giampa Makes The Best TV Debut Ever
The Fourth Judge Dreams About His Mom Murdering His Cat
I had a dream that my Mom roasted a cat, mistakenly thinking it was mine. It looked just like a crispy roast duck you’d get in a Chinese restaurant, only cat shaped.
When I first saw the abomination (which looked perfectly cooked, to my Mom’s credit) I was devastated. How could my own Mother not only kill my cat, but attempt to feed it to me in an elaborate preparation? I knew I told her about the many problems he was giving me, but surely this was taking things a step too far, don’t you think?
After the initial shock of what had happened wore off, I started to appraise the situation. I had an inexplicable dream hunch that this might not be my cat, so I asked my Mom how she knew it was mine. She showed me a picture of the cat while it was still alive (it’s unclear why she took the picture), and I noticed that this cat didn’t have the same distinctive markings on its haunches that my cat does — black splotches on white fur that make it seem like he’s wearing assless chaps. This cat had no assless chaps!
The Fourth Judge Gets High On Life
I quit smoking weed. Well, that’s not exactly true. In fact, I’m smoking weed right now. But in general I quit. I’m not doing it every day any more. That period of my life is over.
I still love weed and everything it stands for, but it makes me lazy to a degree that I am no longer comfortable with. I don’t want to come home, blaze, then sit around marinating in my own mediocrity. It was fun for about ten years, but it’s getting old.
I want to make my life better than it currently is, if only by a little. Maybe if I work hard I can attain a level of success that will enable me to order food three nights a week. And I could get chef specials, too — menu items that are $15 or more, all by themselves. AND I’d get a fucking appetizer. Maybe two! Ooh and some sort of weird tea! The possibilities are almost endless (I think there are 45 factorial possibilities)! The orders would come to around $26 with tax and tip. Wouldn’t that be lovely?
The Fourth Judge is Wary of Pervertmobiles
Most vans and trucks have some sort of logo on the side letting you know what businesses they represent. In New York City you see a lot of vans and trucks that forgo this tradition in favor of shoddily applied lettering, and they all use the same cheap letter stickers to do the job. Adding to the bootleggedness, the van owners never line up the letters correctly and the words wind up rising and falling at random. The end result is something very much akin to a ransom note.
Adding to the sketch factor, these vans and trucks never list a business name. It’s always just a street address, as if that holds any meaning for anyone. ”Oh, there goes a truck for 249 Avenue R, Brooklyn, NY 11215. I hear they install great custom awnings.”
I can only assume these vehicles are owned and operated exclusively by rapists, serial killers, and serial rapists. I don’t know why they’d put their own addresses on their vans, but I have a few theories.
The Fourth Judge Loves Pocketless Pants
I love it when a girl’s pants don’t have back pockets. Without pockets there’s nothing between me and that tush but a thin layer of fabric, easily removed by my mind. I’m assuming classy girls think this look is trashy, but I don’t care. I’m obsessed with it.
Sometimes I’ll see a butt in pocketless pants and start mentally fucking it. Then the owner of the butt will turn around and it’s a 65-year-old, balding, she-beast. And you know what? I’d still fuck that pocketless butt. That’s how strong the allure is.
Some ghostly weirdo host from up North goes out of his way to rile up Chael Sonnen and then acts indignant when he storms off. Pretty funny. #inmycountrythatcreatedbusiness
