This Summer, You're Drunk

Awwwwwwww we're black y'all. We're black y'all. We're blacker than black and we're black y'all!

Oh, I'm sorry. We started off meaning to say "back" but couldn't resist the allure of black power-- which, for the record, has never suffered a major outage.

Forget all that though, friends, how have you been? I gotta say, you look a little taller. And did you lose some weight? Readers, you lookin' foine! Oh this? Nah, just a t-shirt I had laying around, you know. But listen, there's something we wanted to tell you.

So we know that this time when we said we were going out for milk, we didn't come back for five months. We just want you to know (in the same Robin Williams to Matt Damon tone) that it's not your fault...it's not your fault.

Honestly, we went to the store, saw a poster for a motorcycle festival, and one thing led to another. Long story short, we have the best leather vest tans going right now.

So let's put all that behind us, curl up under the ceremonious make-up Snuggie, and have ourselves a nice box of Franzia. What do you say?

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Breathe it in, kids. That's the body odor of mother Earth, and she is not wearing dewodorant. The weeks of incessant humidity are a wonderful reminder that the blades of our household fans simply can't cut it anymore. It is clear now that the air has been shampooed, and therefore must be conditioned.

We at The Sometimes heartily support the miracle of centralized air just as much as we support the practice of social gatherings. Where do these two phenomena intersect? That's right, Chuck E. Cheese's and the movies. We should only concern ourselves with the latter, though, because apparently being hot and sticky is frowned upon in a ball pit full of screaming infants.

A purple popsicle? You grapist!

A timeless American tradition, the theater is the place where buttery popcorn is transferred from a clogged vessel to a clogged artery. Where countless teenagers seek out private seats in a public forum, so as to engulf each other in a game of minor league tonsil hockey. Yes, it truly is the place for kings.

Throw a full-blowing air conditioning system into the mix, and the only thing hotter than those barely legal teens is Kevin James' sizzling performance in the fast-paced, beastility-filled thrill ride Zookeeper.

You can play video games in the lob...Hey, wait a minute. That's not an accurate description of Zookeeper at all. Let's take a look at what the 'ole online edition of a newspaper says. Okay, found the review. Hmm...he's a what? Oh alright, that makes sense. And he can do what...talk to animals? Oh, like Dr. Doolittle! What? What do you mean it's nothing like Dr. Doolittle? It's the same exact supernatural ability. That's like saying there's nothing in common between Michelle Bachmann and a white NBA player -- come 2012, a black man will continue to dominate them.

Alright, after having voluntarily added "zookeeper review" to my search history, I've learned two things. One, the only misinterpretations I made about this film were about the plot, setting, and characters. And two, it is impossible not to fall in love with Kevin James based on his cuddly frame and winning smile. I completely get what that Allegra Cole sees in him.

Still, I can't find any proof that this movie is actually enjoyable. No proof. Proof. Proof....

Hot damn, that's it!

Besides very long hallways, staircase lighting, and ticket checkers who heed Beyonce's infamous advice ("to the left, to the left") half of the time, what does every movie theater have? That's right, a concession stand! And what fills these fantastically overpriced vending stations? Why the popcorn, soda pops, and diabetes-sized candy bars, of course.

While all of these items may help partially alleviate the torture of sitting through The Smurfs, they will not make the experience enjoyable.

Enter the savior: Booze.

Bar Wars: You R2Drunk2Drive

Before you drink that idea down, imagine this. Having recently witnessed the annual glory of the Fourth of July, I defy you to tell me that the following scenario is not quintessentially American:

You're sitting in a giant megaplex watching Bruce Willis continue his assault on the world's accented terrorists in Die Hard 6: Explosions and Breasts. You lean slightly forward and grab your 50 oz movie theater sized, special edition ice cold Budweiser. Relaxing your chubby rear against the plush cushioning of your seat, you tilt your head back and take a long, refreshing pull. Just as McClane does a back flip off of a flaming helicopter, guns a blazing, you feel the soft kiss of centralized air on your brow.

You have just achieved the real American dream.

I mean, think about it. Not only would we enjoy the comments my black brethren already yell at the screen, but we would join in on the fun. Every single one of us has wanted to shout "Bitch, don't open that door!" at the top of our lungs. This would finally make that a socially acceptable reality.

For theater owners no doubt reading this small town blog, I offer you the possibility of never again having a lull in the box office. Say it with me: daily drink specials.

Those of you currently dealing with the oncoming anxiety of the Netflix price hike will soon find yourselves back in a theater seat. It is here where I implore you to imagine how great the next two hours spent watching Rise of the Planet of the Apes: of the could have been. Come back to us with feedback, please and thanks.

In the interim, know that the Sometimes is thankful to be back on your browsers, mobile or otherwise. We missed you guys and dolls.

Roll the credits,

Tapan Jones

[Art, as always, by Thomas Glass Jr.]

Click to maximize the pictures!

p.s. This is totally unrelated, but based on the recent internet craze, if you see someone "planking" just do the right thing: walk on them and pretend there's a sea of shark infested waters below your feet.

Groce, Dude

The feeling of excusing ourselves for long writing absences seems to have become commonplace. We should start every post with a Simpsons-couch-gag style apology. Today's flaky excuse? One half of the Sometimes (sadly) has left Chicago for literal pastures, but things have now settled. So, let's get blogrolling.

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Just as the Bulls and the Sheens begin to embrace the word "win", the season that starts with the same three letters is making its well earned exit. Snow is about to enter its annual "why do I even bother?" phase, and the Sun, having finally lost those extra Holiday pounds, is feeling hot again. Soon, attractive women will begin to come out of hibernation, and men around the world will rejoice.

National Geographic Presents: The Cave of Babes

Yep, everything is really coming up Derricks.

Here's usually where you'd see a negative twist brought upon by a positive introduction, but damnit all if things aren't feeling just a bit better these days.

I mean, it's almost picnic season! The time to sit in the middle of an emerald colored park, on top of a plaid blanket with frisbee in tow, is nearly here. Can't you just smell the games of pick up badminton about to end with heated arguments regarding the meritsof Pauly D's DJ certification? It's the type of family atmosphere that can only end once the cabs are, in fact, here.

In true MTV Cribs circa 2004, and even Yogi Bear fashion, let us dive into heart of our day out -- the pic-a-nic basket.

You've got your sandwiches, ranging from egg salad to chutney. Your wines, coca colas, and more wines. Your grapes, nuts, grape-nuts, and Chex Mix. Oh yeah, you've got it all.

Along with all of these delectables by your side there is, however, a belief that the food you've brought with you is going to be consumed now-ish. Fresh sandwiches don't tend to do well in the real world. Ever seen one try to do it's taxes? No? Wait one second. Oh, Tom!

Why you should always save the pickle for last

My mom has always been in charge of the picnic menu, and lately I've been missin' her kitchen. Having recently moved away from Mother Jones' fabled cooking, I've found myself in food limbo. The high quality nourishment that I'd become accustomed to has suddenly disappeared, and the old adage of working to put food on the table has become an ironic punch in the jejunum.

The circumstances have led me to my local grocery store. It is here that I've discovered something. Given a lack of unoccupied fridge space, and a weakness for gimmicks, my shopping cart mocks the world's dietitians.

Let me break it down for you, as a list of my "must buys" at the grocery store:

- Flamin' Hot Cheetos, the perfect compliment to a Subway sandwich.

- Diet Coke, all the brand name without any of the flavor.

- Scooby-Doo and/or Spongebob fruit snacks, they're gelatin free!

- Granola bars, mostly just to rationalize the rest.

That's pretty much....oh, and Pretzel M&M's...what I regularly self-checkout. (Just a quick aside, wouldn't it be perfect if all self checkouts had full size mirrors?). During the "payment method" screen, while coming to terms with the fact that secretly we all share a 3rd grader's diet, is when I made a bit of a discovery.

Peeking over, legally, I think, at what's on the conveyor belt for other shoppers, I've found that it's startlingly easy to pick out who shops for one.

Required reading for last week's rose ceremony

Dead giveaways to finding a solo shopper? How's two lists in the same blog post sound?

1) Frozen dinners. These flavorful sodium injections are a mainstay in a lonely man's cart. At least with a name like Michelina, the illusion of eating with a woman is there.

2) Giant bags of miscellaneous chips. If you're thinking that no one pony tailed man could possibly eat all of those chips in a single sitting, you'd be right. Mostly, it's for the convenience of having them Xbox-side during fictitious video game sporting events.

3) Hostess brand anything. Sure, Ho Hos and Twinkies have delightfully playful names, but the last time they were enjoyed around people, Billy Madison was trying to trade his banana for a Snack Pack.

Health peanuts of the world, I call on you! If we want supermarket sweeping change to come to our aisles, we're going to need your help. The Sometimes is making a plea to all you attractive women out there to do your part. If you see a bachelor shopping, his cart barren of essential nutrients, place your palm on his shoulder, lean in, and whisper, "you could use some vegetables." Don't be alarmed if everyone around you is aroused... you're just that good.

We're telling you, these sensual messages will be the first great stride towards a leaner country! You can do it ladies -- you have to. The fate of summertime beach bods depends on it.

Checking out,

Tapan Jones

[Art, as always, by Thomas Glass Jr.]

Click to maximize the pictures!

Elevator Action Jackson Five

The Super Bowl bye week is an interesting time in America. Football fans across the country have just come off the most exciting Sunday of the year, and in their staunch refusal to watch the Pro Bowl, will wait another week to satisfy their thirst for helmet to foam-dome tackles.

Yes, it's the week we realize that the networks' mid-season line ups are disappointing as always, and the "State of the Union" has once again crowned Miss Illinois its champion.

She lives just off Michigan, too.

The nation collectively twiddles its thumbs, looks around the room disinterested, and engages in a two week long version of the waiting game during this bye week, eager to see what commercials they'll find on the other side. It's as if we're stuck in some sort of limbo -- the white cloud, no-clue-where-I'm-headed kind, not the fun, Caribbean, how-low-can-I-go kind...although, the two should consider joining forces. Nothing like Red Stripe-fueled dancing prior to the afterlife. That's what I always say.

The whole period of inactivity is akin to one's time spent in an elevator -- a transport system of which I am now somewhat of an expert. I'll explain in just one second. First you'll have to let me just reach across your shoulder, and press the button for Fun. Almoooossssst got it......

Ding!

Readers, it's time that you and I had a talk about getting high. I know you think that it'll be scary and dangerous, but don't worry. As long as you understand what you're getting into, it can be neat way to pass the time. I promise, at some point you'll come down, and everything will be fine.

Outside of Disney World, elevators are generally a dull, boring place. M. Night Shyamalan certainly proved that last year with Devil. Yet it is here where we face life's tough questions, such as: What is with that close door button?

This circular selection has been around for decades, and in that span, it has been pressed billions of times by hurried businessmen, doctors, and kids who just can't hold it in that much longer. The design appeals to all ages and literacy levels, foregoing words for two hieroglyphic triangles pointing towards each other, locked in a never ending game of Chicken.

The real issue, though, is if the damned thing actually works. After hours of research, we here at the Sometimes have found that the close door button is undoubtedly a placebo. It works in a strange manner -- simply creating a way to pass the time until the doors are good and ready to close, while simultaneously generating the illusion of work being performed. Ingenious.

Ah, to be newly married

Closing doors is one thing, but the elevator experience also provides a forum to opening ears. The gentle ambiance oft-reserved for museum scenes in movies is actually the distant cousin of, you guessed it, elevator music.

The tunes, played at the non-Spinal Tap setting of 3, are a welcomed relief from the deafening silence experienced between asking "What floor?" and saying "Have a nice day!"

The playlift is made up mostly of muzak. The genre has the kind of lite songs you've only heard at Great Clips, but still somehow know all the words to. It's mostly peaceful, but if you're lucky, you may catch young Michael, Tito, and the lesser ones singing you songs about the alphabet. Well, at least the first 3 letters.

Sadly, I've noticed that fewer and fewer elevator venues are choosing to play anything at all. It's probably because, these days, everyone is always wearing headphones.

The next time you find yourself in a quiet ascent to the 9th floor, do your fellow man a solid. Take out the ear buds, set your iPod to full volume, and blast the hell out of Come On Eileen for the duration of your trip. You won't regret it.

I wonder if she'll say anything

Now, not all Elevator Action is conducted on your old Nintendo Entertainment System. There will be times in your life when you're ready to board the mighty beast, only to notice a collection of people waiting inside. It is here when your inner critic takes over, and you do a quick body scan of the other riders. You know, the up-down.

At The Sometimes, our concern for the well being of our readers is somewhere in the upper half of our priorities. With that said, keep in mind the following rule-of-thumb: When entering an elevator, evaluate all current passengers as if you have the knowledge that in a few moments, you're going to be stuck there for a while.

Don't try to figure out a reason as to why that would happen, as time is of the essence.

First, find whoever it is you're most attracted to, and stand next to them. In case this turns out to be a Chilean Miners situation, surely you'll need some lovin'. Plus, you don't want to get stuck with the smelly one, do you?

Second, identify what roles you want to assign to everyone once you come to a halt. By being vocal and delegating the work load, you'll seem like a leader and a hero without doing anything of real consequence whatsoever.

Finally, stay side adjacent and don't get stuck in the middle. Real estate will be at a premium during the stoppage, and in the land of metal walls, the leaning man is king.

Follow these rules so that you'll feel less guilty about judging everyone, and to make the whole ride go by that much faster.

This bye week may have left us Chicagoans with feelings of regret and jealously, but let's not worry about football, and instead take the literal high road in our boxy, metal friends.

I'd love to stay and chat about other things but, you know the kids are at home, and the wife, she's always a....

....close door, damnit!

Tapan Jones

[Art, as always, by Thomas Glass Jr.]

Click to maximize the pictures!

Why the Long Underwear?

Our apologies for the delay. We were gone fishin'. If the topical jokes appear three weeks too late, it's because they are. Enjoy!

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Fashion stagnant would be an accurate way to describe my wardrobe. I very rarely embrace sweeping trends -- except for that one time that I just had to have those pink Uggs to match my Snuggie, and it wasn't like anyone was going to ridicule either of those decisions. I know the names Tom Ford and Oscar de la Renta not because of an intimate understanding of the biz, but rather because of well-to-do rap artists with a flair for lookin' "Marty Mc-"

My wheelhouse generally consists of a pair of dark jeans, a single colored shirt, and a zipper hoodie. This movie-extra ensemble can carry me through most of the year without major issue. Granted, this look doesn't exactly create an inescapable sexual paradise for women, but it keeps me happy and doesn't backtalk.

When it comes to supplements, women and black men accessorize more than anyone else on the planet. Contrary to popular belief, I belong to neither of those two groups, so I'll leave the accessories in someone else's foot locker. Although, I would love a red hat to go with my red shoes and red LRG shirt.

Someday...

The finale of ABC Family's 25 days of Christmas, coupled with the inability of my ultra-luxury '97 Buick LeSabre (pronouced le-sab-rah, I'm sure) to start, confirms that lose-ter is long over and winter has comfortably settled in. The time to step on a crunchy leaf has passed, and by now we've all got that Red Ryder BB Gun to shoot our eye out with. This newfound urge for violence is well complemented with some fresh attire. One specific type of clothing, really.

I'm talking, of course, about long underwear.

Turns white men into Shaft

Now before you fashionistas shoot me full of icy cold glares and a dangerous lack of appetite, hear me out. Long underwear is a wonderful addition to your dressers for a variety of reasons. If you'll just follow me this way...

A Midwestern winter is characterized by snow, wind, icicles, and anything else from the Academy Award winning motion picture Fargo. Yah, it's cold alright, you betcha. The warmth provided by this thermal wear is amazing. It's like a Brink's home security system for your body, keeping the comfort in and the carolers out. Also, get someone to punch in the right code and it too will come off. Now who's complaining?

No one, that's who. This does, however, bring up my second point. Many of you might be thinking aloud at your internet box, screaming profanities about the unattractiveness of a pair of long johns on a possible love partner. Fear not, for you may be forgetting a simple truth. Most long underwear is tight fitting. Tight fitting things show off a person's physique. This display and confidence in one's body are sure to drive your significant other so wild with passion that their lustful eyes will overlook the thatched pattern which has no doubt been pressed onto your skin.

Like the priest or Santa ever had a chance

A final, lesser known, advantage about long underwear is within the restrictive nature of the material. It's an auto diet, making someone consciously recognize their muffin top -- the part of your belly that hangs over and folds along your belt line. It also stops urges to continue eating for fear that your waistband will break up and go on to pursue misguided solo careers.

When this winter starts to get (even) colder, and you're at your neighborhood K-Mart shopping for the season's latest craze, be sure to mentally reference The Sometimes and our hearty endorsement for the best clothing candidate all year -- long underwear. It'll keep you warm, sexy, and in shape. Plus, you'll still be able to wear your Uggs.

Stay bundled my friends,

Tapan Jones

[Art, as always, by Thomas Glass Jr.]

Click to maximize the pictures!

Time Waste Management

Putting things off; Is there anything less off putting? If there's one truth that high school, college, and daily life have taught me over the years, it's the joy in being a citizen of the Procrastination.

The Bill of Rights of said country (which will be done in a week, we swear) states that having a task at hand means having an opportunity to push that task back until about 2:30 a.m. the night before it's due.

Many say this sort of behavior is a perfect example of poor time management, but we here at The Sometimes believe that if you've managed to give yourself 3 and a half more weeks of watching Family Matters reruns, that's an accomplishment in and of itself.

Tom Glass Half Full. Finish Date: Someday

I remember being in high school and seeing the 2003 version of a tweet or status update in the form of my friend's AIM away message. It quipped, "Procrastination is like masturbation, in the end you're just screwing yourself."

This always validated my delay in work. Outside of Christine O'Donnell, I've found that nearly everyone, everywhere thinks very highly of the self-act that shall not speak its name. I always thought that away message was a pro-"pro" statement. Turns out my friend was a square.

Lately, when shifting my attention away from anything that needs doing, I've turned it towards something much, much more intellectually satisfying. And cute.

Angry Birds.

Before I even get into the details of what exactly A.B. is, let me issue a request. For any of you that have an iP(__) with a touch screen, or if you own a Droid phone, make sure to find your way over to the ole' app shop, and snag this game up right now.

Alright, let's talk about the birds and the pigs. Angry Birds is a delightfully charming game in which you control a pack of - you guessed it - birds. These birds, scientific name launchus atthepiggies, have a temper because a bunch of damn dirty swine have stolen their eggs. So, being the victims of theft, the birds react by channeling their inner Kevin Bacon (in Death Sentence) and seek vengeance. They proceed to hurl themselves, via slingshot, at all the ham they can find in the most point scoring manner possible.

Ivan Drago means business

Counting Angry Birds and the recently released Angry Birds Halloween, there are 240 creative and challenging levels at the disposal of anyone looking for a simple way to pass the time.

What this means is that in my quest not to focus on important matters, I've been spending all of my time focused. Angry Birds is a cruel and sexy mistress that tempts you during t.v. commercials, while waiting for a haircut, and especially in line at Subway. Luckily, this mistress won't threaten to tell to your wife everything, or throw a tantrum in the middle of a restaurant because you never take her out anywhere nice...or prior to 11 o'clock.

But the best thing about this game is that, unlike LeBron's ego, it has an end. All the levels can be completed, and you can even go through doing the 3-star challenge and still find yourself satisfied when it's all over. Think of it like the Bible -- once you get through it, it's time to preach the word. Which is pretty much what I'm doing right now.

Really gives a new meaning to "tablet" computers, huh?

If games don't strike your fancy, there are many other ways to delay the inevitable assignments in life:

1) Get in the habit of watching YouTube clips you never thought you'd see. There's always that little pudgy kid who lip-syncs covers of pop songs, or clips of The Rock during his historic years inside the squared circle. Those will pass 20 minutes, easy.

2) .......I was going to finish this list, but I started watching old Jordan highlights. Man, that guy was special.

So with exam season in the air and jobs that need projects done, we hope we've played an important role today. Meaning, we hope you read this while you were supposed to be doing something much more important. Whether you were or you weren't, sorry, but we cannot give you back the last 3 minutes of your life.

Now it's time for you to go forth and delay some more. And remember, if it's not due tomorrow, you've got plenty of time. That goes for all you pregnant ladies, too.

Here's to screwing yourself,

Tapan Jones

[Art, as always, by Thomas Glass Jr.]

Click to maximize the pictures!

P.S. comment on what you do to procrastinate, and the best one will receive a buck from yours truly.

Time to Be Self-Central

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Just a quick little note before we dive in to this bi-week's post. We at the Sometimes want to apologize for the unusual 4 week gap in between entries. Our writer (that's me!) had been focused on things that don't happen on computers, and finally got all of that behind him. Our artist (that's Tom!) has been waiting to draw up something new, so with that, let's get back to the action.

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Remember when Galileo got beat up for saying that the Earth revolved around the Sun instead of everything revolving around Pope Roman-name the Fourth? Being a man of science, I would have been quick to have The Lei Man's back in that tussle, but honestly, I think I'm finally starting to understand the position of everyone else.

Tug of World

Not that I'm a particularly selfish or ignorant man, nor have I ever shown a penchant for wailing on nerds, I can just understand - much like those early physicists - being the center of attraction. I hope you appreciate the gravity of that joke.

Double G was, in fact, correct. The planets in this solar system do orbit the Sun and not the Earth. Should have figured, what with the "solar" in the name and all. Anyway, we've accepted this fact and consequently have a much better understanding of pretty much everything. Hell, we set our clocks by it.

Which is actually what I've been waiting to get at for 3 paragraphs now. I've lived in and around the wonderful city of Chicago for a little over nine years. The people are swell, the weather is cooperative for 6 months out of the year, and the Art Institute is free on Thursdays after 5. It's just a great place.

But one thing has always upset me: Why aren't people up in arms about Central Time? You know, that whole thing where we're "an hour behind New York and two hours ahead of L.A."

I have always felt that CST should be what the rest of the timezones orbit around.

Something about the center of things just feels inherently right: The focal point in renaissance art, the fifty yard line on a football field, the spine of a book, and even where they cut your foot long sub. If any or all of these things were shifted slightly to the right, or "east", you wouldn't feel physically comfortable. Observe.

1st and Goal from the 50? Go Carolina Panthers!

Side Pony Girl: Even I think this is nuts

Imagine what it looks like closed.

When you look at a clock, you'll find that 12 is at the top, reigning supreme on everyone else. It's dead center. Having to do everything based on Eastern Time is like having a 1 at the top of your clock - who the hell wants that?

The biggest issue this causes is with confusion as it relates to TV Programming. While the advent of DVR and overall maturity may curb this problem for others, I'm championing the cause for people like me who have neither of those things.

I do appreciate having the last word in "9/8 central," but the time has come to abandon this strange scheduling announcement. Think of it like a bell curve, the meaty part is right in the middle. The central time zone is the everyman, so cater to our needs, and let the outliers do the math. Chicag-0 will be the middle integer.

You said it, brother. (Yeahhhhh!)

If all of this seems like a loose argument veiled in a general superiority complex that I think Chicago is better than New York or Los Angeles, then kudos on your cynicism, because that's totally what it is.

So here's to the bringing The G Man out of house arrest to fight for part two - Heliocentrism: This Time, It's Personal.

Onward to a future where the CST is the BST. In the mean time, the rest of the world can deal with Greenwich.

Clocking out,

Tapan Jones

[Art, as always, by Thomas Glass Jr.]

Read You Like A Poster

The whistle's officially been blown on another Labor Day. Once again, Americans have their noses back to their respective grindstones, and they're smelling the hell out of employment.

Outside of notable fashion changes, Labor Day also signals the end to summer vacation. Many of our readers have completed their undergraduate education, and were it not for the fact that a bunch of wiener kids are no longer running around at our favorite stores and mini golf courses, we would have forgotten about school altogether. So, yes, it is true -- the Nationwide school tour is officially back in season.

With millions of people now adhering to the rigid command of a ringing bell, our youth are taking upon many more responsibilities. As the annual traditions dictate: they must once again bring in sweeping revenues for their institution via sporting events and bake sales, flirt with each other next to lockers when no one is looking, and of course, start hitting the books.

Contrary to what the idiom would have you believe, this book beating occurs much more often at your local library rather than at a Rocky II style Italian boxing gymnasium.

Boxer: Yeah...with punches!

How do I know this? Well I've been spending a lot of time at local libraries lately. I tell myself it's so that I can have a quiet place to study, read, and take in literary culture, but mostly it's to scout the hot librarian talent. Some of these 50 plus women have got it goin' on.

Aside from candidates for a well read divorcée, the library has shown me a lot of other things. For example, did you know that the "shhh" was first spoken at a public library? (I don't think that's true, but doesn't it just (quietly) sound right?). Also, I've learned that hard cover books are wonderful for building a fort, while soft cover books work great as personal fans, pillows, or even kindling -- not that I'm for book burning, but Dickens taught me to want smores.

I have found, however, something unsettling in my expeditions.

Every library has its own decorative motif, this much is undeniable. A change in wallpaper, the alignment of shelves, and carpet color are all contributing factors to making the inside of a library unique. Yet they all have something in common: the READ posters.

Oh yes, you know the ones. Pictures of your favorite celebrity, a book, and the word "read" written in giant capital letters.

The discovery I've made on these motivational posters is pretty clear: Almost no one is reading. The people are just showcasing their talents, and making it fairly obvious that reading is not the reason why they got there. Most of the time they're just holding a closed book to their bodies.

Observe:

Must be reading a Manual

Burn rubber, not books

and my personal favorite

"This couch goes so well with my skin tone"

He has no idea the book is there.

So I took my little dilemma over to the Sometimes Workshop, and asked the trusted artist of all our posts, Tom Glass, whether or not he could draw me up a READ poster with a beloved celebrity reading.

Baby, baby, baaaaaaby books

Even though these posters don't exactly show the benefits of reading, I really hope the American Library Association continues to make them. Let's be real, these things are a welcomed break from memorizing soon-to-be-forgotten test material.

As long as they don't harm anyone, they're okay in my book,

Tapan Jones