Instagram

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Even death can’t save you 

Those eyebrows tho

This dog is like a shadow

Crazy ass

How to end an unwanted conversation

Trimming Hedges 

Girl’s reaction to wasp in car in slow motion

Don’t turn your back to the mill 

10-hour time-lapse of an Amish barn raising

Smells like ass 

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“If you want to live an exceptional and extraordinary life, you have to give up many of the things that are part of a normal one.” –Srinivas Rao

Most people have a hard time saying “no.”

Most people don’t have fulfilling, intimate relationships with their loved ones.

Most people are unhealthy and overweight.

Most people are compulsive buyers and foolish spenders, perpetually in debt.

Most people have no long-term plans or goals.

Most people can’t commit to anything.

Most people don’t sleep well.

Most people consume too much alcohol, caffeine, and sugar.

In short:

Most people live ordinary, average lives.

And to quote Seth Godin:

“Is there a difference between ‘average’ and ‘mediocre?’ Not so much.”

The Truth is Bad For Business

The world is only too happy when people remain average and ordinary.

That’s because the larger mob of society — unfulfilled, average individuals who settle for less than they could have — play right into the world’s desire for money, power, and influence.

To put it bluntly — the world doesn’t care if you succeed. The world would rather you play your part as a cog in the bigger wheel.

A large theme told to our society by those in power — companies, corporations, influencers — is that we need more. More clothes, more food, more money, more “stuff.”

In truth, we don’t need more of any of these things (something extraordinary people see with great clarity).

But this truth is bad for business.

So the world targets our weakest pressure points and basest behaviors — insecurity, pride, fear, sex drive, jealousy — and tells us exactly how we can “fill our void.”

With products. Cheap imitations. Shiny new gadgets that give the appearance of wealth. Things that (we’re promised) will finally satisfy us, but really only leave us wanting more.

If you want to live an extraordinary life, you need to realize this simple truth:

The world doesn’t cater to extraordinary people.

If you want to be extraordinary, you’ll need leave the safety and comfort of the majority.

Check out the rest of the article here

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Lt. Hiroo Onoda, sword in hand, walks out of the jungle on Lubang Island after a nearly 29-year guerrilla campaign. March 11, 1974.

On December 17, 1944, the Japanese army sent a twenty-three year old soldier named Hiroo Onoda to the Philippines to join the Sugi Brigade. He was stationed on the small island of Lubang, approximately seventy-five miles southwest of Manila in the Philippines, and his orders were to lead the Lubang Garrison in guerrilla warfare.

As Onoda was departing to begin his mission, his division commander told him, “You are absolutely forbidden to die by your own hand. It may take three years, it may take five, but whatever happens, we’ll come back for you. Until then, so long as you have one soldier, you are to continue to lead him. You may have to live on coconuts. If that’s the case, live on coconuts! Under no circumstances are you to give up your life voluntarily.” It turns out that Onoda was exceptionally good at following orders, and it would be 29 years before he finally laid down his arms and surrendered.

In February of 1945, just a couple months after Onoda arrived on Lubang, the Allied forces attacked the island, and quickly overtook its defenses. As the Allies moved inland, Onoda and the other guerrilla soldiers split into groups and retreated into the dense jungle. Onoda’s group consisted of himself and three other men: Corporal Shoichi Shimada, Private Kinshichi Kozuka, and Private Yuichi Akatsu. They survived by rationing their rice supply, eating coconuts and green bananas from the jungle, and occasionally killing one of the locals’ cows for meat.

It was upon killing one of these cows that one of the soldiers found a note some months later. It was a leaflet left behind by a local resident, and it said, “The war ended on August 15. Come down from the mountains!” The Japanese guerrilla soldiers scrutinized the note, and decided that was an Allied propaganda trick to coax them out of hiding. It was not the only message they encountered; over the years, fliers were dropped from planes, newspapers were left, and letters from relatives with photos. Each attempt was viewed by the soldiers as a clever hoax constructed by the Allies.

Lieutenant Hiroo Onoda was 22 years old when he was deployed to Lubang Island in the Philippines in December 1944.

Onoda and his men lived in the jungle for years, occasionally engaging in skirmishes and carrying out acts of sabotage as part of their guerrilla activities. They were tormented by jungle heat, incessant rain, rats, insects, and the occasional armed search party. Any villagers they sighted were seen as spies, and attacked by the four men, and over the years a number of people were wounded or killed by the rogue soldiers.

In September of 1949, over four years after the four men went into hiding, one of Onoda’s fellow soldiers decided that he had had enough. Without a word to the others, Private Akatsu snuck away one day, and the Sugi Brigade was reduced to three men. Sometime in 1950 they found a note from Akatsu, which informed the others that he had been greeted by friendly troops when he left the jungle. To the remaining men, it was clear that Akatsu was being coerced into working for the enemy, and was not to be trusted. They continued their guerrilla attacks, but more cautiously.

Three years later, in 1953, Corporal Shimada was shot in the leg during a shootout with some fishermen. Onoda and Kozuka helped him back into the jungle, and without any medical supplies, they nursed him back to health over several months. Despite his recovery, Shimada became gloomy. About a year later, the men encountered a search party on a beach at Gontin, and Shimada was fatally wounded in the ensuing skirmish. He was 40 years old.

For nineteen years, Onoda and Kozuka continued their guerrilla activities together, living in the dense jungle in make-shift shelters. Every now and then they would kill another cow for meat, which alarmed the villagers and prompted the army to embark on yet another unsuccessful search for the men. The two remaining soldiers operated under the conviction that the Japanese army would eventually retake the island from the Allies, and that their guerrilla tactics would prove invaluable in that effort.

Nineteen years after Shimada was killed, on October of 1972, Onoda and Kozuka had snuck out of the jungle to burn some rice which had been collected by farmers, in an attempt to sabotage the “enemy’s” food supply. A Filipino police patrol spotted the men, and fired two shots. 51-year-old Kozuka was killed, ending his 27 years of hiding. Onoda escaped back into the jungle, now alone in his misguided mission.

News of Kozuka’s death traveled quickly to Japan. It was concluded that since Kozuka had survived all those years, then it was likely that Lt. Onoda was still alive, though he had been declared legally dead about thirteen years earlier. More search parties were sent in to find him, however he successfully evaded them each time.

Norio Suzuki poses with Onoda and his rifle after finding him in the jungles of Lubang Island. February, 1944.

But in February of 1974, after Onoda had been alone in the jungle for a year and a half, a Japanese college student named Norio Suzuki managed to track him down.

When Suzuki had left Japan, he told his friends that he was “going to look for Lieutenant Onoda, a panda, and the abominable snowman, in that order.” Onoda and Suzuki became fast friends. Suzuki tried to convince him that the war had ended long ago, but Onoda explained that he would not surrender unless his commander ordered him to do so. Suzuki took photos of the two of them together, and convinced Onoda to meet him again about two weeks later, in a prearranged location.

When Onoda went to the meeting place, there was a note waiting from Suzuki. Suzuki had returned to the island with Onoda’s one-time superior officer, Major Taniguchi. When Onoda returned to meet with Suzuki and his old commander, he arrived in what was left of his dress uniform, wearing his sword and carrying his still-working Arisaka rifle, 500 rounds of ammunition, and several hand grenades. Major Taniguchi, who had long since retired from the military and become a bookseller, read aloud the orders: Japan had lost the war, and all combat activity was to cease immediately. After a moment of quiet anger, Onoda pulled back the bolt on his rifle and unloaded the bullets, and then took off his pack and laid the rifle across it. When the reality of it sunk in, he wept openly.

In this March, 1974 file photo, Hiroo Onoda, wearing his 30-year-old imperial army uniform, cap and sword, walks down a slope as he heads for a helicopter landing site on Lubang Island for a flight to Manila when he comes out of hiding in the jungle on the island, Philippines.

By the time he formally surrendered to Philippine President Ferdinand Marcos in 1974, Onoda had spent twenty nine of his fifty two years hiding the jungle, fighting a war that had long been over for the rest of the world. He and his guerrilla soldiers had killed some thirty people unnecessarily, and wounded about a hundred others. But they had done so under the belief that they were at war, and consequently President Marcos granted him a full pardon for the crimes he had committed while in hiding.

He returned to a hero’s welcome in Japan, but found himself unable to adjust to modern life there. He received back pay from the Japanese government for his twenty-nine years on Lubang, but it amounted to very little. He recorded his story as a memoir, entitled No Surrender: My Thirty-Year War, then moved to Brazil for a calm life of raising cattle on a ranch.

Onoda waves upon arriving back in Tokyo. March 12, 1974.

In May of 1996, Hiroo Onoda returned to Lubang, and donated $10,000 to the school there. He then married a Japanese woman, and the two of them moved back to Japan to run a nature camp for kids, were Onoda could share what he learned about survival through resourcefulness and ingenuity.

Hiroo Onoda died, aged 91 on 16 January 2014, at St. Luke’s International Hospital in Tokyo.

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1. I worked in strip clubs (cocktail server, bartender, waitress) for +/- 15 years, and I would claim to have “seen it all.”

The clubs that I have worked in have been quite diligent with the cleaning process. Mirrors were cleaned all the time, the bar was cleaned after-hours by a cleaning crew (secondary to us servers doing a “sweep” after the “ugly lights” come on) and the bathrooms are always cleaned throughout the evenings and of course, after hours.

That being said, the couches in the private areas are scary. As staff, we never sat on them. Customers are known to be messy and yes, there are likely to be bodily fluids being exchanged or “wiped” on the couches. Many men would go into the bathroom prior to getting a lap dance and put on a condom inside of their pants so that if they B’d an L, it would be less messy for cleanup. That certainly isn’t to say that we didn’t find our share of discarded condoms on the floor near the couches after hours. Full contact is actually illegal here, but it was never a surprise to see a girl, naked, grinding away on a customer’s lap.

The first club that I worked in had roughly 10 girls that were brought to work from a different country. They would get up onto the counters and urinate into the sinks. We never knew why. Obviously, that was more so in the staff/dancer bathrooms, not the ones intended for public. Regardless, it was disgusting to think that we staff were to wash our hands there and then handle drinks.

Don’t put your money where your mouth is. Especially in strip clubs. We washed our hands often and had sanitizing liquid at our bar and stations to cleanse our hands that had touched money that had come into contact with vaginas or mouths. I was always shocked at how many customers were willing to put money into their mouth and lay back on the stage to have it snatched off by a dancer’s labia while she was doing the splits.

The tops of the toilet tanks often have powdery residue on them. Obviously from dancers/patrons (male or female) doing lines of coke. Some bar managers used to spray the toilet tops with Pam or wipe them with oil… T’was good for a laugh.

Dancers would often spray down the poles before they would go on stage for their shows. It increases their grip, keeps their hands clean from when Mercedes or Destinee was just on stage with the pole riding suggestively up and down their asscrack, and it also serves to get men’s attention before she starts her show.

The clubs truly are a crime scene specialist’s dream. Body fluids of every type available at every turn. I never understood why the clubs were carpeted and the couches were upholstered in porous materials.

Oh, and the black lights are installed for aesthetics. They hide stretch marks and cellulite. It’s just a side-bonus that they also seem to bring out the semen stains in pants and shirts.

2. I worked as a DJ at a few clubs all owned by one guy. And each one managed by a different person.

One club was spotless – like nightly cleaning crew, bar crew kept a tight ship at both bars, champagne room out in the open, lots of colored lights (and the obligatory black lights) and the security staff wore tuxedos and the girls had actual changing booths to use in the back. High class joint and it showed. This was a bikini bar, not a strip club, but same vein still.

On the other end of the spectrum, the fully nude bar was disgusting. Of the dozen or so times I rotated through that place over like three years, I don’t think it ever got cleaned. Thankfully, they served beer and water in bottles, and since I worked there, I’d just grab my own, else I’d have never drank anything there.

There was a group of girls that would sit on the busted up chairs in the back between sets, completely naked shoot up or snort whatever they could find between themselves, and just sit there, blasted out of their gourd staring into space, sometime drooling. Not joking, actual drool. Yeah, naked or not, that ain’t hot. At least once I seriously considered buying a hazmat suit and incorporating it into a set, maybe call myself DJ Biohazard or something.

The absolute worst thing I ever saw as a club DJ (possibly in my entire life) happened at this place. The stage was about a four feet by four feet platform with a little catwalk leading up to it, really narrow. If you sat on one side, you could high five someone on the other side without stretching too much. The DJ booth was about 10 feet behind all this and off to the side by the bar about three feet higher, so security or I could see the whole floor.

This one particular girl, tiny little thing, like 4’10” or so had asked for Dragula while she was on stage, and I knew when she was talking to me that she was seriously fucked up. To the point where cute doesn’t matter any more, so fucked up. Little did I know…

So Rob Zombie’s thumping away, and she’s on the little catwalk, fully nude by now, with a few guys on each side. She’s bent over one, trying to pick up a dollar in her teeth while the guy behind her is getting the full view. Suddenly she grabs out and barely catches the pole as she starts retching all over the dude with the dollar. As he was pretty much directly underneath her head at the time, he did not escape at all. He looked like someone had dumped a bucket of sick on his head.

Which was still better than the guys behind the girl.

About half a second after she starts puking, the other end erupts. She was Mt. Vesuvius spraying diarrhea all over the place. Reverse fingercuffs, projectile style. She even got some all the way up to the front of the DJ booth. She nailed 3 customers and 2 security guys without even looking.

I still have problems believing that volume of mass erupted from something so small, had I not seen and smelled it myself.Shudder

3. Stopped at a club in town here, the linoleum was uneven. On closer inspection, it was carpet, so dirty you could have polished it.

4. Well, I’m a stripper. And at my last club I was a stripper/bartender so I knew the whole rundown of the place. We were about a ~40 girl club with 3 stages. The poles were cleaned by every girl for every set but the floors, which we do roll around and do floor work on, are cleaned TWICE A WEEK. Friday and Saturday. Then we get all those nasty floor germs all up on your lap.

Also those bartender hands aren’t that clean when they’ve been handling and exchanging in stripper money then throwing the limes into your glass.

I was there for 6 months, opening and closing shifts and I never saw the chairs cleaned. Wiped off if there was crumbs though.

We had a very good reputation, too.

5. It’s dirty. The staff does the best they can, and we have a cleaning crew every night, but carpet and clubs are always a dicey mix. Dirty feet, spilled drinks, vomit, plus other unsavory fluids are hard to get out of carpet permanently.

Worst story, we had an event scheduled for the early morning once (like 6am, don’t ask). Most of the staff stayed overnight, just hanging out, getting drunk, playing cards etc. One of the bouncers decided to take a nap on the floor (he was pretty drunk). Two days later, he had developed a massive staph infection in his arm.

6. I actually worked in a few (AHEM) Gentlemens clubs over the years and the short answer is this. not very.

If there is a couch cover on a couch NEVER REMOVE IT — the club doesn’t either.

Anything covered in flowing fabric should be avoided, this includes walls, curtains, chairs, etc.

Anything that looks like it can be used as a trashcan has been. such as carpet rolls, boxes with a small hole in them. Etc. Nice clubs are usually no better mainly due to the drugs of choice moving from level to level.

Do not misunderstand me not all strippers are on drugs but enough are to warrant mention.

The black lights are for fluid detection however it is so that employees can track down stains for spot cleaning. They also have a way of obscuring skin discolorations and blurring some ethnic lines that may turn some men off.

If you ever actually see a strip club being cleaned it is only for a few effects.

* When the club is slow scantily clad women may clean the mirrors or poles suggestively as some men like that.

* Mirrors must be clean around the club for two reasons. first off it allows men to look without being pervy and second and most importantly for SECURITY. Club managers/security need to keep an eye on things.

Tips
* Bring your own money The “singles” at the club is heavily recycled and have been in and near many naughty bits and or mouths.
* Only sit on hard non porous surfaces as bacteria has a harder time living there for long periods of time.
* don’t go to the Champagne room there may or may not be sex in the Champagne(VIP) room but either way it is a rip off and you don’t want to do it.
* Fantasy not reality These women are here to provide you with a fantasy play along, it will lead to a big ego boost for the both of you. you can also use this fantasy time to pretend that hundreds of men have left fallen solders in the seat you are sitting in.

7. My brother used to manage a strip club. Well, floor manager, which isn’t the same thing, but he told me to say it.

Anyway. He couldn’t drive for a long time, so I had to take him to work pretty often. It was just before opening, so I just partook of the taco bar as recompense for my efforts. Only a couple of regulars were ever in that early anyway, so I just hung out with my brother and the DJ and watched the “second string” (girls with C-section scars and open sores) work the floor.

Anyway.

This girl runs up to my brother and says there’s been an accident and then runs back off to the “fantasy room.” Shady folk came in there (my brother carried a taser and pepper spray as situations sometimes became violent) so, figuring “accident” meant a crazed patron, we all sprinted to the fantasy room.

There was shit. Everywhere.

A regular, nicknamed “Freckles” by the girl, liked it when girls farted on his face. You can connect the dots explaining his nickname by yourself. One of the girls, before fulfilling Freckles’ fantasy, had also partaken of the taco bar before Freckles’ arrival.

The SOP? Humberto picked up what he could with a paper towel and wiped down the rest with the same stuff the mop was in. Appreciated, it probably had bleach in it, but the thought of shit particles now being dragged over every inch of floor in the joint as Humberto mopped looms on.

Tacos were aight.

8. My brother used to work in a sex store with an “arcade”. There was a door that opened to a hallway with booths running down each side. Each booth had a bench, a TV, and a selector switch, where users could switch between 6 prono movies (usually 3 gay, 3 straight) that were running on repeat all day. After a customer paid the $9 entry fee, they got their hand stamped, and could spend as long as they wanted in the arcade. They could even come back multiple times that day. They were basically sex rooms. Prostitutes, mostly male, hung out in there all day, offering their services to the patrons. Plenty of anonymous sex went on in those rooms, too. And people would pick up hookers to take in there, because it was cheaper than a hotel room, with the pron included.

Point of the story, they never washed those booths. He said the owner would go in to vacuum, and wipe any visible filth up about once a week.

9. I was a bartender for about 3 months. Which meant I was also the cook. Usually no one ordered food except the dancers and they would usually just get fries (in the 3 months that I was there I never once changed the oil nor did I cover the fryer at night). One night, a guy ordered a burger. When I went to get a burger patty out of the freezer I saw the expiration date, which was 1998. I was working there in 2004. I asked the owner and he said to just use them. I never once saw anyone clean the floors or bathrooms. Except for one time when a guy projectile vomited on the floor and it was mopped up with dirty water. No sanitizer. Oh and the wine & champagne glasses? I washed them in a dirty sink with hot water and no soap.

AND NOW FOR THE MOST DISGUSTING PART: THE FULL NUDE LAP DANCES. One dancer asked the owner if she could say no to full nude that week because she had a herpes outbreak (which the owner had given her). He said no, so she was naked, with herpes sores, grinding on guys. The sofas and chairs in the lap dance room were definitely never wiped down and they were definitely covered in disease & bodily fluids of all kinds.

Now, the strip club where I was working was a notoriously seedy place (the owner had been acquitted of 1 murder and 17 rapes) but I didn’t know that before I started working there, because I was new in town. So it isn’t much of a shock that he didn’t give a shit about hygiene.

10. I didn’t find myself overly grossed out by the club. And that’s a big deal considering I was always sober and thus not simply too drunk or drugged up to notice. There was no VIP section. There was a lap dance area that was separate from the rest of the club but still fairly openly visible, and watched by security.

There was no touching allowed (I was always grateful for that rule) and, although I don’t doubt that some of the girls who lived in the small rented bedrooms at the back of the club probably brought guys in to perform sexual favours for extra cash at the end of the night, I was never exposed to that, since I just went back to my apartment after work. So in the club itself, we never had used condoms or semen stains to deal with.

Most girls who actually used the stripper poles (including myself) wiped them down at the beginning of their stage dance with disposable cleaning cloths. The only two things I did have to face at the club that I thought were gross, was the change room bathroom (hover over the toilet, don’t sit on the seat – And push the flusher with your shoe) and the actual other strippers. One had scabs on her face from a meth issue. I was only one of 3 girls in the entire club that didn’t do drugs.

11. I don’t work for a strip club, but the firm I work for was doing some mold testing at one of our local clubs. My uncle said that with the lights on, the place was disgusting. The fact that some places even sell food there should be illegal. 

– Andhareall

The post 11 Dancers And Employees Explain Just How Dirty Strip Clubs Are appeared first on Caveman Circus.

Aphex Twin reveals how he made Drukqs track ‘Vordhosbn’

John Jones – Caver Dies While Exploring Cave with Family in Utah

Walmart loss prevention stops shopper who paid for all her items and accuses her of theft

Crowd Culture at Shanghai Disneyland

Chinese tourists in Thailand Buffet 

A masterclass in flirting with beautiful women

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Study Finds 110 Out Of 111 Dead NFL Players Had Brain Damage – Maxim

Model Daphne Joy’s Instagram Is Nothing But Bewbs, Bewbs, Bewbs – Mandatory

Unexpectedly Disturbing Imagery Hidden In Disney Movies – Ranker

The billion-dollar palaces of Apple, Facebook and Google – The Guardian

How To End Your Fight With Fatigue (Do This Everyday) – Gundry MD

Turn Off Your Push Notifications. All Of Them- Wired

Disturbing video shows a Chicago man who’s cut off his manhood running naked through the streets – Rare

Stash, now valued at $240 million, lets anyone start investing in the stock market with just $5 – Business Insider

Polina Sitnova Is Sizzling Perfection – Yes Bitch

GOP Motion on Health Care Reform Passes 51-50 – Newser

Meet the High School Dropout Who Is Now the Richest Self-Made Woman on Earth – Time

20 Of The Most In-Demand Jobs That Pay Over $100k/year – Thrillist

The Pain And Pleasure Of Briefly Owning A Used Volkswagen Phaeton – Jalopnik

Selena Gomez, Francia Raisa and Other Random Ladies – G-Celeb

This Instagram Account Recreates Hot Models’ Pictures And It’s Hilarious – Radass

10 Times Restaurants Went Too Far With Food Serving – Sad And Useless

Weeks before his suicide, Chester Bennington said goodbye to Chris Cornell with one final song – Socialite Life

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Instagram

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Cody Garbrandt’s rise to the UFC Bantamweight Championship

Cornerman Jumps Into Cage To Save Fighter From Terrible Referee

Tito getting fu*ked up by Chuck Liddell

Canelo weaving like a ghost against Trout

Sergei Kharitonov submits Geronimo Mondragoon with ankle lock from the back

Micky Ward grits his teeth and lights a previously aggressive Arturo Gatti up like a Christmas tree

Mike Tyson vs. Clifford Etienne furious exchange until … the KO

Top 5: Pride FC Freakshow Fights 

Chi-Ball master Lukka Lampila goes to Spain

The Smashing Machine: Documentary that follows M.M.A. great Mark Kerr, and his string of amazing victories in the ring

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Pain and discomfort are the gatekeepers of success.

They are the guardians of becoming extraordinary. No one enters without meeting — and trading punches — with them first.

Most people see these burly warriors and promptly turn the other way, hoping they were unseen. Most people avoid pain, and try to get through life without ever being unfortunate enough to meet it.

Sadly, this lifestyle actually costs far more energy, time, and effort than just getting on with it. Like avoiding the needle at the doctor, we get sicker and sicker as we avoid the very thing we most need.

“When uncomfortable, my instinct is not to avoid the discomfort but to become at peace with it. My instinct is always to seek out challenges and opposed to avoiding them.” -Josh Waitzkin, world champion chess player

No one becomes extraordinary or achieves true success without overcoming some serious pain.

Pain creates us. It reveals us. It is the fire that hardens us, the crushing pressure that chews up us lumpy pieces of coal and spits out brilliant diamonds.

In the words of Ryan Holiday, “Bad things are fuel. You don’t just want fuel — you need it. You can’t go anywhere without it.”

If you think you’re going to cheat your way into success, and somehow win the pain-free lottery and fall into your wildest dreams without ever breaking a sweat or feeling the sting of rejection or defeat…

You’re wrong.

Pain is the gatekeeper. No one goes around — you must go through.

And that’s when you realize a funny thing.

You actually kind of like the pain.

Check out the rest of the article here

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What’s it like to date a Gold Digger?

When I was in my 20’s, I had a very, very beautiful woman wind up being the biggest gold-digger I ever went out with. Once I fully realized what was happening, I ended things immediately, drove her back to her car and we never went out again.

So let’s call her… Julie. Julie was a fitness contestant/exotic dancer with a body that stopped traffic. And while she had this super, over-the-top body, she also had over-sized implants that made her look like a real-life Jessica Rabbit, hair and everything. She stopped traffic, and that’s not an expression, cars literally slowed down or stopped to watch her walk down the street. She gave me a picture of her in a bikini. I would show my friends and most of them were in disbelief that I even knew her, let alone was going out with her.

And… how exactly did we meet? At a strip club of course. I was young and more naive than most, but it turned out we had mutual friends in common and we wound up spending a couple of hours together talking. We “seemed” to hit it off and have a lot in common… or so I thought.

At the end of the night, being the naive numb-skull that I was, I thought I actually had a chance with her, I asked her out. To my surprise, holy crap, she said yes— I was on Cloud Nine and couldn’t beliebe my luck. I’m not sure I even slept that night in anticipation of our first date.

However, I soon realized that one we did go out, every date suggestion she made (she always shot down what I wanted to do), was over-the-top. I was OK with that for our first date, and even our second, but soon realized that there was never an offer of a quiet evening at home or having an inexpensive dinner out, etc. Every date or date suggestion she had (and we had three dates) was a extravaganza that cost me well in excess of $500-$700.

Each time, it was the same; at the end of the date, we’d share a quick kiss and she’d find some reason she needed to go home ASAP. I began to sense I was being taken for a ride and decided to stop calling her.

But she wasn’t done with me… yet.

One day, she called and asked me what I was doing and wanted to get together. I was honest and told her she was kind of breaking me. Again, I was in my 20’s at the time, not making a lot of money, and this was killing my bank account.

Then she surprised me by offering me a quiet evening at my house, claiming that she wanted to make medinner. OK, this is better, I thought. And it was better… until about two hours before she was supposed to come over, when she called to inform me that her “Favorite comedian in the wooorrrld” was in town and for only “one more day. Can we PLEEEEEEASE do that instead??” She then threw in multiple references to the wild night at home we’d have later as a result. That was always her way; insinuate that you were going to have the time of your life with her later.

She could teach fisherman how to better bait a hook, she was that good at this.

OK, you probably get where this is going, right? Unfortunately, I didn’t. “Sure!” I said. Sounds great!! What time do you want to meet?” I should have known when she wanted to meet halfway what was coming.

Of course, she tells me that now that we’re doing this instead that we simply must go to her favorite local restaurant now (She “always went there first— it’s a tradition!”), and that came to $200+. Then front row tickets to the show plus drinks, and that came to another $300.

She’s also getting progressively drunk as the night goes on and is now telling me how her dress (a tight-fitting denim number with buttons from top to bottom on the front), “just pops right off… which is going to be really convenient.. tonight. Wink, wink.”

Ironically enough, while I certainly wanted to have sex with her, I also thought I liked her and that this might be a way for us to formalize a relationship. The show ends and we drive back to my house.

We get there, have drinks andtalk for a few minutes about our the night. She seems to be having fun, and then suddenly and out of the blue… she totally clams up… and needs to leave “right away…” yetagain. Something about not being comfortable that her car is parked in a public lot. Ironically, for being so hot, she drove a piece of crap econobox), which keep in mind, she hadn’t been concerned about all evening… that is until it was time for us to be romantic together.

Then it hits me– I’m totally being played by this gold-digger!! %(**@#&!!! And holy crap, she’s managed to do it to me… again!

I tell her she’s damn right she needs to leave right away, and that I will take her back to her car IMMEDIATELY. It was clear to me now… even naive twenty-something me. She was just using me to live the high life, couldn’t care less about me, and then once it was time to demonstrate that she actually liked me in some way, shape or form–and by that I mean even just some kissing and being openly affectionate- ran home.

I heard from other guys later that this was not uncommon for her, but that if that if you had enough money—and I’m talking private jet money—she actually would sleep with you. I also hear that these guys—the one’s who had that kind of money—used her just as much as she was using them, and threw her away when they were done with her.

Karma’s a bitch, right?

We drove back to her car in complete silence. It had been yet another expensive lesson, but this one stuck. I dropped her off without a word in the parking lot, pulled out before I saw her get in her car, and never spoke to her again.

– Errol Greene

What is the allure of Bronyism? (My Little Pony)

I used to be a brony. Honestly, it was a huge turning point in my life.

From mid-elementary school to senior year of high school, I spent practically every free moment of my time online. I was a deeply sensitive kid, which we’re now just starting to realize was probably because of some familial anxiety disorder that hit me harder than everyone else. Any social situation would send panic shooting through me, even if it was little-to-no stakes. I still wanted friends, still wanted everything the other kids had, but it was a lot easier to retreat and feel safer then to engage. Plus, whenever I did try to be social, my anxiety would have me second guessing every single aspect of what was happening. Combine that with a general lack of social skills and penchant for awkward earnestness and I was a god damn disaster.

So for the most part I didn’t try. I’d just go home, get on the computer, hop on the same few select websites and waste 8+ hours. Day after day after day after year after year. I found a few communities, places with other social misfits that I could talk to, but most of those ended up making me feel more isolated than anything. Despite that, I was probably luckier than a lot of the other people who found themselves in that position. My family is fantastic and constantly supportive, and I had a few friends who were willing to do almost all the work in the relationship. But I was still in a really bad place.

So I graduate high school, start going to a commuter college and find this show. It’s a fun show, not bad, pretty enjoyable. So I check out the fans and everybody is just so fuckin’ *nice*. Like, deeply nice, and friendly and welcoming too. It was like having been dehydrated for years so that you get used to it, and then you finally have a sip of water. You remember the thirst, and suddenly it’s all you can focus on. I fell into it pretty hard, spending tons of time talking to people, joking, theorizing, critiquing fan works. I fucking reviewed MLP fanfiction, that’s how deep I was. Over time, my social skills began sharpening and people started frightening me less. Plus I got to be earnest and saccharine and dumb on full display and not be judged or criticized for it. I was embraced, actually. And by getting those feelings out there and communicating them less impeccably then I would’ve liked, I got better and better at judging situations and crafting appropriate responses. Of course that seems simple but a lot of people just don’t have those kinds of skills and never develop them, for whatever reasons.

Now I won’t say that the show ‘saved me’, or even that it was the biggest reason for my social rehabilitation. That honor probably goes to finding stand-up comedy and forcing myself to make friends there. And there are still problems! I still spend an egregious amount of time in front of a computer screen, I still get nervous talking even to longtime friends, I still don’t initiate social interaction, and my go-to answer for most invitations is still “no”.

But I’m in such a better place now. I can talk to random people, to my coworkers, to my roommates. I dress well, keep myself clean and (relatively) well fed. I have a good job, my own car, a nice place to live. Again, this isn’t ‘because’ of MLP or it’s community, but it was a welcoming place that let me find myself with no judgment. It turned my self-imposed isolation around, even showed me that I wasn’t alone in my issues. As my problems have become more and more manageable, my interest in the show and the community have lessened. It started changing, and I started changing, and eventually we just didn’t link up like we used to. But it helped push my life towards a better path. I love my life now, and so I can’t thank it enough.

Why are PT Cruisers the worst car ever?

I deal with one regularly, a dark green second gen/post-facelift. It belongs to a pair of chain-smoking seventy-somethings known as grandparents and is more commonly driven and repaired by every family member except them. The inside is permanently coated in ashes and scraps of paper and the windows have more film on them than a high school photography class. The A/C doesn’t work. The heat sometimes works. They paid *five digits* for this vehicle, *used*, less than a decade ago. They are the target audience. When I get out, I immediately feel the need to shower, burn my clothes, then burn myself, not necessarily in that order.

Do you know how you jump start a PT Cruiser? Chrysler stuck a big metal prong by the hood holder clip thingie (which you will scrape your finger on every time you open the hood, by the way) to attach the negative/ground clip to. Why’d they do that? Because the airbox is directly on top of the battery. Do you want to use both terminals? Take the airbox off. Do you want to do literally anything else in the engine bay? Take the front fascia off including the grille and bumper. Now remove both fenders, making sure you don’t damage the incredibly fragile and ancient wires and clips for the headlights. Now marvel at Chrysler’s ability to make shit difficult even with the *entire front end of the car removed*. Now torch it all and buy something else, for the love of all that is holy.

The seats are uncomfortable and feel more akin to the school chairs I spent the years of my youth seated in, watching the clock, meticulously counting the seconds until the bell rang on my digital Timex Data Link watch, the kind where you held it up to your computer screen and your monitor blinked out the data to it wirelessly- which to my disappointment stopped working once the family computer had its warm CRT replaced with a cold, unfeeling flat-panel display. The school clocks lost one second every day, and I was able to use that to count when the bell would ring to the exact second. In much the same way, I spend every second in a PT Cruiser wondering when the hell I can either stop being in a PT Cruiser or get sideswiped by an SUV and stop wanting to leave the PT Cruiser- or wanting anything- ever again. Also like a school chair, the seats are less than normal sized, possibly less than human sized. I’m relatively sure the back seats are actually out of a Mustang. If the person in the front seat is above about five foot eight, the rear seats are uncomfortable- any taller and they’re actually unsafe and you have to sit cross-legged because there is *literally zero leg room*. Push the front seats up (because for some reason you aren’t just sitting in the front) and there still isn’t enough space to be comfortable and I say that as someone who barely qualifies for ‘adult’ height and sometimes needs to climb shelves at the supermarket to get the laundry detergent on the top level.

The interior is a garbage mix of plastic and depression. Everything squeaks and the only things that don’t squeak are silent because there’s so much nicotine practically dripping from its surfaces. The floor mounted gear selector is some strange cueball shaped monstrosity with a big silver button on top, because ‘retro’ shifters always have a big silver button on top, right? It vaguely resembles a robotic breast, except gynoids (robot girls, for you plebeians) make my dick hard and PT Cruisers make me skip the masturbation and go directly to the self-loathing and depression. People say the interior is parts-binned but the only other Chrysler vehicles I’ve driven have been minivans, which have had reliably comfortable interiors with tall captain’s chairs, loads of overhead space and arm room, and nice column shifters that didn’t look like someone genderbent the ABC Warriors and decided that was how the driver would get out of park. You can fold the back seats down to carry more stuff. As soon as you come to a stop it’ll all fly forward and hopefully decapitate you to end the misery of driving- not that you’ll carry much, because there still isn’t that much space as the hatch closes so close behind the seats there’s absolutely no way a normal trunk wouldn’t carry more.

The steering exists. The engine exists. You put gasoline in and it makes a bunch of noise and doesn’t really go anywhere quickly. It makes a bunch of noise because everything rusts, especially around the doors which were apparently purpose-built to collect water, and it doesn’t go anywhere because it’s crap. Maybe it’s better in the Neon, I dunno. It’s rubbish here. The transmission shifts occasionally, not that it really matters what gear you’re in because the gas mileage is gonna be crap either way. The suspension kind of exists. The front disc brakes’ effectiveness varies depending on weather, time of day, phase of moon and how badly you’re fucked if you don’t stop in time and the rear drums must be big Todd Rundgren fans because they sure as hell don’t work all day. The turning radius is dangerously close to that of my own Marquis, a car which is almost **four feet longer** than a PT Cruiser. Visibility is very, very average, and makes you feel like you’re driving a fishbowl the whole time. Parking it is an exercise in annoyance and trying to avoid being seen by anyone you know, or worse, anyone driving another PT Cruiser looking for a friend in despair.

People like customizing PT Cruisers for some reason. Every time I go out I see one with stupid eyelashes, or Autozone Special tribal decals. There’s more than one with factory woodgrain on the sides. One of them is a convertible and it looks like a picnic basket when the top is down. I want to vomit all over its pristine, flame-decal-seat-covered interior. I don’t know who these people are and I don’t know their life stories but I am judging them *very, very hard*, common courtesy be damned. I don’t like you, Picnic Basket Cruiser owner, and I don’t like your taste in obnoxiously gaudy cars.

This is a car with a stupidly high center of gravity, a failed retraux appearance, and a dashboard that for some reason displays volume on the center console but the radio station on the left side of the gauge cluster. It is not a truck, despite what rubbish Chrysler blathered about to make the EPA look the other way and count it as a truck to raise the abominable average gas mileage of their Xbox-huge truck fleet. It’s a car, a crappy one built off a Neon with a bit of radon for that extra cancerous touch, and while I’m as big of a fan as anyone else of car companies skirting rules and regs for performance reasons, like “police package” big block engines or direct partnerships with aftermarket companies for showroom-floor drag strip dominators, I simply can’t be even moderately okay with a vehicle whose only real reason to exist at all is to allow the streets to be flooded with more three story tall behemoths of chrome, steel and inattentive soccer mom.

– thesmarm

What’s it like to be addicted to Heroin?

It’s like having the worst girlfriend ever, who you are madly in love with but who treats you like shiet, makes you sell your car and house and furniture and even your high school yearbook that your crush from 10th grade signed and told you that you were cute. She’s told you to stop talking to anyone you’ve ever cared about, they don’t want to talk to you while you’re still dating her anyways.

You sell your clothes so she can go out and buy new ones. You eat ramen every meal so she ca eat at the best restaurant in town. In the morning you think about her and in the evening you think about her and when you go to take a crap but you can’t because you’re constipated you’re reminded of her. You wake up and if she’s not in bed with you you get the chills, your eyes water, you have diarrhea, you sneeze, your muscles ache, you have anxiety, you have depression, you don’t want to eat because food isn’t appealing even though your stomach is rumbling, you don’t particularly want to drink but you’re dehydrated so you force yourself to drink some water, and during all this your skin is crawling as if it was dirty covered in goose-bumps from who knows where and you wish you were still asleep so you could at least pretend she was still in the bed with you.

But you’re awake now. So you get out of bed, and you go find her. Maybe today you won’t have to do something that compromises your morals to find out where she’s gone, but really you don’t even care, as long as there is a way. You walk an hour and forty five minutes to get on the bus. You travel for another 45 minutes on public transportation. You get off at the train station in the bad part of town. All the while you have to shiet so bad but you know once you find her that will be solved.

You’re hungry but dont want to eat, once you find her you can eat. You feel dirty and sad and anxious but once you find her she’ll bathe you and make you happy and calm. But right now your walking through the ghetto. You walk another 20 minutes. Maybe it’s cold and raining, if so you are so so so cold. Maybe it’s hotter than hell and that just makes you feel dirtier.

You find a guy that knows where she is. He says he’ll go get her and bring her to you. And the cops pass you as you’re talking to him and they have to know what’s up. What’s someone like you doing in this part of town? So the 10 minute wait for her to come back to you accompanied by the guy who could give two shiets about you as long as you bring him money seems like an eternity. Maybe he’ll run off with her and your money. Maybe she wont be looking so hot today, maybe she won’t be herself. Maybe he’ll come back with a woman you don’t know and don’t want to meet but now your money is gone and you’re broke and sick and a good few hours away before you can get some more money and the world might as well be over in your opinion.

But your girlfriend comes back, he brings her, and she gives you a kiss on the cheek. Then you go home, to your mattress and your overdue rent and the lack of food and the piled up bills and the same clothes you’ve been wearing for three days and your parents that have called but you never answer and your friends that invite you out but you never go, but you’re home and she’s there with you. Eventually you go to bed. But she’s never there the next morning, and you know she won’t be, and you wish someone invented a way to pause time, or go back in time, to that first time you met her, the first couple months when you guys hung out, before she made you sell everything to be with her, but you can’t and you’re fuked. And you know it.

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Dutch tourists Kris Kremers and Lisanne Froon went missing two weeks after they arrived in Panama to study Spanish. These young women mysteriously disappeared while taking a day hike near the town of Boquete on April 1, 2014.

Froon, 22, and Kremers, 21, were last seen on April 2, 2014

Some locals found bone fragments and a backpack believed to be owned by one of them. Later on, DNA tests confirmed that the remains belonged to them.

While the reason for their disappearance remains a mystery, the camera inside the backpack provided clues as to what happened to these girls while hiking. The recovered camera contains over 100 photos all snapped within 10 days the girls went missing.

This is Froon’s photo taken on the day they went missing.

Based on their cellphone data, the girls tried to contact 911 less than two hours after this photo was snapped. However, there was no reception.

Kremers on the same location as the picture from Froon.

This shows the path the girls took while exploring the wilderness.

Cellphone data revealed these photos were taken before their first 911 call.

Picture from the trail the girls were following

These photos were taken in complete darkness and in an unknown location eight days after the girls went missing.

At least 90 photos from the camera were taken in complete darkness 10 days after they disappeared.

No sign of the girls would turn up for 9 weeks. In June, Lisanne’s backpack would be brought to the police by a Ngobe woman. She claimed to have found the pack on the riverbank of the Serpent River, and she was sure it hadn’t been there the night before. It was dry, and well packed. Inside were the following items: two bras, two smart phones, two pairs of cheap sunglasses, a water bottle, Lisanne’s camera and passport, as well as $83. The camera contained over 90 pictures.

Here’s the recovered backpack containing the camera, cellphone, and other personal belongings.

These are photos of the remains and bone fragments discovered by the locals.
DNA testing would confirm the left foot of Lisanne Froon still in her boot, and the pelvis and rib of Kris Kremers. 

The police believe that one of the women got injured while trailing the densely wooded area. The other woman attempted to help but also possibly got injured. With failed attempts to contact 911 and zero food and water, the girls only had days to survive the forest.

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10 Questions You Always Wanted To Ask: A Feminist Sex Worker

This 16-year-old German girl allegedly fought for ISIS

Robbers Get Owned By Some Unexpectedly Sturdy Jewelry Cases

Optimistic Nihilism – Kurzgesagt – In a Nutshell

The rise of Vladimir Putin

Scary Movie – Wassup

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The Benefits of Optimal Testosterone – The Art Of Manliness

17 Gnarly Injuries You Should Never, EVER Google Image Search – Ranker

Let Kylie Rae And Her Perfect Bod Take Over Your Instagram Feed – Mandatory

Maxim Model Khloë Terae Just Dropped the Hottest Topless Video You’ll See All Day – Maxim

How to Have the Best Day of Your Life – Thrive

44 Favorite Books of High Achievers – INC

Federal Stimulus Package To Pay Off The Mortgage – Comparisons

The Uberpreneur: How An Uber Driver Makes $252,000 A Year – Forbes

Kristin Beck: A Navy SEAL in Transition – GQ

Why Corrupt Bankers Avoid Jail…
Prosecution of white-collar crime is at a twenty-year low – New Yorker

The Most Hellish Marathon In The World – Esquire

Senate Rejects Proposal to Repeal ObamaCare – Newser

This teen’s look was supposedly too revealing for picture day at school, and she’s not happy about it – Rare

Alessandra Sironi Is One Hot Piece – Yes Bitch

Another Happy Hump Day is Upon Us (39 Photos) – Radass

Josie Canseco Heats Up Her Instagram – Hollywood Tuna

Cavaliers reportedly setting the wheels in motion for a trade of Kyrie Irving – FanBuzz

10 Stubborn Food Myths That Just Won’t Die, Debunked by Science – Life Hacker

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Instagram

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Recording A Spotify Ad

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No matter what you’re doing right now, someone is out there working hard, doing exactly what you’re doing, but even better.

They’re putting more time into research. They’re working longer hours. They’re working smarter hours. They’re investing more time and energy and power into doing exactly what you’re doing.

So as you reach for that remote realize that someone else is reaching for the pot of coffee. They’re extending their work day. They’re putting in over time. They’re inching toward mastery while you’re, well, resting.

I mean, what’s an hour of TV? What’s a nap? What’s a couple more minutes sleeping in the comfort of your bed?

It’s EVERYTHING.

It’s the small decisions that become habits, and its your habits that make who you are, be it a millionaire or someone struggling along to make a buck. Be it a pussy, a coward who never dares greatly, or the man conquering everything he sets his sights on.

As you read this, understand that someone is doing what you’re doing, only they’re working harder than you are.

Some will read this and shrink. Others will read this and rise to the occasion.

Some will think that this is unfair, that the fella working harder than them somehow has it easier than they do while others won’t give a fuck. They’ll just working harder.

Which are you?

Are you the kind of man that reads this and gets inspired to do more, be more?

Or are you the fella who shrinks? Who thinks life is a series of events happening TO HIM rather than a series of events that he’s embarking upon and shaping?

The choice is yours.

Man up.

(via)

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El Gato Chimney

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 Julia Razumova

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