In like 2015, when Boomers predicted (well, not really predicted just sort of stole from Sean Hannity, who was probably directed to say it from Steve Bannon) that “safe spaces” would make the world go to shit. And look where we are. The only people who have made anything funny in the past five years have either lost sponsorship money for things they said before fame, are on Patreon, make less money than their talent reflects, or restrained themselves to doing horseshit comedy because their paycheck comes from a corporation. We’ve got kids protesting bills they haven’t read, LAPD is filming Tik Toks to seem more appealing, and Portland looks like World War Z met Queer Eye.
I think tattoos are awesome and sexy. With those things being considered, you should want a tattoo, wait six months, reevaluate, and see if you still want that tattoo. I have two, both on my ass. One is part of my friend’s SoundCloud name from middle school (which is three numbers), and the other is my ex-girlfriend’s Snapchat name. Needless to say, I got both of them very drunk. Whenever I get up to pee after disappointing a lady worse than the 2021 Lakers, I have to tell her that my ex-girlfriend’s Snapchat name was really a dead cousin’s (my cousins aren’t dead) and that no, the three numbers are not a cruel joke about a group of people that got numbers tattooed on their bodies.
Now, while I can acknowledge that it’s never been easier to pay taxes than right now, it’s still an insane concept. I’ve watched Snowden on Joe Rogan. YOU LITERALLY TRACK OUR PHONES JUST VENMO REQUEST ME. I had to get a shot so I could eat in a restaurant, and you can’t tell me how much I owe the government? Apparently, over-stepping on boundaries is only okay when it inconveniences me and not you, US government.
Getting Drunk In A Hawaiian Shirt Rules: Yep.
“I Obviously Hated It” at a Restaurant:
POV: you’re a waitress. You asked me if I liked my dish; I turn the dish towards you, empty, and say, “I obviously hated it.” We make eye contact. I leave my Grandma who described that joke as “a riot,” at the table, and I grab your hand as I hail a cab. “Where are we going?” I say, “anywhere.” We can’t contain ourselves; we get frisky in the backseat. Twelve hours later we are in Bermuda. I’ve sold my Tik Tok account over my bosses’ heads and used the money to buy one used Kayak. We start a small business and live on the beach. We have a son named Miles spelled with a “Y.” You loved that joke.