Many people think Oregon is pronounced “OreGONE,” which is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Jesus. Seriously, what is wrong with you people? “OreGONE?” Seriously? It’s “OreGUN,” you morons.

Would it be so hard to pronounce it correctly? Or do you pronounce ALL the state names wrong? Do you say “Neevayda?” “Minor Soda?” “Penis Sylvanier?” “Sooth Daycooter?” No, you do not. Because if you did, you would sound like a fucking idiot. So guess what you sound like when you say “OreGONE?” Hint: it rhymes with “schmucking schmidiot.” Of course, if you say “OreGONE,” you  probably pronounce “fucking idiot” as “fookinge eye diet,” so you don’t even know what the fuck we’re talking about, anyway. We don’t even know why we bother sometimes.

Minnesota calls itself “Land of 10,000 Lakes.” Let’s take a look at some of those lakes, won’t we?

• Big Pine Lake is not filled with water, but with Cheez-Whiz.
• White Bear Lake is not so much a lake as it is a 10,000-foot tall mountain located in Colorado.
• Pecquayan Lake is actually just a photograph of a lake in some guy’s wallet in Duluth.

As you can see, many of Minnesota’s “lakes” don’t meet the World Lake Commission’s definition of a lake, which is, “Dude, it has to be a damn lake.”

In fact, Minnesota doesn’t have 10,000 lakes at all. The total is closer to -350. Stop the bullshit, Minnesota, we’re on to you.

Oooh, look at us, we’re California. We’re fancy, we have mountains and deserts and oceans and shit. Woohoo!

Well, we’ve had enough of your shit, California. You and your big-ass trees and your Nick Nolte crap. We get it. Just shut up already. Jesus.

It just gets old, California. Take it down a few notches already. We’re going back to sleep.

Poets and popular songwriters hate Wisconsin, because nothing rhymes with “Wisconsin.” Well, “Steve Monson,” who was this guy we went to junior high with. Steve Monson was big for his age, and always sweaty. We helped him with his math homework, because he just couldn’t get the hang out of how numbers work. He seriously thought eight came before five, and that six was a letter. And this was like, pre-algebra, so now x and y weren’t just letters but numbers also, and Steve Monson just could not understand. He’d stare at the blackboard, sweating, his mouth agape (always mouth agape, Steve Monson. Always), his eyes all squinty while he wheezed ever-so-softly.

We’re not sure what happened to Steve Monson after seventh grade. It probably involved sweating, and that’s everything you need to know about Wisconsin.

Iowa was located out in the middle of my cornfield. “If you build it,” a voice said, “they will come.”

Yeah, well, I built it, and you know who came? A bunch of minor-league, has-been politicians trying to get you to vote for them for president, going around kissing babies and sucking on corn dogs in a salacious-but-comical manner. And they were always yakking, airing their stupid TV and radio ads–there was no escape. They were taking over!

Finally had to burn the cornfield down, along with all those presidential candidates. You could hear their screams all the way over to St. Joseph. But let that be a lesson to you: if a disembodied voice tells you to build something, DON’T.

Texas is known as the Lone Star State, because there is only one celebrity in Texas: that guy that played Urkel.

Texans LOVE that guy that played Urkel. There are at least seven holidays based on that guy that played Urkel throughout the year, celebrating all aspects of that guy that played Urkel–That Guy That Played Urkel-mas, The Feast of That Guy That Played Urkel’s Immaculate Conception, That Guy That Played Urkelsgiving, That Guy That Played Urkel Cheese Week, and more. There are that guy that played Urkel parades, and schoolchildren statewide start the day by pledging allegiance to that guy that played Urkel.

There has been talk recently of maybe making Texas a two star state–perhaps by giving statewide recognition to that guy who was Balki’s roommate, or what’s-his-face from that one show, with that one dude. But for now, that guy that played Urkel remains deep in the heart of Texas.

As you can see, Florida’s state quarter shows probably the greatest event in state history: the day the Space Shuttle fought some pirates for control of Gilligan’s Island. This was one of the most decisive battles of the Civil War; schoolchildren learn about the battle in first grade through the old song, “Battle Hymn of Gilligan’s Island.” Who cannot be brought to tears by the lyrics, “Some pirates were lost that day/and the Professor and Mary Anne”…?

For those of you who didn’t get as far as first grade in your schooling, here’s what happened. The Space Shuttle and some pirates fought for control of Gilligan’s Island, and then they put it on Florida’s state quarter. It’s just that simple. And yet, so complicated and nuanced.

Now, if anyone brings up the state of Florida in the office or on the train, you can join in the conversation and tell them about that time when the Space Shuttle and some pirates fought for control of Gilligan’s Island. You’re welcome.

OK, here’s the thing with Michigan. You know how all of the other state quarters picture something historic or famous about their state? You know–North Carolina’s got the Wright Brothers’ first flight, a pretty big deal. Oregon’s got Crater Lake, a beautiful natural feature found there. Both of these quarters make you think, hey, that’s a pretty cool state, right?

You know what’s on Michigan’s state quarter? An outline of Michigan. That’s it. It’s like, “Hi, we’re Michigan. The most interesting thing about us is our shape. We suck.” Apparently, Michigan has had not a single famous person, has no landmarks or cities, and nobody does anything there. All they’ve got is a shape. Wow. Sign me up to visit Michigan right away. Not.

Or maybe there’s a different message to Michigan’s quarter. “Do you wanna know what we have in Michigan? None of your fucking business.” Playing hard to get doesn’t make me want to visit either, Michigan.

So: Michigan. A state with absolutely nothing to offer, filled with rude people. Yay!

In 1836, Arkansas became our 25th state, while Andrew Jackson was president. And well, Andrew Jackson wasn’t the brightest bulb in the toolshed, if you catch our drift. Though why you’d keep your light bulbs in the toolshed is a mystery. Every time a light bulb burns out in the house, you’d have to run out to the toolshed to get a replacement. It’s not only extremely inconvenient, it could also be dangerous. What if there are bears out there? Or like, that dog from “Cujo?” Or what if it’s night time, and your house is being overrun by zombies? Let’s say they’re the slow zombies from “Night of the Living Dead” and not the fast zombies from “28 Days Later.” Because let’s face it, if they were the fast zombies, you’d be fucked in or out of the house.

Of course, the idea of zombies is absurd anyway. Most people these days are cremated–what are we supposed to do, just add water to the ashes and boom, instant zombie? I don’t think so. So chill out about the zombie invasion, people. It’s never gonna happen.

And that’s everything you need to know about Arkansas. You’re welcome.