Protest Your Best March


I saw the Women’s March over the weekend. And you know what, well done. Everything has changed now. Everyone has listened to your shouts, read your signs, and seen how you shut down the city of Chicago. Now women have equal pay, respect, and are presidents of large corporations. Wait, none of that happened. Everything is the same. Of course it is! Protests and marches never do anything. Nothing ever changes! The only thing that has a chance of happening is someone getting hurt. That is the only thing, and it almost always happens. Nothing came out of the Black Lives Matter march either. Shit is still the same. It’s a waste of time and energy.  The only way to get your demands met is by kidnapping or taking hostages. That’s when people straighten up and give in to what you want. You have to let them know you mean business and you ain’t messing around.  So next time you want to protest or make a difference, grab a little boy with blue eyes and toss him in the trunk of your Buick Regal and start making some requests! People will listen and have more compassion, especially if it’s an adorable kid.  I suggest an asian boy. They are usually pretty cute and have great hair.  Then you just sit back and wait as people one by one give in to what ever you want.   You will be surprised at how effective it is.  Not that I have ever done that…

Now for the Women’s March, here is what you do.  On your Women’s March lunch break, go to Five guys, Papa John’s, Jersey Mikes, Al’s Beef, or Uncle Julio’s (all men named restaurants, bastards!) and grab a manager. By the way isn’t it sexist that the first part of the word is man? MAN-AGER. Ain’t that some shit! So grab that man-ager and duct tape him up to a chair, stick a scrunchie in his mouth and start demanding some shit! I want a thermos fulll of Goldschlager, a football helmet stuffed with hot cheetos, an autographed copy of Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl, and a woman-ager in every Jimmy John’s in the country! This restaurant is so sexist that it has two men in their title!   What you couldn’t have a Jimmy Jane’s?  And as if that wasn’t enough, you got a sandwich called “Turkey Tom”. WOW. I don’t see no “Ham on Rye Julie” or a “Beach Club Betty” on the menu! No! Apparently there is no room for women between two slices of bread! So until our demands are met, Red visor Jeff stays strapped to the chair, crying for his mommy. Isn’t it weird they always cry for their momma when they got nothing left? Never daddy.  Always mommy! Think about it!
So let’s recap. Marchers, stop wasting your time going down to Michaels (Goddammit, another man named store) getting post-boards and magic markers. Stop trying to think of clever words, rhymes, or glitter to put on your signs and start kidnapping and taking hostages to get your movement going! Just remember it was me, Ryan Andrews that gave you this great idea. And remember I am a man and thought of this first, because men are smarter than women. Now go on get!!!!!!!

*all ideas and opinions expressed in this blog are complete nonsense and should not be taken seriously.  Ryan has two chronic diseases and talks out loud to his cats.  He is mentally unstable and still thinks Ryan Cabrera’s “On the Way Down” is the greatest song ever made.  This blog is proof that not everyone should have a say.  

Duct Tape –  Is there anything this tape can’t fix?  Oh right, my two autoimmune diseases.  But maybe we just haven’t tried it????  I’m just saying…

Scrunchie – what I loved more than the classy look, was that girls never washed them.       Re-marketed today as the Nuva Ring

Goldschlager – a sweet cinnamon schnapps created in Switzerland.  And I thought we were the only ones that hid our money over there.  Best served in a Red Solo Cup

Gone Girl – a novel that paved the way for every mystery book to have the word girl in it.  Its a modern day classic.  Right up there with the Great Gatsby and Breakfast at Tiffanys.  I sleep with a copy under my pillow at night.

Jimmy John’s – subs so fast…that they don’t taste good.  And can I please not have my sandwich delivered in a Jansport backpack by a teenager on a Huffy?



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