I feel like anybody who has ever said I’m full of potential doesn’t really know who I am or they’re on my mom’s side of the family.

“Oh yeah, Charlie. He’s bound to do great things.”

No, I’m not. But there’s a McDonald’s on the way to most great things. And, honestly, that place has some real fucking draw to me.

I’m flattered. I really am. But I’m also incredibly lazy and have terrible money management skills. Again, McDonald’s is everywhere. I can tell you how much an Iced Coffee, two McDoubles, and a McChicken cost in five different states, but I can’t tell you what 0% APR Financing is and why I don’t qualify for it.

Five different states. And I don’t even work for McDonald’s. Never, once, have I ever had the opportunity to call Ronald McDonald my boss.

Ronald McDonald is a missed opportunity. So full of potential– dude is born looking like a clown, for one. Born with clownish features like big red hair, a big red nose, big red feet, and porcelain white skin even a chinese person would be jealous to have.

Motherfucker wakes up one day and is like — “I’m going to put on big red shoes and yellow overalls and cook some burgers” Are those even non-slip clown shoes, Mr. McDonald? You can’t hold your employees to OSHA standards if you can’t even get the right footwear.


I love playing the “Would You Rather?” game.

Would you rather lick 50 snake vaginas or have 50 snakes lick your vagina?

I spent way too much time trying to figure out if 50 snake vaginas is funnier that 50 snake pussies.


Being an adult is knowing you can afford a fleshlight but not actually affording one.

It’s either that or being in a place where Amazon Prime isn’t available.


My human resources advisor begged me to think about what I’d do if I was a woman for just one day.

Throughout the day I would do little experiments to see how I’m being treated as a woman. Visit the grocery story, pump gas, order an ass load of buffalo wings and eat them all in a single sitting alone at a Buffalo Wild Wings at one in the afternoon. Normal things– but as a woman. And hopefully attractive.

I would also use this single day as a woman to attempt to sleep with an acquaintance and get him caught cheating. This way when I wake up as a dude the next day I can try banging his poor, poor girlfriend working in human resources.


I can’t believe she left me. The nerve of her to do it like this gives me goosebump dick.

I really thought she was going to die in a car accident or something. At least I could have said, “She left me. It was so sudden. Jettisoned through the windshield. We were so happy, too.”

See, that would have given me the opportunity to lie about being happy. And that’s what relationships are all about.


I was thinking about dating somebody I used to work with. She’s a Jehovah’s witness, though, and they don’t celebrate anything. Not Christmas. Not the Fourth of July. Not even September 11th.

On one hand, our wedding will be cheap. On the other hand, there won’t even be a funeral– and I’ve always wanted to have a funeral.

My funeral is going to have a prize for the person who travels the furthest distance to attend. Obviously it’ll be a tie between my ex-girlfriends since they’ll all be burning in Hell.


Sometimes I feel like I’m writing the next great American novel but then I realize I’m just writing a long and rather unfocused suicide note.

Guess I forgot to put a joke in this one.


My grandma complains I don’t call. But not anymore. With this new app, all it takes is a push of a button and we’ll connect you with any random grandma with a cell phone. Thanks, Instagram.


Apparently deaf people care about what the non-deaf say about them. They complain that they aren’t “deaf”. Apparently they’re “hard of hearing”, which involves far too many syllables when spoken aloud. So I won’t do it. Apparently this makes me an asshole. But the truth? I’m just hard of caring.


After Michelle broke up with me, my friends told me that getting in shape would be the best thing for myself. They called it a revenge body. Think of it like that, they said. But you know what’ll burn even fewer calories than a revenge body? Straight up revenge. In fact, the only thing I’ll be burning this holiday season is her house. That and the calories from running away from all that screaming.

It’s a joke, Michelle. You know I’m not going to burn down your house because you live under a bridge.



Can you help me with some grammar real quick? Okay, how should this phrase be written:

  • Is Tinder just for burn victims? Because the only people I’ve matched with look like their face is melting off.

or is it

  • Is Tinder just for burn victims? Because the only people I’ve matched with look like their faces are melting off.

I can’t figure out what’s going on with that last sentence.


A close friend told me he was feeling “pretty suicidal”. I told him that was ridiculous.

“As opposed to being kinda suicidal?” I asked him once. What an idiot.

We don’t talk anymore because of the suicide.


“Grab her by the pussy” is something I’ve taught every single one of my friends when showing them how to throw a bowling ball. You gotta grab the ball by the pussy. Everybody knows that.

I teach all my friends how to bowl. The world revolves around me, by the way. You know what’s up.

I’ve said similar lewd things in the locker room too, I guess. I understand where Trump is coming from. My friend, Sam. Him and I, for instance, were standing there naked. You know. In the locker room. Then I realized that we’d been in the locker room changing all these years, you know? But neither of us had been naked together at the same time. And I told him– this is filthy, I swear to god– I told him that if he wanted to grab me by– hold on. Never mind.


Whenever somebody says they’re a foodie, I always ask them if they would eat people. And they always say they wouldn’t. What shit bullery. Why wouldn’t you eat people? It’s one of the most abundant foods in the world and you’re just going to pass it up like a chinaman? I thought you were serious about this food thing, man.

What? Do you think President Obama– a notorious foodie– didn’t sit down for his first meal at the White House, look up from the White House Menu, and not request from the White House waiter “I want to try the people”?

“People?” The chef grips the white linen cloth laid upon the magnificent oak table President George Washington himself once ate at. “But people? The people are the ones who put you in office, my leader.”

“Yes,” President of the United States Barack Hussein Obama says. “And now I will put the people who put me in office into my stomach. I want people and mashed potatoes.” A limber and presidential arm is placed upon the chef’s shoulder. An impassioned, presidential look is exchanged.

“Of course, Mr. President,” the White House chef says.

“Now go,” the first black man to ever be President of the United States said, “Please hurry. And– Preston?– It’s Preston, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

White meat.”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

Whew. I almost went eight years without writing about our President eating people. Almost missed an opportunity to make jokes about whoever the current President is. Heh. That one was for me.


When you google “Am I an addict?” you already know the answer.


“When you google “Should I break up with her” you already know the answer.


When you google “Oh god, it burns” you’re probably on fire. Dunk that ball.


I was in the grocery store thinking about babies in public. You know, at weddings and airports acting annoying with all their crying and shitting because I hate being happy. Crying and shitting in public is illegal for everybody but babies, but that still doesn’t mean it’s okay. It’s embarrassing, really. Who do you think you are, Aiden– or whatever your bullshit name is. This is the Produce aisle, not the Aiden Will Never See A Glacier aisle.

A baby crying and shitting baby at a funeral, however, is appropriate and it’s a joyous occasion. Here we get this tiny little person who’s so sad that they’re crying and shitting themselves on another person? What a deal!


No Shave November is dangerous when you’re dating a feminist. And itchy.

It’s a vagina joke, by the way. Like half of this web page. The other half is dick jokes because I’m all about equality.


My dreams can get pretty crazy. Last night I had a dream that I could fly. It was great but I still remembered that I had only nine dollars in my bank account.

Flying isn’t fun when you have only nine dollars in your bank account.


Just go with me on this one. What if I got into the lion-feeding business? You know, like, I start a company that made food for lions. I would totally call my product “Christian’s”. You’d never forget what to feed your pet lion.

Thank you, thank you. Tips go in the jar.


The sign of a true alcoholic is not only justifying why you drink but also being able to justify why you would drink if you were somebody else.

Just the other day I imagined myself to be a pregnant woman and I thought to myself, “Well, at least I’m not drinking alone.”

As a side note, I think I have an unhealthy obsession with pregnant ladies.


The hardest working glue in the industry is “crazy”. What does that say about us, man?

Yet we call measuring tape “tape”– and for what reason? It doesn’t even stick. If anything, measuring tape should be called crazy tape; then it would help explain why measuring tape is just so goddamn whack in the first place.

Come to think of it, I’d have to say the only crazy tape I’ve seen was something my mother and father once recorded. You know, after she died, I mean.


If I had to choose between being homeless or a vampire I would pick both; if somebody tried to stake me through the heart it wouldn’t work because home is where the heart is.


I found a butt-load of quarters in my car’s trunk. They can almost double the amount of money I have in my bank account. And I say “almost” because those quarters are for buying beer.

Also, you can fit a lot of quarters in a butt.


My parents– the ones that are alive, at least– want me to take more responsibility with my life. So the first thing I’m taking responsibility for is getting my math teacher pregnant. I may not have done it, sure, but I don’t think it’s illegal to take the blame. Her husband might not appreciate it, either, but this is my son we’re talking about.


Before Katy goes on her trip to San Fransisco or wherever, I’m going to shave off one of her eyebrows when she’s asleep to ensure she won’t cheat on me because nobody’s gonna sleep with a girl who only has one eyebrow.

And so what, that doesn’t make me a bad boyfriend. That makes her an insufferable bitch that is really starting to stick in my craw.


Insecurity is a big thing for me. I try to mask my own insecurities with fantasies to make myself feel better.

For instance: I like to imagine all my girlfriend’s co-workers are gay. And in the circus. The gay circus.

I bet the lions at the gay circus are gay, too.


I don’t want to start trouble but– Instigator? What does that mean, instigator? You think I’m looking to start shit?

I think I’m misjudged: I thought the shit already started when you put on that dress– not when I told you it makes you look fat.

You started that shit.


I’d like my pot dealer to walk in one day– knocking first, of course– after all the waiting and I’d like him to show up with some weed and just tell me “Man, this stuff will kill you”. It’s just that weed is so tame. It’s so boring and that’s why it sucks to get busted for it.

I want to smoke some shit where the cops don’t just give me a ticket– I want to smoke some of that felonious shit, ya hear me?

Maybe PCP is the right drug for me.