6 Ways to Sneeze Exclusively for Attention This Fall

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The fall season is upon us. With the autumnal changes, sneezes are sure to abound. Year after year those sneezes cause people to become desensitized and stop responding “bless you,” which can surely be harder on some more than others. This is for those of us who need attention in all possible forms, including temperature-dependent nasal air expulsions.

It can be difficult not being the constant center of attention while at the same time knowing you deserve the focus more than anyone in the room. Luckily, you don’t have to succumb to the pressure of others who are not acknowledging you in that instant moment. You are powerful and worthy and can create space for yourself by confidently grasping the moment when your body is reacting to nasal irritation.

Don’t let your sneeze just pass in the wind. Here’s how your sneezes can grab the attention you need.

Increase the Volume

Ever since we were kids in the classroom, we’ve been pressured to sneeze in non-disruptive ways. We’re trained to shame our sneezing volumes into a sniffle. Break free from the conformity that’s been deeply ingrained! Sneeze as loud as you can! Scream, even!

Create Consonance

While this form of attention-seeking requires successive sneezes and musical acumen, the payoff is tremendous. Not only will your sneezes be a form of artistic expression, but they are sure to captivate a loyal audience. Surely the voice is regarded as a human instrument, but who says the nose can’t also be your artistic, narcissistic tool?

Simultaneously Blow a Raspberry

Whether to you that means a raspberry, a strawberry, or a Bronx cheer, get that mouth moving! Mimicking this fun noise that harkens back to childhood will inspire nostalgia in those around you, who will praise you for bringing them back to a remembered moment of pure joy and innocence. They’ll be sure to bless you not just for the sneeze, but for that brief endearing reminiscence.

Throw Your Hands in the Air

Say it with me: Weee! This one feels like you’re riding a rollercoaster, and when was the last time that happened since you’ve become an attention-seeking adult? How often do we get to just throw our hands up with excitement? This spontaneous motion is sure to catch some eyes. Plus it’s just so dang fun to sneeze and throw your hands up!

Emulate a Cute ‘Lil Toy Choo-Choo Train

That classic ah-choo is so familiar sounding. But the choo-choo that comes from those toy trains you used to assemble as a child around the Christmas tree? That’s a cute time. This sneezing style modifies the pitch of the “choo” sound, so if you’re vocally-trained or an instrumental musician, you especially have the ears for this cry for attention. It’s especially cute if you recoil your body a bit and make yourself smaller as you sneeze. It might feel pathetic at first, but the blessings that follow will be so worth it.

Bless Yourself

In a room full of agnostics, atheists, and apathetics don’t believe in a God that blesses you? Alone in a room? This feeling of loneliness is quickly resolved with a simple mantra: “Well BLESS ME, RIGHT?!” Feels passive-aggressive at first, but sometimes you need to be your own advocate, and that’s all the more empowering.

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Don’t be afraid to test out all possible permutations  and combinations of the above! Some may feel unnatural or make your feel like it will explode, but you’re capable of more than you know of and sneezing cannot limit your ability to demand focus.

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Drawfee Presents CARTOON HELL [Official Trailer]

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<![CDATA[]]>

Drawfee presents this look into the underworld, where Caldwell and Nathan are doomed to create cartoons for all eternity. With intro vocals by Weird Al Yankovic! New clips on YouTube and new full episodes every week on DROPOUT.TV.

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I Tried Eating Like an Instagram Foodie for a Week and Turns Out I’m Not Too Young to Have a Heart Attack

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As I lie on the hospital bed, I can still feel the bacon grease and maple sriracha aioli sliding down the back of my throat. I wipe away the remaining Cheetos dust clinging to the corner of my lips and wonder, where did it all go so wrong?

Only a week ago I was a regular person who had sad desk salads for lunch—you know, the kind that are premade, inoffensive, and a silent cry for help. But then a friend told me she scored free meals, thanks to her popular Instagram account. She was a “micro influencer,” which meant she built up the “credibility” and “audience” to “attract” “niche” “brands,” or something.

Whatever it was, if it meant I could get free food, I had to be a micro influencer. Plus, a billionaire once said women should lean in, and I was a woman. And I could lean. And I figured, “leaning” may as well be me leaning in to take flawless flat lay photos.

“You just need to pay for trendy foods out of your own pocket first, until you get enough followers to attract brands,” she said.

“It’ll be life-changing,” she said.

I should have known that “life-changing” was a term that also applied to laundry hacks and adult coloring books.

I started off small with a sushi burrito. This Frankenfood was suggested to me by another Instagram user who said, “the combination of two sacred foods” had made him “twice as blessed.”

The monster seaweed roll was stuffed with handline-caught tuna, piquillo peppers, creamy avocado, and the most unnaturally pink sushi rice. As I bit into it, Kewpie mayo, Cholula, and a streak of Sriracha for good measure, squirted out of the sushiritto and oozed onto my hand. I took a quick shot of the repulsive mess, which surprisingly gave me 20 likes! #foodporn

Something felt strange about seeing a white guy in the kitchen giving me a nod as his hands folded a burrito with a bamboo sushi mat. But I scarfed the rest of the food down anyway, suppressing a guilt I could only assume white people felt victimized by on a daily basis.

The Pop-Tart doughnut I had next—a one-pound (yes, literally) colossal creation stuffed with crushed Pop-Tarts and S’mores and topped with chocolate fudge and marshmallows—helped me deal with my feelings. And by that, I mean the hot flashes and sweats got so bad that I did not have time for feelings because I actually thought I was going to die.

But an influx of 30 more “likes” brought me back to life. Like prison did for Martha Stewart. I felt immortal. It was thrilling. I was hooked.

What transpired over the next six days was nothing short of a dystopian junk food fever dream. I filled my days with mac ‘n’ cheese eggrolls stuffed with Spam, quadruple stack fruity pebble pancakes held together with Nutella and cream cheese frosting, and ramen waffle sandwiches with beer-battered chicken and fried eggs (with a Sriracha aioli on the side). I also had ten different variations of Sriracha, including strawberry Sriracha margaritas, Sriracha garlic bread, deep fried pickles with Srirachup, and PB&J Sriracha chocolate chip cookies with Sriracha ice cream (you can’t make this stuff up).

In my search for eaternal truth, I discovered four rules that got me the most internet points and followers: 1) The more unhealthy and massive the food, the more likes, 2) It doesn’t matter if it tastes good as long as it looks good, 3) You don’t have to know the difference between a corretto and a flat white—you just have to make sure you get something with milk art, and 4) You can never go wrong with pizza, eggs, sushi, unicorn foods, pizza, pasta, rosé, ramen, tacos, or pizza.

Sure, in between my gourmandizing and writing captions like, “I’m on a low-carb diet. Whenever I feel low, I eat carbs,” and “I believe in fitness—fitness pizza in my mouth,” I felt light-headed and wheezed a bit. But I powered through, thanks to my womanly perseverance (and because I was skinny enough not to be fat-shamed).

On the seventh day, I rested over healthy pours of bottomless blood orange mimosas and a plate of smoked blue crab and avocado eggs benedict. I didn’t know brunch would get me so #eggscited, but halfway through, my heart was beating so fast I physically had to take a break from eating.

I should have listened to the signs. I should have quit cold turkey instead of having it in bourgeois sandwiches.

But the burger joint next door was advertising their most Instagrammable burger, and I let FOMO get the best of me. I found myself in front of a double artisanal Applewood-smoked bacon burger, stacked with onion rings and vintage cheddar cheese in a Cheetos-encrusted brioche bun. Though a little nauseous, I still took a few big juicy bites, and the next thing I knew, I woke up in the hospital to a doctor talking about hyperglycemia, cholesterol levels, and me being a metabolically obese, normal weight individual.

“ARE YOU OK??!?” my Instagram foodie friend messages me.

“I ALMOST DIED. HEART ATTACK. ATE TOO MUCH FOR INSTA (cry emoji) (broken heart emoji),” I respond.

Then, in a revelation that could have saved my heart (and hundreds of dollars in food expenses), she says, “You’re not supposed to eat EVERYTHING! You’re supposed to throw the food away after taking a photo!”

It hurts to know I was so close to living my best life. Instead, my journey into the instafoodie scene sizzled out faster than the bacon that now choked my arteries.

But you know what? I will not let this define me. I am an Instagram foodie survivor. I will share my story to help those who can’t help themselves, those who are often caught between a smartphone and a unicorn latte.

For media inquiries about my life-changing week, please email [email protected]

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Becca’s Baking Blog: This Banana Bread Will Fuck Your Shit Up

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The year was 1963. Winter. The nation was reeling from the Kennedy assassination. The threat of nuclear armageddon at the hands of the Russians hung heavy in the air. Nobody had even heard of Instagram stories yet, and my mother came home from school to find two heavenly loaves of banana bread cooling side by side on the kitchen counter. My grandmother was often cold, and drank heavily, but one thing she did better than anyone else was make banana bread. She baked it for special occasions, but she also baked it to make any occasion special. It was her way of saying “I love you” to her kids, to her husband. While she struggled to say the actual words, this banana bread became a physical manifestation of her love.

Fortunately for you dinks, I had the old bitch write out the recipe right before she croaked, and now I’m about to lovingly penetrate this shit into your minds.

Look at you, absolutely begging for it, saliva beginning to dribble onto your bland and unfashionable clothes. You think you deserve this recipe? “How can I use these overripe bananas?” you say to yourself, your swollen tongue bashing against your mish-mashed ogre teeth. One quick google search later and you think you think you’re ready to see the face of God?

Guess again you complete fucking oaf. Never in your depressing lives have you come close to the absolute nirvana that is my banana bread recipe. This recipe is going to change your whole goddamn life. It’s going to wow your tits off. It’s going to make you shit your dick out your asshole. You think you know shit about fuck? Get ready to have your world turned upside down.

And before you even ask, you disgusting little skid mark, yes, we’re going to be sifting our dry ingredients before combining, because we weren’t raised by fucking mole people. Of course, we’ll be adding eggs one at a time, beating after each addition, because this isn’t some kind of fucking game. Obviously, we’ll be greasing the pans before pouring the batter in, because if you don’t adequately prepare for the future you might as well kill yourself right now. And if you think we’re not adding a dash of cinnamon right up in there for a richer flavor, I will fully come to your home and murder you in front of your family.

Guess what the fuck else we have, you worthless sacks of garbage? Chocolate chips. That’s right, motherfuckers. Tiny little morsels of chocolate. Right. In. The. Banana bread. Those tiny assholes add another dimension of flavor as well as a wonderful textural component the likes of which your tiny minds can’t even comprehend.

To those of you who are thinking of commenting something like “Becca, what if we want to use walnuts instead of chocolate chips?” Let me say two things: First, keep my name out of your fucking mouth, you utter disappointment. Second, I swear to god if I ever find out you’ve sullied my bitch of a grandmother’s favorite recipe I will find out where you live, burn your house down, and frame you for insurance fraud.

Most importantly, have fun! If you bake the way my grandmother taught me, with love in your heart and a BAC of .11, anything you make will be incredible.

Finally: If you fuck this up my dead alcoholic grandma will haunt the shit out of you for the rest of your miserable fucking life.

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Becca’s Grandma’s Banana Bread

— 1 box Banana Bread Mix (Betty Crocker preferred)
— 1 package semi-sweet chocolate chips
— 1 tbsp butter (to grease pans)

Follow instructions on box to create batter. Add chocolate chips. Grease two loaf pans, add batter, and bake in oven heated to 350 degrees for 20 minutes or until golden brown, or until you finish entire drink. Cool before slicing. Or don’t, I’m not the police.

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I’d Prefer To Date Someone Kind and Attractive, But Yes, I Would Settle for a Day-Old Baguette

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Like many women, I’d like a man who has it all: a smoking hot bod, a winning personality, maybe a house in the Hamptons. But we all know that no one’s perfect, so if I couldn’t find a man who had everything I wanted, yes, I would be willing to date a day-old baguette.

Look, I know we all think Prince Charming is out there. He’s smart and good-looking and makes us laugh and hugs our mom and doesn’t make a face when we clip our toenails in public. But I’m not getting any younger, and maybe there is no perfect man for me! Even though I want a good-looking, stable man, I’m willing to compromise on “good-looking” and “man” —yeah, I’m fine dating this day-old loaf of bread. It’s not going to leave me, at least not until I buy some pate.

I dated the hot guys. I dated the guys who were obsessed with their jobs. I dated the guys who wanted families. I dated them all. I have literally dated every man I ever met—it’s kind of a long story. But none of them met all my criteria—specifically, the criteria that they be willing to stay with me forever. You know who will stay with me forever? This day-old baguette. Because it’s too stale to put peanut butter on it anymore, so it doesn’t run the risk of being chased out by my dog, unlike you, Steve.

I’m so tired of Tinder! At my age, I can’t just be swiping around anymore. If I were meant to meet Mr. Right on an app, I would have met him already, and also apparently I need to start paying them if I want to swipe right over 100 times per day? What indolence! I was about to delete the app altogether, but then I saw a great ad for cheap day-old bread at Le Pain Quotidien! I believe in miracles, and I believe Tinder wouldn’t have shown me that ad if it didn’t mean something, like that I intentionally swiped right on a Panera bread bowl two weeks ago.

Day-old baguettes really aren’t that bad—you’re being a little bit shallow. For example, they’re often half off. How much did you pay for your hot, good-looking boyfriend? Yeah, that’s right—you got him for free. Well, my day-old loaf just has higher standards than that, plus, it has sesame seeds. If I can’t find someone willing to move to Iceland with me, I should at least be with someone who can, if needed, become a crouton.

Don’t tell me I have no standards. I wouldn’t date a slice of bread. That’s like, basically no bread! And I wouldn’t date a two-day-old baguette—I’m just not into older guys. I wouldn’t date an English muffin—they’re not muffins, so why do they pretend to be? I need a man who’s comfortable with himself. But I think a day-old baguette could be the right match for me. Finally, a partner who doesn’t guilt me about my love of carbs! And I wouldn’t date a baguette less than 9 inches long. I’m a woman—I have needs.

I know what you’re thinking—this isn’t about Harry! No, I’m not dating a day-old baguette to get back at him; I think his gluten-allergy was imaginary anyway. You never even apologized for the time your husband tried to butter my date. And I’m sorry that Harry and I can no longer be at the same social events, but honestly, that was the case before I ran off to Bermuda with this fine sourdough wand.

Honestly, in many ways, my needs are being met better than ever before. Remember Paul—he was so hot, but he didn’t grow green if left out for too long, and that’s something I’m really looking for in a man. Ron had a great job but did he taste best with garlic and butter? No. No he didn’t. Fred was so fun but he slept with all my friends! My baguette would never do that, especially because all my hot friends don’t eat bread.

The only problem with day-old baguettes is that after one day, they’re no longer a day old. Typical men.

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Precious Plum and Mama in SEE PLUM RUN [Official Trailer]

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The team behind Precious Plum and Very Mary-Kate presents this even bigger, better, longer version of “Precious Plum” in which Plum and Mama battle it out for student body president. New clips on YouTube and new full episodes every week on DROPOUT.TV.

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Study Finds Humans Evolved Fingers To Stop Dropping Stuff

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CHICAGO—In what many have deemed a “missing link” of homosapien development, researchers at Northwestern University announced Friday that humans likely evolved fingers to help them stop dropping stuff. “Based on our analysis, early humans developed digits after centuries of being totally unable to grip things between their two fingerless palms,” said lead researcher Dr. Marci Packer, who confirmed that natural selection effectively weeded out prehistoric humans who frequently attempted to pick up food or tools, but then would either drop them or just end up pushing them along the ground with their smooth, useless hands. “Although some were able to carry essential items between their wrists, in their teeth, or under their chins, fingers changed everything. Before that, humans would often be found dead, buried surrounded by dozens of broken objects.” Packer added that her team of researchers were confident that these findings would help bring them closer to understanding why humans developed toes, whose evolutionary purpose still remains to be seen.

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Orrin Hatch: ‘As A Father Of Daughters, I Don’t Give A Flying Fuck What Happens To Them’

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GOP Mulls Forcing Christine Blasey Ford To Publicly Apologize To Kavanaugh Just For Hell Of It

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Tracking Trump’s Convoluted Immigration Policy

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America’s historically open immigration policy has produced many greats, and a few less-than-stellar citizens.

Racially and ethnically speaking, I’m not sure who I am: Irish, Black, Anglo, Native American, Italian? Yes… and more. My father always said that our family was “Heinz 57,” a zesty blend of 57 ingredients. Good enough for me!

One of America’s great strengths is our highly diversified population, continually fueled by generations of immigrants who come here as refugees or who simply seek opportunity. Consider the example of Fredrich, a 16-year-old boy who fled his tiny German village, where he faced a dreary future of poverty. He arrived in Manhattan in 1885 with no money and little education. An unaccompanied minor, he was nonetheless greeted by America’s open immigration policy of the time and welcomed into citizenship. The enterprising Friedrich soon prospered, eventually opening hotels and taverns.

And — God bless America — only three generations later, Friedrich Trump’s grandson would become president of the USA!

But alas, grandbaby Donald would not have let Friedrich in. Indeed, he denigrates and has ruthlessly shut out modern-day immigrants like his grandfather, though such seekers are now more likely to be named Frederico and be poor migrants from Latin America. Donald Trump especially hates a process he calls “chain migration,” whereby American citizens can obtain U.S. residency for their foreign relatives. “They bring their whole family with them,” Trump repeatedly rants. “NOT ACCEPTABLE!” he barked in a recent Twitter tantrum.

But — psst — guess who just set aside his immigrant-bashing tantrums long enough to benefit his own family? Yes, The Donald. In August, the Slovenian parents of Trump’s immigrant wife, Melania, quietly became American citizens through the “chain migration” process their son-in-law so loudly denounces as “not acceptable.”

In June, Trump ordered an end to his own warped and politically disastrous policy of forcibly tearing terrified migrant children from the arms of their asylum-seeking parents. “I didn’t like the sight or the feeling of families being separated,” he declared self-righteously.

Yeah … “Bad optic,” as PR consultants call public videos of such thuggish depravity. Motive aside, at least Trump’s cruel separation policy has ended, meaning he — and we — no longer have to witness nightly coverage of shrieking toddlers being seized by border agents and incarcerated in chain-link child cages in federal warehouses. But wait: out of sight just means we don’t see it, not that the depravity has ended. Some 500 of the 2,900 children who were snatched last spring are still in government custody, scared they’ll never see their parents again and traumatized by the uncertainty of what’ll happen to them.

Worse, more refugee children are being incarcerated by Trump’s border agents every day as they seek asylum from the ongoing horrors of rapacious gang wars and starvation-level poverty in their Central American homelands. More than 12,000 migrant children are now being held out of sight and out of mind in our government’s warehouses, military bases and sprawling “tent cities.” And Trump is presently requesting money to lock up another 20,000 refuge-seeking children expected in the near future.

All this trauma and cost is the result of the Trumpeteer’s inhumane and failed “zero-tolerance” immigration policy meant to dissuade refugees from coming to our Land of Opportunity in their search for a safe harbor from repression, violence and death. Rather than by rushing in hundreds of lawyers and judges to process the asylum requests and thereby deal with the humanitarian crisis they created, Trump and his rabidly anti-immigrant ideologues are taxing us by building more jails for refugees, while also openly violating the law that says immigrant children can’t be locked up for more than 20 days.

In TrumpWorld, integrity and consistency aren’t virtues. All that matters is “What’s in it for me right now.” For more about Trump’s sick and sickening policy, contact Kids in Need of Defense at SupportKind.org.

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National radio commentator, writer, public speaker, and author of the book, “Swim Against The Current: Even A Dead Fish Can Go With The Flow,” Jim Hightower has spent three decades battling the Powers That Be on behalf of the Powers That Ought To Be – consumers, working families, environmentalists, small businesses, and just-plain-folks.
Twice elected Texas Agriculture Commissioner, Hightower is a modern-day Johnny Appleseed, spreading the message of progressive populism all across the American grassroots.
He broadcasts daily radio commentaries that are carried in more than 150 commercial and public stations and on the web.

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