Amusement parks are my goddamn jam.

I don’t fuck around with the little bitch rides. I go straight for the big dog badass roller coasters. I want to go so fast my skin melts off my bones. I want to go so vertical that for a moment I am technically an astronaut. I want to fear death at the hands of my 16-year-old ride attendant and his ability to check my shoulder straps.

Roller coasters are my bitch–I fear none.

Minus one.

There is a roller coaster in Denver, Colorado that I am convinced was designed by people who hate fun. On the surface, it looks like the most fun thing ever: a flying coaster, meaning you ride lying facedown and arms out to give you the illusion of flight.

All it gave me was the illusion that I was once a person who enjoyed life.

The first clue that something was going to be horrible was the inexplicable bar across your lower stomach. Platforms for torso, legs, but a fucking thick bar across your fart headquarters. It was uncomfortable, but hey, FUN IS ON THE WAY, RIGHT?

Nope. This lay-down bullshit fest also meant that you were face to face with the crotch of the person in front of you. Their fart headquarters is looking to zoom them straight out the b-hole and right into your screaming mouth. You know, like the worst horror movie you can imagine.

I wasn’t about to bitch out now. I convinced myself that I was a goddamn lady and I wasn’t gonna sky write with toots. I laid down, and immediately the back bar settled and pressed, driving away any hope I had about not zipping farts over Denver. The pressure was intense, but now I was strapped in–no bailing now.

We began our ascent up the hill, and the farting began. It was like hearing geese heading south, our pack of roller coaster victims and our chorus of assgas. I’ve never wished for the end of a coaster climb–that’s the build-up to the fun!–but the downslide couldn’t come fast enough. I prayed that the man in front of me was only foofin’ and hadn’t eaten the tacos that day, because I wasn’t up for forced scat/coaster porn.

Finally…finally…the hill was through, and down we went. Our bodies slid forward, which meant that the bar was now square on our bladders. All 12 riders clenched the hell up, praying to Jesus for strength. When we all thought we had finally contained the horrors we could produce, the unthinkable happened.

The man in front of me–the leader of our flying fart pack–puked. A brilliant neon streak flew below us, skirting way too close to our bellies. We flew over the remains of his gatorade and glow-stick lunch, screaming out of horror.

It was the worst experience I can actively remember. We rode the rest of the way screaming and crying and wondering what we had done to anger the God of Fun who had struck us down.

I only wish I had an out-of-body experience at that moment, so I could see 12 adults flying through the air and trying to not scream from fear so that no farts were swallowed, and then being forced to air-slip-n-slide over neon vomit.

–

Ever had a rough experience on a coaster or other ride?

I’m convinced that Between Two Ferns is the perfect web series. It’s awkward and horrible and amazing and hilarious and I just want to be this funny one day.

I won’t be, though. Because of dreams and the fact that Kevin Costner exists to ruin my dreams.

Well, I feel a hell of a lot better about being a terrible person. I’m clearly not doing it well enough.

Vote for your favorites!

At my sister’s graduation last week, I was holding my sleeping niece and trying desperately to direct people away from the 11 seats saved for family next to me. When I dropped her burp cloth, someone dove in front of me and sat in the seats. Adrian reached over, tapped lightly on the man’s shoulder and said, “I’m so sorry, these are saved for family. My apologies.”

That motherfucker knew they were saved, considering our coats and bags were on them, the universal sign of THESE ARE FOR ME. We were there an hour early to get these seats. If he wanted ‘em, he shoulda been there.

The man kindly responded by shouting in my face, “I DIDN’T SEE A GODDAMN SIGN ON ‘EM,” and kicking my leg pretty hard on the way out. Considering I had a fucking baby in my arms, hadn’t yet showered, and was hungry and dangerously under-alched, I said under my breath, “They’re invisible to inconsiderate cunts.”

And of course, right as I said that, the din of the crowd mysteriously diminished to zero. A dirty woman holding a baby said cunt pretty loudly in a very nice theatre. Not my finest moment.

That said, I’m sure there are worse things to shout in a crowded space. Put your submissions in the comments below!

Joke-Off: Terrible Things To Shout In Crowded/Public Spaces

• Cunt
• EVERYONE GET DOWN and boogie!
• I HAVE A BOMB in my pants I need a restroom immediately
• The Westboro Baptist Church has a pretty good point
• I hear herpes is airborne now
• FIREd is what she’s going to be when I get into the office on Monday
• I CAN’T FIND MY BABY’s bottle, it must have rolled away
• Murder isn’t as bad as what people make it out to be
• Donald Trump is a respectable person
• I have a lot of illicit drugs
• I have a lot of hundreds in my poorly-watched wallet
• I don’t really care for Star Wars
• Depends on how you define gang bang
• I don’t really care for Fifty Shades Of Grey
• Putting a toddler in a kennel isn’t so bad
• I’ve pooped!
• Cleanliness of needles is relative, really
• I am looking for sex
• I was really just waiting for Grandpa to die
• Oozing is more of an accurate description
• I don’t trust black people
• It’s not racism, it’s just honesty
• I farted a strange condom on Monday
• I found semen!

Let it be known, Printer, that you have renewed my faith in Christ. If you exist, filled with the Devil’s colors and rage, then so must God.

I need you to print out 24 color photographs. I know that you said you could do it before when I fucking bought you for this purpose, but I can see that it’s just too much for you. Especially when that’s your entire purpose in life–that responsibility must be crushing.

You are a printer, and that is literally all you do. You do not write documents, you do not light things on fire (yet), and you do not make me tea. You only print, and yet you are refusing to do even this.

I spent $83 on only four ink cartridges for you today, knowing it would take all of them and a miracle and perhaps black magic to get all this done in one night. I faithfully removed the paper tray that you were built with because when you use it, you get frowny and shred up all my expensive-ass photo paper. I am, unbelievably, loading the sheets one by one…by hand…for an hour.

I just need 24 pages.

Yet, here we are. I didn’t know you could choose to cancel documents on your own. After I looped one sheet of paper through you 8 times, you sure as Hell did. You can and do arbitrarily choose to print some pages, and not others–both out of order and in more than one case, from a separate print job four weeks ago.

Sometimes, you pretend to print, but in reality you just make all the mind-erasing noises and then spit out a white sheet with a massive streak of brown across it. You’re literally shitting out what I need for tomorrow.

It’s been 3 hours now, and we are at an almighty impasse. I need this for tomorrow, and you know that, and now I’m crying on my couch and wondering what I did to deserve this. I would have done anything, literally anything if you will print these last 2 pages for me.

While you were finally clipping along at a decent pace of one sheet every five minutes when you ran out of color ink and didn’t let me know. You printed four sheets of monstrously distorted images. I replaced the color cartridge, and reprinted the rotted horrors you tried to pass off as color prints.

Then you had the gall to call me out for replacing your apparently holy ink with a used cartridge. Even though all your self-tests proved color-correct, you would not print my photos in anything other than a sepia tone.

I give up. This will have to do. Unintentional Old-Timey Photo is at least better than no photo.

I hate you, printer. I hate you so much.

My Hell is not filled with fire, nor brimstone, nor tearing of flesh or screams or lakes of horrific death. My Hell is nothing more than the need and yet inability to print something out.

I love podcasts–it’s a great way to hear a lot of great comedians and writers and thinkers and there’s no real block to getting the new information and new funny.

Aside from the fact that 98% of podcasts are 4 hours long and HOLY FUCK I CANNOT DO THAT. There is no one in the entire world who can hold my attention for that long.

Thankfully, we have the Ten Minute Podcast, run by three unbelievably talented comedians, to make our lives better. Short, sweet, and funny as fuck.

Schwarzenegger, Statham, and VanDamme

Jealous Sz’F**k

Everybody’s Dad Loves You

Bryan’s Porno Friend

Ask Shawna One Mo’Gain

I Can’t Step Out?

IT MADE ME SO SAD TO READ THESE.

Vote for your favorite and/or the saddest one.

Adrian and I are moving (again) soon, and once again we are reminded of how little anyone gives a shit about people who rent. The places we’re being offered are absurd, and there’s nothing we can do about it. We need a place to live, so sure, I guess I can take my wet laundry from the first floor to the second where the dryer is located. I guess I can live with a water heater in the living room. I suppose it won’t be so awful to park our cars and our neighbor’s cars end to end on a driveway. None of those things will ever be the worst thing ever.

So this week, let’s fill in the blank and help one another realize that it could always be worse. Add your submissions into the comments below.

Joke-Off: I Didn’t Rent/Buy This House Because __________

• The TV connections only allowed a TV in the unfinished attic and nowhere else 
• The showerhead was electrified
• The water heater sounded like the space shuttle
• Fence was actually a moat
• Moat was filled with real crocodiles
• There was no way across the moat except to run across the crocodiles
• Back part of house was missing
• Toilet was inside shower enclosure
• Stadium seating in shower is strange
• Outhouse instead of bathroom
• It is currently on fire
• Stove is in bedroom
• Stove is in the basement
• Dishwasher is in the entryway
• Second bedroom actually is a closet
• Smells like a dirty pussy
• Neighbor commented on my mouth shape
• Neighbor commented on my dog’s mouth shape
• There is a pipe running at waist-length, exposed, throughout the house
• Mirror is covered in blood
• There are an unsettling number of chain locks on all interior doors
• Suspected vampire haven
• Coroner visited “as a regular courtesy”
• Suspected wild dog pack in basement
• Homeless man was making burgers on a shopping cart in the foyer
• Floor is missing
• There is a flaming wheelbarrow in the study
• Possible evidence of meth explosion in nursery
• Full of bees

The sad part is how many of these are real-life things that happened to me.

I am a public monster.

I am a tornado of impropriety, smashing social barriers and hurting feelings with more force than an F5 rips through the dreams of trailer home owners. I skip from interaction to interaction with the hopes of first being charming, and then praying for at least passably human, and then wandering away with a sure knowledge that I have left that person with part of their soul missing.

It’s usually because I’m laughing at something I shouldn’t be, which makes me something of a sociopath.

It’s Not Like He Knew I Was Laughing

When my paternal grandfather died, his funeral was very small: just my sister, mother, maternal grandmother and grandfather, my uncle, and me. It was held in a very small chapel with barely enough room for the casket and the six of us–if you moved wrong, you might just accidentally kick the casket.

When they brought in the worst fucking bagpiper to bleat out Amazing Grace, I was gone. It was already so awkward and horrible and in that tiny chapel with what sounded like a leprosy-riddled sheep screaming through a bull horn–there was no containing my laughter. It was only when my grandmother smacked me over the head with a Bible that I stopped.

It’s Like Watching Green Mile Except Nothing Good Happens

One night, I came in from playing outside to hear my sister screaming and crying in her room with the vacuum running and an unbelievably loud humming. It was alarming to say the least–I ran down the hall and threw open the door to find what still remains one of the funniest sights I’ve ever seen.

My sister, being mauled by a massive swarm of gnats and moths, beating them out of her four-poster bed drapes, and viciously trying to vacuum them as fast as she could.

She had left a light on in her room, her window open, and her door closed for several hours at night. Seeing as how we lived on a farm, where bugs are fucking made, it was a shitshow. I couldn’t help her–I should have but I couldn’t. It was too amazing to see her try to gang-fight the world’s smallest bugs while surrounded by pastel tulle and Laura Ashley ruffles.

You know, now that I repeat the story, it sounds more like Stephen King than anything else.

IS MY FACE EVEN ON MY HEAD ANYMORE IT’S COOL LOL JK

At the Stock Show and Rodeo in Denver every year, a team of ‘horsemen’ performs in between events. It’s always a new theme every year, and it’s always pretty terrible. Once it was Russian horsemanship where everyone fell off. Once it was The OK Corral and Doc Holliday would have shot himself to spare the memory. Once, everyone just held a shitton of fireworks near their horses’ heads, which is an awful idea 1) indoors and 2) because horses don’t dig fire too much.

During the Fireworks year, my family sat right on the fence, eye-level with all the horse dicks you could imagine. The poor woman next to me had never been to a rodeo ever and MY GOD, WAS IT MAGICAL FOR HER. Funny as she was, I didn’t want to fault her for her lack of knowledge, regardless of how unbelievably ignorant her comments were. She was, however, loudly and obnoxiously mystified by these horsemen. She OOOHED and AAAHED and MAJESTICKED away for a solid 10 minutes and I managed to contain my laughter. Then, a Clydesdale ran by and off of his hoof came the biggest dirt clod I have ever seen in my life. It was the size of a globe at least, and it nailed her right in the face.

I lost it. Loudly and horribly, I lost it. I tried to turn away from her, my mom tried to punch me in the throat to stop me. The woman’s one and only response to this event which must have rocked her from here to fucking Jupiter?

“Oh goodness, that smarted a bit.”

–

What’s the funniest thing you’ve ever seen in public?

If Everything Is Terrible, then nothing is, right?

EIT is the world’s best time-waster. Hundreds upon hundreds of old (and shockingly not-that-old) VHS tapes converted and recut to enhance the stupidity of what they were to begin with. I forget sometimes that everyone in the 90′s had as much access to home recording as we do now…it was just more difficult to share your idiocy. NOT ANYMORE.

Child exploitation and advertising schlock.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Exer-Ball(smacking).

Click here to view the embedded video.

I’m so sorry.

Click here to view the embedded video.

IT’S JUST SO FUNNY.

Click here to view the embedded video.

I’m even more sorry.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Useful.

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You will never have enough time to go through all of their archives. Enjoy never working again.