Why are people congratulating me on my birthday? It’s my mother who did all the work 30 years ago. Go bother her instead!
I apologize to my dad for kicking him in the nuts 26 years ago.
I’m thankful that the police never investigated my old room with a black-light; particularly the rug. Oh, the very messy things a single high schooler does.
I’m still pissed that my old college roommates called security on me for smoking while I was playing Tiger Woods on XBox. To this day, I don’t know if they called security because of the smoke, because they hate golf, or because they were Playstation fans.
I’m happy that my wife made me quit smoking, but sad that she made me quit Jolly Ranchers.
My friends, my family, and I have been entirely UNAFFECTED by the government shutdown. So if the government shuts down and nothing changes, please remind me why I’m giving them 35% of my salary every year?
I’m tired of parents dragging their children in toy wagons on the sidewalk. If there’s one thing this obese country DOESN’T need it’s feeding into our children’s laziness. Make your child walk.
Enough of these people who drive trucks that don’t need trucks. If your profession doesn’t include hard labor – such as carpentry or landscaping – then why do you own a truck? Do you really think your balls become bigger while driving a hemi?… What actually becomes bigger is your waste of money, gas, energy, and parking space.
Fuck Starbucks. The place is overpriced and attracts the type of despicable, North Face jacket, expensive winter-glove wearing losers that I don’t want to be around. Plus, there’s never an open seat because the amateur bloggers with their laptops never leave. And their writing is god awful; I would know because I’ve written from Starbucks before. It’s difficult to concentrate on writing when there are scores of yakking moms talking to their defeated husbands who are too whipped to tell their wives, “I am NOT wasting my time and money sitting in Starbucks. We can do the same thing for half the price at home, honey.”
My first birthday was on the day I was born. So even though I’m 30-years-old, technically this is my 31st birthday. Do the math: If you count from zero to 30, that’s 31 numbers. I’m not upset with that fact; I just thought it was worth mentioning.
If I do this type of birthday blog every year, it’s going to suck when I’m 75 and have to come up with 75 thoughts. I’m guessing when I’m that age I’ll have to go to the bathroom 75 times between the start and finish of that blog.
Every public stall and Port-o-John should have baby wipes. I’m tired and rash-infested from using toilet paper that feels like sandpaper.
I don’t fit in with my astrological sign. As a Libra I should generally be calm and collected; a rock. But I’m entirely out of balance; I am fiery, frustrated, and angry.
Why is Facebook giving me a reminder that it’s my birthday?
After watching Kanye West’s latest interview with Jimmy Kimmel, I realize how much in common I have with him: We’re both minorities that speak our mind and get scoffed at because we aren’t the typical White guy who falls in line. We’re both angry, defensive, self-proclaimed geniuses who are emotional and not that good looking. You wouldn’t vomit at the sight of us, but we’re no head-turners. So I think it’s time to stop making fun of Kanye because he’s basically the Black, mirror image of myself.
Why is the dentist’s office emailing me a happy birthday message? The last thing I want on this supposed “happy” day is to imagine a seven-inch screw driving into my molar… Why couldn’t the stripper from my bachelor party email me instead?
I don’t understand people who make fun of Miley Cyrus just because she isn’t as hot as a Jennifer Lopez, Beyonce, Lady Gaga, or Martha Stewart (yes, I think Martha Stewart is hot. I find
women who are confident with their cooking very attractive). If you saw Miley Cyrus walk into a bar, she would instantly be one of the hottest girls there. And most guys would be too nervous or too ugly to even approach her. Miley has everything a single man wants in a woman: pretentious style, seductive hip moves, and she’s experimental with soda cans.
Still I struggle to understand why a man cheats on his wife – or vice versa – when there is so much good porn on the internet.
I don’t mean to insult women but their similarities to dogs is quite striking: They’re needy – they bark at you – they have to be walked and fed – they poop a lot – and the only time they’re actually enjoyable is when you pet them or they lick you.
I think my wife is going to make me sleep on the couch after reading thought #19…
….But the couch is way more comfortable than the bed, so technically my wife is rewarding me…
…If she really wanted to punish me, my wife would make me sleep on the bed and she would get the couch….
Videos of children twerking disgust me. Parents of these children should be stripped of custody.
Why does kale exist? It tastes like rubbery lettuce that was stomped on with muddy Timberland boots.
My wife is probably going to buy me some electronic device for my birthday, but all I really want is a voucher that’s good for five straight hours of video games without her interrupting me.
Bell Men at hotels… Aside from it being one of the most boring jobs in the world, it’s completely unfair and unnecessary to force a human to do that type of work. Mr. Bell Man, I appreciate your help in operating the elevator for me; but quite honestly, I’m not so exhausted from my travels that I can’t lift my own hand and push the button myself.
Even if you do push that elevator button for me, Mr. Bell Man, I’m not tipping you.
I play video games. I whine to my wife when she makes me turn off the T.V. I hate doing the dishes. I still have the same California Raisin Band action figures from when I was a child. I keep crying about the Raisin Band drummer that I lost. I blame my wife for losing that drummer, even though it was lost before I met her……I’m no man…… I’m a thirty-year-old boy.
The Boston Jew is a humor blog. Though you may not find it funny, we thank you for wasting your time with us today.
Written by Rel
Ariel "Rel" Mathiowitz is a neurotic, panicky writer who details his pathetic life stories and frustrated points of view.
Rel is 6 foot 5; however, he makes himself appear to be 5 foot 5 because he wants women to lust for him for his personality, and not his grand stature.