If the goal of all progress is efficiency, then researchers from Ohio State University have managed to improve narcissism diagnosis rates by 1000 percent without getting up from your matching Barcalounger/fainting couch combo.
To reach a diagnosis of narcissism, apparently all you have to do now is ask a narcissist is if they’re a narcissist. And, if you’re a narcissist, then you’ll answer affirmatively because, well, why wouldn’t you be?
There are only two flaws to this theory. One, if a narcissist associates narcissism with being a self-absorbed douche and, because they’re so nice and awesome, would never call themselves that. And two, if someone is worried about thinking they’re too vain and self-obsessed because they were raised to believe that mirrors are just ocular masturbation, then they might shame/WebMD-diagnose themselves as narcissistic.
But the better question to ask is why even ask in the first place if narcissism is so obvious?
Poloncarz decreed that the sculpture would escape the tyranny that is Easter dinner. Are butter sculptures real things that are done outside of state fairs? And where does someone get enough butter to make a kneeling lamb?
Littering is bad. It’s a dumb crime to commit and aids no one. There are SO MANY BETTER, much cooler crimes than could be committed, but when people throw their trash into the street or the forests, that’s just dumb. Dummies. No one got laid by throwing their Hardee’s cup out the window.
Laurens, a city in South Carolina, managed to have fantastic signs put up that communicates why you shouldn’t litter that even people traveling at high speeds can figure out. So of course, a group of weenies are hurt and offended by the signs.
When Judy Cox found indecent t-shirts at a PacSun store, she did what The Guys would do: buy them all. Except, rather than wear as many as possible and then donate the rest to children with parental locks on their Internet access, she spent over $550 to protect her town — including her 18-year-old son — from the sight of scantily dressed womens.
Now unsure what to do, she thinks she might return them on day 59 of the store’s 60 day return policy. Which means they’ll be on display again, along with the 19 shirts the store ordered to restock. That is a victory for … well, nobody. Certainly not for her son, who will now surely be connected to the story as the tender legal adult who was publicly wank-blocked by his mom while shopping with her for clothes.
To be fair, we don’t think too clearly when we see boobs on a t-shirt, either.
Also, while we’re no James Carvilles, I’m pretty sure that mixing your metaphors isn’t for the best:
‘It’s was a play on words,’ Mozena explains.’We are accountable to the government in so many ways, whether it’s the IRS, and now with our healthcare. I’m just asking them to bend over now and show us their finances.’
No one wants to see any council person’s finances. Or their tuchus.
Portland has earned its name as being one of the most annoying cities in the country. It’s hippy-dippy, organic to the max, with socio-liberal-trans-illumi-funda-national feelings being promoted all throughout the year. I don’t even know what I just wrote, but I bet Portland does.
The Super Bowl draws near, and as someone who has had a Super Bowl party at his place every year for the past 5 years, it is an event that requires food. Greasy, horrible for you, delicious food. Subs, meatballs, sausage dip, wings, but most importantly: cheese. Yes, it lubricates that body while stopping it up at the same time.
Now, specifically, it’s Kraft’s Velveeta, the cheese found outside of the refrigerated section of your grocery store. While the concept of block, dry cheese is rather icky, Velveeta proves essential to dips and crock pots. The cheesepocalypse, as the fear-mongering right-wing dairy media has come to call it, is most probably a fad that will easily be corrected in a month.
When that’s corrected, be prepared for the dairy cow drought of 2014.
In what can only be described as a new trend involving food and large bladed objects, we have more on the maddening saga of how not to express your feelings about something. This is POINTY WATCH: 2013.