Monthly Archives: July 2015

A Procrastinator’s Ethical Dilemma

ethical dilemma

One fine afternoon, you find yourself walking along the railroad tracks. Ahead, a train is barreling down the tracks, straight in the direction of three frolicking children, oblivious to the approaching danger. If you do not intervene, the youths will surely perish. At your side is a lever that, if pulled, will divert the train in another direction. On this alternate set of tracks, however, there is a fat man sleeping, who could be crushed in the place of the three innocent tots. As an ethical actor, do you choose to pull the lever or to…..Wait, are your shoes untied?

Upon closer inspection, that is indeed the case. Your left shoe is in the process of coming loose, though the right is already completely untied. If you were to correct the rightmost lace first, you would surely address the more urgent problem, though meanwhile the left could come completely undone. This is a real pickle. Assuming that you possess no more than two hands, but no fewer than zero, which shoe do you tie first?

You decide to search for some advice online. After you access your phone’s internet browser, you receive a popup ad for a quiz entitled, “Which Harry Potter character are you?” Figuring that it would be faster to simply obey the popup rather than to bypass it, you take the quiz. You get Dobby, but you are totally a Tonks, and you know it. Do you settle with your results, or try again until your phone validates your true identity?

After two more tries, you put your phone away, satisfied. In the distance, you hear someone scream, “Sally, look out!” Oh right, there’s that whole train thing to deal with. You’re the only one who can either save those kids/not kill that man, but hey, that’s what you get when you hang out near the railroad tracks. Bor-ring! What are you doing over here, anyway? Shit, are you drunk?

Oh yeah, you’re totally wasted. Sweet. Though now that you think about it, you notice that your buzz is coming down a little bit. A nap would really hit the spot, but you’re definitely down to party later on. Should you head back into town and get a jager bomb, or head back into town and get two jager bombs?

As you give yourself a mental high-five, an eruption of screams and weeping interrupts your happy thoughts. There’s all these random people standing by the railroad tracks, and for some reason there’s blood everywhere. Weird. This is totally not your scene, so you decide to head back to your place and enjoy the rest of your day off.

Hey, was today an off day, or were you supposed to go into work. Psssssh. Who cares? You’re glad you took some me time. You can always repair those emergency train brakes tomorrow.

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Help Wanted: Classic Rock DJs

classic rock

Hey there, music fans! 97.3 FM WDIK—The Dick!—wants you! We’re on the lookout for new rock-and-roller soldiers to fill out our lineup of party-hardy deejays, after our old staff accidentally locked themselves in our promotional van on a hot summer day. Are you ready to serve up the greatest hits of the 70s, 80s, and more? Do you have the heavy mettle to continue the legacy of greats such as Butch Delvecchio, Dirty Donna Henderson, and The Cheese? Heck yeah! In that case, let’s see if you’ve got what it takes to get on The Dick:

Job Duties and Responsibilities

  • Playing the greatest rock tunes nonstop, over a reasonable 30 hour shift.
  • Offering up treasured family heirlooms as prizes for call-in movie trivia contests.
  • Inserting wacky sound effects into on-air interviews and crank calls. Dead air is bad air, so don’t be stingy with that fart button.
  • Slipping in a song from the 1990s every once in a while, just to make people feel old.
  • Knocking back beers all day long without the wife around—Gotcha! See, we’re already having fun.
  • Not touching the intern’s boobs. Please. All the callers on our request line are lawyers, and they’re no longer accepting Styx tickets as compensatory damages.


  • A goatee to provide some much-needed chin definition.
  • The ability to announce an upcoming Bob Seger song with semi-realistic enthusiasm.
  • A PhD in Art History, along with at least five publications in accredited academic journals; or just a high school diploma.
  • A passion for sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll that is surpassed only by your love of sitting in a small, dark room.
  • The denial that your best days are behind you.

Materials to include in your application:

  • Your résumé/CV (this is a fun space, so please be sure to use the Jokerman font).
  • A recording of yourself reciting all the names of Rolling Stone magazine’s top 100 guitarists of all time, without taking a breath.
  • A 2015 calendar, in which all the weekdays are covered with frowny faces but all the weekend boxes read, “Oh yeah!”
  • A bottle of Jim Beam.

If interested, please submit your resume and application materials to

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Scrapple: A Meat Made in Heaven


They say most great artists aren’t really appreciated until after they’re dead. I say most great meals aren’t appreciated until after you go to the bathroom.

That’s where scrapple comes in (or out). It enters and leaves your body as scrapple, more or less. No fuss, no questions asked. Kale can move on over, because there’s a new miracle food in town.

In a way, scrapple is the only thing that keeps bringing me back to my home state of Pennsylvania. Scrapple is my heritage, much like the South’s Confederate Flag, except without any of the racism or pride for a defunct nation. Just tastiness from corner to greasy corner.

What exactly is in scrapple, you ask? According to most sources, its a gourmet blend of cornmeal, flour, and, you guessed it, meat scraps! As for what kind of meat, nobody can be sure. Probably whatever isn’t good enough to use in hot dogs. The exact recipe is likely an ancient Amish secret, talked about only during the most sacred of barn raisings. I’ve tried to ask them about it, but they never respond to any of my emails.

A few weeks ago, I tried to share the local delicacy with my three college roommates: a Minnesotan WASP, a Chinese international, and a Long Island Jew. To my dismay, not one of them recognized the beauty of the Mid-Atlantic meat brick. They provided weak excuses. It was too burnt. It had a weird consistency. It wasn’t “kosher.”

But I’ll be damned if that scrapple didn’t make them all feel as American as any man could on this crazy little marble we call Planet Earth. If there was ever any doubt, the man at the table next to us was wearing a shirt covered in bald eagles and snippets from the Constitution. His was the type of patriotism that could make Joe McCarthy look like Chairman Mao.

And when you think about it, scrapple is really the Constitution of breakfast meats. It’s rugged, rectangular, and nobody can agree on what’s in it. But like all good things in life, scrapple brings up more questions than answers. To quote the great John Mellencamp (neé Cougar), “Ain’t that America, Home of the Free?” I’d say so. So next time you’re out for breakfast, have yourself a side of scrapple, amended with a generous slather of Heinz ketchup. Because anything else is just Canadian bacon.

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