The Gym Rat

Omar the gym rat. That's what they call me. I'm all about fitness and pumping irons. I honestly only go to the gym to compensate my super unhealthy lifestyle of corndog/pastrami sandwiches and beer whisky stuff. And I realize they call me gym rat simply because I'm always searching for cheese when I'm at the gym. 

Just like the airport or the mall, the gym is a great place to people judge. I mean people watch. It's a great place to watch people and judge them. I spend on average 5 to 6 hours in the gym a week. (Whenever someone says that they mean 3 to 4) I've grown very close to these people. I've never spoken to these people. But they are the center of my visual attention for my entire workout and what I do inbetween finding gym cheese. 

Lets paint a picture of Omar going to the gym. It starts out with signing in. I always provide a witty and funny hello to the cute young girl/boy hybrid that Portland seems to produce. One time, it wasn't a hybrid. Just a cute girl. As we smiled and I joked about most likely weight lifting related punny humor...I handed her my keys that have my membership card attached for her to scan. As I reached, our hands touched. It would have been a normal event, except for the fact that a foreign body that was hitching a ride on my right hand departed from my hand and attached onto hers. Embarrassed? Not really...just was trying to figure out what could have been sticky, blue and red, booger shaped and traveling on my body. The best part is that she held her smile, but you could see the hate in her eyes and the corner of her lips eventually started to drop. She held eye contact with me as I could see her try and fling these patriotic themed sticky boogers off. It was when I entered the locker room when I realized what it was. Leftovers from my pre-workout snack....fruit gushers. 

Enter the locker room. The mens locker room. Because I'm a man. But not as much of man as these savage 90 year olds. They make a point of showing you that gravity is a law...not a theory. Definitely a thing. They look like walking and talking Salvador Dali paintings. I'm a scared young rat kid walking through a funhouse maze of mirrors with these confident old farts. I'm looking forward to this when I get old. The gross part is that they're always wet. Not sure why? Combination of sweat, shower water, and what I assume is Brut after-shave. The grosser part is I ALWAYS step in this cocktail of old man body fluid with my socks on. This is probably why I have Atheletes Foot and arthritis in me toes. Shit is contagious. 

Jk my feet are hot. 

Now it's time to workout. I don't know how to workout unless I stop by the drug man that sells powders that taste like Bubba Yum gum mixed with Duracell battery explosion. I go with the well known preworkout drink, NO-Explode! I think it has exclamation points in the name as well as the ingredients. So from what I gather from the effects of this wonder, is that you will literally explode out your asshole. That brings us to the next part of my gym journey...back to the locker room to the bathrooms. Here you will hear a row of grown men singing demonic operas in harmony straight from their poop makers. I, my friends, am the fecalsetto. This portion of the workout really activates the core. And the GI tract. 

Upon completion of this workout, I measure the weight this NO-Explode made me lose. I hate exercising. 

Fin. Tune in next time to learn more about the varying Gym personalities. We have Inspector Gadget/Tom Selleck hybrid dude...black Tiger Woods...the blind couple...and many more! 

Lunch and Types of Stereos

My childhood was filled with a disgusting trait that doesn't look good on anyone. Envy. Envious of all the kids in school that were eating corndogs. Growing up Muslim eliminated the possibility of eating the pork infused chicken/pigeon meat rod coated in the crispy, yet spongy, exoskeleton that is the key to the corn dog. This all changed in March of 2004 with the introduction of ALL BEEF CORNDOGS. I'm sure I'm lying about the date...but who cares. This brings us to today. I've been losing weight because I misheard the College Freshman "15" as the College Freshman "50." I'm almost at the weight to my pre-competitive eating days...but I have my fall backs. Today, I was going to get a salad for lunch. I ended up with a corndog. Well, a corndog and a pastrami sandwich. I couldn't tell you which one was the entree and which was the side. I got a flashback to when I first moved to Portland and was eating bologna sandwiched and corndogs for every meal until that pack of 20 corndogs was empty. The true struggle with this meal, however, isn't that I couldn't determine which was side and which was entree....it was that I was driving. I eat and drive all the time, but this is the first time in my life that an ambulance appears behind me and whips their sirens on...waiting for me to move the fuck out of the way. I didn't know which item to put down...because I didn't understand the hierarchy of my food options. I had my right hand on the pastrami, left on the corn dog. So I just braked. I panicked....the ambulance driver was now also blowing his horn at me. I looked in the rear view and could see what I could only assume was screaming and cussing me out to get out of the way. So if you lost a loved one, in Vancouver, WA due to emergency services not arriving in time...just know that the entree is whatever you make it. 

I was always wise beyond my years. In elementary school, I completely understood the concept of racial stereotypes and saw how they potentially hold true. Can you believe that? Baby Marmar so smart he was able to see these small separations between a group of people, so young, so innocent, yet so different. Let's start with the black kids. Was it a stereotype that they all had outty bellybuttons while the rest of us had innies? I don't know, but it was and is true. I haven't seen a black belly button in years, but I can assume they found their way back inside. There was this kid named Tod in first grade who used to lift his shirt and flick his outty belly button. He provided me and Austin Reeves hours of entertainment. Not only did the black kids have outties, but they also opened their ketchup packets in the most creative ways. Everyone else would follow the rules, and tear at the perforated edge. Not my black friends. They used to twist that motha fucka til it POP POPPED! Some would fold that motha in half, then bite a hole in dat bitch, and squirt it all over their fries!

The Mexican kids want nothing to do with you if you're not Mexican. They will also only speak Mexican to make you think that they only know Mexican and to remind you that you, are in fact, not Mexican. We had an influx of Mexicans in 6th grade. I was really excited because I thought they were like me. They weren't. And they let me know that on a daily basis. They wanted nothing to do with me.

The white kids' parents loved them. If you took a look outside after school where the parents are all lined up in their cars to pick up the kids, you would have guessed that they segregated the line and put the whites up front. They didn't. They were just lined up in order of who loves their kids the most. I had to walk home from school. 

I always found it interesting that I was never part of a stereotype. I was universally accepted....so I thought. I was too naive and stupid to realize I was in fact categorized like the rest of the class....and it was the worst one of all. I, Marmar Muhammad Abdulhadsfasdfl, along with some other Indians and SE Asians, fell into the stereotype of kids who had smelly backpacks. My backpack wasn't even smelly, it just smelled like the spices my mom used to cook our meals. Probably because she would pack my backpack with a makeshift lunchbox with those homemade meals.

"What are you having for lunch?"

"Lunchables! What about you?"

"...a yogurt sandwich."

"EWWWWWWW!!!!!!"

"Fuck off, Tod."

Queso Dick

Enough about smooth legged Caleb, let's bring it south of the border. Mexico. "Canada's Colon" as its referred to in my apartment. That's where this next Queso Dick is from. Gerardo "Jerry" Mota. 

Jerry and I were like two peas in a pathetic, slightly border-line mentally challenged pod. In our graduating class, him and I were the only seniors who had no research experience. Our classmates were published at this point, while the Mexican and the probably Indian-me hadn’t even been allowed in a lab. So we started to get our shit together and put our asses in gear. “Let’s do it!” said nobody.

As biomedical engineering students…it was pretty imperative that we find research opportunities dealing with our field. You know…like absolutely anything dealing with the human body. So naturally, I end up landing a research position working on goddamn helicopters. My assumption was to turn this opportunity into a potential Inspector Gadget type project. That never happened…I wasn’t allowed to touch much in this lab. Jerry, on the other hand, is much less classy. His research project was on fucking vacuum cleaners. Not “fucking” vacuum cleaners…you get it. His project actually was on bed bugs and he had to use a specific type of vacuum to be able to suck them up and do research on them.

In doing this project, Jerry had to get samples off of volunteer’s beds. He would show up with his Ghost Busters vacuum cleaner and go to town on the volunteer’s bed. He was a natural at this type of housekeeping duty for some reason. If the volunteer’s bed happened to have bed bugs…the research department would trade them a brand new mattress for the bed bug petri dished mattress they were sleeping on. Good deal, right?

Jerry came to my house. He claimed that none of his volunteers had bedbugs yet, and he wanted to find some for science. So he came to my house.

I didn't know what was more fucked up. The fact that my "friend" was confident that my bed had bedbugs or the fact that I was even more confident that it did and began painting a picture of me in my brand new bed! Maybe I’ll get a temperpedic racecar waterbed! Oh the endless options. My imagination ran wild.

The results were negative.

Very mixed emotions for everyone involved at this major milestone in Life of Omar. Jerry now shifted his confidence to now being confident that he made an error in his research. He was willing to degrade his own research skills on how confident he was that my bed would have bed bugs. Well fuck Jerry Mota. 

Jerry and I became friends when I realized he was the other dude in the study group that wasn't talking much. When people don't talk in study groups, I've come to realize it is because of the following reasons:

1. They  truly are the smartest student in class. They want to know what everyone else knows, sharing nothing of what they know. They do this to secure cerebral dominance over the rest of us idiots. These fucks also say things like "I didn't study at all for this exam" when everyone knows that they were spending their Friday nights in the library while me and dumdums were trying to see which alcohols you could light on fire before you drank it. Jerry was not this person. I knew this because he was wearing a Tony Romo jersey.

2. Socially awkward kids. They are a part of these study groups to look at the pretty girls and possibly collect the hair that falls off her head in hopes they can build their own version in their closets. There were actually a little too many of these kids.  

3. Class dumdum. Jerry was this. I know this because he was wearing a Tony Romo jersey. I also know this because I too was the class dumdum. I'd like to state now that Jerry and I have grown up and become successful brown men in the working world, but we are both still very confused of how we got here. I'd also like to clarify that we weren't dumb, he just had a hard time grasping concepts because he was in his mid-50s, and for me, I forgot I had to go to class for a couple of years. But when we met, everything was about change. We began our friendship smoking the first of 100s of study cigarettes together. We gathered a couple of Indians on our squad immediately, because that is the first step to success. Shout out to Ronic like Sonic, and lets get mothafuckin Rachit!

We did our projects together. I think it is because no one else wanted us, Jerry tried to convince us it was because we were too cool. That wasn't the case. I know this wasn't the case because of the heated arguments we would get in. And also because Jerry was wearing a Tony Romo jersey when I first met him.

Our very last project together…we had to develop a medical device from our imagination. Jerry was so sold on his device. Please sit back as I explain this child sex toy he wanted to develop.

"Hey man, you know how babies always drop their pacifiers? Why don't we develop a pacifier that straps around the babies head and stays in?"

"um, how about we don't do that Jerry. Putting a fucking choke gag on a baby won't get us anywhere in life, and definitely won't get us this degree.”

Tony Romo sucks. 

Locker? I hardly know her.

Growing up, having the last name "Abdulhadi," put me in first for a lot of things. I always had the first seat in assigned seated classes, first in the line to lunch when the bitch first grade teacher lines us up alphabetically, and of course...I was always assigned the first locker at the beginning of each year.

"Oh wow, congrats on getting the first locker each year shit head...what do I care?"

....That is the typical attitude of a bottom locker ditch dweller. I spent my whole pre college life as a top locker alpha. I'd look down to the bottom locker scum in both the literal and figurative sense. I would say things to the clowns like "Hey, while you're on your knees...." or "I hope your first born has teeth as hair..." you know, the typical degrading things you would say to people beneath you.

Bottom locker people are the type of people that probably still raised their hands and asked professors to go to the restroom when they got to college. Actually, bottom locker people probably didn't make it to college. They instead moved into aquariums and ate the fish shit off the bottom of the aquarium because they weren't good enough to eat the actually fish food, which coincidentally tastes and smells a lot like fish shit. They are also the kind of people that probably enjoy USA network originals and laugh at The Big Bang Theory.

Caleb was one of these underground septic tank bottom locker dwellers. Come senior year of high school, enough time has passed to where I have forgiven Caleb for the shit he got me into with Mrs. Goldman, the first grade teacher bitch. First day of senior year, we are getting assigned lockers. I, as the alpha top locker man I am, get assigned locker 624....top locker. As the teacher continues to assign these lockers, he (or she...I don't remember all the details from high school that I am probably making up anyway) she says, "You guys can share a locker if you wish."

That's when I had the brilliant idea that Caleb and I should share a locker. He was so excited. (He hated the idea) He couldn't wait to share a locker with me. (He hated the idea) So I volunteered that Caleb and I would share a locker.

This is when Caleb and I truly tested our best friendshipism. I wanted our locker to be THE hangout. I wanted bells and whistles, while Caleb just wanted a place to keep his books. As any normal couple would do, we compromised. We made our locker THE hangout of Eastside High School. I got to work quickly, finding all the things you would need to make a badass locker be talked about for years and years. First things first....we need music. I found an old intercom speaker and put it in the locker. It took exactly one half of the space. So now we had mine and Caleb's books crammed into one half of a half locker. It was still a penthouse locker, so it was so worth it.

Next, we need decorations. Caleb thought it was a good idea to decorate it with a disco ball....but we had no disco ball....so he began this nasty nasty collection of different color gums that were chewed up and he would mold them into a ball. The really trashy part of his contribution is that he never actually chewed any of this gum himself.....it came exclusively from the bottom of the desks at Eastside highschool. He would sit there in each class and feel for gum underneath his desk. Gross. Caleb was a dirty person, but I didn't argue...I loved his dedication to enhance our penthouse locker lifestyle. This ball got so big, it ended up taking 1/4 of the 1/2 of the 1/2 penthouse locker we shared. That leaves me and Caleb with 3/4 of the 1/2 of the 1/2 penthouse locker for books.

I'm sure Caleb is reading this now pissed off....1 because I am lying about the disco ball of gum...it was actually me. He urged me many times to stop putting used gum in our locker. 2. My books never came out of the locker. We had many of the same classes, so I would just look along with him in class. And I don't think I actually ever took a book home to study.  So essentially the 1/4 of the 1/2 of the 1/2 penthouse locker we shared were just MY books. Did I mention that speaker that took up 1/2 of the locker was NEVER hooked up to anything? It was never used. Ever. It stayed there for the entire year.

Caleb gets mad so easily. He got mad that I volunteered we share a locker, and he essentially spent his whole senior year carrying all his books because I was more concerned about my penthouse locker being the talk of the school.

Well fuck Caleb, he made me pull a card in first grade...that smooth legged dick.

In this photo, you can see how Caleb was 80% Vaseline as a kid. 

 

Ibn Kelb

Ibn Kelb

Son of a bitch is what that means. Arabic insults are my absolute favorite. Allah yakhrabetek. May god destroy your house. Allah ya sawad wij'hak. May god blacken your face. What kinda racist ass bullshit is that? But Ibn Kelb, that's son of a bitch. Kelb technically means dog...but you get the idea. 

So you now understand why I found it so great that my mom calls my best friend since 1st grade "Kelb" instead of his Christian god given name, Caleb. (she also used to call my friend "Doug" by the creative name, "Dog." Lovely woman.)

So let me tell you about this little first grade boy that I loved. Not now. I mean the boy I love isn't currently in first grade. I'm not gay. I feel like I have to keep reminding you guys. I need it to be clear....he is older now. I was also in first grade when I fell in love with my first best friend.

That's a lie, my first best friend's name was Thomas and he was deaf. I honestly haven't thought about Thomas in 21 years until I was typing this....Psht, what a shitty friend he is. He didn't even congratulate me on my homeroom class in 7th grade won a pizza party for perfect attendance in the 4th quarter of school. F You Thomas. 

CALEB, I met him on the playground in first grade during recess. I remember playing on the spiral ladder/slide? I guess that's what that is. I played on it probably super inappropriately by straddling my legs around it wiping my privates on it the whole way down rotating like I was grinding on a spiral noodle trying to wipe all the marinara sauce off with my groin. All while singing "Don't break my heart" by Miley Cyrus' birth father. That's when he saw me across the playground. He came running with his smooth child legs and asked me if I wanted to play.

"You bet your fucking sweet ass I want to play." I declared.

And lemme tell you... we played. and played and played. The funny thing is, its as if I never knew that this was the same kid who sat next to me in class since the beginning of the school year (6 months prior.) But we saw each other in a new light that day on the playground and we wanted to bring the playing back inside from recess.

So we did. Caleb reached under the desk and slapped the top of my hand. Oh no he didn't! I slapped his hand back. He gave it right back. I slapped him back. Ya'll, it was nuts! We were having an all out handsie war right there in class!

That's when it happened. That when that dumb bitch Mrs Goldman thought that enough was enough and stopped the class to yell at me and Kelb. "Go pull a bus!" she said. Pulling a bus mean you had to pull the laminated construction paper cutout of a buss velcroed to the wall next to your name. This was step 1 of a disciplinary road to destruction. The removal of that green bus was the gateway drug to a life of crime. It was what marijuana is to heroin. (ha, fucking morons) I ended up pulling many busses, gumballs, stars, and hair the remainder of my elementary - college years. 

It was at this moment that I realized that he wasn't worth it. Fuck Caleb. How could he lead me down this path. He wasn't even that fun and his legs weren't even that cool. Until I looked into his eyes. He cried. He cried like a bitch. I cried too, but like a man. I did have a mustache in grade school. He cried like a baby back bitch, and the best part is he had two magnifying glasses taped together glued to his head as glasses. He was one of those kids that had glasses that wrapped all the way around the ear because he was too stupid to keep them on his face. He also was one of those kids that always had eye patches on...and as a kid you're wondering, "why the fuck does this fake ass pirate have an eye patch on? And why does it switch from eye to eye throughout the school year?" So his tears were magnified 300X which he deserves for getting me into trouble. I hated Caleb. 

Well that's how it all started. Stay tuned for part II. Caleb hates this story, and claims I add more details each time I tell it. I feel like I tell him the story more than anyone else, just to remind him of the events that lead to....THE LOCKER. 

A few notes from tonight's blog, this whole time I thought the word "laminated" was "elaminated". 

Omar "Omer" Muhammad Ali Abdulhadi...the racist??

I'm not racist, I just crush a lot. Get it? Biggie. Biggie said that....whatever. If you had an iliac crest bone in your body, you'd know. Ha get it? Hip bone? Being Hip? Hip-hop? Hop scotch? Osh kosh bekosh. Overalls. Underwear? Under there.

I live by myself, which is amazing. I went from living with three best friends to living with my true best friend, myself. Guess what though...I'm tired of what my roommate has to say and by the end of the day, I want to relax with someone who doesn't share the same clothes and teeth as I do. 

The problem with that, though...is I know like three people here. I know more but I've met many people that are out of my age group or out of my interests group. So I figured, lemme try good 'ol Craig and his list. I tried the list Shindler came up with before, but it wasn't exactly helpful. 

Boy oh boy did I find some badass living situations here for half the price I am paying now. I pay many monies for the closet I live in. It is under 400 sqft..So I began the search. I saw plenty of excellent places, shot them an email with all the information they asked....nothing. Then I realized it, people aren't responding well to the idea of a guy named Omar Abdulhadi being their roommate. I shared my concerns with my lovely coworker, Allison. She's of course a lovely tall pretty blonde who probably has never encountered similar issues, so her advice (which I thought at the time was great) was shit. Absolute shit. "Omar, just send them a picture of yourself so that they see your a normal person." What a shit idea, Al. ( I began calling her Al, Big Al, Capone to increase insecurities to the best of my ability. Everyone should be insecure) I found a girl with a great house in a great neighborhood who responded to my text about the open room! "Sounds great! Tell me a little bit about yourself, name, job, age?" I answered it all, and topped it off with a picture of myself. No answer. Now I can only assume she was NOT a fan of my name, my age, my job, and definitely not my looks. 

"Maybe she thought you were cute and she thought living with you might be hard on her," said Al. To paint a better picture of Al, she was holding her nose because the people around her were "too smelly" as she was saying this. 

"Fuck you, Al."

I went to my first National Sales Meeting in Orlando on my 4th week on the job. For this specific conference, we were required to shack up with another roommate. They have a system for this, either room with someone you know...or send a request to another Rep from a list of names. I saw a bunch of Garcias and Patels and Yengs.... I kept scrolling. Keeping in mind some of my best friends in college were Mexican, Indian, and mixes. I stopped at the gem of a name. I knew this would be my roommate. The name? Thomas Connors....Are you kidding me? That's the most caucasian name I've ever even heard of. Roommate request sent. I was excited, I was about to go to my first NSM with a white dude. No offense to other races, I just didn't want someone from a different country who barely knew the business on the state side or possibly even the language. At least not at my first NSM....in doing this, I forgot that my name is what it is. Two days later, I got an email. THOMAS CONNORS REJECTED YOUR REQUEST, PLEASE FIND ANOTHER ROOMMATE. Fuck Thomas Connors. 

Weeks go by and I have to spend a month in Minneapolis for corporate training. I made some great friends there (that'll be another story.) One of the best friends I made goes by the name Tom. I knew we were going to be the best of friends after he referred to people in Zone C on Southwest flights as "mutants," all while asking me to stop eating boiled eggs next to him because the smell was too much. It sounds like he is fancy...because  of his distaste for boiled-egg breath...but to be fair, my mouth hole was literally ventilating the egg fumes directly in his face.  Anyway, the group had a couple days left and we were celebrating each other's company before we all went to our respected territories. I begin telling Tom and the clan about how my accidental racism backfired as the roommate request I sent got denied....That's when I realized who the fuck Tom was. He was Thommas Connors. He immediately starts to share a "similar" story, but of how he turned down a request. 

Moral of the story is fuck Al, fuck Tom, and above all...fuck Craig. 

The Neck Bone's Connected to the Foot Bone

People who know me know that I am a true advocate for Human Rights for animals. All my friends had dying pets when I was growing up, so I thought it was appropriate anytime I'd see them to always ask if their pet was still alive. Most of my friends stopped finding this funny as I continue to ask about the dead pets that have left this world 10 years ago. So it may come as a surprise when I tell you about this time that I fell over in laughter at a sushi restaurant in regards to a handicapped animal.

This animal didn't start off handicapped....it was forced into handicappness at the hands of all you zoo goers....

So get this...my first Portland friends came here from the Oklahoma and they told me about their zoo among other strange things that aren't that far off from life in South Carolina. I have no recollection to anything else they said that night because my ears are selfish and will only listen if something interests me. So when the discussion of a giraffe at their zoo had a bent neck....you bet your fine black ass I started paying attention to the conversation that I'm assuming was already an hour or two deep. "Giraffe" "Bent" "Neck" all words that were going to immediately catch my attention after I watched and rewatched and rewatched that youtube video of the giraffes fighting. Insane, check it out. 

"Wait, what?" I profoundly profounded. So they tell me a while ago the Tulsa Zoo had been announcing the arrival of Amali, the female giraffe coming to breed with whatever jock giraffe they had locked up in the giraffe exhibit. The idiots, however, transported this poor animal in a fucking semi trailor. I know its awful, but I couldn't handle the thought of a giraffe riding all the way from Africa(?) in a shipping container with its neck tilted at a 90 degree angle. Which direction did they tilt Amali's neck? Who knows...I don't even have a recommendation of how to tilt the giraffes head in a container to make it suck the least. I hate when my hair touches the ceiling in a car, I can't imagine what this long necked horse must have felt. I also begain wondering if it laid down in the trailer like a dog, but instead of curling its head in and rests on its front paws, she just curled it 2 or 3 times before letting it rest on the ground before her. So kinda half horse half Arby's curly fry action. I also imagined the giraffe on its belly and the neck stretched out way out in front and the legs sprawled out to the left and right side. The key to this, however, is to cut holes in the side of the trailer for the feet. 

Well anyway, so the idiots of Tulsa, Oklahoma were really excited, then bummed yet curious as to why this giraffe was shaped like a question mark, then sad because Amali didn't live more than two weeks in Tulsa. Those are the 5 steps of giraffe mourning. If you went back to see if I listed 5 steps, fuck you. 

Cheese Snacks 2

The first rule in the Blog Writing seminar I took in the abandoned Greenville mall was, obviously:

Don't Write About Cheese Flavored Edibles.

The second rule you ask? The second rule was the following:

If You Choose to Write About Cheese Flavored Edibles, Make Sure It is a One Time Occurrence.

Well fuck the rules and fuck that seminar at the Greenville Mall that I made up. (Is the mall still there?) 

Some of my millions of fans may be worried. "Oh no, Omar ran out of shit to talk about." I want to assure you that I have plenty of nonsense to talk about, but if you see repetition from me...you better take some fucking notes because shit be important. 

The important thing to know about Cheese-It is that not every Cheese-It is created equal. Just like humans. I'd say the reduced fat Cheese Its are 3/8ths as worthy of the regular Cheese It. Some are looking for a healthier option...so they take the 3/8ths Cheese It compromise. Then you have the Hot and Spicy. Boy oh boy are those delicious. I'd be willing to rub parts of me with this flavor if it didn't burn so damn good. I don't even like Tabasco sauce, and I love this one. Then you have the white cheddar....they're not my fave. They aren't terrible. If they are your favorite, I imagine you living an extraordinary average life enjoying things like Burn Notice, and other USA network originals. You probably prefer movies such as Scorpion King featuring the one and only, Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson.

Seriously though, I know 60 percent of you watch that garbage....How do you do it? 

We get it, you like the cheese snacks Omar...what's the point. The point is that Cheese Nips are fucking disgusting. I have proof... 

My favorite female in the world right now is my beautiful niece, Raya. Raya came out of my sister with the attitude of Whoopy Goldberg in Sister Act 2. She has a stronger personality than her two older brothers. I always love the most recent kid the most, and I like to remind the older ones of this. Raya is kid number three and my favorite. Then there is Juode. I'm never quite sure how to spell his name, but I don't think he is old enough to know either. I love him half as much as Raya. Then there is Riad...he is 6 now. So mathematically, I love him half as much as Juode, or a quarter as much as Raya. Nothing against the kids, its just math. 

I'll go into detail later. I just want to leave you with what a civilized human does when presented with those gross ass Cheese Nips. This is my beautiful Raya. I love her with my hearts and farts because, not only is she blood, but she shares the same mentality as the rest of us Cheese It lovers. My sister, in her carelessness when it comes to grocery shopping, bought those shit squares I speak so ill of. Enjoy. 

Allow me translate for you Non-Arabic speaking folk:

Baby: Goo goo. Ga ga. 

Mom: Where's baby Raya?! Why did you get upset?

Baby: Wait a sec....Dafuq dis is? AHHH!

Mom: You throwin food on the ground? Why the hell you throwing food on the ground?

Baby: Cuz fuk yo food and these nasty ass cheese shits. I'd rather snort the fake powder cheese from a Krafts mac n cheese box.