GoFundMe: Give Me a Dollar

Hello.

I have created this ‘Go Fund Me’ page with one specific goal in mind. A goal which I will not share with you. However, I will share a simple, yet crucial, instruction.

Give me a dollar.

The method and means do not concern me. Give me one dollar using this webpage, or arrange a transaction using your Google wallet. Wire the money from your financial institution to mine. Place the dollar in an envelope, affix the proper amount of postage, and forward it to my post office box. Push the dollar through my mail slot, or leave it under the doormat. Place the dollar under my windshield wiper, if the weather is fair. In any case, my request is simple: give me a dollar.

“Who are you?” you may ask. That is a very good question, with a very interesting answer. An answer that I will not give to you. Am I one person, or several? Am I truly in need of the dollar? Could the dollar be better entrusted with another person or cause entirely? Stop asking these questions. Unburden your mind of them, as they are a waste of both your time and mine. I did not create this page to tell tales of myself, or to reassure you of my worthiness. This will be our first, and last, communication. Open your wallet, coin purse, or piggy bank, and remove one dollar. Then, take whatever steps necessary to ensure that single dollar finds its way into my possession.

Give me a dollar.

Do not tell me your name. I am unconcerned with your identity. I do not wish to hear your personal story, and I am uninterested in your specific reasons for giving one dollar to me. I do not care who you are, or where the dollar came from, or who was or is the rightful owner of the dollar. All of this information is inconsequential. It does not matter. What matters is that you relieve yourself of the financial burden of one single dollar, by giving that dollar to me.

Give me a dollar.

What do I hope to accomplish with your dollar? Stop. Stop it. You will never know what has been done with your dollar. I will not deign to posit hypothetical scenarios for what may or may not have been done with the single dollar you have sent me.  You will never know, because I will not tell you. The knowing is unimportant. What is important is that you forward a single unit of federal currency from your possession, into mine. Once that is done, you may be on your way. What you do after you have given me a dollar is your business, and your business alone. I do not wish to know, because I do not care.  This, I promise, and I swear.

Give me a dollar.

I am a reasonable person. I understand that events may have transpired to render you incapable of giving me one dollar. If you do not have one dollar to give, that is fine. I am content to wait until you have acquired one dollar. However, once the dollar is in your possession, I encourage you to, in due time, relinquish that dollar to me. I am confident that you will do your part. And your part, in this circumstance, is to give me one dollar.

Give me that dollar.

Do not give me two dollars. Do not send me three dollars, or four. Do not give me one five-dollar bill, or a single ten-dollar note. Even though those are single bills, their total value is not equal to that of one dollar. If you have more than one dollar that you wish to give to me, perhaps you should make a gift of them. Send your excess dollars to a friend, family member, or acquaintance. Of course, once the exchange has been made, you should then instruct the recipient or recipients of your excess dollars to send me one of those dollars. It is necessary.  It is imperative.

Tell them to give me a dollar.

I understand that those in the international community may be unsure as to how to give me a dollar. In that case, you may send me an equivalent amount in your native currency. You may send me one dollar in British pounds, or pence. You may send me the amount in euro, or in yen, or even in Chinese yuan. All of these are fine, so long as the amount you give to me is equivalent to one United States dollar. No more, and no less. The denomination is trivial, but the amount is crucial.

Give me a dollar.

Give it to me.

Thank you for your time.

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10 Energy-Saving Tips to Drive Away the Hideous Ghost of Winter

Hey guys! As I’m sure you’ve noticed, the days are growing shorter and colder. You know what that means: winter is right around the corner! It’s the time of year where you turn the thermostat up, chow down on a rich, hearty stew, and take a few extra minutes to roll out of bed. Yes, the coldest months of the year are looming, oppressively, like the pale face of a madman just outside your bedroom window. But that doesn’t mean you can’t help save the planet!

Here are a few energy-saving tips to get you through those cold, lonely winter months. Just because the gray days of winter drive down your spirit and exhaust your will to live, doesn’t mean you can’t drive down your power bill and maximize your potential savings!

Don’t touch that thermostat! Your hideous body produces as much heat as you could ever possibly need. Put on a sweater, or, better yet, put on two! Layer up that clothing, and watch while both your power bill and your self-esteem decline.

When washing dishes, you don’t have to be a water-waster. Turn that faucet off! Soap up and scrub your dishes first, then rinse them all at once. Every minute you run the tap, you are actively stealing water from the cupped hands of a starving African child. The more you know!

Bath time? Not so fast, sneaky-britches! Rather than filling up that tub, take a quick shower. You’ll save on your water bill, and save the planet! Hop in, get wet, and turn off the water while you lather up. Welcome the cold. Learn to love its rough embrace.

Better yet, eschew showers altogether! Many members of the animal kingdom use dust baths as a way to remove harmful bacteria. Roll in the dirt like an animal, and curse the cruel god that drove you to this act of desperation.

Shut off those sprinklers! Grass doesn’t need to be watered in the winter. The roots become dormant, while the blades die off, just like your childhood dreams of success. You should know that. Everyone knows that. What are you, some kind of asshole?

Sixty-eight still feels great! However, if you’re still getting the chills, invest in a space heater. Gather your loved ones around it, and tell tales of the other-times. The times when water ran clear and sweet, and the land was green and plenty. Do not weep. They will see your weakness. They will see, and they will devour you.

If you have a fireplace, use it! Be sure to avoid pine logs, as they quickly form deposits of creosote in your chimney. Creosote is combustible, as is your home. As is your family. My god, what have I done?

Groom a deep and powerful hatred inside yourself. Allow this anger and pain to warm your shattered husk of a body. Stew in impotent rage, and watch as your heat bills plummet!

Socks. Have you thought about socks? They keep your feet warm. You should think about socks.

 

And that’s it! I hope these energy-saving tips keep you warm and happy throughout the crushing winter months. Stay tuned for my next post, where I tell you how to successfully flee from the scene of your many godless crimes!

PS:  Here’s a bonus tip for my friends in water-short California: swear off water altogether!

Entomb yourself in foul and ancient crypt. Assume a lotus position, and consume only charcoal and brittle strips of paper. Allow your earthly form to wither and dry, and welcome your new life as a flesh-body Bodhisattva. When your cursed tomb is eventually uncovered, revel in dark joy as your discoverers are consumed by a swarm of ravenous scarab beetles. Walk the earth as a lich, and bring ruin to the wasteful and the gluttonous. The earth will quake with horror, and your water bill will shine with savings!

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Harry Potter and the Disillusioned Ministry of Magic Mid-Level Bureaucrat

ron-swansonI sometimes imagine Ron Swanson replacing Hagrid in the Harry Potter universe.

SCENE: Ron Swanson and Harry Potter enter the Leaky Cauldron. The barkeep immediately recognizes Ron.

“Ah, Ron! The usual, I presume?”

“No,” Ron replies, “we are on official Hogwarts business today. As to why a wizard-government-funded school can presume to intrude upon my personal affairs, I have no idea.” Ron’s mustache bristles. “Unfortunately, I’ve been assigned the task of escorting this young miscreant to the train station.”

The barkeep’s eyes widen, and his jaw drops as he fixes his eyes on the young wizard.

“Bless my soul. It’s Harry Potter.”

Ron’s eyes roll as the pub goes silent. An elderly sorcerer approaches, and makes to shake Harry’s hand. “Welcome back, Mr. Potter. Welcome ba-”

Ron frowns at the hoary wizard, and silences him with a disapproving look and a crease of his forehead. “I’m afraid neither the young magician nor I have time to waste staring at crystals, or boiling lizards, or whatever it is you people do. One of us, at least, is a busy man, and I’m sure we’d both like to eat something before we get back to that tax-trap they call a wizarding school.”

Ron addresses the barkeep: “Two plates. Eight pieces of bacon each, sixteen eggs, and two porterhouse steaks. Rare.” The barkeep hurriedly scribbles the order down on a pad, as Ron crosses his arms, glaring at the barkeep’s lowered, balding head. “Two glasses of water, six glasses of Jagavulin scotch. After you serve the Jagavulin, pour the water down the drain.” Ron smiles. “I like to watch weakness spiral out of the world.”

The barkeep nods, and turns to place the order.

“Sir,” Ron says. The barkeep turns to face Harry’s surly escort. Ron’s frown deepens.

Ron touches Harry’s shoulder, and says, “The boy hasn’t ordered yet.”

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DIY Disasters: Fuck These Kitchens

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DIY is a fantastic thing. Do-it-yourself home renovation is all about planning your dream home, nailing the execution, and having pride in a gorgeous living space that you designed and built yourself. Nothing feels better than cooking up a hearty meal in your perfect kitchen, and knowing that you’ve picked up valuable skills along the way.

But the piece-of-shit kitchens we’re about to show you should never have been allowed to happen. The existence of these kitchens makes our days darker, and our nights cold and miserable. These DIY disasters are the reason God doesn’t talk to us anymore.

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The first and most important element of DIY renovation is a floorplan. The capable DIY-er meticulously plots the layout of their future kitchen, to make sure any mistakes are caught and corrected before the building stage. In this case, the floorplan of this kitchen was likely designed by a committee of screaming lunatics. There was planning and forethought here, obviously, but the plan was to commit a crime against humanity, and the result was this prison camp of a kitchen. What vicious dictator created this kitchen, and why was he not stopped?

Holy shit, what a God damned mess. The only food fit to be prepared in this kitchen is none of them. The chest-thumping troglodyte that conceived of this abomination should be hunted down and thrown in double jail.

There are good kitchens, there are bad kitchens, and then there is this violent attack on the very idea of kitchens. The feckless sub-human that birthed this nightmare from their deviant mind should be jettisoned into the sun. This kitchen is a dark reminder that there is no true justice, and we will all one day die without dignity.

Kitchen1

This kitchen is, at best, a thought crime. If I ever find the name of the filth artist that ushered this abomination into the world, I will go to where they live and hit them in the mouth.

 

This nightmare of a cooking space seems designed to shock and horrify. If there were a new circle of hell that snared and tortured the very spirit of good architecture, it would be indistinguishable from this abominable kitchen. Get this out of my sight.

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This kitchen has all the flash and appeal of toilet water. If you enjoy drinking from the toilet, by all means, enjoy your time in this kitchen, you joyless felon.

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You know what, kitchen? Fuck you. Fuck you, kitchen.

This monstrosity of a kitchen offends my eyes, and brings the taste of bile surging into my mouth. This kitchen is a fuck word made manifest, and if I knew where it dwells, I would buy a gallon of gasoline and burn it to the ground.

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…I guess this kitchen’s all right.

I feel that the very act of viewing this kitchen has made me vulnerable to the influence of extra-dimensional monsters.  Even now, the image of this God-awful kitchen is summoning space demons to violate my mind.  I can feel taloned hands pawing at the edges of my vision, bleeding their way into this plane of being.  All of this could have been avoided.

Copyright (C), Multiple Listing Service of Long Island, Inc, 2004

Ew. Eughh. BLERRGHHHHHH.

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I have to re-address how much I hate this God damned kitchen.  I awake nightly from horrible visions of this disastrous kitchen, covered from head to toe in a film of cold sweat.  My sheets are stained with the liquid terrors of my nighttime ordeal, so much so that I must replace them on a weekly basis.  This kitchen can fuck right off.

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12 Pictures of the Shittiest Falcons

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I feel that I’m being unjustly targeted by a swath of asshole falcons. I’ve never done anything to these falcons, and yet, they pursue me. They hang around my house, follow me down the street, and disrupt meetings with my employers. These foul birds bring darkness and misery to my every living day. I’ve encountered many shitty falcons in my life, and here, I will list twelve of the shittiest.

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While on one of my daily walks through the local park, I purchased a strawberry ice cream from a gregarious sweets vendor.  Moments later, when I stopped to pull up my sock garters, this devious bird swooped down and stole my ice cream cone, poisoning my entire day. How dare you.

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This falcon hangs around my back porch and hoots at my sister. I’m no expert, but falcons shouldn’t hoot, much less at my teenage sibling. I don’t trust his intentions.

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Last Tuesday, a falcon flew in through my office window and attempted to couple with my cute cat poster. Sometimes, the only thing that gets me through the day is my happy poster of the adorable cat trying to hang from a tree limb. The last thing I need is falcon sperm all over my cute cat poster. Why do you hate me so, falcons?

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This falcon broke into my house while I was on vacation, wore my clothes, and attempted to seduce my wife. Thankfully, I returned from Arkansas in time to uncover his clever deception. Our relationship has since descended into mistrust and resentment. I assure my wife daily that I am not a falcon in disguise, but I can see the doubt in her eyes.

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I came home from spin class one afternoon to find this falcon rifling through my manga collection. How rude. All you had to do was ask, falcon.

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Falcons circle over me like a dark cloud of doom. I recently went to a job interview, and because there were so many falcons flying over me, I arrived at my interview with my suit encrusted in bird excrement. My prospective employer seemed impressed, and asked if I was some sort of beastmaster. Sensing his admiration of falcons, I left without a word.

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This falcon masqueraded as a helper animal. I invited him into my home, thinking he would assist me with daily tasks. Once he gained access to my most sacred of spaces, he stole my last Kit-Kat, and flew out the window. I am convinced that all falcons are duplicitous.

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Wherever I go, I am still subjected to the chicanery of these shitty falcons. On a recent trip to Jamaica, a falcon landed on my beach umbrella and whispered to me the date and very moment of my death. Before I could ask how I could circumvent this horrible fate, the falcon took to the sky and was gone. Thanks a lot, falcons.

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At first, I thought this was a hawk, but it turns out it’s just another one of those God damned falcons.

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Falcons harass me even at the grocery store. I asked an employee of the store to direct me to the dairy aisle, and she replied with an unintelligible series of squawks and screams. I wasted two hours attempting to follow her instructions before I realized she was most likely a falcon in disguise. I now understand how my wife was so easily deceived by these shitty falcons.

Peregrine Falcon CAPTIVE

This falcon flew overhead when I was heading to work, and shit in my hair. Falcon shit is thick, and sets in like plaster. I spent three hours trying to wash this falcon’s shit out of my hair, and when I arrived to work late, my manager chided me for my tardiness. I tried to explain that a falcon had shit in my hair, but he called me a liar, and told me to stop making up animals. Falcons are mysterious, and operate in the shadows.

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I recently attempted to log into my Facebook account, and found that the password had been changed. I spent three hours speaking to a representative of the company, and when I was finally able to log in, I found all of my profile pictures had been changed to pictures of falcons. They have it out for me, and I don’t know why. Falcons, please leave me alone.

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