My Facebook activity has been reduced from “slim-to-none” to just “none” ever since my first foreign exchange student intern went crazy after reading the many sh*tty status updates posted by the 3 Facebook Whores on my “friends” list. So I've been trying to find an intern this whole time, and was on the verge of completely giving up when I finally found someone who met all the requirements I was looking for. He had an impressive resume full of such glowing achievements like being a foreign exchange student that I immediately called him in for an interview.

Having gone through many job interviews in the past, I've learned that coolness is everything. Even if you're hopelessly uncool, you should never let the person you're interviewing know you as anything other than the coolest interviewer ever. Getting the interviewed person to believe you are way cooler than him will establish your position as his superior if he gets the job.

My method of accomplishing such extreme coolness is to have CNBC on in the background during the interview--because CNBC stands for "Cable Network that Boosts Coolness." So of course I had it on during my interview with the potential candidate--which went well enough that I decided to give him the job. But before I put him to work, I wanted to tell him about the perks of being my new foreign-exchange student intern:

Thanks to my sudden ability to property think on my feed, I finally had a new intern who could check my Facebook for me--which I had him start on immediately.

Of course it's busy. A news feed always is if you’re “friends” with Facebook Whores. Those freaks will go so far as post an update about blinking their eyes, so I braced myself for my intern's report to be full of crap like, "X just woke up" or "Y is bored."

A, B, and C? Who are they again? Oh! They must not be Facebook Whores! No wonder their updates didn't give me that explosive-doot feeling!

It must've been my lucky day to have the report not start with something about X, Y, and Z, but I was sure the rest of the news feed would be all about them.

OMG! None of the updates were from the Facebook Whores! Not a single one! Everything posted on the news feed had something to do with how A, B, and C were planning their weddings. Did X, Y, and Z change their names? Were they dead? Was I in the Twilight Zone?

I realized the answer was "none of the above," even though I had no idea how I knew this. There was just something about A, B, and C that sounded familiar to me for some reason...like I actually kind of, sort of knew them from somewhere, somehow.

And then it hit me!

That's why I kind of, sort of recognized their names! I went to school with them, and they were always hanging out together with a few other girls. And suddenly their aggressive wedding-planning posts made sense:

Don't laugh at my volcanoes. They were hard to draw.

Yes, A, B, and C were embroiled in a Wedding War, and were trying to kick the crap out of each other with their silly posts. What’s a “Wedding War” you ask? Hmm…well, it’s like when a kid wants an action figure—say, Leonardo from the “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles”—because the rest of his friends have one, and he doesn’t want to be left out. So his parents buy him a Leonardo and the kid is back to fitting in with his friends. But the harmony doesn’t last very long because the kids start realizing that they all have Leonardos—and you just can’t play “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” with four Leonardos. That obviously means 3 of the kids are going to have to turn their action figures into poor-man’s versions of Raphael, Donatello, and Michelangelo.

But how do you decide which kid’s Leonardo gets to be the actual Leonardo when they're all the same? It's simple: you have to make yours look better than everyone else's, and you do that by getting your parents to buy additional accessories and action figures (but not those of the turtles because that's what the other kids' Leonardos are for). And then you bring your stockpile of "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" toys to the playground, and the other kids will suddenly figure out the message you're sending: if they want to play with the Shredder or Master Splinter action figures or use the Turtlevan that opens up into a pizza parlor or whatever, they will have to let your Leonardo be the Leonardo.

A Wedding War is pretty much the same thing, except you've got a group of single, adult women instead of kids, and the battle is over who will have the better wedding instead of the better Leonardo action figure. And really, if you didn't think A, B, and C's Facebook antics were indicative of a Wedding War, then this will probably be enough to convince you: After her engagement, A changed her profile picture to this:

But after B announced she was engaged, A's picture became this:

Isn't that just so "I'm going to have a better wedding than you, b*tch!"? I bet she could've achieved greater subtlety if she simply took a dump on B's face.

I get it: a wedding is a big deal for a girl. You get to wear the dress, carry the flowers, walk down the aisle—all while you’re the center of everyone’s world. It’s the moment you’ve been dreaming about for as long as you can remember, so of course you’re going to be jealous when you find out that it’s your friend—not you—who’s getting married first. That b*tch is totally stealing your moment from you! That’s just wrong, and you can’t let her get away with it! So you’re just going to have to get married too—and you know your wedding is going to be so much more impressive and memorable that your friend’s because weddings are your thing, not hers!

…Just kidding. I don’t get it. Who cares if your friend is getting married before you? Who cares if all of your friends get married before you? That’s not a reason to get married. And how does that make sense anyway? “I’m going to get married someday…someday being when my friends do.” Hello! That sh*t is expensive—and quite honestly, no one is going to remember your wedding besides you and your family. You might think you’re being original but trust me, you’re not. Your wedding is going to look like everyone else’s, so maybe you should just calm down and—I don’t know—get married because you actually want to.

I'm not against marriage or weddings. I just don't understand why some girls go crazy when they find out their friends are getting hitched first. If you can see how stupid the kids were in wanting their own Leonardo, then how come you can't see the same stupidity when we're talking about weddings?

It takes a lot to make me angry.

I know--it's kind of hard to believe since 90% of my posts are about things that piss me off. But the fact is I can put up with a lot of obnoxious and frustrating crap without becoming much more than medium-rare annoyed...Like when I drove 40 miles in bumper-to-bumper traffic in the middle of a hot-ass 100-degree day, basically being cooked alive because my car had a busted air conditioner. Oh, and the time I was taking the multiple choice portion of the bar exam back in February. I was already fighting off a period-induced diarrhea attack when the test proctor confiscated my watch because she thought it might have been shady. I say "might have been shady" because she wasn't sure exactly which types of watches were banned from the testing area, so she took mine to get verification from the head proctor. I didn't really care though because she was supposed to give the test-takers a 5-minute warning anyway, so even if I didn't get through all 200 questions, I was still going to have enough time to at least fill in all the answer bubbles. But guess what? Instead of a 5-minute warning, she gave us a 5-second warning--and I ended up leaving 20 bubbles blank. But at least I got my watch back...a day later. *mutter* *mutter*

So yeah, I think I've got a decent temper, and thanks to that most things don't set me off. Most things. There is one situation that, when it happens, turns me into a crazy backyard wrestler with 'roid rage and rabies. I'm not joking here. When someone does this, the threshold is automatically crossed. I'll go from ambivalence to anger management; balanced to behemoth of b*tch slaps; from...from...damn! I can't think of one that starts with "c."

Anyway, this is the sh*t I'm talking about. This!

Yes! That's the thing I was talking about: someone stepping on the heel of my slipper! I mean, why aren't you watching where you're going? More importantly: why the hell are you walking so freaking close in the first place?!

Argh! You've just made me sort of lose my balance! No apology can save you now!

Okay, fine, that's not really how I react. I'd like to, but I don't want to go to jail and shame my family. I just stick with this instead:

Fake smile plastered on my face!

...Great, drawing those pictures pissed me off. Time to get a Cinnabon.

Got anything that automatically pisses you off to the point of no return?

A real conversation I had while I was in Hawaii for my mother's birthday. I had dropped by Costco to pick up some stuff:

Seriously, was that rude, or what?!

I don't remember when this happened, but I'm pretty sure it was back in college. I was having a conversation with a friend, during which she mentioned that she had to write something in her dream diary. This random announcement threw me off a bit: aren't those diaries used by people who believe their dreams are cryptic messages from their souls? They think that by writing down all the little details of their dreams and then analyzing each one, they will be able to achieve a level of personal enlightenment that people can't obtain when they're awake.

Another thing dream interpretation can help you with: letting your friends know you engage in a form of douchery practiced by the douchiest of douche bags...that's how I found out I was friends with someone who was actually a practitioner of the fart arts.

I'm sorry, but that's what dream interpretation is: a fart art for douche bags. And if you need further proof, here's an introductory paragraph I found on a "dream dictionary" website:

Acquiring the ability to interpret your dreams is a powerful tool. In analyzing your dreams, you can learn about your deep secrets and hidden feelings. Every detail, even the most minute element in your dream is important and must be considered when analyzing your dreams. Each symbol represents a feeling, a mood, a memory or something from your unconscious. Look closely at the characters, animals, objects, places, emotions, and even color and numbers that are depicted in your dreams. Even the most trivial symbol can be significant. This dictionary, along with your own personal experiences, memories and circumstances, will serve to guide you through a meaningful and personalized interpretation. With practice, you can gain an understanding of the cryptic messages your dreams are trying to tell you.

Okay, no, no, no, and eat a dick.

My problem with the whole dream analysis bit--and why I find it so douchie--is that I don't really understand why dreams even need to be interpreted in the first place. First of all, I don't think your dreams will tell you anything you didn't already know about yourself. You had a dream about giving birth because your maternal instincts have been kicking in. You had a nightmare about being fired because you've been worrying about your job security.  You had a dream about peeing because you actually had to pee. Whatever message is being conveyed in your dream will be immediately apparent--no dream diary or dictionary required.

Douche bags will also get the message behind the dream, but they'll think it's thanks to their dream interpretation skills, and not because they're pointing out the obvious:

Secondly, just because some of your dreams might reflect aspects of you or your life, that doesn't mean all of your dreams will. Why can't dreams just be dreams? Why must all of them be windows to our soul? I mean, I don't think we're so complex that we must dissect the hell out of the dreams we have in our sleep in order to figure out who we are when we're awake--and that's especially true for those dreams that make us go, "Uhh...why did I dream that?" Well, I'll tell you why. I got this explanation from a reading comprehension essay I read while studying for the LSAT. For all I know, the article was written specifically for the exam and wasn't based on any real science--but it made a lot of sense when I read it. The essay was about how having dreams was our brain's way of getting rid of the unfinished thoughts that were needlessly taking up memory space. These unfinished thoughts are the brain's version of interrupted sentences that you didn't have the chance to complete because other thoughts kept cutting you off. The broken thoughts wind up being stored in our memories, leaving less room for the more important things we'd prefer to remember.

Anyway, this theory--which may not exist outside of the LSAT--hypothesizes that the stuff we see in our dreams are actually the remaining parts of the those unfinished thoughts. And once those thoughts are made whole, they are erased from our memory banks. For a possibly fake science article, I think it makes a valid point about why we have crazy dreams. And if such dreams are really based on unfinished thoughts, why would you waste time trying to interpret them?

Douche bags, however, seem to believe that because some dreams are indicative of certain aspects of our lives, that all of our dreams can do the same thing--you just need to search for it...much like how you'd search for a funny joke during a Dane Cook standup routine.

I.e., you're looking for something that doesn't exist.

...Yeah right. Those sentences spilled out of a bottle of "Summer's Eve" and you all know it!

I know it’s a little late for me to be writing a post about the recent end of the world craziness, but I was just way too busy getting my apocalypse survival kit (i.e., bag of Cheetos and a soda) ready and didn’t have time to write. And when it later turned out that the planet wasn’t going to go up in flames or have zombies walking all over it, I found myself with lots of free time to write but nothing to write with. You see, I’d given away all of my belongings—including my laptop, pens, and paper—because I figured I wouldn’t need any of it when pestilence, famine, war, the “Real Housewives of Orange County,” Justin Bieber, live-action “Incredible Hulk” movies (just give it up already!), and all of the devil’s other incarnations were ravaging the world.

I tried to buy new writing instruments to replace the ones I’d given away, but that didn’t work because I couldn’t pay for anything. Along with ditching my stuff, I also flushed my life savings down the toilet in hopes that the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles would find it in the sewers and use it to rebuild the world.

Anyway, I’m now a destitute hobo trying to scratch out a living by selling homemade pillows—which are really just piles of fur I’ve brushed off my cats—and…and…

…And I’m having a really hard time pretending to be a doomsdayer, so I’m going to have to cut this moment of mouth diarrhea short. Who knew it took such tremendous amounts of energy to reach that level of crazy?

It probably isn’t necessary for me to say this, but I am not a doomsdayer and would never ever waste a second of my life preparing for the end of the world—because in order for me to take such drastic measures, I would first have to believe that it was actually possible to predict when the world was going to end. But I don’t think something like that is foreseeable, and I doubt it ever will be.

For me, doomsday predictions are only good for 3 things:

1. Getting attention

2. Justifying laziness

3. Helping you figure out which friends shouldn’t be your friends anymore

One thing the predictions are definitely not good for: predicting doomsday.

And this should be common knowledge, people! I mean, think of how many times we’ve already been through this! The year 2000 alone had, like, 30 different prophesies, and they all ended up the way we expected them to: in total and utter failure. Let’s face it: this schtick carries a 0% success rate—and these odds don’t change just because someone decides to plaster his prediction on a bunch of billboards.

Speaking of those billboards, I saw one when I was on the freeway and the first thing I thought was, “Okay, this is either (1) an advertisement for a shady debt refinancing company, or (2) some crazy old coot who thinks he has a better understanding of religion is trying to brainwash me into believing the is world is going to end on May 21.” To be honest, I thought #1 was more likely because I couldn’t see how anyone would actually pay money to publicize a prediction that was doomed to fail. You’re pretty much inviting everyone to watch you humiliate yourself on an epic scale.

But surprise! I was wrong. That weird billboard wasn’t the work of some fraudy debt refinancing company, but of a 1,000-year-old coot named Harold Camping. And he didn’t just pay to have one billboard along a California freeway—he had thousands of them put up around country.

Even more surprising? Reputable news agencies were talking about him! What the hell for?! To report the general consensus that the May 21 prediction was going to be wrong? We already knew that! It’s a headline that’s been on the list of un-newsworthy news items since the beginning of time!

And if there is one person who definitely does not deserve any air time, it’s Harold Camping. Pulling doomsday predictions out of his ass isn’t a game he's never played before. In fact, when I typed his name into Google, one of the suggested search terms that came up was “Harold Camping wrong again.” The first time he made a bad prediction was in 1994, which he later said was wrong because of some bad math he did. I don’t really understand how that makes any sense. The man was a Berkeley-educated civil engineer! He worked in an industry where exemplary math skills are essential! That he thought he could actually hide behind this bad math excuse gives you an idea of how much crazy is pent up in that raisin.

…Or not, because here I am writing a blog about Harold Camping’s second prediction, which I am only aware of because of all the press it got in the days leading up to May 21. And now that he’s been proven wrong again—and using the bad math excuse to cover his ass again—he’s predicting for a third, a third, freaking time that the world is going to end on October 21. Is taking a dump on people three times not enough to get you committed? How is this man not in an asylum?

Old Man Camping is no different than any of the other freaks who’ve claimed to have figured out when the world was going to end. He wants to be famous, and have an enclave of followers who revere him. But he’s not willing to get all David Koresh and claim he’s actually a deity incarnate, so he takes the more “modest” route and tries to get people to believe he’s the PR guy for [insert religious figure]. And I guess being the PR guy automatically makes you an expert at using religious text to see into the future—a future where apparently the only thing that occurs is the apocalypse.

But did you ever notice how these so-called prophets always predict that the world will end during their own lifetimes? They never say it’ll happen later in the future. It’s always “Judgment Day is going to happen before I die.” That’s kind of egotistical, don’t you think? The Earth has been alive and kicking for the past 4.5 billion years or so, but then you show up and suddenly its days are numbered? Hmm…kind of makes it seem like you’re a catalyst for—OMG! We’re not going to be struck down by a higher power! We’re going to be smothered to death by your elitist douche baggery!

The only Judgment Day Camping and the rest of his fellow ham fortunetellers are able to foresee is the one that only applies to them, i.e., the day society judges them for their failed predictions. And while it’s fun watching them sit in the sh*t hole they dug for themselves, I would rather have them disappear for a while. I seriously need a break from their shenanigans, especially when 2012 is going to exponentially worse. Who cares if the Mayan calendar ends in 2012? Did it ever occur to you that maybe they just got tired of making it? I mean, at some point the person assigned to the job had to have been like, “OMG, why the f*ck are we still working on this million-page day planner?! It’s not like any of us will be around in 2012! We’ll be lucky if we make it past the 900s!”

It's just so stupid...!

I hope you’re ready for a really deep, thought-provoking blog entry because I’m about to open up a can of smart ass.

I’m being seriously serious about this: If you’re not strong enough venture into the depths of the human mind, then I suggest you turn back now…because no blue red blue red—ugh, what color was the pill that kept your ignorance intact? I need to look it up...Hey! The first “Matrix” movie came out in 1999? That makes the blue/red pill reference, like, 12-years-old! I need to think of something more modern…“Emergency exit”? Bleh. “Backpack with rockets stuck to it”? Wait, that’s from the “Rocketeer”—what the hell is up with me and ancient movies?! Oh! I know! SEAL Team 6 will be able to save you from where you’re headed.

…Still here? Fine, I’ll believe you have the balls to go where few people have gone before…but you better not come up to me afterwards and start whining about how you weren’t fully informed about all the geniusness you were going to gain from this post. The first sentence alone was enough to tell you what you were getting yourself into. After all, I did say “can of smart ass.”

Okay, so here’s the thing:

You know those stick-figure signs on the doors of public restrooms? You know, the ones that tell you which bathroom is for men and which is for women?

The one wearing the “dress” means you're looking at a woman’s restroom, which leaves the stick figure that’s not wearing the dress to stand for the men’s room.

But if you really think about it, isn’t the undressed stick figure actually designating the facility as a women’s bathroom? I mean, what would the dressed stick figure look like without any clothes on?

It’d look like the undressed stick figure, i.e., the one on the men’s bathroom!

“Uhh…I think you’re reading far too much into this, Sylvia.” Oh really? Then how do you explain this?

Dong-less stick figure = man? Shut the hell up!