The Onion is so aptly named. Under the first layer of mockery and humor are several layers of truth. Consider this latest example.

As a 26-year-old who only goes to drinking establishments in her hometown approximately twice a year, I can relate (or, at least, in nearby towns...I'm not even sure there ARE any bars in my town, really). I am less bitter than the fictional Jordan McCabe, but I do have those moments where some former cheerleader, who wouldn't have been caught dead pretending to like me in high school, suddenly seems really excited to see me. My optimistic side would like to believe that this is because we have all moved on from high school stereotypes and cliques and whatnot, but I'm more inclined to believe it's some combination of fake-niceness (possibly my least favorite personality trait) and southern manners.

Personally, I am honestly quite happy to see anyone I recognize from high school. If you genuinely want to be friends now, even if we never talked, that's just super. There are a few people from my past who I am just now getting to know, and it's great. And if you're genuinely a giant asshole fuckface, even if we never talked, I will enjoy making fun of you with anyone else who might remember you.

whipped cream...HAIR CREAM?!?!

While the Japanese may have brought us such unforgettable Engrish phrases as "boiling fish with colorectal," I think we need to give more credit to our creative native speakers. When the owners of the "The Hairport" needed a name for their salon, did they have to call up some Asian dude? NO. Or what about the East Texas owners of "Hair by Jesus?" They only needed to look to their Lord and Savior when christening their mullet factory. Surely no other country will ever take away our place at the top of the cheesy-hair-salon-name mountain.

However, the Arabs would like to try. For instance, consider the "Hair Saloon" in Amman, Jordan. Since Muslims aren't really down with the drinking, I can only assume that Os were on sale at the letter factory.

Hair salons aren't alone, though. Perhaps the most unfortunately named liquor store I've come across is Hobby Liquor. Presumably named for its proximity to Hobby Airport, this liquor store is not for the amateur drinker. No Boone's Farm for you, just straight up Night Train.

Today as I was driving I SWEAR I passed an establishment called "Faceload." I was in a respectable part of town, so I don't really know what to make of this. Maybe I misread it, or I just had porn on the mind, or something (although I was never into THAT type of porn...but that's for another day). Anyway, I figured that the only thing "Faceload" could be, if that is in fact what it was called, is a salon or something, and that's what made me think of all the awful hair salon names I've ever encountered.

don't need no diamond ring

Eventually, when someone decides he wants to try to tolerate me for the rest of his life, I hope he has the good sense not to give me a diamond engagement ring (unless it’s a family heirloom or something). I’ve always been slightly bothered by the “I love you this many dollars” implication, almost as much as I’m bothered by the subtle woman-to-woman “my fiancé loves me this many more dollars than yours loves you” ring comparison game. It’s possible that law school—which seems to have become the husband-shopping arena of choice now that home economics degrees are passé—made me biased. Also, aesthetically, I just prefer gemstones with color. If you’ve seen my apartment, you know I’m not a fan of white.

Recently, though, I have gathered new information which strengthens my anti-diamond ring stance. First of all, diamond engagement rings were not the standard until about 75 years ago, when DeBeers launched its marketing campaign, attempting to convince all women that diamonds were associated with everlasting love. (Now, your suggested ring price is supposedly equal to three months’ salary. I wouldn’t even feel comfortable wearing three months worth of someone’s salary on my body.) Then, they took it another step by promoting the previously unorthodox surprise proposal concept. The reasoning behind this is that men allegedly spend more money when left to their own devices, whereas women are thriftier, and would choose cheaper rings. I find this hard to believe, but apparently it’s proven to be true.

So, in light of that, those obnoxious Robbins Brothers commercials make more sense to me now. You know, the ones where they invite uncreative husbands-to-be in for advice on creative proposals. If you have to have a salesman tell you how to propose, you probably shouldn’t be doing it.

George, Kenny, Cheryl, and Cappuccino Asshole

Ever since I've been working at soul-sucking office jobs, I've longed for my days as a barista in New Orleans. Who am I kidding, I longed for those days since the day I quit, and would probably still be there if they paid more than minimum wage (although if I hadn't left, I would never be able to write my memoirs which will be cleverly titled "From Barista to Barrister." Even though I can never be a barrister because I'm not British, and I'll never write my memoirs because nobody would give a shit. So you'd better appreciate my fabulously alliterative title now).

The best thing about the job was the people. I love nice customers because they're nice, and I love mean customers because they're funny. My coworker Katie and I used to play a game called Customer Bingo to pass the time. We made a list of all the regulars, including those whose names we actually knew and those we'd lovingly nicknamed (such as Cappuccino Asshole), and then chose nine of them to create our bingo cards. One of my favorite regulars was George Two-Butters: a huge, friendly, shy man who always wanted a "a biscuit - with two butters. Two butters." Even though I knew what he wanted and often had it out for him before he even came in the door, he still had to say it. He worked for the Salvation Army, and would usually have some story about how the youth today just don't respect nothing anymore. I also liked Kenny and Cheryl (who ordered black iced tea, no ice and a decaf coffee, respectively). They were middle-aged and tried to act like they weren't dating and/or living together. I tried to act like I didn't know.

I also enjoyed those random customers who would make my day by coming in and saying something really stupid, which I could add to my wall of dumb quotes in the dish room. I understand not being able to decipher all of the coffee jargon, but if you don't know what something means, it's best to ask before angrily making accusations such as "excuse me, there is chocolate in my mocha!" or "this cappuccino has foam in it!" I didn't make those up, by the way.

When there weren't any customers, I would pass the time by creating new drinks, such as the ice cream-espresso-chocolate cheesecake milkshake, which was invented by putting all of the above into the blender. I should never be left alone with a blender and pastries.

I have one more memorable regular to tell you about, but I can't fully explain without photographs, and I don't have a scanner, so that will have to wait for another day.

It's Candy Time - literally

Earlier this year, I was having a debate with a coworker about daylight savings time. I insisted that the time changed in October, he was thoroughly convinced that it happened in September. Imagine our surprise when we looked at my gigantic office calendar and saw that it was, in fact, in November. I was confused, but excited at the prospect of extra time before that awful period when you have to leave work after dark.

The time change is part of the recently enacted Energy Policy Act, because three extra weeks of daylight apparently aids in the energy conservation effort (and if someone could explain to me how that works, I'd like to know). However, there are also theories that the lobbying efforts of American candy companies had something to do with it. The word on the street is that the candy companies wanted an extra hour of daylight, which would result in an extra hour of trick-or-treating on Halloween...and you can take it from there. Their selling point was that trick-or-treating in daylight is safer for children (so they don't get run over while gathering an extra hour's worth of cholesterol--I mean, candy).

Now, maybe they can start campaigning to get an extra hour of light on Thanksgiving and Christmas, too, so we can just do away with Daylight Savings altogether, and never have to suffer through that one Saturday night in the spring with one less hour of sleep, or that first day after the change in the fall when it gets dark before Happy Hour is over. Where's my extra hour of daylight for half-price appetizers?

I call him...Dairy Queen.*

I’m sure someone has already made this argument, but I try not to read other peoples’ arguments, because they make me feel…argumentative. And if I were on the Real World, I’d be the stereotypical “please-can’t-we-all-just-get-along” cast member. So, pardon me if this has already been said…but it seems to me that this whole bailout scheme is just a big financial cane toad. Why, throughout history, do we keep trying to kill off one pest by sending in a larger, harder to kill pest? Who decided that the best way to solve a problem was to do the same thing that created the problem TIMES A MILLION?

America: We’re sorry government, but we borrowed more than we could afford and now we’re fucked!

Government: Hey, we have a good idea! How about we let you borrow some money we can’t afford?

America: Great idea! You guys are such mavericks!

*If you are part of the problem (like me) and are now looking for cheap entertainment, see if you can pick up a copy of “Cane Toads: An Unnatural History.” Best documentary EVER. I don't know what's weirder, cane toads or Australians.

I am a hot commodity.

Recent events (namely, everyone on the face of the earth becoming engaged) have led me to reconsider a topic we discussed in my Law & Economics class a few years ago. At the time, I was 23 and in a relationship, so it didn’t really concern me. Now that I have reached—and passed—the ripe old age of 25.3, I am an old maid, according to the census bureau. However, if you consider the dating pool from a market analysis perspective, I am becoming more and more valuable—until I reach my early 30s, when approximately ten percent of people my age will be getting divorced. In summary, my stock value is rising, and will continue to do so for several more years, at which point the supply of potential husbands will increase again, and I can (hopefully) save myself the emotional and monetary pain of that early-30s divorce.

At least, this is what I tell myself at all of these weddings.

I drew a beautiful graph to illustrate this, but unfortunately I am scannerless. However, this sums it up nicely.

Bumblebees

Occasionally, my grandma sends me one of those spam emails with the cheesy Jesus anecdotes, including the one about how mathematically, bumblebees should be unable to fly—but they can, and therefore God exists. First of all, this is dumb because math is obviously sophisticated enough to handle bumblebee flight. See http://www.straightdope.com/classics/a5_045.html for more info. Also, the scientific information in spam email is about as correct as actual spam is nutritious. What bothers me more, however, is the implication that if we can’t explain something, God exists. I’m not claiming that God or your deity of choice does or does not exist; I’m only commenting on the intellectual laziness required to skip directly from “I cannot explain this” to “therefore it must be Jesus.” I see the theoretical bumblebee scenario not as a triumph of faith, but as a scientific shortcoming. Fortunately there have been enough people throughout history who are uncomfortable with making such a leap in logic, who have taken the time to figure this shit out for the rest of us.

On the other hand, despite the negative connotation of the term “shortcoming,” I’m glad science has them. After all, who wants to know everything? The anticipation before unwrapping a present is often better than the moment after you’ve opened it and found another frumpy-ass reindeer sweater. The point is that the fact that you don't know what's in the box doesn't mean God put it there.

My cousin, Mrs. Khan

My cousin is engaged.
To a man.
Who calls himself Genghis.

Except he doesn’t spell it “Genghis.” However, if I were to carelessly toss his preferred spelling out here on the internets, I would be accepting the risk that some innocent Googler, in his or her search for my cousin and/or her favorite misspelled Mongol, would find my blog, thereby causing a Harriet the Spy­­-esque debacle resulting in full-on black sheep status. It’s not unlikely, either, because if you happen to Google his name, every result is related to him. I’m pretty sure this is because most people who decide to name themselves after their favorite conquerors use spell check before creating their Everquest profiles.

There are many other wonderful factoids I could divulge about Genghis and his mysterious relationship with my cousin. For example, he is 35 and she is approximately 20, and they’re in the same college class. I could also mention that he doesn’t have a driver’s license for some unknown reason, despite living in an area where driving is crucial. But really, I think the whole situation is best summed up by referring to the third sentence (fragment) of this post.

To be fair, based on the information I have gleaned via research (while determining the likelihood I would be found out if I used his real name) he seems like a decent guy, and he seems to genuinely care about my cousin. I haven’t met him yet, but I’m sure I’ll have the honor at their wedding, if nobody discovers this post.

But really, “Genghis?” Are they going to name their first-born child Attila?

Welcome.

I suppose the assertion that truth is stranger than fiction is the reason blogging has been so successful in the first place. However, I intend to take it a step further. I hope that you will enjoy my posts not only for their literal content, but also on a metaphysical level. I hope you'll pause for a second and think to yourself, "wow. Real life is fucking weird/hilarious/depressing/adjective of your choice/all of the above at the same time." With 6 billion different versions of reality, who needs fiction?

My goal is to present the best reality has to offer, from math and science to workplace drama. Sort of like “The Soup,” but with less Tyra Banks (because I refuse to believe she’s real). Enjoy.