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What the fuck.

I’m serious. Look. And please pardon my vile, repugnant fingertips that arose due to my impulsive nail-picking habits.

My mother is the reason behind this atrocity, I’m afraid. Despite my futile attempts to reverse her decision, it became readily apparent that I was going to have my nails looking absolutely fabulous regardless of my personal opinion on the matter. My inescapable fate was justified with the fact that we were in Mexico and that I should experience new things or some bullshit. Sigh.

And so, I grudgingly followed my mother into the salon. Immediately upon my entrance, pleasurable, effeminate scents illuminated the atmosphere. Each breath would fill the lungs with a blissful wave of pure, unadulterated tranquility, and everyone smelled like ponies and shit. Once I was finished getting high on the womanly fumes, I was promptly informed of the emasculating activities that I would inevitably partake in, which consisted of a pedicure and a manicure.

At first, it wasn’t so bad.

The pedicure was pretty relaxing. They sat me down on this nice, plushy chair on an elevated platform that had a little tub in front of it to soak my disgusting, abhorrent feet in. They then proceeded to wash my toes and file my callouses and trim my toenails and massage my earlobes and pay for my health care plan and they did fucking everything man. It was awesome.

The manicure was much less enjoyable. I basically just sat in a creaky, plastic chair and laid my hands out while they unapologetically murdered the crevices of my fingernails with a pointy stick thing for a while (they did this with the pedicure too, but it actually felt strangely therapeutic then. Here it felt like my fingernails were undergoing gastric bypass surgery or something. I’m saying it was painful.) What’s worse is that I forgot to tell the lady not to apply the nail polish or whatever afterward, which explains my exceptionally lustrous fingernails shown in the picture above.

And you know what? This holds zero appeal to me, and I don’t understand why it would appeal to anyone. I don’t want shiny nails! Who wants shiny nails? I could probably use the reflective coating as an alternative light source if I wanted to. I don’t want to walk down the streets and unintentionally sear the retinas of everybody within a half-mile radius. It’ll cause a nationwide epidemic of cataracts. It’s like a crappy superpower that nobody wants.

So now I’m going to dedicate my next few hours to vigorously scraping away at my fingernails. How was your day?

Seriously though, I’ve always wondered what Obama smelt like in person. But I’m more curious as to how the incense manufacturer somehow managed to capture the unique scent of our president and contain it in a tangible, mass-distributable product. Maybe they paid him a bunch of money to swab his armpits with a Q-tip or something. If that’s the case, then perhaps it’s a good thing that they left the name at “Obama”, as anything more descriptive than that may have a hard time gaining momentum with consumers (It’s hard to envision “Obama’s Underarm Sweat” flying off the shelves). Or perhaps I’m reading too much into a stupid, gimmicky product.

I still kind of want it, though…

What do I do. I feel trapped. I wish I didn’t lead such a terrible, pitiful life.

Anyhow, as we were setting up and getting ready to shoot the next scene, a man of an unkept disposition and questionable hygiene began running towards us from the other side of the street with a troubled look on his unshaven face. As each of us individually began to notice him, we all braced ourselves for whatever fate this stranger might bring upon us. When he finally approached, he asked if any of us had a cellular device he could use for communicative purposes.

No one responded.

Finally, feeling a smidge of pity for the guy, I told him that he could use mine. He seemed very grateful, and he proceeded to read off the appropriate number for me to dial. As I was finished typing it in, I hesitantly extended my phone over to the man, hoping that he wouldn’t run off with it and feed it to his dog or something. He thanked me profusely, and he held it up to his ear. Up until that moment I hadn’t noticed the dried, bloody welt marks that infiltrated his arm. I sincerely prayed that I hadn’t just made a dreadful mistake. My optimistic hopes were immediately dashed when I heard the first words come out of his mouth.

“Hey Boxer, where’s Bubba?”

Well, shit. I probably just handed my phone over to a meth dealer.

After their pleasant little conversation was over, he thanked me again as he handed the phone back to me. I could feel the piercing glares of disapproval my peers were giving me as the man ran off into the distance.

I am never doing that again.

Oh, that must be some kind of typo, I thought. The author probably meant to say fack or flarp or something. I opened it to take a closer look.

At that moment I realized, this shit is real. It could perhaps be the greatest thing to happen to humanity.

And now I can’t stop laughing.

JESUSCHRISTTHISISFUCKINGINCREDIBLEOMGOMGOMGSOHAPPY

… Seriously?