Mongo Nation

Please join me in welcoming a talented new contributor, Tom Oatmeal!

By Tom Oatmeal

All that I really know about Mr. Oatmeal is that an idiot horse bit his hand off when he was trying to feed him a pinecone, that he enjoys sugar, and is excited by the pronunciation of the word “excite”.

Also, he is quite possibly the only person on the face of the earth that has ever read the novelization of the film “Kickboxer”, starring Jean Claude Van Damme. -Jeremy

I Deserve A Better Life, By Tom Oatmeal

Don’t Patronize Me! See?!

The other day I was dominating in tetherball against this retarded kid with no fingers and I thought to myself, “You know what? I’m a pretty nice guy to be out here in the heat like this.” Then I thought, “Well shit. I do a lot of nice things basically all the time!” It’s true really. I’m like a ray of goddamned sunshine and I’m not even talking about just to mongoloids or whatever. I’m pretty nice to real people too! Then I thought, “How is my life not better? Should I move the tetherball pole to the front yard so more attractive women can see the good deed I’m doing?” Then I dared the retarded kid to chew up the tether ball because I needed some “me time” to think on it.

To say that I connect on all cylinders in every aspect of my life is a gross understatement. I’m a hard worker, a solid citizen, and a social butterfly. But more like a wingless butterfly who has a real, human head instead of that little insect pea-head and who also has shiny, slicked-back hair, wears expensive velvet suits, and does a lot of cocaine.

I’m an alpha male thanks in large to my steadfast belief that men have an obligation to lead. I speak incredibly loud and have little tolerance for laziness. If I’m sitting in a restaurant and my order isn’t taken within the first ten minutes, I’ll march right up to the manager and yell at him. If he says something about how at this restaurant you’re supposed to order at the front, I’ll laugh in his stupid teenaged face and tell him what an idiotic idea that is. Then I will say that I have a lot of friends and I will tell all of them not to eat at this “McDougal’s” place and then good luck staying in business after a few months of that. “It’s McDonald’s Sir,” he might say to which I’ll reply that I know how to fucking read. As I drive away from the restaurant, I’ll try to flex my muscles by squeezing the steering wheel in hopes that the other passengers will notice and momentarily cease losing respect for me.

Stupid Mom & Pop Operations

A wise man once said that parties are not parties until I show up. How do I know? Hint: I am that wise man. Though I’m known to cut loose, I seldom relax entirely. My hectic schedule won’t allow for it. When I party, I party. Hard. I simply don’t have time to wait around for formalities like “finding out whose birthday it is” or “realizing that I’m not at the right house.” If I see cake, I’m going to dig in and I’m going to eat as much of it as I can until some guy I’ve never met before, but everyone is calling “Dad,” beats me into unconsciousness. Hours later, I’ll marvel at my perseverance as I demonstrate to a new group of friends this trick where I reach one of my handcuffed palms into my pocket and pull out some cake that I put there when “Dad” thought I was knocked out.

If my fun-loving attitude was tangible

Assuming a night spent alone in my study drinking and calling ex-girlfriends to tell them about the “new me” until they hang up counts as a date, then yes. I suppose I’m a bit of a man about town. I’m also a religious man and in my opinion, there’s no better place for religion than in the bedroom. Because of this, I choose to let the act of intercourse make me feel incredibly guilty so ladies, if we do go on a date please forgive me in advance for whispering things like, “I’ll see you in hell” while I awkwardly make love to your inner-thigh because I missed your vagina.

My relationships with women aren’t necessarily all about sex. Being the incredibly old-fashioned guy that I am, I enjoy a traditional date. To me, there is nothing more romantic than riding around town at night in a horse-drawn buggy. Meandering along the rain-slicked cobblestone streets as if we have all the time in the world and really we do thanks to my not having a job. You’ll spot a deer and squeal with delight and later I’ll scream in fear as I point out a car that I think is a demon because I’m too old-fashioned to understand it. When you tell me that it’s a car, I’ll accuse you of being out to get me and then we’ll get into a heated argument. “Fine. I’ll stop acting like an old-timey guy,” I’ll lie, hoping that you don’t notice that I’m still wearing a monocle. The ride will continue on in silence except for when I ask our driver to take us over to the docks where I will inquire about the next expected shipment of slave labor. As the dock workers beat me senseless, you’ll ask the driver to continue on, all the while wondering if I could’ve been any more disappointing. That question will soon be answered when the buggy driver informs you in front of your home that I haven’t paid for the ride yet.

While it’s true that I’m a bit of a traditionalist, I’m also not opposed to purposely break tradition. For instance, You go left, I go right. You go up, I go down. You look under the stall door to see if someone is in there, I look over it. And if someone is indeed in there I’ll ask him if he doesn’t mind scooting over a little. Regardless of how I do things, I know that I do them better of most of the assholes I’m surrounded by. Perhaps I don’t deserve the best in life, but I deserve better. At the very least, I deserve to have the people around me feel like they deserve worse. Why? Because I’m a fucking good person. That’s why.