Self-Appointed Watchdog.

My roommate has decided the reason I hate Anne Hathaway’s face is because she has “too much face on her face.” I’m still trying to understand that, but she also managed to find a several Facebook groups dedicated to hating Hathaway’s face.  For that reason alone, I will continue to use Facebook. 

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I recently saw an old man carrying a small white and red cooler as he crossed the street. He had a wicked hunchback and sported a pretty swag baseball cap. All I could think was That man totally has organs in there.  He seemed pretty chill and really, carrying organs around with you only makes you cooler (especially if you’re badass like Ke$ha and you eat that shit for dinner), but now I really wish I had been able to peak inside. Next time I see someone carrying a red and white cooler, I’m Chuck Norris’ing that shit from them.

On an unrelated note, last night I was watching the news thinking There should be more coverage of unicorns and less coverage of sadness, when all of a sudden this man appeared on the screen, standing in front of a gas station in the middle of buttfuck nowhere. I don’t know what the hell he was talking about, but the caption under his name read “Gas Price Watchdog.” Now wait just a minute. Is that his job title? How does a person become an official watchdog?  How much do you have to watch gas prices to be considered a watchdog?  And more importantly, is he a watchdog in other facets of his life?

We need to be friends.