Congratulations Sears Sales Representative!

Working at Sears and trying to break into managing bands isn’t easy, regardless of what your mom and that fuckhead she married Steve might think.  But it has its perks.

For example, today, while reviewing a display of clearance priced air-conditioning units, you’re going to into Shelly.  Shelly, in addition to being the leading salesperson at J.C. Penny, is a tremendous slut.  And when she comes a knocking, you know that you’re about to get your cock sucked.

“Hey,” she’ll murmur to you as you come up, pressing her body against yours so that you can feel her curves underneath that tweed pantsuit.  “I need an air conditioner.”

You’ll pull her head back by her hair and whisper into her ear.

“I think we can work something out.”

The two of you will then have sex in the employee bathroom of Annie’s Pretzels, the only place the entire mall that isn’t wired for video.  When you’re done you’ll both be covered in sweat, reeking of pretzels, salt and cinnamon-sugar-spread, but satisfied.

“Way to make that sale, Tiger,” she’ll mumble in your ear.

“I don’t have any witty comebacks,” you’ll croak in response. “I work as a sales representative at Sears.”

Congratulations  Sears Sales Representative!

Congratulations Last Guy Who Speaks Latin!

Classics departments used to have all the hottest ladies. WE GET IT! All those togas and hats made of leaves and the sandals? OH GOD THE SANDALS!

But here’s the thing: no one speaks Latin anymore. Some people speak Greek, sure, or permutations of Persian and Farsi, but no one gives a shit about Latin. It’s a well known fact, introduced to our discourse largely by the hit HBO show Rome, that everyone in ancient Rome really spoke English, sometimes with British accents, sometimes with strange speech patterns that only actually manifest themselves during stage performances.

So you wander the offices of your classic department shouting things in Latin, hoping someone will respond to you. You do it every day as you enter the office, as you leave to get lunch, return from lunch and depart for the evening. Today, following your evening-departure-shout, something glorious will occur. A young woman will emerge from her office, following your shout of “QUIS HUC LATINE LOQUI?” with a smile on her face and lust in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, is that Latin you’re speaking?” she’ll ask, chewing on the end of a pen in the most suggestive way imaginable.

“Yes,” you’ll declare, puffing out your chest. “Yes it is.”

“Hot,” she’ll moan, grabbing you by the neck and pulling you into her office for desk-sex. Later, you’ll discover she’s married to the chair of your department, which will make life hard for you, but hey, at least speaking Latin finally paid off!

Congratulations Last Guy Who Speaks Latin!

Congratulations on Ruining Taco Tuesday for Everyone!

Taco Tuesday is a sacred trust, one reserved for the closest of friends and the vilest of enemies under times of parlay. It’s an institution, one of the few truly American cultural institutions around today. It’s like the fourth of July, but weekly. Or it was, until you invited yourself along to a new event you’ve dubbed “Taco Wednesday.”

It’ll actually be two co-workers of yours going out on a taco-themed date and you asking if you can come with. They’ll both feel so awkward about the situation that they’ll panic and say “yes” just to keep you from weeping openly the time you did when you ran out of paperclips once.

You’ll chew with your mouth open the entire time, order a burrito instead of tacos and insist on watching your co-workers have awkward taco-sex after the fact. The next day you’ll talk about the date endlessly to everyone, discussing how weird the guy’s penis looked and how bad the girl’s vagina smelled in detail that will make even the most socially retarded of your co-workers feel uncomfortable.

When all is said and done the concept of Taco Tuesday will be so eroded and corrupted that no one will ever be able to think of it the same way again. Although, to your credit, it will be replaced with “awkward date exacerbated by a douchebag Wednesday,” which, while less pleasant, will be no less popular.

Congratulations on Ruining Taco Tuesday for Everyone!

Congratulations on Your Stealthy Retreat!

The lines are drawn. Weapons have been assigned. Rules have been established and summarily thrown out. It’s time for you and your wife to settle things once and for all.

That crazy bitch thinks Enterprise was a good Star Trek show, and you can’t stand to hear her talk about how handsome Scott Bakula is. If she really loves that washed up fuck so much she can have him over your dead body.

And your wife can’t understand what you see in the classic Star Trek episodes. The acting, writing, and cinematography is terrible and some of the props were just taken from people’s kitchens! Great television this does not make.

The two of you will have decided that violence is the best possible way to solve this problem (you’re both cutting edge professional therapists, which is why you have ideas like this and fight with each other over Star Trek trivia) and that the best place for this violence is your home. We don’t pretend to understand your marriage, but apparently these techniques have worked for the last twelve years.

Tonight you’re going to try a new strategy. Well, new to you. Your wife’s been using it in bed for years. ZING! Anyhow, you’re going to put a dummy in your favorite hiding spot and get the fuck out of the house.

Your wife will be none the wiser, and she’ll proceed to beat the living shit out of the dummy, believing all the while that it is simply your unconscious body. Meanwhile you’ll go over to the apartment owned by your mistress, who really gets you, and watch Deep Space Nine DVDs while you eat thai food together.

It’ll actually be a pretty fun Friday night, and way more enjoyable than what you and your wife had planned. So congratulations on your stealthy retreat. We can really see both sides of this argument, by the way.

Congratulations on Perfecting the Vaccine!

You’re a scientist and you’ve been working non-stop for the last three months to develop a vaccine against a virus which turns people into fucking retards. The virus took a while to be detected, because its spread entirely through television broadcasts of NASCAR (Heyo!). It’s very Snow Crash, really.

Anyhow, the majority of people on earth have become quasi-retarded slaves who buy whatever they’re told and accept ideas blindly. Only you and the maybe five perfect of the population who still read will be unaffected.

You’ll live in cold, mountainous regions where sleeveless shirts are no longer comfortable attire, and largely keep to yourselves in small, self-sufficient communities that utilize tried and true agricultural techniques and tolerance in order to survive.

Of course The Suits™ who run the show won’t like that one bit. You’ll still make up a nice chunk of their target demo, and they’ll want it bad. See, they think you have more money than the slobs they’ve already enthralled and they’d like to “leverage that market share.” Their words, not ours.

Occasionally a moron patrol will wander into your territory, but since you’re capable of rational thought and they’re not you usually either convince them you don’t exist or shoot them in the face from concealed positions, then hide the bodies.

Most of the world will come to see your lands as haunted. But The Suits will know the truth, and they’ll slowly be encouraging the general populace to begin a campaign against you. They’re imprinting new messages into NASCAR reruns and Fox shows, and before long they’ll have an army on your doorstep.

Since you’re all so fucking smart you and your society-mates have long since figured this out, and have been working on a cure for idiocy. You tried to come up with a better name, but you really couldn’t. Anyways, it seemed appropriate, even if it was a bit literal.

You’ve been doing most of your research at the fringes of your society in order to allow you easy access to infected specimens and decrease the risk of an infection devastating a settlement if someone drops a beaker, but (of course) The Suits managed to find your facility, and they guessed what was up.

Most of your buddies will have been fighting them off tooth and nail while you sat down like it was crunch time, dropped some Adderol and scienced the living shit out the virus. Twelve dead infected and one splitting headache later, you’ll have the antidote in a vial on your desk.

Then the hot female soldier you’ve been banging who used to be an aspiring English major Before is going to burst in covered in blood and tell you that the morons have breached the outer perimeter. You’ll nod, unplug your sleek, sexy Macbook Pro, seal the vial and get out of there, humanity’s last hope tucked inside your messenger bag.

Congratulations on perfecting the vaccine, by the way. Now all you have to do is develop a delivery method and you’ll be able to undo most of the damage NASCAR has done.