Another day, another reason not to be afraid of animals. Siya once wrote a cute little post on a cat that mimics other animals, flaunting it as proof of the upcoming animal apocalypse. Well, this is a cat eating an ice cream cone and listening to techno music. That is an absurd sentence to type, but that’s exactly what this is. This is a video of a feline caught in the throes of frozen milk and synthetic bass-line ecstasy.
Now, when I think of impending doom and inevitable revolution, I certainly don’t picture DJ MilkTreat as being the downfall of humanity. That animal isn’t uprising. That animal can’t even be bothered to step up the energy when the beat drops. That animal is more likely to get diabetes and lose a foot than it is to conquer mankind with its sandpaper tongue. Look at that thing! There’s no way that gluttonous fur-ball has world domination on it’s brain-freeze ridden brain.
If all I need to stop an animal from uprising is a quick pop-off at the nearest Taco Bell and/or Dairy Queen, I think I can manage. I mean it’s not like I’m getting in a knife fight with a carrot here. Unless I wake up tomorrow to find myself miraculously transformed into a waffle cone, I think I’ll be fine.
I’m not sure of a lot of things in life, but I am sure of this: I could kick this baby carrot’s ass in a knife fight. Now, I definitely have never been in an actual knife fight before. And I definitely don’t have any advanced knowledge of combat blade techniques. There aren’t many men dead or alive against whom I’d be favored in a dagger to the death doomsday scenario. Hell, I’m not entirely sure I could tell to bet the home team in a Ben vs. human baby gambling spread. There are just too many reasons to bet against me. I have poor hand-eye coordination. I once accidentally threw a throwing knife over the top of a tree. I’ve received stitches several times from wildly rampant and irresponsible aim during vegetable dicing. But, fuck that carrot. I could beat that carrot.
Most baby carrots aren’t even real baby carrots. They’re baby cut carrots, meaning they were once fully grown carrots that were sawed down into miniature replicas of their former adult glory. So see that carrot? That carrot’s already a loser. That carrot is a piece of processed produce failure. Society already looked at that carrot and said, “Naw bro, we want you to be smaller.” It’s already lost the most important knife fight of its short lived existence. It doesn’t have the gumption to get up for an edged death wrestle. It’s content to just wait for death by dental disintegration or vegetative rot. That’s how just how it goes for baby carrots. Because, again, they’re losers, not babies at all.
I mean let’s be real here. What’s that baby carrot going to do? Sprout hands? Become self-aware? Run off to the South American grasslands? Meet a mystical gaucho trained in weaponized hand to hand to combat? Learn the ways of Esgrima Criolla large blade fighting? Become a master of sharpened death? Return to the States emboldened by the spirit of the Pampas? Challenge me in the street? Rain steel upon my body? Walk away wordlessly while I curse its orange name with my last dying breath? Retire to a sanctuary on a Nepalese mountainside? Meditate on the emotional and spiritual cost of taking a life? Be interrupted one day by another rooted, vengeful vegetable? Teach that rutabaga how to avenge the loss of its family? Become emotionally invested in seeking justice? Die a gallant, heroic death saving the rutabaga? Float off into the cosmic ethers, having received true enlightenment and purpose? Reincarnate as a god? End war and destruction? Bring true, lasting peace to the universe?
Fuck, no! It’s a carrot. Don’t be ridiculous. I could definitely beat it in a knife fight.
After a relentless splashfest of J.R. Smith’s franchise play-off record breaking EIGHT 3 pointers, the guy who’s record he broke became the straw that broke the Atlanta Hawks back in the last minute to nab Game 1 of the Eastern Conference Finals in Atlanta.
“Coach drew up the play, and we executed to the best of our ability… (when the team is shooting that well, it opens the floor like that”
That was Lebron’s recap of the play, and the team sure did. What started as a basic pick-and-roll move turned into a typical highlight reel for King James – which had Kyle Koerver (and seemingly the rest of the Hawks) flying away from the paint like kitchen roaches when the lights cut on. Were the Cavs shooting the lights out? Sure. Were the Hawks
cheating ahead of expecting a dish to the perimeter from the hyper-aware assist machine that Lebron also is? Probably, but once that train started lugging down the paint in the last minute, it was clear where he was going and Koerver took the “hide yo wife, hide yo kids” approach like “mama, there goes that Monster”. Here it is from a more telling angle: https://vine.co/v/eAVAdjYD3mg/embed/simple
Unfortunately for Atlanta the one guy who had the heart to be present and contest Lebron defensively – DeMarre Carroll – went down earlier in the game after a knee sprain. Anything less than a 100% healthy Caroll will be a distraction at best: to the abuse the Atlanta Hawks are poised to face the rest of this series. Stick a fork in em, the Eastern Conference Finals are already over.