Flying is the most convenient torture

Traveling isn’t fun on any given day. But doing it the day after Christmas or any holiday is a marathon of fatigue, coffee breath, and Cinnabon.

Flying is the most inconvenient convenience around.

My Christmas weekend flew by. I was still digesting the onslaught of meat and bakery goods—the customary Christmas diet—when I got up to get to the airport following Christmas day.  I didn’t wear a belt because my rapid obesity was holding them up better than my belt ever could. “I’m not wearing a belt to save time going through security,” a fat Tim said to himself while packing his bags in the dark.

Following the instructions of my dad—and every dad to ever exist—I got up extra early to arrive at the airport 12 hours early.

I got up at 2:50 a.m., which sounds pretty early. But it’s not that bad if you’ve had plenty of sleep and I had just put in a solid 2 hours. I thought by watching 1,000 YouTube videos inches from my eyeballs would be the perfect sleep-inducer. Surprisingly, it made sleeping that much harder.

So, after taking the risk of sleeping through my seven alarms, I decided to get what little sleep I could so I could make my trip as miserable as possible. I awoke from my speed-sleep with eyes just solid red they were so bloodshot.

Well, you can always sleep on the plane. 

Ah yes, the plane. How could you not sleep when the air pressure is squishing your head? Can’t turn down sleep with all of this hot mouth-breathing going on in the cabin! The Wright Brothers basically invented the airplane because sleeping in their warm bed at home had become such a nuisance.

“One day, I hope I can bring people the best sleep of their lives, sandwiched between two fat ladies flying to Toronto” – Orville Wright.

It’s also difficult to sleep inside of a flying tube when it’s filled with crying children and body odor. On one of my flights, I sat next to a man wearing a leather jacket. He took it off just as I was about to pass out from exhaustion. For whatever reason, this was a multi-step operation with each step striking me and him saying “Op!”

Then I realized the jacket was keeping in the smell of his seemingly decaying body. It was life old roast beef threw up on a pile of asparagus.

I hope to never fly again. I’d rather endure a long car-ride filled with bathroom stops and mini-meals made of gatorade and gas station hot dogs. I’d rather endure all of that than have the one person who has to drive me to and from the airport stab a doll that looks just like me throughout my stay.

Death to the airport.

Online shopping saves my Christmas, again

My Christmas shopping is finished, and like a smug prick, I’m now going on the internet to tell everyone about it.

But unlike those other pricks, I’m not going to gloat about getting everything done in a responsible manner, nor will I sum it up by referring to my actions as “adulting” like the rest of those unoriginal hacks. Adulting is the dumbest, most overused thing we millennials say, other than squinting our eyes and saying, “suh, dude.”

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Fantasy football is abuse I deserve

Fantasy football is Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.

You think you’re going to be the one to win it all only to have your flaws exploited and you end up floating down a chocolate river, but instead of chocolate, the river is made up of shame and embarrassment.

All this happens while the one person, who barely got into the league and couldn’t care less about it, ends up winning everything and is the toast of the town.

I hate fantasy football. I also hate Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Charlie and Grandpa Lazy Ass drank fizzy lifting drinks, thereby disqualifying them from any inheritance. Also, what kind of predatory deviant has random children compete against each other for a massive prize?

A predator. And a slave owner (see: Oompa Loompa).

Nothing matters. No one is smart. Especially me.

Every year, I tell everyone in my league that they are unintelligent simpletons incapable of knowing a good football player from a normal citizen with undiagnosed concussions. And every year, my best players are murdered and my lineup consists of a bunch of white wide receivers (not even the good ones on the Patriots) and a guy who played for North Carolina State, but he was pretty good in college when he played Chattanooga so he should be good against the Eagles.

And every year, the people who choose their lineups based on “how nice of a smile a player has” (not kidding, real thing) go on to win the league.

I don’t learn from my mistakes because I don’t want to. Doing so would mean that all the time invested in learning this stupid sport was wasted and nothing I do matters. Fantasy football is basically poker wherein there is no skill involved, it’s random.

That’s not true. There tons of fantasy experts who know how to formulate winning teams and help you pick the right players for games based on statistics and knowledge.

Fantasy experts are a lot like the guy who thought he cured his cancer with carrot juice. He genuinely thought what he was doing was informing the public with cold-hard facts. But in reality, he’s a quack who provides anyone willing to listen with nonsense.

That is what a fantasy expert is.

“You should start Todd Gurley this week. He tweeted that “God is good” so he is spiritually protected this week. He’s also a downhill runner, which is a VERY good thing.” 

Downhill runner is a phrase that means nothing. If you hear this from anyone, it means they have run out of things to say. It’s like when someone says “good stuff” to you when you tell them about the boring crap in your life; it’s verbal filler.

Fantasy experts are on the same level as your Facebook friends who sell fit tea from home: they are bull crap artists.

Fantasy sports can all go to hell