Since its opening in 1955, Disneyland has been the destination of choice for children across the country and a surefire way for parents to create lasting memories with their family. But with the cost of a single day’s entry now over $100.00 per person and a youth population dispassionate about Disney’s antiquated brand of wholesome, non-virtual entertainment, the Park has been forced to cater to a once-fringe group of visitors: nostalgic adult couples without children.

“For years we tolerated, but never really encouraged, adults without children to visit our parks. In truth, we were always very suspicious about the 20 and 30-somethings who wanted to walk around a theme park designed to entertain 5-year-olds. But now, God-bless-them, those millennial yuppies make up more than half of our daily visitors,” said Disney CEO Bob Iger. “We’re working very hard to make sure these adult visitors have an enjoyable experience and continue to come back to our parks.”

Disney has several new attractions in the works that it believes will appeal to nostalgic millennials, including reviving several “retro” attractions like the perpetually dull Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride and Figment’s Journey into Imagination. The Park has also entered into licensing agreements with non-Disney owned movie studios to create new attractions for its childless visitors, including a Wes Anderson inspired Christmas parade titled “The Royal Tenenbaum’s Tannenbaum” and a Donnie Darko themed space-time adventure called “Donnie Darko’s Cellar Door.” The Park will also completely replace Adventureland with a new themed area called “Portland.”

“I have so many great memories of coming to Disneyland as a kid,” said 31-year-old season ticket holder Dr. Elise Hodgeman as she and her husband waited in a two-hour line at the new Craft Beer Pavilion. “I just wish there weren’t so many children around,” said the Santa Barbara-based medical records specialist after witnessing a nearby six year old cry in fear from meeting a Disney employee dressed as “The Dude” from The Big Lebowski. “Ugh, can’t its parents shut it up?” whispered Dr. Hodgeman to her husband. “I’d cry too if my parents put me on a leash,” he answered.

Responding to demands from couples like the Hodgemans, Disney will begin implementing age restricted weekends with the hope of attracting more childless visitors to its parks. “Today’s young adults are really uncomfortable around children. We want to eliminate that as a reason not to enjoy our timeless brand of childhood entertainment,” said Mr. Iger.

The Avocado interviewed 10-year-old twins Kevin and Melissa Dubrow as they left the Park with their parents, and asked whether they enjoyed themselves or were upset about the Park’s planned age-restrictions. “Our parents really overhyped this place,” said Kevin listlessly. “It was really hot and crowded and took like two hours to get on each ride. We were here all day and only got to go on like three things.”

“Yeah, and the reception inside the Park was really terrible,” added Melissa without looking up from her phone, unaware of the sadness on her parents’ faces, both of whom had a great day and couldn’t wait to come back without the kids.

Dominic Swank, a 37-year father of four, was arrested and promptly executed Tuesday afternoon after asking a waitress for a single-use plastic straw.

The request occurred at a now-defunct Third Street cafe where Mr. Swank was eating while visiting Los Angeles with his family from Ohio. The Avocado was not able to reach the cafe for comment on account that it had gone out of business and was replaced by an Apple store, but eyewitnesses report that Mr. Swank flagged down a waitress after being presented with an iced tea and asked for a straw. Police confirm that Mr. Swank was initially handed a paper straw, but upon placing it into his drink and noticing it immediately disintegrated because paper straws don’t make sense or work, Mr. Swank asked the waitress for a “regular straw.” That, according to witnesses, is when all hell broke loose.

“The waitress began screaming at the top of her lungs for help,” said Matt Damon, an oil lobbyist of no relation to the other Matt Damon, who happened to be eating at a nearby restaurant. Within seconds, LA police officers arrested Mr. Swank and escorted him to Tongva Park, where he was publicly executed.

“It’s harsh, but how else are people going to learn that plastic straws are literally the worst thing you can do to the environment,” said Matt Damon, who is a proponent of Santa Monica’s straw ban.

“The oil industry cares tremendously about the environment, and these straws are definitely what we should focus our time and attention on,” said Matt Damon. “That’s our straw argument.”

But not everyone is happy with Mr. Swank’s public execution. Mary Swank, Dominic’s widow, was briefly grief stricken by the whole ordeal before agreeing to become engaged to the Venezuelan cousin of the waitress that caused her husband’s death. “My children need a father and Fernando needs his papers. It’s a win-win,” said Mary Swank-Ferreyra.

Director Kevin Smith had his mouth enshrined in cement during a star-studded ceremony in front of the TIL Chinese Theater. The director, best known for his Silent Bob character and directing the hit Clerks, as well as his inability to answer a question in less than 45 minutes, will be enshrined alongside other legends of the silver screen like Raoul Walsh, William Lundigan, and Dennis Quaid. 

The Avocado ran into Mr. Smith shortly after the ceremony and asked the director if he knew where we could find a bathroom. As Mr. Smith wiped the fast-drying concrete off of his face, he answered:

“Yeah, yeah, I do know where the bathroom is, and, if I may, I’ll tell you how I know.”

“Uh, okay, but I really need to poo–” I said, but he had already begun his story. 

“Alright, hip this: When I was growing up in New Jersey, I never dreamed of being a fucking Hollywood director. Long before all of this, before Silent Bob, before my face being enshrined in fucking cement, before Affleck or any of this Hollywood shit, I was just little Kev Smith, a comic book nerd that liked telling stories. 

Now, when I was nine years old, my father, who was by no means a rich man, but who loved his family and wanted to make us happy, he took us out to Los Angeles on vacation and brought us right here to the Chinese Theater. And little Kev Smith got to stand right here, at this very spot, and got to see the cement imprints of his idols like R2D2, C3P0, and Raoul Walsh. Well, check this out, as I was standing here I, not unlike you, had to take a poo. But it wasn’t just any poo. I needed to take a fucking sinking of the Titanic type of poo–“

“So, you know where the bathroom is?” I interrupted, feeling my own movement start to fester. 

“Don’t interrupt,” said the director. “So I go up to my dad, who had worked real hard to bring us all to Los Angeles, and I watch as he proudly watched me and my siblings put our hands in the handprints of our favorite actors and I can see that this cat, my old man, he had a tear in his eye and was having himself a nice little emotional reaction to seeing his family so happy. And as he is having this moment to himself, I go up to him, fucking obliviously, and I tug on his shirt, and I say: “Dad, I need to poop!” 

“So, where did he take you?” I asked again, getting more desperate. 

“Don’t interrupt,” Kevin said. “So cut to fucking 30 years later, and I am a pretty big deal in Hollywood. Mallrats didn’t do so well, but it had its fans and allowed me to meet Stan Lee. Cop Out hadn’t come out yet, so I was on a pretty nice upward trajectory and feeling pretty cocky. So I take my daughter, Harley Quinn, and my wife–who is way out of my league but, you know what they say kids, it pays to be in the movies–and I take them right to this very spot and I start to tell them the story about my dad that I just told you. Now you have to remember that at the time my father was getting pretty up there in age, so as I told them about how he took my siblings and me to see the handprints when we were kids and how it inspired me and shit, I had my own little tear forming because I’m thinking about how life is fucking impermanent and shit and how we have children to replace ourselves in the Universe, which is a pretty trippy thing to realize and I wasn’t even a stoner at that point, that wouldn’t happen until years later thanks to Seth Rogan, but that’s a different story. 

So, I’m having this emotional moment to myself, and just as the tears are about to start fucking waterfalling down my face, my daughter Harley comes up to me and tugs on my–at the time I was wearing hockey jerseys every day–she tugs on my hockey jersey, and looks up at me and says: “Dad, I need to go poopy.'”

“So, you took her to the bathroom? Where was it?” I asked, not knowing how much longer I would be able to hold it in without at least some seepage. 

“Don’t interrupt,” he said. “So cut to fucking 10 years after that and my dad, God rest his soul, is no longer with us and my daughter is all grown up and I, little Kev from fucking New Jersey, am told that the fucking Hollywood Illuminati or whatever for whatever reason have decided that I would get to place my face headfirst into cement and become permanently enshrined in front of what I still call it Grauman’s Chinese Theater in fucking Hollywood, Cali-for-ni-a.

Now look, I’ve had a pretty unbelievable life. It hasn’t been all roses, but certainly above average. And this might be the most unbelievable thing to happen to me: I’m enshrined next to my idols, the same cats that inspired me when I was nine and, by extension, inspired my own daughter to join her dad in the movies. Who knows, maybe 100 years from now Harley’s great-grandchildren will still be in the family business, and it will all be traced back to my dad taking me here to see the handprints of the stars when I was a kid. And look, I know I can be an emotional guy, but I can’t help but think back to how my dad must have felt as he was looking out at his children playing among these handprints and how it must have just pulled him out of that moment when I tugged on his shirt and asked him to take me to the bathroom because I had to poo. 

Then I remember how I felt standing right here, thinking about that memory of my dad and forming new memories as I watched my own daughter playing along the dried cement handprints and how it felt being pulled out of that moment when my tugged on my jersey because she had to poo. 

And finally, now I’ll remember that at this grand, intergenerational fucking cosmic culmination of my improbable life as a real-deal Hollywood director, as I stood here thinking back at my own late father who never got to see his son receive this omprobable honor, and see my daughter who I’m telling you grew up fast, and think about, as corny as it sounds, how future Smiths will be able to come here and say “that’s my great, great, great, however many great grandpa’s mouth imprint, he directed Jersey Girl,” and, who knows, maybe my daughter will get one of these too someday, as I think about all of that I’ll remember how it felt to be pulled out of that moment to be asked by a stranger who needed to poo if I knew where to find a bathroom.”

“Oh, so you don’t want to bothered?” I asked.

“You’re missing the point, man. Look, do you have kids?”

I told him I didn’t.

“Well, maybe you’ll understand this one day. It’s okay for you to be taken out of these special moments when it’s your kid needing something because they are your fucking kids. Every moment, even just taking them to go potty, is a special moment because, as I said before, it goes by fast, a lot faster than you think it will. The important thing to remember is–uch, why does it smell like shit?”

I told Kevin Smith that I couldn’t hold it anymore but wanted to hear the end of the story because it seems like he was building up to something important. 

“No, it’s, it’s alright. There is a bathroom at the Hardrock Cafe next door. Go clean yourself up.” 

“I waited this long. What is the lesson?” I asked. 

“It’s fuckin’ Ferris Bueller, man. Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it. Now, please, go clean yourself up before Affleck thinks its me.” 

As I started to waddle down Hollywood Blvd toward the bathroom at the Hardrock I thought about the lessons I could glean from the overlong story I just heard, and about how a young Kevin Smith placed his hands in the impressions of Hollywood’s biggest stars and realized that they were just hands, and thought to himself that with some hardwork and luck he too could improbably be enshrined at the Chinese Theater. And maybe that’s why Kevin Smith now has his own mouth imprinted in front of the Chinese Theater, not because he is the best director, but because he is a director. He inspires us to work toward our dreams, no matter how improbable.

As the poo continued to drip down my leg, I realized that maybe Kevin’s story contained the lesson that I needed to give myself permission to focus on achieving all of the things I wanted to do with my own life but felt too afraid to try. If Kevin Smith can do it, maybe anyone can. It was a valuable realization, I thought, but probably not one worth shitting my pants in front of Ben Affleck. 

Southwest Airlines will begin offering routes between Burbank and LAX next month. The 32-mile flight will take six minutes and cost travelers $250, a price many Valley residents flying out of LAX to other cities say is worth avoiding the commute and long security lines at LAX.

“When we were first presented with the idea of a Burbank to LAX flight, we thought it was like, hella stupid,” said Southwest spokesperson Mohammad Al-Quarim Benhamo. “But then we realized that if you live in the Valley and can get through security at Burbank in like ten minutes, then it actually makes a ton of sense to fly over to El Segundo and then connect to your final destination from LAX.”

“Holy shit, that does make sense,” said me, having just recently spent an hour and a half driving from North Hollywood to LAX to catch a flight to Baltimore. “I have to get to LAX two hours early to make sure I get through security with enough time, which means I had to leave my house four hours before my flight. I think Southwest may actually be on to something,” I wrote, now realizing that the Article I began to write as a joke may actually be the best development in air travel since deciding to cancel your trip at the last minute and doing nothing. “Too bad it’s on Southwest.”

Paul Merrick is reportedly still trying to catch his breath after a visit to the Griffith Park Observatory yesterday resulted in the 32-year-old driving up, and then back down, the mountain in search of parking for a full hour before giving up and walking his out-of-shape ass to the top of the summit.

“Why isn’t there, ah, any, ah– hold on, just give me a minute,” said the pudgy accountant while his girlfriend, Elizabeth, looked on with a mixture of concern and embarrassment usually reserved for their monthly sex night. “They should, ah, ah, really add more parking, ah, excuse me. Parking spots, or at least a tram,” said Mr. Merrick immediately before throwing up a little and then frantically drinking half a bottle of water with a sense of urgency usually reserved for decathletes or the nearly drowned.

Mr. Merrick intended to bring Elizabeth to the Griffith Observatory to propose to the 28-year-old production assistant. “I know her, give me a second,” said Mr. Merrick. “Her favorite movie is Rebel…ah, I’m so out of breath, Rebel Without A Cause, so, love, me and her, engage.” But the romantic gesture was foisted, which may or may not be the right word, by his inability to climb the slight incline.

“It wasn’t meant to happen today,” Paul wrote on his phone and then showed me, the strain of talking while this out of breath just too much for him. “But I know when I do ask she’ll say ‘Yes.'”

UPDATE: Paul fucking died. I know, it’s horrible. Apparently, he had an undiagnosed respiratory illness which is why it was so difficult for him to catch his breath and not just because he was a fat piece of shit who ate In-N-Out twice a week as previously suspected.

“Paul was a really sweet man,” Elizabeth said in a statement to The Avocado, volunteering that she is still interested in dating if I know anyone. “I don’t want to sound callous, but I’m not getting any younger.”

UPDATE: Elizabeth and I are dating. As a reporter, I have been reprimanded by my editors for what they refer to as “a stunning lack of professionalism and tact,” but as a man, a man in love, a man in love with a woman, I apologize for nothing.

I met with Elizabeth days after Paul’s funeral to share my condolences and also get an update for our story. We usually wouldn’t write an update on a story like this, but our editors felt bad because internally we had made a lot of jokes about Paul prior to learning the cause of his death and felt we owed it to him. Elizabeth was devastated, obviously, and was surprised to learn that Paul had planned to ask her for her hand that day at Griffith Park.

“I had no idea he wanted to get married,” she told me. I asked her what her answer would be, to which she responded: “I would have definitely said yes.”

“The two of you must have really been in love?” I offered. But she said nothing.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. Sorry. I was just–I was just thinking that I would have said yes, but I don’t know if, God, if I’m going to be honest, I don’t know if I would have been happy married to Paul. How awful is that to say?”

“It’s not awful if it’s honest,” I told her. She explained to me that Paul had been a perfectly nice boyfriend and was the kind of guy any girl would be lucky to marry. “But Paul dying has made me realize that life is so short and I don’t know if the life I always thought I wanted, settling down and moving to Burbank, having babies, giving up my independence – if that’s what I truly want. Maybe I don’t need to get married to be happy. Maybe I should just be single for a while,” she said moments before agreeing to go out with me that night on a date.

UPDATE: Elizabeth and I are engaged. While we have only been dating for two months, which I’ll admit is quick, it feels right. When you know you know. I asked her to marry me at the top of Griffith Observatory, the site of the climax of her favorite movie, Rebel Without A Cause, and less romantically also the site of her ex-boyfriend’s death. We took a Lyft to the top so we didn’t have to walk too far and I got down on my knee with the Hollywood sign and several other couples getting engaged in the background. It was the happiest day of my life.

No one likes Art, a study finds. Not a single God-damn person. A surprising revelation given the seemingly immense worldwide popularity of Art and the hundreds of thousands of people that attend Los Angeles Art openings each week. A survey among most attendees, however, found that despite over 98% of them responding “Yes” to the generic question of “Hey, do you like Art?,” 100% of those respondents confessed upon additional questioning that they thought Art was stupid and boring and that they just use gallery openings as an excuse to dress-up and go somewhere.

“Art is sort of gay,” said David Rubenstein-Smith of his bisexual cousin Arthur Totorro. “And he and I always talk about how awful attending someone’s gallery exhibit is.”

The study found that despite universal hatred for Art, attendance at Art galas is at all time highs because attendees like the secondary benefits of attending such events, particularly: exuding the impression of being cultured, European accents, drugs, not feeling like all you did this week was watch twenty episodes of The Office, the possibility of sex, complaining about traffic, selfies, and also drugs. Those, as well as the chance of running into Adrian Brody, the study found, are the only reasons people attend Art events every year. Not because they enjoy Art, which they don’t, because Art is stupid.

When confronted with the results of the survey, 24-year-old Christina Delmonico rejected its conclusion, stating that she “always loved Van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night'” as well as other pieces she could totally name but doesn’t want to, but quickly conceded that Art is sort of overrated and pretentious and that she only went to her friend’s opening so she could say that she was doing something when people asked her what she did this weekend.

One of the events Ms. Delmonico attended was the “Overlord Hempmaker” exhibit at the Euphoric Gallery/Café/Clothing Store on Sunset. The gallery featured original (but highly derivative) street-inspired collages by “Overlord Hempmaker,”, an up-and-coming local artist better known as Daniel Schwartzman, son of real-estate developer Hershel Schwartzman, who owns the Euphoric Gallery.  “The pieces are meant to speak to the struggle of being a minority in this country,” explained Mr. Schwartzman as he vaped. When asked what inspired him to become an artist, the 27-year-old said that he always felt the need to express himself, but mostly he liked all the drugs and women that come from being a famous artist.

The Avocado asked Art historian Barbara Dunkin whether people always hated Art or if it was a new cultural development. “People never really loved Art, but they certainly liked it a little more before TV and the Internet came along. Before 1950, you have to remember, the only activity people were allowed to do was stare at Art or die of Typhoid Fever. As better options for entertainment became available, the world stopped having to pretend that staring at a painting for more than ten seconds was fun or emotional, which she admits it never was. “But people have always loved drugs and having people think they are cultured, so Art continues to maintain a veneer of popularity.”

You, my friend, are making it in Hollywood.

You worked your way up the ladder of a shady production house in Van Nuys, are past the point of moonlighting on USC student films for “experience,” and proudly pay a union way too much money to send emails to your junk folder. Heck, you just won a Creative Arts Emmy for your work on either an under-appreciated scripted gem or over-rated reality show and nothing in between. You are living your best professional life.

Unfortunately, your personal life is still shit.

But the Avocado can fix that. Now that you are part of Hollywood’s creative elite, it’s time for you to let the dating pool know. Just don’t be too obvious about it. A big part of being successful in Hollywood is giving off the impression that you don’t want all of the attention you desperately crave. I mean, I guess you’ll go to the Emmys since you were nominated. But you don’t really do it for the awards. You’re an artist. Oh my god, is that Rachel Bloom? Love her.

Update your profile picture, ASAP

First off, let me just say congratulations on winning a Creative Arts Emmy. That is a big deal and you shouldn’t let anyone diminish this accomplishment by telling you that it isn’t a real Emmy, because it is. And even if it isn’t, it is certainly more of a real Emmy than one of those local Emmys they’ll give to any schmohawk.

Whether you are trying to find your soul mate or just some quick action, your Tindr/Bumble/Grindr/Farmers Only profile pictures should immediately be changed to a photo of you in your Emmy outfit holding your award. You don’t want to seem like you are bragging, so make sure you have at least two other Emmy winners holding their trophies in the picture. That way the picture isn’t about showing off your victory, it’s about celebrating their victory. So selfless.

Be Evasive When It Comes To Scheduling Your Date

Success! Your Bumble profile got 20% more matches after you showed off your hardware, and it probably wasn’t only because your profile picture also had a better looking colleague in it and your matches thought they were matching with him.

Now that you matched, it’s time to start messaging. Go through the usual bullshit back and forth and then say something like:

“We should meet up. Are you free Saturday evening? I can meet you after 8:00 PM, I am busy earlier at a celebratory luncheon being thrown for Emmy winners.”

See what we did there? We didn’t say that you won an Emmy, we just mentioned you had an event to go to that afternoon for Emmy winners. Most matches will themselves play it cool and act like they aren’t impressed about the luncheon, but some may ask you directly whether you won an Emmy. “Oh, they give those things out to anyone ;-P” is the only appropriate answer.

Be cool on your date

Don’t mention your Emmy at the restaurant. It’s tacky. Instead, order the veal parm and talk about how close you are with your nephew Brandon. That will make it seem like you are nurturing and well-adjusted even though you are 36 and have not had any significant long term relationships or friendships. Ask your date if she would like to see a picture of your nephew. She will, and this is your opportunity: as you are scrolling through your photos, make sure you swipe through the 40-90 photos you took at the Emmys, including the Getty Image pictures you found on the internet and downloaded into your photo album. “Oh my god is that you and Kristen Schaal” your date will ask. “Yeah, she is such a sweetheart,” is the only appropriate answer.

Back at your place

If you followed our steps, your date should be back in your apartment. This is your chance to close the deal. Make sure your living room is uncomfortably covered with framed posters of all of the productions you ever worked on, and I do mean all of them. If you were a junior editor on Scooby Doo 2: Monsters Island Scooby right after college, then there better be a framed poster of Matthew Lillard and a fucking dog above your couch. For good measure, pepper a few copies of Infinite Jest and some Miles Davis vinyl records throughout the apartment so your date knows you are well cultured and literate.

As the two of you begin settling in for romance, offer her a glass of wine and no matter what wine you pour say something like “This was a personal gift from Jeffrey Katzenberg.” Next, encourage your date to put on some music. Point to the stack of records in the corner of your living room which, by a weird coincidence, happens to be right next to your Emmy.

“I think the Miles album is next to my Emmy,” you’ll say casually, adding “Bitches Brew is one of my all time favorites.”

“Wow, I’ve never seen an Emmy in person,” your date will remark.

“Do you want to…to touch it?” you’ll ask her as you approach. As she picks it up, she’ll remark on its weight.

“It’s so heavy,” she says as she inspects the statue.

“Outstanding Picture Editing for an Unstructured Reality Program?” she reads out loud. “What does that even mean?”

“I edited a news program about White Supremacists that aired on CNN once last June,” you’ll say seductively, leaning in, finally ready to make your move and connect with the person who could very well be your soul mate.

“Oh…they give Emmys for that? Jeez, it’s getting late and I have to wake up really early tomorrow,” she says unexpectedly.

“Oh, are you sure? You can’t just–”

“I said I want to leave. You’re making me uncomfortable,” she yells forcefully.

“Right, okay. Well it was nice meeting you,” you tell her as you slowly back away.

“Yeah, good to meet you too,” she says as she leave you to once again masturbate under the watchful eyes of the human and CGI cast of Scooby Doo 2: Monsters Island Scooby.

Like Zoinks!, you think. Such is life.

Saturday Night Live is holding open auditions for new cast members skilled at both impersonating celebrities and having absolutely no record of them existing prior to being cast on the show.

“We’re looking for a complete unknown,” said SNL Casting Director Lindsay Shookus. “Our ideal candidate is someone polished enough for live television that has never attempted humor outside of the confines of their own bathroom.”

“We’re looking for a toilet comedian,” said Ms. Shookus’s other Casting Director, Matt Mchugh, being unhelpful.

“I wish we could just find someone that is painfully shy from a place without internet access,” said Ms. Shookus as she disqualified a promising applicant after NBC forensics discovered her 2002 LiveJournal account. “That’s how we found Bill Hader. Before SNL he only performed to himself in an Oklahoma mirror inconveniently far from the closest cell tower.”

Comedians without internet access interested in being on Saturday Night Live can apply to the show via telegram or by asking the switchboard operator to connect you to “Murray Hill 5-9975.”

“We know the next Beck Bennett is out there somewhere,” said Ms. Shookus, before admitting there will never be another Beck Bennett.

Weezer and Green Day took to the stage of the Whisky a Go Go last night to play a collection of hits and remind longtime fans in the audience that the passage of times stops for no one and that they too will someday die.

“I wasn’t expecting to have such a strong reaction to the show,” said 33-year-old attorney and longtime Weezer fan Jason Ireland, “but as I watched Weezer play “The Sweater Song” and “Say it Ain’t So” for what must be the 100,000th time, I realized that every aspect of my youth was over and that I would eventually cease to exist.”

Mr. Ireland’s existential crisis was exacerbated by the legion of teenage fans in attendance to see the apparently still very popular opening act “Fall Out Boy.” “I didn’t even know kids still liked them!” said Mr. Ireland, who was taken aback by the joyful energy of the mostly teenage audience during the Fall out Boy’s set.

“I was sitting there, having just watched all of these children scream along to every word of these Fall Out Boy songs and then watched with dismay as these same kids just stood there with palpable apathy as Weezer played songs that I remember singing at the top of my lungs at my first Weezer concert in 2001. It was then that I knew that my happiest days were over. I will never be a happy teenager at a concert again, and I need to learn to accept that.”

Speaking to The Avocado following the show, Weezer’s lead singer Rivers Cuomo said that Mr. Ireland’s reaction is a common one among Weezer’s older fans. “We all have to just accept that our time is finite and nothing lasts forever,” said the 50-year-old singer who just put out his 11th album about girls not paying attention to him in high school.

Donald Trump has vowed to ban e-cigarettes after the Center for Disease Control reported at least six people have died from vaping. 

“We need to do everything we can to protect our children,” said Donald Trump shortly before learning about the next inevitable school shooting. When asked whether the President would do anything to prevent the more than 30,000 gun deaths that occur in the U.S. every year, the President said “nah.” 

The use of e-cigarettes among middle and high school students has been steadily increasing over the last few years, while at the same time cigarette smoking has dramatically decreased among the youth despite still looking so fucking cool. The Avocado spoke to some young people about why they decide to vape instead of smoke. 

“I would gladly smoke a cigarette, but they smell so bad and are so noticable. Juuls allow me to vape throughout the day, whenever I want. Even in class. And I fucking need nicotine throughout the day or I’m completely on edge,” said 14-year-old vaper Carolina Fartface as she brought a Juul stick to her lips. The Avocado tried to ask her what on earth could make a 14 year-old so stressed, but our interview was interrupted by an active shooter drill.