Justin lost more than 20 pounds in three weeks while on a plant-based diet.

As I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, wondering if I should get Invisalign, I noticed that my love handles looked like large, deadly tumors nestled on the sides of my body. I lifted my shirt up to discover I had a muffin top. So I decided to weigh myself. When I stepped on the scale, I saw that I was 230.6 pounds.

“Oh my God! I’m Kevin James,” I said, which was the polar opposite of when I would get plastered in college and scream, “I’m Rick James, bitch.” As the skinny kid in high school who graduated at 144 pounds, I never thought I’d ever be [gulp] fat. But it happened.

I’m too attractive to be fat. I have a face for television — but a body for radio. I guess it’s the perfect balance for me to work in print journalism. So when I decided to take on a 22-day plant-based diet from the book, “The 22-Day Revolution,” by Jay-Z and Beyonce’s trainer/life coach, Marco Borges, I decided to share my vegan and gluten-free journey with readers. As a reporter, I found myself putting my diet on the bottom of my list of priorities.

As soon as I shared the beginning of my journey to get rid of my dad-bod, I was instantly greeted by haters. Michael Tyahur took to Facebook to say: “This dude sucks at reporting the news.” He’s in a band — or so it appears by his Facebook profile — so he must know what he’s talking about, right? Also, judging that only one person Liked his status posted May 23 saying, “Anybody tryina jam today?” he doesn’t seem to be an expert at his own shit. So critiquing columns is probably his forte.

On a more related note, Rob Miller commented on Facebook that the 22-day revolution wasn’t a diet, but an “eating disorder.” Sorry, Mom and Dad, but Rob is wrong. I don’t have an eating disorder. After following the 22-day revolution, I’ve reset my habits and adopted a healthier lifestyle.

In case you’re interested in following the buzzed-about “revolution,” here are five tips to successfully reset your habits and change your life — based on my personal experience only.

1. Ground rules

This lifestyle change consists of a plant-based meal-plan. Understand that you’ll be vegan and gluten free for 22 days. That’s a big commitment. It’s the healthiest option for you, but it’s not for everyone. Before you waste your time — and your money — mentally prepare yourself to go without meat, dairy and wheat products.

2. Actually read the book

Inside “The 22-Day Revolution,” you’ll find over 65 healthy vegan recipes. Don’t just follow the recipes; actually read the book. In the book, Borges breaks down facts about the food you’re eating — and not eating — to educate you along the way. He also motivates you to keep going when you might feel like giving up. Reading the book keeps you stay well-informed and motivated. And who wouldn’t want daily messages from Queen Bey’s life-coach?

3. Redefine what a “cheat meal” is for three weeks

For the next 22 days, you won’t be getting a cheat meal. I found it easy to give myself three opportunities to redefine my “cheat meal” by eating out with my friends — and selecting the healthiest option. This will help you not feel ostracized from social settings and will give you the opportunity to practice making healthier habits at restaurants. I went to Kildare’s in Scranton on their burger night with a friend and ordered a veggie burger with no bun, topped with guacamole and pico de gallo and vegetables on the side. I also popped my Eden — A Vegan Cafe cherry with a vegan grilled cheese and had a vegan cheese sandwich at Nucleus Raw Foods in Luzerne.

4. Skip dessert for some alcohol

The meal-plan says absolutely no alcohol — but they do allow two vegan desserts to be eaten; each to be tried once at any point throughout the diet. It’s summer. I’d rather drink. I skipped the desserts. Instead, on Day 21, I traded them for three vodka drinks mixed with water and fresh lemon.

5. Repeat your favorite recipes

Some of the recipes are gross, but most of them are actually delicious. I made sure to try everything during the first 11 days. After that, when something didn’t sound appetizing, I just repeated another recipe in the book. My favorites are the vegetable curry, Gluten-free Pasta (with homemade sauce) and Hummus Tartine with Sprouts. Find your favorites and after the 22 days, consistently incorporate them into your diet.

After 22 days, I lost 21.6 — weighing 209 — and I’m feeling proud, great and healthy. I recommend this to everyone.

Justin in bed with an inflatable whale.

Life lesson: Sometimes you have to remove yourself from a situation to see the truth in it.

That was certainly the case when I slept with a whale over the weekend at The Woodlands. Sorry, Mom and Dad.

When I woke up in my hotel room bed to discover a big ass whale laying next to me, I started praying to God that we didn’t have sex. Not only because my heart belongs to three pending Tinder matches, but the whale was inflatable. A pool toy, to be exact.

I knew I had to remove myself from the situation to figure out what the hell was going on.

I jumped out of bed and started recapping what went down the night before.

That’s when I remembered the security guard at The Woodlands threatened to call the cops on me for leaving my ID in my hotel room; accusing me of being under 21 years old. For someone who will be 30 on their next birthday, that should be a compliment. As a grown man whose health insurance plan is eating Flinstone’s vitamins after each meal, I was kind of wishing the security guard was right; that I was 20 years old again.

I was so upset that I was almost 30 and getting yelled at by a security guard at an underage night club — and that I was no longer 20 — that I went straight to bed and cuddled with an inflatable pool toy I brought for my weekend stay at the local family-owned resort. Side note, blow-up whales are great at cuddling. Who knew?

Anyways, removing myself from the situation helped me realize I wasn’t a freak who screws inflatable objects. I’m just someone who likes to cuddle when I’m bummed out.

Once I realized the inflatable whale wasn’t my new girlfriend, I stopped running away.

The entire point for my stay at The Woodlands was to stop running away. I was there to film a promo video for the return of my online talk show.

A few months back, I decided to remove myself from filming my show, “We the Millennials,” to see how it could be better. I needed to see if it could even be better. Instead of getting more and more hits, the show’s videos started getting less and less views.

The shows were getting better. I was working harder. I couldn’t figure out why the show’s audience wasn’t growing. Why wasn’t I the next Jenna f — king Marbles?

Have you ever worked hard for something and felt like maybe you gave it all you could? Have you thought it’d just be best to give up? I started to feel that way. I guess everyone feels that way.

I re-watched old videos from the show. I noticed that although the shows were great live, they were falling flat for the online audience. I needed to resonate more with people watching the videos instead of the people sitting watching me make the videos.

Like The Rock says: Legends don’t retire, they reinvent.

So I gave it one last shot by filming with no audience at a barber shop that was getting a reality show on a new rising network.

Within 24 hours, the video had over 1,800 views. Now the video has 3,500 views.

It wasn’t exactly viral, but it was an improvement.

I stepped away from the situation and realized the truth: My show did have the ability to grow. I just had to change the way I did things.

This summer, I’m bringing the show back with a different atmosphere; something I know best — a party! Instead of filming for an audience, I’m filming on location at a pool party — with a DJ, drink specials and inflatable objects for cuddling, of course — from noon to 4 p.m. every Sunday starting June 28 at The Woodlands in Wilkes-Barre. The event runs for 11 weeks through Labor Day weekend — and you’re invited.

While we’re filming segments such as Hot Topics in the Hot Tub, Kicking Ass Under 30 and Shots With…, the ultimate Sunday Funday (in my opinion) will be goin’ down for real. I’ll still be advocating for Millennials to have their voices heard. I’ll still be working at making my dreams a reality —even though I almost gave up.

No matter what you’re thinking about giving up on, remember this: The most amazing things in life tend to happen at the moment you’re about to give up.

By Justin Adam Brown

jbrown@timesleader.com

Justin learned you can turn anything into fun when he got a boot on his car for unpaid parking tickets.

Herpes are a lot like unpaid parking tickets. Just because you ignore them, doesn’t mean they’ll go away forever.

I first realized this on a beautiful spring morning in April 2007. The sun was shining, birds were chirping and my bedroom linens were stained with my unborn children. Let’s face facts here, it’s not like my offspring will cure cancer or anything, so I could afford to waste some DNA on my sheets from practicing the pull-out method every now and then.

I had just woken up and was making my way through the debris of beer cans scattered throughout my apartment from the party I had the night before. I headed to my front porch, where I took in some fresh spring air, when I noticed a boot on my car.

Apparently the local police took it seriously when I owed them money for parking in restricted areas, even if the restricted area was in front of my apartment. Maybe the fact that the police used to come to my frat parties and allow girls to drive their cop car up and down the hill in exchange for oral satisfaction caused me to underestimate their seriousness. Nevertheless, I was screwed worse than a submissive twink who dropped the bar of soap in a county jail shower. I now owed 250-some-odd dollars to remove the boot and avoid my car from getting impounded.

It couldn’t have happened at a worse time, as my 21st birthday was just two days away!

I knew if I called my dad and told him I needed money to remove a boot from my car for neglecting to pay inexpensive parking tickets, he would flip out. Not only would he flip out, but he would probably get so mad that he would back out of wiring me the money to pay for the limo I rented to celebrate my birthday in Pittsburgh.

Realizing I needed money fast, I decided to earn it by doing what I did best — partying.

It just so happened that my fraternity was the host of the infamous Thirsty Thursday on campus where everyone who was anyone went to live the nights they’ll never remember with the people they’ll never forget. And luckily it was a Thursday.

I decided to make Jell-O shots and sell them at that night’s party, hoping to raise enough money to remove my boot.

“This is a pajama party,” informed one of my fraternity brothers in response to my costume.

I was wearing sunglasses, a sombrero, a fake moustache and a belly shirt with dancing maracas that read “SOUTH OF THE BORDER.” My strategy was to physically stand out so people would approach me and buy a Jell-O shot.

Come the end of the night, I was 50 bucks short of a Jell-O shot victory.

Instead, I was lying on a basement floor resembling a Mexican bobble-head at a pajama party, wondering how I could raise enough money to get the boot off my car.

All of a sudden, one of my coworkers that I waited tables with arrived to see if anyone was still partying. A good friend, they lent me 50 bucks of their hard-earned money.

The next morning, I rushed to the local police station to pay my fines and have my boot removed.

“An officer will be over within the hour to remove the boot,” promised the secretary.

Walking home, I figured I might as well enjoy the boot while I had it.

So, I woke up my neighbor and made him take picture of me posing with the boot.

The cop came to remove the boot just as I was kissing it.

Years later, I’d like to say I know better than to not pay my parking tickets. To this day, I often leave work scared to find a boot on my car. Unpaid parking tickets might always be my herpes. They’re something I have and don’t tell people about unless I have sex with them often.

One thing I learned, however, is that if you can have fun getting a boot on your car, you can have fun anywhere.

Reach Justin at 570.991.6652 and follow him #PartyLikeAJournalist on Instagram @justinadambrown

Justin convinced his roommates a trashy single mother would take over his lease when they brought dogs home.

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/web1_WHITEtrash1.jpg Justin convinced his roommates a trashy single mother would take over his lease when they brought dogs home. Photo credit: Pinterest

I’ve had more roommates over the years than a foster child. Though I may try, I will never forget any of them. Judging by the stunt I pulled on the two football players I lived with my last year of college, they will never forget me, either. This is a story I still laugh about to this day.

It was a Tuesday night and I was getting home after a long night of bartending. As I was making my way through my pitch-black living room, I walked right into an unfamiliar object. When I turned on the lights, I saw a cage with two puppies inside.

Call me crazy, but when you share a house with football players, and you come home to find caged dogs, you can’t help but think of Michael Vick.

My jaw dropped.

Why were there dogs in my living room? My roommates were well aware that our landlord made me send the chihuahua I bought after I got drunk at a trailer park to live with my parents. Why would they bring home dogs? Were they engaging in an insidious underground crime scene?

The next morning would reveal the puppies were “our new pets.”

Now as long as my roommates were in the company of a Four Loko and grape-flavored blunts, they were cool. They were my boys and all, but other than that, they thought being college football players meant they were entitled to modify the rules.

“They have to go!” I demanded.

“Like hell. You’re not my parent,” whined one of my roommates.

“Fine, then I’m moving out,” I bluffed.

They didn’t believe me. However, as someone once diagnosed as an instigator with a manner for mischief by a reality-television producer, I was about to make certain they did.

About a week later, an older Sigma sister who graduated a few years earlier called and told me she was in the area and that she wanted to get a drink. I told her she had to pretend to be a trashy single mom taking over my lease, so I could get back at my roommates for thinking they could do whatever they wanted.

She didn’t even question it.

She came in and toured the house, making my roommates nearly shit their pants.

Between faking a series of argumentative phone calls to her “baby daddy” about how to handle her daughter Princess Beyonce, and claiming she was a 30-something bisexual on a meth binge with an abusive ex, my roommates were livid that I was having her take over my lease.

“Listen here you son of a bitch, I’m down here at the college looking at a house,” she screamed into the phone. “If she’s teething just give her some whiskey or Bud Light. Figure it out, you f — ing troll. Now stop calling me or I really will chop off your dick this time. And if you even think of touching my weed, I’ll give myself a black eye and tell the cops you did it.”

My roommates were horrified. I was just trying not to pee my pants enough for everyone to notice. Thank God I was wearing black basketball shorts that day.

I finally revealed the truth after one of my roommates called his mom in angry tears, screaming, “Mom, I’m not living with an old lady with kids! Do something!”

For some reason, he didn’t laugh as much as I did about it.

Am I the only who wishes there was some sort of instruction manual on how to deal with life?

Sure, there’s trips to stuff your face at Old Country Buffet, binge-drinking and dancing your flat ass off at Kildare’s Irish Pub next to two girls with toilet paper wrapped around their heads (that really happened) and masturbation just about anywhere you won’t get caught, but sometimes even none of that is enough to march on through the worst days.

Lately, I’ve found myself hoping for some sort of guidance on how to deal with life. In the past month, I’ve had so much loss thrown my way. My dog dropped dead of a heart attack. My father was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer and given a few years to live. My grandmother died. Everywhere I turned, I was losing some thing, some one.

I stuffed my face at Old Country Buffet. I got drunk at Kildare’s. I masturbated. Nothing was calming my storm.

Instead of dealing with the issues that were bothering me, I started channeling my emotions on little things that I could handle — making bigger deals out of things that I normally wouldn’t have made a big deal about.

When I was supposed to meet one of my best friends, Mr. Always Skips Leg Day, at Cooper’s and he decided to change where we were meeting to Bar Hill, I flipped out. When that same friend invited someone I don’t really care for to tag along at Adult Swim, I flipped out. Mr. Always Skips Leg Day started getting sick of my shit.

Once my behavior was brought to my attention, I was determined to prove that I could properly channel my emotions and not take things out on him.

It was a night out we both needed to secure our friendship.

It was a night out I needed to take my mind off the terrible things going on in my life.

It was a night I learned we all struggle when it comes to figuring out how to deal.

“My sister just turned 21, and I really want to have a drink with her,” Mr. Always Skips Leg Day said. “I’ve never been to the bar with her yet.”

“Let’s go,” I said.

“But Corky is going to be there,” he said. “I don’t want to be around him.”

Corky is his old best friend who did horrible things to him, such as calling the cops and reporting his license plate number, saying he was out driving drunk. Corky was desperate to rekindle their friendship, but Mr. Always Skips Leg Day wanted no part of it. Instead, Corky was now best friends with his little sister. Weird, right?

“Don’t worry. I’ll be there. Corky won’t bother you,” I said. “Let’s just go make an appearance, have one drink and then leave and go somewhere else.”

That was the plan, but that’s not what happened.

One drink turned into staying for the bar’s two-hour free drink special.

Mr. Always Skips Leg Day got so wasted that he was ignoring me and acting like best friends with that crazy Corky kid. Once the free drink special was over, I watched Mr. Always Skips Leg Day sprint out of the bar with Corky and his sister. When I went outside, I saw them driving off. I was stranded in downtown Wilkes-Barre. Not only did one of my “best friends” leave me at a bar with no ride, he went off with someone he hates.

When I finally found where the most random crew I’ve ever spent a night with was — and I got drunk with a midget and sorority girls with no self-esteem — I realized Mr. Always Skips Leg Day was pretty much blacked out.

I took his drink from him and told him he needs to drink some water.

“That’s f—- up,” he said. “Gayle never would have done that.”

“Really?” I said. “Gayle? The ex that cheated on you all the time, never would have hurt you by taking your drink away?”

Drunk and pissed, I decided to remind Mr. Always Skips Legs Day just how often Gayle cheated on him.

“That’s not true,” he screamed.

“He just doesn’t want to hear the truth,” said his little sister, making sure he couldn’t hear.

Then he threw his water at me. Then he called me fat and disgusting and was dragged out of the bar by his little sister.

I went outside to see he was about to enter Corky’s car and leave me stranded for the second time that night. I kicked off my Jordan flip-flops and ran toward him so fast that it looked like I was being chased by a drug dog and had coke up my ass.

I grabbed his arm. He hit me. He ripped my shirt. Then he drove away.

The next day, he said he thought I said that I had sex with his ex. That’s not what I said, but he doesn’t believe me.

Mr. Always Skips Leg Day still isn’t over Gayle. Bringing up how the cheating hurt him deeply. In return, he tried to hurt me. I don’t think it’s because he’s a bad person. I just think it’s because all the hurt from his past relationship is too much to handle.

In that moment, through that pain, he just didn’t know how to deal. Who always does, really? Too bad there isn’t some sort of instruction manual on how to deal with life.

Justin got drunk and learned another life lesson or something. Cue his haters to complain on Facebook. He loves that shit.

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/web1_HTD2.jpg Justin got drunk and learned another life lesson or something. Cue his haters to complain on Facebook. He loves that shit. Instagram

One of the most polite things a person can do is send a thank you note. Now that I’ve published 250 columns, I realized it’s time to reach out to my fans and thank them for following my journey of growing up while apologizing to my parents in the process.

Over the years, many have reached out to me, but I haven’t always found the time to respond to them. After taking the time to write to me, the least I could do is acknowledge them by sending a thank you note for reading. So here’s some thank you notes to my fans.

Posted by Concerned on theweekender.com in October 2010

“Justin is probably a pedophile.”

Dear Concerned,

Please let me start out by apologizing for my delayed response. The reason it has taken me almost five years to respond to you is because I’ve been busy kicking ass at life — and getting paid to write about it for the past 250 weeks.

Now that I finally have a moment to chat, may I ask you a personal question? Where have you been my entire life? Had I known you figured out my psychological problems in 2010, I could have saved a lot of money on therapy. But then I probably wouldn’t have had anything wild to write about — so maybe it’s best we didn’t meet.

I don’t think I’m a pedophile, though. I can’t even look at someone at a bar under 25 without secretly taking a video of them on SnapChat and leaving a caption that says: #ICantEvenDealWithThis.

Does that make me a bad person? You should know. I mean, you’re clearly a psychologist, right?

Let me know.

Thanks,

Justin

Posted by Michael on Facebook in May 2015

“This dude sucks at reporting”

Yo Michael,

Maybe you have a point. Perhaps I should find a new job. But what job should I choose? Maybe we can meet at Northern Lights to talk about it?

In the meantime, let me brainstorm some options right now. I always wanted to be a dancer, but I’d probably suck at that, too, because I only dance when I’m drunk.

Maybe I should start taking dick pics. I could probably be good at that, because I have a big penis. I’m assuming your penis isn’t big, because you’re busy analyzing my journalistic ability instead of having sex. Don’t be sad, I saw some guy standing next to a hot girl in an infomercial say that ExtenZe helps your penis grow. Just don’t try the male enhancement drug before we have the opportunity to meet. I really want your opinions on what my new career could be. Don’t forget about me.

Thanks for changing my life!

– Justin

Posted by Ian on Facebook in April 2015

“There is no one in this area I despise more than that Justin Adam Brown who write (sic) for the weekender. All he does is trash Scranton and it’s (sic) citizens (I don’t live in Scranton) and act like he is at a different standard.

Meanwhile he throws “benefits” but pockets the cash and robs the familirs (sic), plans crap events and blames the venue for no attendance and does 40 other random stunts for attention. I wouldnt (sic) feel an ounce of remorse if the kid got hit by a truck.”

Hi Ian,

You sound frustrated and that makes me very sad. Perhaps you should masturbate and release that tension all over your sheets. Pump it dry, too, because sperm with the DNA to get that angry over someone they don’t even know is better off if it doesn’t procreate. If you still have a problem with me after you masturbate, then call me. If you don’t have my number then you don’t know me well enough to have a problem.

Thanks for being you. There are enough nice people in the world.

– Justin Adam Brown

Posted by Britney on Facebook in June 2015

“It sucks that this area is representing our areas (sic) “young market” for entertainment in journalism. Honest. A”

– Britney

Hello Brit,

I’m sorry you think it sucks that I represent the area for entertainment journalism.

Want to know what I think sucks? Stage 4 cancer. My dad has it. I watch him throw up from chemo treatments and hear him moaning in pain all night.

Thanks for making me feel like I have my shit together.

– Justin

Posted by John on Facebook in July 2015

“Justin you are a Retard …&I Hope you Have Grown the F— up ..”

– John

Dear John,

I have a question for you. Have you seen my baseball?

Let me know? Thanks!

– J

Justin loves the “fans” who have reached out over the past 250 columns — and he’s letting them know.

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/web1_ULOVEME.jpg Justin loves the “fans” who have reached out over the past 250 columns — and he’s letting them know. Instagram

Everyone in their 20s has that one year where it seems everybody they ever did a keg stand with or almost got pregnant gets married. For me, that year was when I was 25. I had five weddings within one year. Despite many drunk conversations promising otherwise, I wasn’t in any of them.

Not being in the wedding means there’s no drama. You show up, you hug the bride and groom and you take advantage of the open bar. Or at least that’s how it should be. When my best friend from college married the girl I basically introduced him to, there was drama before the wedding even started, when I was shopping for something to wear.

Fully intending to dress to impress, I ventured off to the mall to find the perfect shirt and tie for the special occasion.

After more than an hour of mixing and matching everything the store had, I finally found a winner. The slim fit sizes were mixed with the modern fit sizes, so I kept trying on articles of clothing that didn’t fit. Then, right as I was pulling down my pants to finally change and leave, someone pounded on the fitting room door.

“Open up right now,” yelled someone on the other side.

For some reason, I complied. I must have had low self esteem that day from struggling to find clothes that fit right.

I opened the door, with my pants half-up and boxer briefs tightly gripping my package, to find a mall cop and the sales associate standing in front of my dressing room.

The sales associate called mall security because she thought I was shoplifting.

“We heard you were taking a long time in here. I wanted to see what was going on,” the mall cop told me.

A few customers stood there, staring at my package, my hairy legs and a mall cop accusing me of shoplifting.

I couldn’t believe the sales associate thought I was trying to shoplift. How embarrassing! I’d never shoplift — unless you consider lying about being a mall employee for a discount on your Auntie Anne’s pretzel shoplifting. In that case, I’m guilty.

Since the sales associate was as fat as Ricki Lake was before she lost all that weight so she could get a talk show, I assumed she’d have empathy for someone trying to find the right size in a dressing room. But instead, I seemed to have bothered her. Was she in a hurry for me to leave? Was I delaying her from going home and eating her way into a diabetic coma?

I was so pissed that I didn’t want to buy anything and give the story any of my money, but I did, of course, because I had to leave for my friend’s wedding the next morning.

After I left, I walked by the store twice, flipping off the sales associate — with my thumb extended, too. Her jaw dropped, probably for the first time without something edible entering it.

Sorry, Mom and Dad, for flipping off the fat girl who called the mall cop on me for taking too long in the dressing room. It was immature of me, for sure. Sometimes in life, it’s best to take the high road and keep your mouth shut. But other times, I’ve learned, you just have to give someone the middle finger.

Dear Mom & Dad,

I never really got along with the kids at my college television station. For starters, their idea of a wild Friday night out was a road trip to Walmart to search through the $5 movie bin. And mine, well, wasn’t. In hindsight, I’m convinced they were either Amish, home schooled or raised by sister wives.

When it came to their delivery on the station’s weekly live newscast, they were as angelically absentminded as the panel on “Fox & Friends.” While they were reporting on the health fair in the student center, I was reporting on stories I knew students would actually watch — like the time I did an exclusive on cardio pole dancing by joining a class or the time I visited a brewery to show the process of making beer. My reports usually had my fellow news team look at me like I was out of my mind, but it was my interview with drunk drag queens that really put their granny panties in a bunch.

“You have to go to this drag queen show with me tonight!” I told my roommate Eddie.

“That’s where I draw the line,” Eddie argued.

He was used to being forced into ridiculous situations with me — like the time I made him sit in the audience as I competed in the Black Student Union’s ” talent show — but this was even too much for him.

“I’ll look like some kind of pervert if I show up by myself at a drag show while holding a video camera,” I argued back.

A few hours later, I arrived at the show, which was in our school’s dining hall, with my video camera and my skeptical roommate. Since I wanted to capture b-roll of the event to accompany my interview, Eddie and I sat front and center.

We soon realized the drag queens were intrigued by their two favorite things sitting in the front: Straight boys and a TV camera! Thanks to the big camera on my shoulder the entire time, they left me alone. Eddie, on the other hand, was their target all night as they flirted with him and even tied him up with a rope. His face was never so red.

After the show, I instructed the one drag queen to remain put while I found the others who were drinking liquor from a bottle in the ladies’ room. When I returned, the drag queen I ordered to stay put was sitting in a baby’s high chair that was in the dining hall for the upcoming visitor’s weekend.

“Look! Drag queen in a high chair eating a bowl of chips! Let’s get this interview started!” he/she screamed.

I used that as the opening sequence in my news segment, which made my conservative news team, uncomfortable and pissed. That’s the day I learned people fear what they can’t understand and hate what they can’t conquer.

Love,

Justin

Justin learned a life lesson when he interviewed a drunk drag queen in college.

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/web1_DRAG-QUEEN-COLUMN.jpg Justin learned a life lesson when he interviewed a drunk drag queen in college. Instagram

My life is erratically different than the life of my peers who work in local media. Jasmine Brooks, the morning anchor on WBRE, just got engaged. Amanda, from 98.5 KRZ, announced recently that she’s expecting her first child. I’m still spending my weekends at Kildare’s and living in my parents’ basement. And I make fun of drag queens.

Let me explain that last one. I was asked to make fun of drag queens. And, of course, I said yes. Sorry, Mom and Dad.

It was for the Post-Pride Pig Roast of Estella Sweet, the areas most notorious female impersonator. Estella, who manages Heat Nightclub in Wilkes-Barre, was throwing herself a roast to end the festivities — all in good fun — of NEPA PrideFest. I was one of the people asked to burn her so badly that it hurts.

It wasn’t until I saw the flyer the a day or so before the roast that I realized I was the only person taking part in the charade who wasn’t a drag queen.

“What the hell did I sign up for?” I asked myself.

When I was hesitantly writing my material, I told my sister, Jenelle, that I wasn’t planning on being mean. “They’re drag queens,” I said. “I can’t be mean to a drag queen. That’ll be like a hate crime or something.”

“Drag queens can be nasty,” Jenelle said. “They’re going to rip you apart. You better be prepared to rip them apart back.”

I knew that if I was about to get my asshole ripped by a bunch of men wearing bean-bag titties and duct tape on their penises, I’d have to give it to them raw. No protection. No Vaseline. No limits.

So I went at them first — and hard. I don’t remember everything about that night, because I was drinking to make myself feel less awkward for being the only guy there whose penis wasn’t tucked between his legs. What I do remember, is that I was just as nasty as any queen that night.

Here are my top 10 jokes from the roast of Estella Sweet. Feel free to use them on someone.

1. You look beautiful, Estella. Oh, who am I kidding. We all know you look like Donald Trump and Rosie O’Donnell’s dumpster baby.

2. Let’s be honest. The only way you’ll ever have a hot, smoking body is if you were being cremated.

3. Naomi Dettmore is here tonight. Naomi, when you’re on stage, standing tall and beautiful, you remind me of Rihanna. When you perform, you remind me why Chris Brown beat the shit out of Rihanna.

4. Naomi Dettmore, Miss PrideFest 2014, is dating Nevaeh DeDa, Miss PrideFest 2015. What do you call two drag queens who share one bed? Out of options.

5. Ella Fine, your face is so bloated. You look like a dead body that just got dredged out of the Susquehanna River.

6. I’m not saying you’re stupid, but I do happen to know what you got on your SATs — ketchup!

7. Estella is so lazy that she only threw this roast for herself so she could have another place to sit.

8. Estella Sweet is such a slut, she even swallows semen when Sharron Ann Husbands sucks a dick.

9. When you’re born with a small penis, you have two options in life: You can either learn to deal with it or you can become a female impersonator.

10. In all seriousness, Estella, you’re one of the most talented people in the world. You’re destined for greatness — and diabetes. Actually, tonight isn’t only a celebration of Estella, it’s also a goodbye party for her foot.

Estella and the other female impersonators took the jokes with a grain of salt that was probably laced with cocaine and a scent of regret. None of the drag queens came at me too hard, though. They must all be bottoms.

Watching the female impersonators taught me something: To laugh at yourself is to love yourself. If you can’t love yourself, who else is going to do it for you?

Justin, standing at podium, roasted a group of female impersonators.

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/web1_Dumpster.jpg Justin, standing at podium, roasted a group of female impersonators. Photo taken by some shot boy wearing nothing but a pair of tight underwear.

Dear Mom & Dad,

I have a new hero.

She’s 17 years old.

Before you alert the authorities, please note there’s nothing sexual about my admiration for this underage girl. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a Duggar.

The teenage girl I admire is Brittany Nicole Creech from St. Louis, Missouri. She recently gave a time-honored high school tradition a big middle finger — and proved some things need to change. She has a “Sorry Mom & Dad” story that needs to be shared. She had her senior pictures taken at Taco Bell.

Everyone knows it’s a big deal to have your senior pics taken. Back in 2003, the summer before I started my final year of high school, it was an even bigger deal. There were no selfies. We took pictures of ourselves with disposable cameras that came out like the worst Instagram filter ever. Unless you came from a large religious family with siblings who shared hand-me-down clothing, and took family portraits for every holiday, the one chance for high-quality photos of yourself was senior pics.

Looking back, my senior pics were really nice. One photo was even the largest senior pic on display advertising Guy Cali Photography for an entire year at The Mall at Steamtown — when people actually shopped at The Mall at Steamtown. But it didn’t capture my true high school experience. I never hung out at a waterfall while posing like an Abercrombie model. I spent my high school years skipping school to attend tapings of “TRL” or to take the bus to the mall and steal coins from the wish fountain for lunch at Roma Pizza.

Creech told BuzzFeed News she wanted to take senior photos that actually captured her personality and her true high school experience. She doesn’t hang out by waterfalls or find herself standing next to a tree in a pretty dress. She stuffs her face at Taco Bell. How could you not admire a chick who says it like it is?

I tried reaching out to my new idol for some life advice — partially because I like her style and mostly because I can’t see my therapist until I pay her the money I owe her. (It sucks when you don’t have insurance and you rely on children’s Flintstones vitamins to procure your health.) We spoke a few times over Twitter and email, but I was unsuccessful at coordinating our schedule, probably because she’s in school during my sober hours.

I did, however, manage to get in touch with the photographer named Brendan Batchelor who took my idol’s photos.

Batchelor said he never took someone’s photo at a Taco Bell before. I coughed from a nasal drip and told him that was interesting.

Speaking with Batchelor, an 18-year-old college student with dreams of being a photojournalist, he said he realized Creech’s attitude not only touched his life, but made an impact on it.

“Now I’ll sit down and talk to my clients to figure out how to capture their personality and show who they are,” Batchelor said. “I don’t know if something this extreme is going to be the new trend of senior photos, but I think people will think more that if they have something they love, it should be incorporated in their photos. Normal senior pictures focus on a nice, pretty background. Focus more on yourself than the background and everything will fall in place.”

There’s a lesson here that doesn’t require senior pictures to appreciate. With anything in life — whether it’s the way you dress or wear your hair, the people you hang out with or the way you pose in a photo — never compromise your personality. You’re all you’ve got. Cherish that.

Love,

Justin

Some girl from Missouri totally just had her senior pics taken at Taco Bell.

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/web1_tacoseniorpic.jpg Some girl from Missouri totally just had her senior pics taken at Taco Bell. Submitted by Brendan Batchelor

Some girl from Missouri totally just had her senior pics taken at Taco Bell.

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/web1_tacoseniorpic2.jpg Some girl from Missouri totally just had her senior pics taken at Taco Bell. Submitted by Brendan Batchelor

Some girl from Missouri totally just had her senior pics taken at Taco Bell.

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/web1_T-BELL-1.jpg Some girl from Missouri totally just had her senior pics taken at Taco Bell. Facebook

Some girl from Missouri totally just had her senior pics taken at Taco Bell.

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/web1_T-BELL-2.jpg Some girl from Missouri totally just had her senior pics taken at Taco Bell. Facebook

Justin’s senior pic didn’t capture his high school experience. “I never hung out at a f — king waterfall while posing like an Abercrombie mannequin,” he said.

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/web1_SENIORPIC.jpg Justin’s senior pic didn’t capture his high school experience. “I never hung out at a f — king waterfall while posing like an Abercrombie mannequin,” he said. Facebook

College is back in session, and I can’t help but be reminded that I’m not in college any more.

When I’m splurging on my $3 six-inch Spicy Italian sub at Subway during my lunch break, wondering what Jared Fogle is doing, I see students from Wilkes and King’s walking around with big smiles on their faces — and the rest of their 20s ahead of them. It takes me back to my college days.

Recently, while sucking in my stomach to make me feel better about adding a bag of Harvest Cheddar Sun Chips to my order at Subway, I saw a college student and his parents carrying a vacuum to his dorm. It brought me back to the time I caused an overweight girl named Moose to throw a vacuum across a room at me. Sorry, Mom and Dad.

The whole incident began when my fraternity brother Ross and I decided we needed a break from the scene we were accustomed to. Drinking in a frat house basement among a sea of girls can be fun and all, but we had something else in mind for a change: To spend the weekend at Indiana University of Pennsylvania with Ross’ best friend, Bryan Loeffler, for what will remain one of the most unforgettable weekends of my college experience!

After a fun night of partying at IUP, we were invited to hang out with three girls who shared a house.

“Shhh!” insisted the girls who invited us back. “Be quiet until we get upstairs. Our roommate Moose is sleeping. She doesn’t feel well.”

“You live with a girl named Moose?” I shouted.

“Shhh!” everyone loudly whispered back.

“I’m going downstairs to get some water,” I told everyone everyone about a half hour later.

“Just don’t wake up Moose,” I was warned.

Downstairs, I saw Moose’s bedroom door next to the kitchen. I imagined a lumberjack type of girl who would go all Lorena Bobbitt on me if I pissed her off. Was this Moose a beastly heavy-weight champion? Or was she a cute, petite little blond like her other roommates, just with a bad nickname? I was determined to find out.

Next to Moose’s bedroom door was a vacuum. I decided to turn the vacuum on, slide it into her room and run upstairs, anticipating her to wake up and reveal her identity. I was drunk and 19 years old, so it seemed like a good idea.

When I ran into the room where everyone was upstairs, one of the girls asked me if Moose was vacuuming, in a tone of shock.

Before I could answer, we all heard a voice screaming, “Who the f — put this vacuum in my room?”

It was the voice of something you would only expect to hear if you climbed a beanstalk and was greeted by a magnificent giant. It was the voice of Moose.

Moose’s roommates ran downstairs to see why she was yelling. We followed them. When we got downstairs we all heard a grunt. Then, flying mid-air from her bedroom door was the vacuum. Moose’s door slammed. The kitchen sink loudly broke the fall of the vacuum. We all raced upstairs, laughing so hard it hurt. As we were racing upstairs, Loeffler and I tripped over each other, falling to the ground. We were now laughing so hard that we couldn’t breathe. That’s when I pissed my pants.

Horrified, I ran upstairs to the first bedroom I could find. I searched for a hair dryer, and started drying my urine-drenched pants, hoping nobody would find out what I did.

Then, a girl walked into the room. Apparently they had another roommate who just came home. And she was horrified to find a strange guy sitting on her bed with her hair dryer waving across his crotch. Needless to say, we were all kicked out. I never even got to see Moose!

Karma kicked me in the ass a few weeks later when Ross was mad at me and informed one of out fraternity brothers that the pants I pissed in were his, which I borrowed without asking and didn’t wash afterwards.

So, college kids, if you ever hear about a girl named Moose, don’t ask. And, if you have a weak bladder but you don’t have a washing machine, don’t borrow jeans.

A few years later Bryan Loeffler passed away. I then realized you’re not here for a long time, you’re here for a good time. So, if you’re in college, lose your inhibitions and have a good time.

Justin, left, with piss on his pants. Anyone surprised?

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/web1_PEE.jpg Justin, left, with piss on his pants. Anyone surprised? Justin can’t remember who took this picture. Anyone surprised? He said he does remember it was taken with a disposable camera by a girl who wasn’t wearing a shirt.

My friend Xavier had finally gotten off probation, so we wanted to celebrate outside of the Pennsylvania border. We decided to get crazy for one night in Brooklyn. What was supposed to be a night of getting turnt up at a hipster bar, just like Max and Caroline would on “2 Broke Girls,” turned into partying in the same clothes for the entire weekend. Sorry, Mom and Dad.

We left on a Friday. I came home from work, hopped in the shower and started to get ready for the adventure. It’s always an adventure with Xavier. We met two years ago when he would come to the bar I managed. He looks like an innocent Mama’s boy straight out of a J.Crew catalogue, but has a devilish side to him that most people can’t predict or handle. Needless to say, we hit it off.

We’ll often go to cities we’ve never been, pretend to be people we never were and plan on staying with people we never met yet. Last year, in Philly, we pretended to be two teachers from Maine who made a stop for the night while on a road trip to Miami during a teacher’s strike. “F — the union,” we screamed. “We’re not picketing. We’re going to the beach.” Since drunk people in the city of Brotherly Love seemed to love teachers, we didn’t have to pay for one drink that night. We woke up in a car garage the next morning and laughed about it the entire drive home. Most people can’t hang like that. It’s insane. But it’s harmless fun.

So, when Xavier said his friend, Miss Cute in Scranton but Underwhelming in the Real World, wanted to come to Brooklyn with us, I wasn’t too thrilled. I didn’t think she’d be able to handle it.

“She’ll be fun,” Xavier promised.

I highly doubted him. I always got bad vibes from Miss Cute in Scranton but Underwhelming in the Real World. She lives a Sherman Hills lifestyle at Glenmaura. I didn’t want her to come, but I didn’t want her to ruin my night, either. I was about to get crazy in Brooklyn and nobody was going to ruin that for me — or so I thought.

“Did you hear about Miley Cryus’ VMA after party?” asked my mom as I was rushing out the door. “Maria Menounos told all about it on E! News. People at the party were bobbing for penis dildo’s. She’s crazy,” she said.

“Penis dildo’s?” I asked. What other kind of dildo’s are there?”

Then I ran out the door, while recording a memo in my phone. “Note to self,” the memo said. “One day, pitch a TV show where older people deliver entertainment news. It’s funny.” Then I realized Lara Spencer already does that on “Good Morning America” and deleted the memo.

I arrived to Xavier’s house, where he was waiting for me in Miss Cute in Scranton but Underwhelming in the Real World’s car. “She’ll drive,” he said.

We went to Brooklyn and partied harder than someone who died at a music festival.

Xavier woke up in Manhattan. I woke up in the Bronx. And Miss Hot in Scranton but Underwhelming in the Real World woke up and left our asses in New York.

“That was definitely a party fowl on her part,” Xavier said when we met up in Times Square late Saturday morning.

“Party fowl? She left us in another state for no reason. My wallet is in her purse. My phone charger is in her car. She’s a dirtbag,” I said.

The bus ride home cost $51 and I only had 20 bucks on hand. Xavier wouldn’t even front me the money so I could get home. He left without me. I was stranded in New York City with a phone that was about to die and 20 bucks on me.

Thanks to a nurse I met on Tinder, I found company, a phone charger and a kind heart who bought me drinks. Thanks to a Facebook status I posted, a friend, Adam Beers, drove to New York City to pick me. He didn’t get there until 2:30 a.m. Thankfully the bars were open until 4 a.m. there. Me and Adam Beers spent the rest of the night at an Irish Pub in Hell’s Kitchen where the entire bar sang Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” in unison.

At 9 a.m. on Sunday, me and Adam Beers woke up in his car in a parking garage in Times Square. It was insane. But it was harmless fun.

“Am I suppose to take something away from this weekend, other than the fact that Acqua di Gio cologne is responsible for me not smelling right now?” I asked.

“You’re a survivor,” Adam Beers said. “Who else could survive a weekend in New York City without a change of clothes or a wallet — and manage to make friends?”

Then we laughed, because every time you are able to find some humor in a difficult situation, you win.

Here’s a pic of Justin sleeping on a mattress. It has nothing to do with the story, but he likes how his butt looks in this photo.

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/web1_brooklynnnnnnn.jpg Here’s a pic of Justin sleeping on a mattress. It has nothing to do with the story, but he likes how his butt looks in this photo. Photo is allegedly courtesy of former NBC news anchor, Brian Williams, but he might not own up to it.

I discovered the secret for curing hangovers. It’s not hydrating before your drink, eating pickles before you go to bed, or eating Asian pears, as some myths popularly suggest. The cure for a hangover is simple: being under 25 years old.

Once you hit 25, drinking hits you harder than an ex would after finding out you made out with her best friend that one time at that one party when you said you were studying for that one test.

While I may not know the cure for hangovers for people who have already hit the quarter-century mark, I do know this: The party may have been different for everyone, but the struggle is really quite similar for everyone the next morning. Here’s 21 things we all say when we wake up with a hangover.

1. Where am I?

2. Did we have sex?

3. Are you sure?

4. Who are you?

5. Who the hell did I think I was last night?

6. I need to take a dump.

7. Did I leave the Totino’s pizza in the oven?

8. I need McDonald’s french fries.

9. I need Taco Bell. That’s it. Taco Bell.

10. KFC would save my life right about now.

11. I hate you, Tequila.

12. I hate everyone.

13. I hate myself.

14. Who did I text last night?

15. I’m just deleting my text message history. I don’t even want to know.

16. Where’s my phone?

17. Did I really SnapChat that? I hope a lot of people didn’t view it.

18. Oh no, that really happened last night?

19. I’ll just deny that happened.

20. I’m never drinking again. Ever.

21. Hmm, I wonder what everybody is up to tonight?

Justin’s has a complicated relationship with his liver.

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/web1_HANGOVER.jpg Justin’s has a complicated relationship with his liver. Photo courtesy of Justin’s liver

I’m getting too old for Netflix and chill. I want Amazon Prime and commitment.

Don’t get it twisted, there’s nothing wrong with a Netflix and chill session. Who isn’t game for getting your nipples licked while simultaneously binge-watching the first season of “Reading Rainbow”? (LeVar Burton, can I get a high-five?) It’s just that Netflix and chill is one D away from Netflix and child. No thank you!

The repercussions of fun pastimes, such as Netflix and chill, is why I attempt to calm it down a little bit as I’m getting older. Hangovers, hot-tub-threesomes with people who lie about not being from Mexico, and waking up in a Philadelphia parking garage get old after a while.

That’s why I decided to trade a Saturday of day-drinking, and then passing out, by my pool with kayaking at the Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania one weekend this past August. And I was pretty damn proud. I felt mature. I felt like a responsible adult in his late twenties.

My friend Mike decided to come along. He’s usually my partner in crime when my weekends result in hangovers, hot-tub-threesomes with people who lie about not being from Mexico, and waking up in a Philadelphia parking garage. We were about to have a fun, relaxing, uneventful, mature day of recreational activity, or so we thought.

We started the day off by meeting for breakfast at Chick’s Diner in Scranton.

“I found a place that will rent kayaks for the day for only 25 bucks,” I said.

“That’s not bad at all,” Mike replied.

After breakfast, we embarked on a 2 and a half hour road trip to kayak for the day.

“Where the heck are we?” Mike asked when we finally arrived to the designated address of the kayak rental place. “This looks like someone’s house.”

Then some Asian lady came outside to greet us. “Are you here to rent kayak?” she asked. “I go get my husband.”

While she went to get her husband, the garage door opened, and 20 kayaks were seen. Then an Amish girl, who appeared to be in her early 20s, walked outside with two children. One looked just like her. The other looked just like the Asian woman. Then the husband came out.

Oh my God, I thought to myself. There’s some weird sister wife situation going on here. And their master, husband, cult leader, or whatever they call him, runs a kayak rental business from there garage.

“How do we get a kayak to the Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania?” I asked, since we were clearly in a neighborhood.

“The Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania?” he asked back. “That’s about 2 and a half hours north, in Pines Creek.”

“Then where are we?” Mike asked.

“This is Penn’s Creek,” he answered.

I Googled the wrong town.

We couldn’t even make the best of the situation by taking the kayaks to the nearest body of water because we drove in Mike’s car, which was too small to carry two kayaks.

“We’re making it to the Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania,” I told Mike. Let’s go!”

So we drove off while the Amish-looking girl and the Asian woman went back inside to probably obey their master, husband, cult leader or whatever they call him.

Two and a half hours later, we made it to a kayak rental place at the Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania, but we were told the water was too low to take a kayak.

“But you can rent a tube,” we were told.

We drove too long to not indulge in a mature, sober recreational activity.

“Fine, we’ll tube,” we said.

Then we hopped in a van to be dropped off somewhere. Literally 30 seconds later, the van stopped.

“Okay, here you go,” we were told. “Just cross the street and you’ll find the stream.”

“But we’re probably less than half a mile away,” I said. “We’ll be back in ten minutes.”

He assured us it would longer, then handed us tubes that I could have floated in at my pool at home.

The water was so low that we kept getting stuck, practically walking through a river the entire time, holding a tube.

On the ride home, I realized maybe this was a sign that I’m just meant to get wild on the weekends. There’s enough people in AA to be sober for me and Mike, or at least to pretend to be at meetings. Maybe I’m meant to be hungover on weekends, have hot-tub-threesomes with people who lie about not being from Mexico, or wake up in a Philadelphia parking garage. Sorry, Mom and Dad.

Maybe, for now, finally laughing at the jokes on “Frasier” is my way of acting more grown up. We are who we are for a reason, and accepting that is perhaps the most intoxicating rush we can ever feel. So be who you are, don’t apologize for it, and feel the rush.

Justin’s 29, and he’s kind of growing tired of keeping up with the party. “I’m getting too old for Netflix and chill,” he says. “I want Amazon Prime and commitment.”

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/web1_NETFLIXchill2.jpg Justin’s 29, and he’s kind of growing tired of keeping up with the party. “I’m getting too old for Netflix and chill,” he says. “I want Amazon Prime and commitment.” Instagram

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/web1_snacks1.jpg Instagram

Now that I know Bernie Sanders owns more than one pair of underwear, I can sleep at night. The same is unlikely to be said for my parents when they find out I might dress as Caitlyn Jenner for Weekender’s Halloween Bash/costume party, where the man and model of the year will be named, being held at 7 p.m. on Friday, Oct. 23 inside The Woodlands.

Sorry, Mom and Dad, but if that’s the costume I choose, you can call me Caitlyn – just for the costume party.

I can’t remember exactly how I got the idea to dress as Kim Kardashian’s trans stepfather, but I think it was when I was having Moscato for breakfast one morning. Or it might be because I’m just a dick. Either way, I got the idea, and I thought it was epic, because while a bunch of people will probably be Caitlyn for Halloween, they probably won’t do what I plan on doing: dress up as Bruce Jenner from the 1976 Olympics and then transition into my Caitlyn costume by the end of the night.

I went to Spirit Halloween in Dickson City recently, with contenders for the man and model of the year, to try on costumes for the upcoming party, and make sure my costume would look as epic as the idea sounded in my head.

Ashlyn Hurrey, from Jessup, and Michael Milani, from Scranton, came along. They’re both determined to be crowned model and man of the year and have the best costume in the room when they’re potentially crowned.

Ashlyn tried on a pirate costume that was sexy without being too revealing, but then found a zombie school-girl outfit that brought “The Walking Dead” fan out in her. “Girls don’t have to look like sluts to be sexy on Halloween,” Ashlyn said.

Meanwhile, Michael found himself torn between a Greek god costume and a cop. “I’ll pick whatever makes my biceps look bigger,” Michael said. “Halloween is the last day of the year to care about being swole before giving up on life for the winter.”

While they were worried about bringing sexy back, I was worried about fitting Caitlyn Jenner’s corset around my back. The damn thing barely fit. I knew I should have stayed a vegan when I went on that 22-day vegan challenge this spring. Luckily Spirit Halloween has a dope selection, so I was able to try on other options, such as several different styles of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles costumes.

One of my favorite costumes was the poop emoji. It’s funny, not so offensive that some redneck with a truck with beer muscles will want to punch you in the face over it, and it takes barely any preparation.

Come to think of it, I’m leaning toward the pile of crap. Sorry, Caitlyn. But then again, I did feel like a champion in the Bruce Jenner circa ‘76 Olympics costume. Who knows, maybe I’ll be Bruce and transition into a pile of poo by the end of the night.

That’s the good thing about Halloween parties; you can be whatever the hell you want and get away with it!

Watch your back, Caitlyn Jenner. Just sayin’

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/web1_COL1.jpg Watch your back, Caitlyn Jenner. Just sayin’ Sean McKeag | Weekender

Man of the Year contender Michael Milani, left, Justin, and Model of the Year contender Ashlyn Hurrey, trying on costumes at Spirit Halloween in Dickson City.

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/web1_COL2.jpg Man of the Year contender Michael Milani, left, Justin, and Model of the Year contender Ashlyn Hurrey, trying on costumes at Spirit Halloween in Dickson City. Sean McKeag | Weekender

Man of the Year contender Michael Milani, left, Model of the Year contender Ashlyn Hurrey, and Justin, dressed as the poop emoji, at Spirit Halloween in Dickson City.

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/web1_COL3.jpg Man of the Year contender Michael Milani, left, Model of the Year contender Ashlyn Hurrey, and Justin, dressed as the poop emoji, at Spirit Halloween in Dickson City. Sean McKeag | Weekender

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/web1_srm-2458.jpg Sean McKeag | Weekender

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/web1_srm-2576.jpg Sean McKeag | Weekender

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/web1_srm-2479.jpg Sean McKeag | Weekender

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/web1_srm-2496.jpg Sean McKeag | Weekender

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/web1_srm-2526.jpg Sean McKeag | Weekender

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/web1_srm-2533.jpg Sean McKeag | Weekender

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/web1_srm-2537.jpg Sean McKeag | Weekender

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/web1_srm-2539.jpg Sean McKeag | Weekender

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/web1_srm-2598.jpg Sean McKeag | Weekender

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/web1_srm-2603.jpg Sean McKeag | Weekender

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/web1_srm-2621.jpg Sean McKeag | Weekender

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/web1_srm-2624.jpg Sean McKeag | Weekender

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/web1_srm-2633.jpg Sean McKeag | Weekender

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/web1_srm-2636.jpg Sean McKeag | Weekender

I just want marijuana to be legalized already so I can quit my job and sell weed on Etsy. Sorry, Mom and Dad.

For those who aren’t familiar, Etsy is an online marketplace where people around the world connect to buy and sell unique goods. Creative entrepreneurs have the opportunity to get their work out there, and shoppers can find personally crafted merch they’re unlikely to find anywhere else.

LeiLei Secor, from upstate New York, paid for college by selling handmade jewelry on Etsy. The University of Virginia undergrad combined her artistry and business acumen to raise more than $100,000 in three years on her shop, DesignedByLei. Now she doesn’t have to stress over student loans. Is anyone else questioning their life choices right now?

One inventive Etsy seller is local. George Schirra, 25, is from Pittston and you totally need his bandanas in your life.

Schirra’s Etsy shop features one of a kind items that range from handcrafted apparel to home decor and re-purposed creations. I ordered a bandana recently and was impressed with the design, material, and packaging of the product.

I ordered the art deco bandana. I was drawn to the print.

It came in the mail wrapped like a gift, neatly placed inside a blue envelope festively wrapped in blue tissue paper. Inside was a handwritten thank-you note from Schirra. That personal touch symbolized the time and attention the curator spent producing the product. Right away, the buyer is made to feel as if the product was hand-made just for them.

Admirable customer service aside, it really comes down to the value of the product. The quality of the material is what makes Schirra’s bandanas a must have. Most often, bandanas are made thin and look cheap, or made with thicker material and look even worse. Schirra’s bandanas are noticeably upscale in quality, not to mention striking. My bandana, black and gold in color, had bright green stitching on the corners that really stood out. The product effortlessly illuminates good vibes. I wear mine all the time and people are always asking me where I got it. When I was hanging out with Silento after his concert recently, he complimented how dope it was.

Prices range from $10 to $15.

Schirra currently has 16 bandanas for sale, and there seems to be something for everyone. Designs feature everything from tie-dye print to cats to sheep to Raggedy Ann to Justin Bieber. (The Raggedy Ann one is my favorite. My least favorite is the cat bandana. I just don’t understand why people like cats.)

When I rock a George Schirra bandana, I feel inspired to be creative, think differently and focus my energy on my passions and how they can make a difference in the world. Sometimes my passion is finding a compelling story to write about, sometimes it’s finding a new sangria recipe. Nevertheless, it’s important to support passion and creativity, especially from innovative entrepreneurs like Schirra. The more we support people looking to do things differently in the world, the better off the world will be.

So go buy a George Schirra bandana, rock it, and maybe you, too, will feel inspired to think differently and tackle your social and entrepreneurial passions.

Etsy seller, George Schirra, from Pittston, sporting his handcrafted, one of a kind cat bandana.

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/web1_GSbandana.jpg Etsy seller, George Schirra, from Pittston, sporting his handcrafted, one of a kind cat bandana. Photo from www.etsy.com/shop/GeorgeSchirra

George Schirra’s handcrafted sugar skull bandana, available on Etsy.

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/web1_GSbandana3.jpg George Schirra’s handcrafted sugar skull bandana, available on Etsy. Photo from www.etsy.com/shop/GeorgeSchirra

George Schirra’s handcrafted arrow bandana, available on Etsy.

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/web1_GSbandana4.jpg George Schirra’s handcrafted arrow bandana, available on Etsy. Photo from www.etsy.com/shop/GeorgeSchirra

George Schirra’s Justin Bieber bandana.

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/web1_GSbandana5.jpg George Schirra’s Justin Bieber bandana. Photo from www.etsy.com/shop/GeorgeSchirra

Justin, rocking an original, handcrafted, one of a kind George Schirra bandana, from his collection on Etsy.

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/web1_GSbandana2.jpg Justin, rocking an original, handcrafted, one of a kind George Schirra bandana, from his collection on Etsy. Selfie

I’m probably alone with this thought, but I’ll say it anyway. Why does everybody love Anna Kendrick?

I just don’t get it. I mean I have to admit she seemed pretty relatable when she appeared on “Billy on the Street” recently, making fun of Anne Hathaway’s infamous Oscar speech. When Anna Kendrick won the game “What does Katy Perry’s cat care about?” that she played with host Billy Eichner, she said, “It came true!” clearly making fun of the Anne Hathaway. That joke almost made me like her. Almost.

Maybe I’m a little biased because I had an altercation with her at my friend’s house before she became famous.

It was all over public transportation.

I don’t understand why some people have such an abomination toward public transportation. When I was living in Los Angeles and interning at “Jimmy Kimmel Live,” I had to rely on taking the bus. Even though I hated every minute of smelling gangrene on homeless bums and not knowing if I would catch a staph infection that day, I never complained.

One night my roommate and I were on the guest list to sit in the green room during a taping of Kimmel. The green room featured a pool table, arcade games, an open bar and buffet. Basically a party, the guest list often included celebrities not even booked on the show. Not good ones. People like Lisa Loeb would show up, but whatever. Anyways, each intern was allowed to bring a guest on days they weren’t working.

Even though my roommate had a car, we took the bus since we both planned on taking advantage of the free alcohol situation. Before we headed home, we went to visit my old roommate who moved in with his boyfriend.

My old roommate had a few people over his place drinking.

When I found out my old roommate and his friends were at a play earlier that night to support a friend, I thought I’d use that to start conversation with one of the guests.

“Are you trying to make it as an actress?” I asked one girl, attempting to make conversation.

“Ugh, trying?” she whined, apparently insulted. “Are you trying to make it as an intern?” That’s all she knew about me, and she made it work as an insult.

Confused by her attempt to knock me down, I just walked away.

Later that night she heard me mention that my then-current roommate and I took the bus.

“Oh my God! I would never take the bus in L.A.!” she made sure to point out, laughing.

“Who was that?” I asked when she left. “She’s a bitch and was acting like I should have known who she was.”

My friend told me her name was Anna, and she just filmed a movie called “Twilight,” which was going to be to be “like the next ‘Harry Potter.’”

“Never heard of it,” I said.

She had the last laugh when a few months later “Twilight” became a global sensation, and she went on to be nominated for an Oscar for her role in “Up in the Air” alongside George Clooney — not to mention “Pitch Perfect.”

I started to become a fan. But then, I watched her in the movie “50/50.” Her character gave Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s character a ride home so he — wait for it — didn’t have to take the bus.

“What were you thinking?” she asked in the movie. “The bus? Like really?”

My jaw dropped. She may be a big movie star now, but she still won’t shut up about taking the bus, and that’s why I will personally never understand why everybody loves Anna Kendrick.

Anna Kendrick takes a selfie with a fan who appears to love her (for whatever reason) at the world premiere of “Pitch Perfect 2” at Nokia Theatre L.A. Live on Friday, May 8, 2015, in Los Angeles.

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/web1_AP_400496333844.jpg Anna Kendrick takes a selfie with a fan who appears to love her (for whatever reason) at the world premiere of “Pitch Perfect 2” at Nokia Theatre L.A. Live on Friday, May 8, 2015, in Los Angeles.

Getting laid off can suck some serious big floppy donkey dick, but it happens to a lot of people. It’s only normal to feel buried in a superabundance of emotions after hearing: “Your position has been eliminated.” I know, because I was recently laid off as a full-time reporter for Weekender.

If you lost your job, or know someone who did, listen up, share these five stages of getting laid off on Facebook, and go have sex with a stranger to celebrate the knowledge of what you’re about to find out. (Is there any better way to celebrate anything than by getting naked?)

Stage 1: SHOCK!

I knew Weekender had some challenges, like a lot of other publications. I remember when I was just a columnist, and I’d say that I wrote for the Weekender, people would be so impressed, and immediately tell me something they loved about the paper, or bring up a memory of a connection they had with a staff member, since everyone on staff seemed to know almost everybody in the area. Reaction has since primarily evolved into a conversation that pointed out unwelcomed change.

Still, I never thought the paper would have to downsize staff, on top of pages available for content.

But it happens even with the best companies. Last month, ESPN, an inarguably successful network, had to lay off 350 employees.

Stage 2: ‘Why me?’

The next stage is wondering why you were chosen to be eliminated. I had that question.

I mean, I had more than one year seniority on the most recent hire in my department. I had almost one year seniority to the second most recent hire in my department. Being the one to have their position eliminated didn’t seem fair or logical to me at all.

I did a lot for Weekender. I orchestrated for Weekender to get the exclusive list of nominees for the most recent Steamtown Music Awards before anyone else. I made sure Weekender was the only local media logo on the backdrop of the event’s red carpet two years in a row. I worked with the PR rep for Mohegan Sun Pocono to get Weekender on display every week during the Battle of the Band series. I brought awareness to local people with testicular cancer, premature breast cancer, AIDS, or who were transgender.

Truth of the matter is, most layoffs aren’t fully rationally engineered. When a company has layoffs, it loses some of its worst performers, best performers, plus solid people who know the business in between.

Stage 3: Bargaining

The best part about getting laid off is that you’re eligible for unemployment, and sometimes, severance.

In most cases, employers hate letting employees go. They’ll sometimes offer any help with a letter of recommendation. Make sure to get that letter!

My higher-up was awesome enough to offer me a position to freelance while I figure out my next step, and to keep my column in Weekender as long as I want.

Stage 4: Getting drunk

It can be a lot to process stages 1 through 3. But it’s nothing a quick text to a friend and a game of Edward 40-hands can’t fix.

Stage 5: Opening the next door

Look at getting laid off as an opportunity to find something more fulfilling. You probably dedicated a decent amount of your time to the job, so there’s no reason to leave ungracefully.

Personally, I was planning to leave Weekender after the holidays. I wrote for the paper for 5 years, and I graduated from submitting a small column to picking out, and writing the cover stories. As I turn 30 next year, starting off 2016 with a new endeavor is what I thought was best for me.

Now that I’m laid off, with severance, an opportunity to freelance, and collect unemployment, I can now dedicate more time to opening my next door. It was kind of the best thing to happen to me.

Sure, I’m unemployed, but I’ll bounce back. First, though, I have some trouble to get in to. Sorry, Mom and Dad…

Justin Adam Brown – love him or hate, you still read about his wild adventures…

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/web1_200.jpg Justin Adam Brown – love him or hate, you still read about his wild adventures…

My brother is coming in from Iowa for Thanksgiving and bringing his pregnant girlfriend who I don’t care for. He lives in The Hawkeye State for work. I can’t remember what he does. He’s either an architectural engineer, electrical engineer, or a mermaid. Anyways, my brother is too good for that gold digger. I’d rather enter feast mode this holiday at a soup kitchen with the toothless people who live on Wilkes-Barre’s Public Square, or my former manager at the Red Lobster I served at in college, who looks like Rosie O’Donnell and has the temper of whoever abused Dave Pelzer.

Sorry, Mom and Dad.

I’m not the only one who would rather spend Thanksgiving anywhere but here. Former Model of the Week, Jordan Harris, from Clarks Summit, would rather spend the upcoming holiday in Paris — and the place was just attacked by ISIS.

The 22-year-old senior at Keystone College, a good drinking buddy of mine, is a senior Communications/Marketing major, with a minor in Digital Marketing. She’s studying abroad this semester at the Novancia School of Business. Her apartment is a 15 minute walk from where 130 people were killed in an act of ungodly terror Nov. 13.

I recently spoke with her to find out what it’s like to be in Paris following the attack, and why she’d rather spend Thanksgiving there than in NEPA.

Do you regret going to Paris?

Not at all. Studying abroad here is something that crossed my mind all throughout college. I had some friends that had done it. Then randomly, in January, my relationship with my boyfriend ended. It was the best time for me to go to the land of love and light.

Where were you when the attack happened?

Thankfully, I was spending a few days traveling, and I was in Italy. But I could have been there. It’s a short walk from my apartment, and I’m always out exploring new places and going to different shows.

Were you skeptical to return to Paris?

I was just nervous. Security was tight getting back to Paris. I was in a foreign country. I’m thousands of miles, and an ocean, away from my family. Then, when I came back, the aura of the city was dark. Nobody was on the streets.

So even then, after the act of terror and change in vibe, you have no regrets?

No regrets. The people of Paris have been so brave, and are standing together to say, ‘This is our city. This is our home. We’re not going to let anyone take that away from us. We’re not backing down.’ And we’re not. Sure they were scared, and vulnerable, and taken aback. They were attacked. But they came together. Going through this experience with the city reminds me of how strong America was after 9/11. Being here made me feel like a Parisian, like I belong. I don’t ever want to leave. I feel like this is my home now.

What are you thankful for this Thanksgiving?

I’m thankful for my new friends, from Paris and around the world. And I’m thankful to have experienced the beauty and bravery of Paris. It has been educational and empowering, and when I come back to NEPA next month, I’ll be a better, more confident, more knowledgeable, more empathetic, stronger person because of my experience in Paris. Tragedies happen. No one will leave life unscathed. But life is more than the bad things that happen and the bad people that do them. Life is about surviving and showing gratitude and thanks for being alive and around the people you love. It’s not something that we should just be reminded about after terrorists kill people or on a day like Thanksgiving.

Former Model of the Week, Jordan Harris, at the Eiffel Tower earlier this month. She said she’s thankful to have experienced and beauty of Paris and the bravery of the city of love and light after the Nov. 13 attack.

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/web1_jordan.jpg Former Model of the Week, Jordan Harris, at the Eiffel Tower earlier this month. She said she’s thankful to have experienced and beauty of Paris and the bravery of the city of love and light after the Nov. 13 attack.

Love him or hate him, Donald Trump is America’s obsession.

I guess after Obama proved a black man can finally get in to the White House, it’s time to prove even someone like Trump can grow up to be president.

Thanks to the bombastic billionaire, who I actually think should be elected the next commander in chief, just to shake things up in Washington, D.C., I now believe I can one day be president.

I’m an asshole.

I offend people.

I make things happen.

It might sound crazy, but I think I would make for an impressive president, fulfilling a term that would influence the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Sure, I’m not old enough to be president yet, and I barely have the funds for the poster board and puff pain required to run a campaign for high school class president, but one day that will change. Maybe. And if so, here is how I would tackle some important political issues.

EDUCATION

Student loan debt exceeds credit card debt, having hit the trillion dollar mark several years ago. That’s disgusting. If I was president, I would make state colleges have free tuition. Then, for the four years following graduation, the government would take 15 percent of their wages.

This will help the economy immensely. More people will be debt-free and able to buy newer cars and homes. More Americans will be able to be educated. The more educated a nation is the more advanced they are. Duh!

ABORTION

Women should have the right to choose — once. Abortion should not be a form of birth control. After the first abortion, it should be illegal to abort a child. End of story. Who would want to be the idiot fighting for the right to have multiple abortions? There’s more important topics to tackle as a nation than whether it’s anyone’s place to judge if someone wants multiple abortions.

BORDER CONTROL

America is a nation that was built on immigrants. To deny foreigners access to a better life in our country would be, well, not American.

If I was president, I would allow anyone who could follow the rules of entering our country a chance at the American dream. Anyone found illegally would be forced into slavery for 12 years to earn their citizenship. That’s right, I’d make them 12 years a slave.

MINIMUM WAGE

Who cares how much money McDonald’s workers want?

Not me!

If I had a nickel for every time I ordered a hamburger without cheese, but they gave it to me with cheese anyway, I’d be able to spend a night buying hookers with Lamar Odom.

If I was president, I’d focus on raising minimum wage for restaurant servers. That never changes. Who cares if servers make tips. You mean to tell me Olive Garden can’t afford to pay workers more than $2.83 an hour to the people who basically run their company? That’s bull. The server minimum wage should be doubled.

OBESITY

If I was president, I’d give tax cuts to people who hit the gym and eat healthy. Guarantee that would solve our health care problems and obesity rate big time!

MARIJUANA

Being known as the president who legalized marijuana would be cooler than being the kid in the locker room with the biggest penis.

Legalizing marijuana would boost the economy and minimize organized crime. Taxing it could help make the government a lot of money, which could be spent to provide a universal health care system that wouldn’t make doctors cry.

There’s a lot of issues that should be addressed. But those are the primary ones I feel could help our country be great again.

I should probably mention my vice-president would be Monica Lewinsky, because everybody deserves a second chance.

God bless America!

http://theweekender.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/12/web1_justin.jpg