Weirdoes

As my five readers already know, my only real purpose in life is to complain. Just as Kobe Bryant was born to play basketball or a Chico State student was born to smoke weed, I complain. Today my beef is with weirdoes. They come in all shapes and sizes and seam to always be conveniently placed around me. One might be in the form of a lady with a parrot on her shoulder while shopping at Ralphs, or a really fat guy sleeping on the abs machine at the local gym. In the end, they all have one thing in common in that they don’t leave me alone. I must give out some sort of nutty scent and just like catnip; I attract the weirdoes directly from their hidden layers (aka their parent’s basement). Speaking of cats: if you have more than three, you’re a weirdo. Additionally, why is it that hot girls are never the weird ones? One of my life’s real tragedies is that hot women never come up to me to talk about random crap. It’s always the fat, acne faced, kind of bald 23-year-old dude who wants to know where I got my jeans. Life would be so much more pleasant if people who came up to me were easy on the eyes. Furthermore, don’t let anyone tell you the place to meet women is at the gym because that is FALSE. Gyms for the most part are weirdo breeding grounds and as a result, scare all the attractive people away. On a daily basis you may see up to three nutsos pretending to work out but really just waiting to pounce on you to discuss the always riveting topics of medieval swords or cook books. If nut balls where half smart they would fix themselves up a little, that way they could disguise their weirdo tendency. I would definitely listen to an attractive women’s story about her homemade dress much longer than a dude’s story about his homemade beer that was brewed in the bath tub (which could explain for why he smells like he hasn’t showered in awhile). We as a nation of normal people must send the weirdoes back to where they came from...Florida.