New content every weekday. Sometimes.

Month: September, 2015

Tip of the Day #510

by Lincoln Sedlacek

While it may be nice to populate the walls of your house with family photos, it’s much more cost effective to just buy picture frames and leave in the stock photos.

Tweets From the Twitter Account I Made for My Neighbor’s Dog

by Lincoln Sedlacek

Dog Twitter

-Melissa Chiasson, Jordy Greenblatt, and Lincoln Sedlacek

Types of Clothing That Apparently Don’t Exist, According to My Company’s Dress Code

by Lincoln Sedlacek

  • Dress shorts
  • Sleeveless polo shirts
  • Formal flip-flops
  • Proper professional sweat pants
  • Business casual bathrobes

from PIAOR’s Book of Quotations, Page 482

by Lincoln Sedlacek

“Whenever you do a thing, act as if all the world were watching. Unless you’re practicing French kissing with a taxidermied turtle. Then make sure no one is watching.”
–Thomas Jefferson

How to Announce College Breaks

by Lincoln Sedlacek

Spring Break: Go to the nearest “party” beach. Shotgun a beer, crush it in your hand, take off an article of clothing that leaves you semi-decently covered, and scream, “Spriiiiiiing Breeeeeeeaaaaaaak!” at the top of your lungs.

Fall Break: Go to the nearest apple orchard. Do a keg stand on a barrel of hard apple cider. Smash a pair of gourds together over your head, then scream, “Faaaall Breeeaaak!” while charging into a pile of leaves.

Thanksgiving Break: Go to the nearest Thanksgiving dinner reenactment, in full Pilgrim attire. Pick up the nearest pumpkin pie and shove as much of it as possible into your mouth in the space of five seconds. Get on the table, take off your pilgrim hat or coif, swing it around over your head, and scream, “Thanksgiving Break!” before body slamming a live turkey.

Winter Break: Go to the nearest holiday party. Drain the entire crystal bowl of punch, then smash it enthusiastically into the gingerbread house. Swing your scarf in the air above your head, and scream, “Winterrrrrrrrrrr Break! Who’s ready to get on the naughty list!”

Easter Break: Go to the nearest Easter mass. Sit quietly throughout the service, until the taking of Holy Communion. When it’s your turn, grab the cup from the priest, climb onto the altar and drain every last bit of wine from it, and scream, “Easter Break!” jumping into the congregation as you do so. After you presumably land on the floor, get groggily to your feet, then wait a few seconds before yelling, “He is riseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen!”

Just a Thought: Bats and Bridges

by Lincoln Sedlacek

In lots of cities, bats live in the spaces between rafters under bridges. These bats, like all bats, have really good hearing. So do they ever get frustrated trying to sleep when they’re literally living directly under an overpass?

Preview of The Food Network’s New Fall Line-Up

by Lincoln Sedlacek

Beefcake Wars: In each episode, three of America’s top bakers compete for $25,000 in a cake-baking and -decorating competition. The only restriction? Each cake has to contain a muscular hunk who will burst out of the dessert during the judging, wearing nothing but a tiny, brightly-colored G-string. Cake themes vary from “Bachelor Party” to “Under the Sea” to “Baby’s First Birthday,” but one thing’s for certain: the only thing that will be sweeter than the cakes is the man-candy inside.

Dachshund Diner: This show delves into the fascinating history of the Dachshund Diner, the only restaurant in America where dogs are on the menu. The first season covers topics including: the creation of the “dog-gone delicious” dessert menu, the installation of the cage from which people choose their live Dachshund, and – of course – the controversial decision to made “doggy bags” from the skins of the diner’s titular animals.

Sous/Sue Chefs: Five chefs are pitted against one another in an hour-long competition to create the dish the judge deems most worthy of a lawsuit. But while chefs are encouraged to violate health and safety regulations as much as possible, they are automatically eliminated from the competition if their dish actually kills the judge.

Kid Kitchen: Four children must use all of their culinary skills to face off against each other in preparing a delicious meal consisting of an entree, a side, and a dessert. While the contestants may be lacking in culinary knowledge and experience, it’s fun to watch five-year-olds struggle to maneuver a 18-lb cast-iron skillet and then be told that their grilled cheese is “frankly, really dry and a little underseasoned.”

Learning About Lobster: Alton Brown walks us through the intricacies of cooking lobster. Every episode, without fail, he ends up spending the entire time graphically explaining how to use the lobster’s antennae to enter its anal cavity and clean out its intestines.

Happy Birthday to My Dad, In Four Acts

by Melissa Chiasson


I am three. I am minigolfing for the second time ever. Based on my first minigolf experience, I can tell you that I am very good, maybe even the best three-year-old to wield a club, period.

What’s this? I have hit the ball but it is not going into the hole. They say that parents are supposed to protect their children from pain, yet you just stand there, nervously watching as a line starts to form behind us as I continue to flail. Hoping to assist, you ask me what is wrong.

I do not mince words: “The fucking ball won’t go in the fucking hole.”

You may claim you have prouder moments as a father, but you would be wrong.


I am eighteen. I am selling a TV on craigslist. A man interested in buying it comes to the house and is quickly distracted by the small zen garden we have on a side table. Earlier that day, I had written “FUCK” in large letters in the sand, and we both hold our collective breath as this guy closely inspects the garden, waiting for him to notice the obscenity. He doesn’t, and we high five when he leaves with the TV in tow.

Wow, these fond memories involve way more use of the word “fuck” than I thought they would.


I am twenty. I am very depressed. I spend my winter break crying in my bedroom, on the couch, and, most notably, in the drive-through of a Whataburger as I order a honey butter chicken biscuit.

One day, as I lie sobbing on my bed, defeated by this hopeless haze that refuses to lift, you tell me that we will get through this.

And, for a moment, I can believe it.


I am twenty-six. I tell you about the donut I ate this morning. You tell me about the donut you ate this morning. While we may no longer play minigolf, I’m grateful for every fucking day I can eat a fucking donut and talk about it with my fucking dad.

Happy birthday, Pops! Ratemyprofessors.com may give you a 4.7, but I’d give you a 5 any day.

Tip of the Day #599

by Lincoln Sedlacek

Out of tomato sauce? You can easily substitute it with red paint, provided your goal is to make things red and not to make delicious food.

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