Throw out your Acuvue Oasys and donate your Ray-Bans to a nearsighted squirrel— modern eyewear is irrelevant. Monocles make things happen.
The moment that I pop in my monocle, I become a new me. A better me. A wealthier me. When I wear my monocle, I’m smoking a pipe in a mahogany-paneled library in the hull of a yacht that’s anchored off the coast of Affluence. When I wear my monocle, I have a butler. Let’s call him Nigel. When I wear my monocle, I’m also wearing a top hat, a pocket watch, and some shoes that were recently polished by a street urchin.
So, all you go-getters that are presently “so stressed” about interviews, here’s a tip, hot off the presses and free of charge (it’s not like I need the money): dress for the job you want, that is, wear a monocle. JP Morgan, Alfred Lord Tennyson, Karl Marx, the Planters Peanuts’ Mascot, me—I think it’s high time you joined this roster of mon- ocled visionaries, don’t you?
D: Chapstick
The dry, cold winter air’s got us all reaching for the Blistex lately. I don’t hate it—chapstick’s the highest form of self- expression. Maybe you’re a classic Chap- Stick-brand kind of guy, the type who’s not gonna mess with the flavored balms anymore than he’s gonna change his daily breakfast of plain oatmeal. If you use the extremely medicated stuff, you’re making a statement: I take my lips’ moisture content very seriously, and I probably also use the toothpaste with 42 health benefits instead of the one with fun colors. There’s also Burt’s Bees, the one that looks like an egg, and straight up Vaseline. But, despite this veritable smorgasbord of balms, I still find myself getting kind of bummed out by chapstick. Sometimes I’m just trying to moisturize, only to find that a large chunk of the wax has gotten stuck in the cap. And after just a half-hour of being stashed in my cozy pocket, my trusty tube of Lip Smackers melts into a useless stick of strawberry shortcake-flavored goop. Moisturizing, infuriating, delightful, waxy—chapstick is a fickle friend, but I’ll always need it in my life.
FAIL: Groundhog Day
The holiday, NOT the film. I don’t know if you checked out Monday’s “Groundhog Day Live” Snapchat story, but I know that I did, and I found myself asking some questions. Namely: WHY?? I mean, who is this “Phil?” Where did he come from? How does he handle the stress of his responsibilities? Imagine this lil guy’s life, if you will:
364 days per year, he lives in terror. His job security hinges on one split-second decision. Come February 2nd, he’ll be lifted above large crowds and asked to predict six weeks of weather, despite lacking any significant meteorological training. Nevermind the fact that he’s known to suffer from extreme sciophobia, a paralyzing and tragically ironic fear of shadows. Then there’s the inexplicable commotion. He knows them not, but men, women, and children will call out his name: Punxsutawney Phil. In another life, he was known as Geoffrey. There will be fireworks, strange men in funny hats, amped up grandparents—amidst it all, he cries for help. No one speaks groundhog, and so no answer will come.
All I’m saying is that PETA could be a little more on top of this.