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Icy Hot doesn't cure pain, it just spreads the discomfort over a larger area, making the source of the pain more difficult to distinguish. It's essentially a redistributor of pain, the socialism of medications. Using Icy Hot is like punching yourself in the face to distract from a stomach ache.

No one hates email spam more than an actual Nigerian prince with legitimate money-transfer problems.

Balls.

This person has ’em.

The proprietor of the pictured establishment didn’t care to invest in a fancy building or amenities. He couldn’t be bothered with luxuries like payroll or products. All he needed was a hose and a dream.

Here’s to you, lazy entrepreneur. Charging me to wash my own dog takes monster balls.

Incidentally, someone should totally copy this business model. Feel free to start charging people whenever they use the following services:

Old Spice

Old Spice is an earthy blend of lilac, peppermint, false teeth, incontinence, abandoned dreams, and squandered youth. It smells like grandparent. Unless you’re targeting women who have a geriatric fetish, avoid this cologne.

AXE

Women claim to hate the smell of Axe, but what they really hate is its marketing campaign. Every woman thinks she can identify a douchey Axe wearer and would never date one...so when you're sporting Axe body spray and a girl inevitably compliments your "cologne," tell her it’s Drakkar.

English Leather

This stuff smells like every Turkish guy you’ve ever known. Seriously, they bathe in this crap. (Not to imply that smelling like a Turkish guy is a bad thing. Turkish guys actually pull lots of ass, according to Turkish guys.)

Polo

This is a perfect scent for the refined gentleman who listens to soft jazz, wears briefs instead of boxers, and can’t tolerate spicy foods. If you think a pastel shirt makes you look distinguished on the golf course, by all means, buy a lifetime supply.

Yoga is nothing more than synchronized stretching. It barely qualifies as an exercise.

If you really think you're going to banish that beer gut via meditative self-pretzeling, you are unclear on the concept of aerobic fitness.

Hate to break it to you, guys, but a car isn't going to get you laid.

Conventional wisdom suggests that women get all juicy over a shiny sportscar, but think about it: how often does a girl even see your car—let alone ride in it—before she decides whether or not she's going to surrender the booty?

In this day and age, women aren't down with the I'll-pick-you-up-at-8 routine unless they've actually spent time with you in person. It doesn't matter whether you met her at a bar or online or through friends; by the time a girl is actually in your car, she clearly trusts you enough to ride with you in a locked vehicle, and has probably made up her mind as to whether there will be penetration.

At that point, the only way the car matters is if it's a total beater. If you're rolling a dented, slovenly bucket, she might reconsider. But otherwise, just make sure it's clean and doesn't smell like there's a dead hooker in the trunk. Oh, and incidentally, don't have a dead hooker in your trunk.

Nine times out of ten, the type of car you're driving has little-to-no coital influence. Trust me, there are guys who could get action in a Kia minivan. The equation goes like this:

A smart/good-looking/well-dressed guy will get laid in a rust heap, but a stupid/ugly/poorly-dressed guy couldn't pull ass in a Lambo.

Instead of buying a flashy car, invest in a gym membership, make sure you have a passable wardrobe, and (I'm being 100% serious) consult a hair stylist. A good haircut is way cheaper than a car, and far more important. First impressions count.

Laundry is interminable, like Cthulu and Jesus and viral STDs. There will never be a time when you're completely laundry-free.

Life is just a series of laundry sessions interrupted by occasional bouts of work and play.

Terrorism doesn’t scare me. Crazy people scare me, regardless of religion, race, or creed.

I always keep a vigilant eye on postal workers, clowns, and anyone associated with the military. Truth is, I’m way more scared of my fellow Americans than radical Islamists. And landlocked Americans are the worst. Anyone who voluntarily chooses to live between the coasts is suspect. Trust me, I’ve seen these people. They have bad haircuts and guns and they wear American flag t-shirts. Blind patriotism makes me twitchy.

And yet, ironically, crazy red-staters are the Americans most prone to terrorist-related panic. Every time you tune in to Fox News, another drawling Midwestern preacher is declaring Hillbilly Jihad on taxi drivers and convenience store owners.

Listen, Iowans, the Arabs aren't going to bomb your corn fields. You can stop glaring at brown people now. Idiots.

It's a simple equation: the more remote and sparsely populated your hometown, the less Anthrax you'll attract. I don't care how crazy these radical Muslims might be, no self-respecting Jihadist is going to waste perfectly good WMDs on Nebraska.

Settle down, hicks. You’re more likely to choke to death on chewing tobacco than find yourself the victim of an Improvised Explosive Device. Spend more time reading and less time stressing. Stay off the meth. And try not to breed.

Capitalism is all about the sanctity of ownership.

When you own a pair of jeans, they belong to you for life. If Levi Strauss himself rose from the grave and demanded that you cough up those faded 501s, you’d be within your rights to tell his moldy carcass to bugger off.

Distilled down to the basics, you could conceivably describe American capitalism with a single statement: No one can claim your jeans.

Until today. Because today, an American judge ruled that your genes don’t belong to you.

No, that wasn’t a typo. I’m talking about your GENES…the ones you were born with, the ones that are woven into the fabric of every organ and tissue and cell of your being. The very mechanisms that make you you.

As of today they officially…aren’t…yours.

For years, American biotech companies have been quietly patenting your genes. They do this for one reason: if corporations can be the first to identify a piece of your genetic makeup, they can charge up the you-know-what every time you need to access that snippet of biological info.

In today’s case, the corporation is a sleazy biotech outfit called Myriad and the pieces of genetic information are the BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes. It turns out that when a person's BRCA genes carry a specific type of mutation, he/she has upwards of an 80% chance of developing breast cancer.

Myriad developed a test for the BRCA gene mutations in 1994, and for almost 20 years they’ve been gleefully charging $3,000 a pop every time a woman needs to find out whether she’s predisposed to a horrible, often fatal disease.

But Myriad didn’t just patent their test. They patented the actual genes. And today, an American judge upheld their patent.

Lunacy.

If you discover a new planet somewhere in the universe, you get to name it. That’s pretty cool. There are billions and billions of planets, so if I identify a few million planets and stars, I could conceivably paste my name on an entire corner of the sky. Constellation Shane. Sweet.

But you know what I wouldn’t get to do? I wouldn’t get to charge people to look at my planets. I wouldn’t get exclusive rights to massive balls of molten rock just because I peered into a telescope for a couple years. Even if I spent my entire fortune locating one solitary planet, I wouldn’t own it, because a planet is a naturally occurring phenomenon that existed long before I was born and will be here long after I’m gone.

But companies like Myriad insist that there are grey areas when it comes to ownership. These planet-patenters like to point out that you can, for instance, own a piece of land, which is a naturally occurring phenomenon.

But there’s a key difference: I already own my genes. We all do. If a corporation goes rooting around in someone’s closet and discovers a mint condition Stratocaster, they don’t get to patent it, sell it, and keep the money. That would be theft.

Biotech companies like Myriad are thieves, plain and simple. They're stealing our genes. It's time to take them back.

If you'd like to show your support, head over to The Gene Patenting Petition and sign online. Then call your congressman. Call everyone's congressman. Spread the word. Tell companies like Myriad that our DNA isn’t a playground, and they don’t get to play Finders Keepers with our genetic information.

Cats get super excited about tuna fish. Like, WAY more than is warranted.

The fuss that cats make over a can of tuna is completely disproportionate to the amount of pleasure that anyone has actually derived from fish-related cuisine, ever.

Deep down, we're all applause whores. Everyone secretly desires the reassurance and approval that we've come to associate with spontaneous hand-slapping.

Luckily, applause isn't hard to get, because some subconscious element of the human psyche desperately wants to clap and holler like a retard.

Here's a quick guide to applause procurement:

1. End all of your sentences with "For the troops."

2. Gradually increase your volume and conclude your speech with a loud whooping noise.

3. Be attractive.

4. Bitch about the government.

5. Flash boob.

The concept of planting flags is genius. Honestly, whoever came up with that idea...snap.

If you’re the first person to arrive at a location, just poke it with a stick and it’s yours. And in case you think flag-planting is some kind of antiquated colonial relic, keep in mind that barely four years ago Russia sent submarines to plant a flag on the underwater Lomonosov ridge.

Well played, Russia. Staking claim to the ocean floor is a certified pimp move.

It goes without saying that everyone should carry a sack of flags at all times. Rules for flag-planting have never been adequately defined, but I’m taking the conquistador approach. Whether someone arrived at a location before me is irrelevant; if I’m the first to plant a flag, you'd better recognize...or suffer the consequences. Superior firepower for the win. (Slingshot firepower, to be precise. I don’t do guns, but I can deliver a mean welt from fifty paces.)

I’m in the process of creating a kick-ass flag. And once this flag has been forged, I’m going to plant it everywhere. Your backyard. Your Prius. Your Starbucks muffin. Your dog’s face. (That’s right, I claim your dog’s face. Face claim! Deal with it.)

Call me the Justin Timberlake of imperialist colonialism, 'cause I'm bringin' it back.

No one is obligated to care about your children. Not even you. And certainly not your coworkers.

Contrary to popular belief, it does not take a village to raise a child. You can do it on your own. And last I checked, none of us signed up to be part of any child-raising village.

So please, annoying woman from accounting, don't assume that anyone in your workplace lunchroom wants to hear about the products of your vagina. We don't give a damn about your kids. In fact, we despise your children. When you bring them to work we will give them dirty looks and wish ill upon them, because of you.

But it doesn't have to be this way. The next time you find yourself in the lunchroom, coworker, try following this simple set of instructions: Open mouth. Fill with food. Chew. Swallow. Repeat.

If you experience the sudden urge to talk about your kid, just take another bite. You're already overweight, what does it matter? In return, I promise to stop showing you videos of my kitten—which was a retaliatory measure, btw—even though she's fucking adorable, and a bajillion times more interesting than anything that could possibly emerge from your crotch.

Deal?

Warning: If you find yourself suffering from an unidentified ailment, do not under any circumstances type your symptoms into an online search engine.

Seriously. Don't do it. I know it's tempting to tap the collective expertise of the armchair medical community, but for your own peace of mind, stay strong.

The Internet has clearly viewed far too many episodes of "House," and now suffers from rampant hypochondria. A Google search for cough instantly yields "coughing blood," "bronchitis," "whooping cough," and "coughing up yellow mucus." Meanwhile, Yahoo Answers helpfully points out that losing your voice could be attributed to a virulent strain of throat-gonorrhea. Suffering from mild discoloration under your tongue? Stage one of leprosy, according to Bing.

Regardless of what's ailing you, I guarantee it won't be improved by perusing a list of exotic diseases and worst-case scenarios. So...yeah. Eff you, Internet. For all I know I probably have the bubonic avian Ebola, but I won't give you the satisfaction of adding paranoia to my list of symptoms. The final twelve minutes of my life will be spent happily oblivious to all of the potentially agonizing ways in which I could meet my demise.

Ignorance may not actually be bliss, but it sure beats panic.