Points in Case - The Fine Print of College Life

Deez Nupts 2010: DirtyFest, Part 2

Casey Freeman — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 22:03:26 -0400

Column by Casey Freeman

(We return to KC's Nuptial Adventure with Dirty Mike, KC's old college roommate.)

We were at a Chinese hall for a Chinese wedding. I was determined to stay relatively sober for this wedding, so I could remember it, given that I would be leaving the country in two weeks and wouldn't see my friends for a year.

The nice thing about Chinese weddings (besides the food and free drinks) is the fact that they don't have any religious stuff that takes a lot of time. All they did at this particular wedding was a tea ceremony, which might have lasted two hours or fifteen minutes—I don't know, because by that point, the Beam and Diets had started catching up to me.

Pretty soon I decided to try and take shots with my old swim coach, who told me he had to drive. So I figured I might as well try to get the Hot Asian Bartender drunk and see if she wanted to bang in the ninja room or something.

HAB: I'm not really allowed to do shots.

KC: But I'm wearing a suit.

HAB: (Blank stare)

KC: And really handsome and charming.

HAB: It's really frowned upon here.

KC: Yeah, exactly. It's frowned upon. It's not against the rules.

HAB: I guess you have a point.

KC: Do you really want to go home tonight and say, "Well, one more boring ass wedding finished and in the can." Or do you want to wake up two days from now and say, "Holy shit. That's probably the most fun and most sex I've ever had."

HAB: I don't know.

KC: Precisely.

HAB: My name is Gail.

KC: Hot.

So, Gail poured us some shots of Jameson (for me). Then the exotic Gail poured us some fruity shit (for her). I started feeling fired up, so I figured I needed to eat something more... because, again, I wanted to remember this wedding. And I wanted to put the spurs to Gail, Hot Assed Bartender. Then I turned around and met face to face with Dirty Mike's dad.

PAPA DIRTY: KC, I'm so glad you made the trip back to New York for my son's wedding.

KC: Not a problem. I wouldn't miss it for the world.

PD: And I want to especially thank you for completely avoiding my daughter.

KC: Not a problem either. I'm working on this bartender, Gail.

PD: Good choice. Especially because I really don't want you with my daughter.

KC: And I don't want to piss you off. Even though I tried to sign your son up for the Marines one time. And convinced him to bet on the Bears for that Super Bowl. And told him to have his bachelor party in Vegas. And—

PD: Yeah yeah. Well, since all that's settled, let's take a shot. Barkeep, two shots of Jack please.

KC: Uh, I just took some shots. I was actually...

PD: Don't be such a fuckin' pussy! I thought you were some professional alcoholic guy. My son's getting married! (HAB sets down the shots) Two more on top of that please. And one for yourself. And be nice to this rugged gentleman. If you go home with him, then I don't have to worry about him seducing my daughter.

KC: Fuck.

PD: Are you going to take that shot or just be a pussy?

(We take shots)

KC: I'm actually, uh...

PD: We've got another shot here. Pussy.

KC: I was actually, um, trying to, um, remember... this one. I actually almost died at a wedding before. And the groom's father threatened to kill me at another. Seriously.

PD: Oh yeah? Blabbity blah, blah blah blabbity blah. You're a pussy.

KC: Fuck. Fine.

(Two more go down)

PD: You're less of a pussy than I thought.

KC: I really, really need to eat something. Like cake. Or nine hours of sleep. Or something.

(I start walking towards my table)

FRED: Dude! We've been looking for you. We figured since it was open bar, we'd do a few shots.

KC: Um, I did some. They hit me. Hard.

FRED: Don't be such a pussy! You're moving to Korea! Do some shots! Bartender! (To KC) That bartender's fucking hot. You should bang her. (To Hot Asian Bartender) Hey! Can we get eight shots please? And one for you?

KC: Gurg.

FRED: So have you worked on your speech?

KC: For what? I figured you were going to give a speech...

FRED: Because you're Dirty Mike's old roommate and swim team buddy and shit.

KC: Yeah, but you're the best man.

FRED: That's just a title. Here, take this shot.

(Another shot goes down)

KC: But, um. I might throw up.

FRED: So man up. Puke 'n rally. Isn't that your slogan.

KC: My slogan, um, is, um.... You're best at something. Or something.

FRED: Dude, you've got to get fired up. For your speech. Let's get another shot. Two more shots please.

KC: No.

FRED: C'mon. I'm sure you can fuck the bartender. And everybody knows you're funnier when you're drunk.

KC: You're the best man.

(More shots)

FRED: Because I sure as hell am not giving a speech. (KC makes a face) Are you thinking about something.

KC: Trying to use fleeting brainpower. For a thought.

FRED: What are you thinking? Maybe that time you threw his phone in the toilet? Or pretended to be a mugger?

KC: This isn't really a traditional wedding. So we really don't have to worry about wedding shit.

FRED: That's a great plan. I can't believe you thought of that.

KC: Thought of what?

FRED: Not giving speeches.

KC: I thought of that?

FRED: You literally just said that.

KC: Said what?

FRED: Get this man some shots!

I woke up 15 hours later. On a floor. My dress shirt inside out. Grass stains on my pants. Vest torn. I wore one shoe and one sock, but on opposite feet. Suit jacket nowhere to be found, but when discovered, had thirty books of matches in it. A dog barked at me.

KC: Oh fuck. What the hell happened?

I stood up and fell onto a couch. I saw Dirty Mike's sister—The Sister That Shall Not Be Touched By KC—still asleep.

KC: Oh double fuck.

SIS: Hello you.

KC: Oh no no no no no.

SIS: What's wrong?

KC: Um, I didn't... Um, we didn't... Um.

SIS: What? Have sex?

KC: Um. Yeah.

SIS: Ha! You could barely stand, let alone do anything else.

KC: Oh. Well, I was going to ask if anybody shaved my eyebrows, drew dicks on my face, or put their balls on my forehead and sent photos to my mom or anything.

SIS: Sure. We're all heading to brunch in fifteen minutes. You should come.

(Brain walks in)

BRAIN: How are you feeling, pussy?

KC: Um. Not bad to be honest.

BRAIN: That's probably because you've been asleep since midnight. You didn't even make it to the bars.

KC: So, what happened?

BRAIN: You don't remember?

KC: Ah fuck.

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The Favor

Nathan DeGraaf — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 22:02:47 -0400

Blog by Nathan DeGraaf

"I love it when the bar is like this," she says through red lips like moist pillows.

"You mean empty?" I light a cigarette and watch her doe eyes frown at me: a physical opposition to the happiness of her curling lips.

"No," she laughs and smiles as she speaks. "All shiny and fresh. All mirrors and polished wood. And the music sounds better when no one's here. Plus, I don't have to worry about you checking out any other women."

It's now my turn to smile and laugh.

"Come on," I say. "I'm still not even sure I have a chance with you."

The bartender, a meaty ex-football player with a deep tan brings over our martinis.

"You didn't bet on the Birds did you?" I ask him.

"No, I took the Astros. Thanks to you, Nate."

"Well," I force a humble laugh. "You made money off the ‘Stros. That's quite exceptional. Even the City of Houston hasn't found a way to do that."

"Funny," he says and walks away.

"He didn't laugh," she says.

"What?" I ask.

"He said it was funny but he didn't laugh."

"Don't sweat it, Leigh. He lost his sense of humor in Iraq. I guess a lot of men did."

"So it was funny?"

"I guess not."

"It could have been. I just don't know baseball."

"It's funny how much I love it when you don't know something."

"Why Nate," she affects her southern accent. "I do declare: you make a woman feel like quite the catch. We both know I'm not the brains of this-a-here operation."

A petite Asian waitress brings our meals—steak salads, both of them—wordlessly. She stands at attention until I nod for her to leave.

"How come you've never brought me here before?" she asks after three or four "ooh"-filled bites.

"Come on, I can't give away all my secrets."

The bartender arrives again, takes our empty glasses and replaces them with fresh drinks. I loosen my tie and look through the nearest window. The man in the red cap walks by whistling.

"There's your man," I say.

"Really," she whines. "But I haven't finished."

"Well baby, he's not gonna rob himself."

"Fine," she sighs. "There really is no rest for the wicked."

She stands and walks out and for a moment I understand what she's saying about the beauty of this empty hotel bar. But then she's gone and it's just, well, another empty bar.

"Bartender," I say to the meathead wiping glasses. "Mind if you keep me company? She's gonna be gone for a little while."

"No problem, Nate."

I sit at the bar and light another cigarette.

"Where'd you find her anyway?"

"I grew up with her in St. Louis. Stay away, man. She's trouble."

"I don't know man; sometimes I like trouble."

"Yeah, I guess I know what you mean."

Through the window I see the man in the red hat and a cocktail-dress wrapped Leigh get into the same cab. Bartender follows my gaze but turns too late to see them enter the cab.

"Years ago I made a decision, a decision that cut people like her from my life for the most part. I wanted to be a good person, the kind who doesn't like trouble."

"Yeah, and how's that working out for you?"

"Pour me another drink you fucking mook."

"Yeah," he smirks. "That's what I thought."

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Pictionary Intervention

Andrei Trostel — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 06:04:45 -0400

Column by Andrei Trostel

Many of you may not know this about me, but my idea of a "good time" isn't to go out and get drunk in order to lower my inhibitions and have an excuse to make a total fool out of myself; I generally don't have any problems making a total fool out of myself sober, on a daily basis, anyway. So when you invite me out, you better up the ante more than, "Let's all go get drunk!" *Major Yawn* Besides, I'll pit a group of good friends having dinner, being silly, talking incessantly, laughing, playing games, or watching a good movie at my house, against your drunk night out with total strangers, any day. I guarantee you'll have more fun with me and there is probably an equal chance that you'll find yourself pissing yourself by the end of the night. True story: I once made a woman pee her pants and throw up from laughter, all at the same time, over a board game.

Ever notice how laughter and orgasm kind of look the same in a still shot?I actually love playing board games, but I think some people take them way too seriously. A board game should be about playing and having fun, not all out mortal combat over who wins or loses. If you are overly concerned with winning and the main focus is the actual game and not the people you're playing with, then that is not my idea of fun either. If you drop a big awkward bomb in the middle of a room of people laughing and having fun while playing a game, then ironically you are automatically the biggest loser in the room.

Who the hell has a gigantic easel, a massive pad of paper, and large black markers waiting for an impromptu game of Pictionary?!One of the games I generally dislike playing with people is Pictionary. Not because I can't draw or am not a team player (although both of those are totally true), but because it's the one game that people take altogether too seriously, creating an awkward, uncomfortable evening instead of a simple but entertaining one. I think people see Pictionary as a metaphor for their relationship, and the game instantly becomes less about drawing and more about how good of a relationship you have compared to other people. Comparing your relationship to other people's, through a board game, is never a good idea, and usually ends up in disaster.

Pictionary, a metaphor for your relationship.Has anyone ever noticed that in every movie where there are a bunch of adult couples at a party, where a game is being played, that game is invariably Pictionary? No one ever seems to be playing anything else, like Monopoly, although that's probably because the movie scene would take six hours and culminate in one of the players ultimately slicing someone else's jugular, with one of the little metal pieces, just to break up the monotony of it all.

So why is it always Pictionary? Does Pictionary have some kind of mental hold on the movie industry that we don't know about, or perhaps contracts with every major production company to be the sole game of choice in all romantic comedy scenes? Personally, I think it's because it is one of the easiest games to watch on the big screen and get drawn into (I'm so punny) without actually being a participant in the game.

Baby Talk.In the movie all the characters yell out what the person is supposedly drawing and of course get it all wrong, even though what is being drawn is totally obvious to the audience. It makes you have that elated real life game moment of figuring it out and being the only one who knows the answer, thereby flooding your body with the desire to call it out yourself. It is a clever director's ploy to draw you into the movie and make you a part of it, thus making you feel like the whole movie is just that much more immersive, regardless of how much it actually sucks. Everyone is boisterous, laughing, and having fun and now you're right there with them, which is one of the main reasons people go to the movies in the first place, to escape reality.

"BABY FISH MOUTH! BABY FISH MOUTH!"You know what? I am never a part of that Pictionary-dominated, movie moment of fun, because I have actually played Pictionary with a bunch of "adults" in real life and it never goes that way. Oh, I do picture myself there in the movie scene, but the scene goes very differently in my head as I start to have Pictionary Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome (PPTSS) and I find myself ignoring the movie and playing out the reality of it all in my mind. If I was actually at that dinner party and the host and hostess eagerly and giddily suggested we all adjourn to their living room for some fruit or dessert with a little coffee or tea while we play Pictionary, I would take one look at that GIGANTIC easel in the living room and protest immediately....

"FUCK THAT! You guys are WAY too into Pictionary for this not to be totally over the top and completely psychotic!!! Where did you get that GIANT easel from anyway, an art supply store?! Who the hell has a gigantic easel, a massive pad of paper, and large black markers laying in waiting for an impromptu game of ambush Pictionary in their living room?! NO NO NO, this is a freakin' set up! Anyone THIS serious about Pictionary should NEVER NEVER NEVER EVER play this game again, because it is clearly NOT a healthy situation, let alone a fun one."

You have one minute. Ready? Go! "I know exactly what is going to happen here. Oh sure, it will start out all nice and innocent as we couple off and start our innocent little game, but then comes the yelling, screaming, and shouting, all supposedly in good clean fun. First it will start off with the cute little couple jokes about how ‘someone will be sleeping on the couch tonight,' or the obligatory, ‘Oooo you're in trouble.' Then someone will get serious and drop the ‘awkward bomb' in the room by bringing up something very real and hurtful, causing a long and uncomfortable silence. This is invariably followed by abusive language when one of you gets pissed off and shouts, ‘OMG! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU! HOW CAN YOU NOT GET THAT?! IT IS SO OBVIOUS! This is compounded by that really goddamn annoying couple (and you know EXACTLY who I'm talking about) who have some kind of fucking mental telepathy, where the man draws a single line and the woman calls out with bouncing glee, ‘PUFF THE MAGIC DRAGON!' followed by the two of them giggling, high-fiving, expressing their love, and then eye-fucking each other until it's their turn again."

"At one point some douchebag is going to call his lovely and demure girlfriend a ‘GOOD FOR NOTHING FUCKING CUNT' for saying ‘home' instead of ‘house' when he spent his entire turn perfecting shutters on his ‘house' which he clearly made into a ‘home' by also drawing flower boxes beneath each and every single window!"

"Baby talk? That's not a saying!" "In fact, on behalf of all your guests and friends, I say we all-out ban the lot of us from ever even playing the game Pictionary again! Furthermore, you two with the GIANT easel aren't even allowed to say the word Pictionary anymore or anything even close to Pictionary. I don't care if you're taking a picture of a canary, I don't want to hear it from you two anymore! It would be better if you never even thought about Pictionary again!"

"Seriously guys, I want to know what you were thinking when you marched into that art supply store and happily purchased your giant easel, paper, and markers? Did you make small talk with the clerk? Did you lie and tell them you were an artist to cover up your bizarre and unhealthy fetish with this ridiculous game? I mean, the game comes with convenient little pads of paper and tiny little pencils only a midget could use (okay, maybe I can see bigger pencils being added). But what made you two decide that the paper supplied wasn't good enough, not LARGE enough, that you needed to SUPER SIZE your Pictionary game?! I'm curious, do the two of you lose sleep at night over the physical conundrum of not being able to purchase a GIGANTIC hourglass?! Oh no, that wouldn't work, would it? A giant hourglass would mean that each turn would take WAY too long, thereby ruining the whole point of trying to draw something in a short amount of time. But it's killing you inside isn't it?! ISN'T IT?!! It's that one missing link from your SUPER Pictionary game. Why not go all the way? Go buy that huge hourglass and make each turn take an actual hour instead of the minute it's supposed to take. But make no mistake, you are going to have to call some OTHER friends for a nice intimate dinner and a completely unplanned and spontaneous game of Eternal Purgatory Pictionary, because THESE friends will play with you NO MORE! I refuse to continue to be your enabler of this obvious sickness you two seem to have and I will not be a part of this codependent dinner party scenario ANY LONGER! I'M DONE! I'VE HAD ENOUGH!!"

Let's NOT "All Play" "Dinner was lovely, but I draw the line (yup, still punny) at playing GIANT games with people who build them into their living room decorum! I think I speak for everyone when I say that I am just thankful you two didn't develop this unhealthy obsession with the game Clue and after dinner ask us, ‘By whom, where, and with which of your giant, oversized weapons, was one of us brutally murdered?!'"

"SO SCREW THIS, SCREW YOU, AND SCREW YOUR PICTIONARY GAME TOO!
I'M GOING OUT! COME ON EVERYBODY! LET'S ALL GO GET DRUNK!"

.....

Well, that's how the movie scene always goes in my head anyway.

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11 Groups I'd Like to Start on Facebook, But Never Will

Martin Stanley — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 02:24:25 -0400

Article by Martin Stanley

1. No matter how stocked the fridge is, I never want to eat anything in it.

This is simple: no matter what I want, no matter if I have it, I'd still rather eat out. I could have everything to make tacos, but I end up going to "El Monterrey" instead. I've never figured this out, but I've learned not to fight it.

2. Oh yeah you stupid redneck, how do you think the Native Americans feel?

"I ain't pressin' no goddamned 1 for English. Y'all muthafuckers needs to be speaking American, yahear." Let me explain this for you: before your father-uncle screwed your grandmother-mother, you were Southerners. Before that you were Pilgrims, before that you were British, before that probably Greek, before that most likely Mesopotamian, and before that, African. ("Tha fuck you ‘jis say?")

Around the time your inbred family members were Mesopotamian hunter-gatherers, there were these other hunter-gatherers called....well, who the fuck knows what they called themselves, but we now know them as "Native Americans." Then your crooked-toothed ancestors from across the pond came over and took their shit, treated them like ass, and raped them of their land. Hell, if anything it should be "Press 1 for Choctaw, 2 for Seminole, 3 for Mi'gmaq...."

3. I can never remember to honk.

Go ahead and let it all out. That's what enclosed spaces are for.Some stupid fuck will cut me off or do some other act of vehicular idiocy and I never remember to honk. Don't get me wrong, I flick the bird and scream, "HEY FUCK-KNUCKLES, get the fuck out of my fucking way you sonofabitch!!" but my windows are up. I hate that I can't remember to honk in time.

Then 15 seconds later when this fuck is a quarter mile ahead of me I remember and honk. Then some jackass in a minivan is looking at me like I have a scrotum attached to my forehead because I ended up honking at them. BUT, when I do remember to honk at the opportune time, damn is it rewarding. (I bet if I lived in Miami I'd never miss an opportunity to honk.)

4. I love my iPhone, but c'mon, quit posting the same shit three times in a row.

I don't know if it's just my phone, or all iPhones, but when I post a comment/status on Facebook it always seems to freeze. Then I cancel, resubmit.... freeze.... cancel.... resubmit.... freeze... cancel.... ah fuck it, close the app. Re-open Facebook and it says "Martin Stanley really wants Del Taco. really wants Del Taco. really wants Del Taco." And of course you can't delete from the iPhone so it just sits there until the next day with three repeats and four different friends all commenting "Oh, I guess Marty REALLY wants Del Taco."

4. I love my iPhone, but c'mon, quit posting the same shit three times in a row.

5. I've requested PTO just to sleep in.

Yup.

6. I doubt the world will end in 2012, but in case it does, I plan to be totally fucked up.

I know it's not going to happen, but like I said, just in case, I'm going to be totally shit-faced. If I end up being the first human that were to make contact with the first extra terrestrial being, they'd just look at me and say "ahhellnoculero" ("Oh hell naw culero, this shit ain't worth it, mang." [Really dude? Mexican aliens...that's weak]). I think this is just an excuse for drinkers around the world to throw a massive party and get completely wasted. But if you're a serious drinker, any given Tuesday is a good enough excuse to get wasted. Booyah!

7. Light mayonnaise is about the stupidest thing I've ever heard of.

More like, "Brings out the worst, by taking out the best."What the fuck is this? It's like hoping to have a mild heart attack, or a "light" stroke. This is my theory: eat the regular mayonnaise and then park in the back of the parking lot, and take the stairs. These morons who eat diet everything then circle a parking lot like a fucking shark to get the first spot next to the handicap space are simply that: morons. "Oh, I'm on a diet, and I'm going to lose weight, all the while still being a lazy fuck." Light mayonnaise? What's next, half-calorie Twinkies?

8. I secretly listen to techno in the daytime.

I know, I know. If you listen to techno in the daytime, well, that is about the dumbest thing ever. You really do look like an ass jamming out to DJ So-N-So at 5:15pm, but....there is something about techno that makes the ride seem that much faster. It's like one long-ass song. I could listen to classic rock on the way home (which is what I did prior to the discovery of the XM button in my truck) and the songs were great, but it felt so long. Then I found XM81 BPM. My 45-minute ride turns into nh-ssst, nh-ssst, nh-ssst, BASS, nh-ssst, nh-ssst, nh-ssst, BASS.....BASS, nh-ssst, nh-ssst.... Oh shit I'm home!

9. I never let my friends drive home drunk... unless they assure me they're "cool."

Seriously, this one is kinda fucked up. But, we all do it. And don't say you don't, ‘cause you do.

"Dude... dude... there is like... no way I can let you drive home.... You're fucking hammered, man."

"Nah, nah, I got this....I'm cool man."

"Oh... in that case I'll see you Monday."

Yeah... you know you've done this.

10. What the fuck is the point of morning wood?

This is just awkward. As if your dick is so excited about waking up, "WELL HELLO!!!!" And it's not like you can play it off or anything. "Hey, hey look... I taught my penis a new trick. ‘Point at the ceiling... point at the ceiling... good penis.'" Yeah, that just doesn't work. Then when you get out of bed you have to do that weird "hands in your underwear" walk to the bathroom. Your girlfriend looks at you like, "Really, are you whacking off on the way to pee?" "Uh, no... I'm just.... uh, I'm just tapping my nuts. It helps me wake up." And if you have to piss with morning wood you might as well just go in the backyard. I swear, in my next house I'm going to hang a bathtub on the wall and use it as a floor-to-ceiling urinal.

11. Sometimes I'm so fucking lazy that I won't even finis

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Say No to Drugs, Kids

Nathan DeGraaf — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 23:42:47 -0400

Blog by Nathan DeGraaf
http://www.youtube.com/user/nathandegraaf?feature=mhum#p/a/u/1/oZYAY3UwEUk
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A Primer on Surviving Imminent Financial Collapse in the U.S.

Bill Dixon — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 19:47:58 -0400

Column by Bill Dixon

Sub-prime mortgages, credit default swaps, Lehman Brothers, Snooki, TARP funding.... Like teenagers, I don't understand these things, but I can unequivocally express my unease and unrelenting distain for them. The course of the past 10 years, Afghanistan, Iraq, failing infrastructure, and silly bands are all warning signs of the approaching apocalypse and have led me to the inevitable conclusion that our nation is tumbling into the annals of history's vast collection of failed democracies.

But fear not, there are ways of making your way in the post-apocalyptic free market economy. Here are a few ways to start.

1. Liquidate Your Assets

You're probably thinking that home prices, GDP, and employment levels will bounce back in a few years and everything will return to normal. Well I hate to burst your housing bubble but you are obviously a retarded person. We are living in the end days! Haven't you read the bible? God you are so retarded.

This is what you need to do: step one, burn your house down. Step two, collect the homeowner's insurance and invest in gold bullion and conflict diamonds from the former Belgian Congo. This will be the new currency once The Great Collapse occurs.

Your loved ones are about to be thrust back into a hunter/gatherer lifestyle, and the only thing your teenage son can hunt is streaming porn.Warning: Make sure you actually own the property before you put a gas can in the microwave and run out into the street. I wish someone had told me that subletting a room doesn't entitle one to any financial recourse. Also, I'm sure a house is easier to burn to the ground than a 22-story condo complex in downtown Chicago. Those are my beginner mistakes; learn from them.

2. Resign Yourself to Economic Independence

Why the fuck would you pay a credit card company when they won't even exist in a few years? Jesus, you are retarded, I just can't stress that enough.

Find out what your credit limit is and buy as much petroleum, hunting equipment, and as many guns as possible. You and your loved ones are about to be violently thrust back into a hunter/gatherer lifestyle, and right now the only thing your teenage son can hunt is streaming porn, and the only thing your wife is gathering is weight. Which leads me to my final topic....

3. Liberate Yourself from Emotional Constraints

After The Great Collapse, food and shelter will be scarce. You will need to travel lightly. This means extraditing yourself from the old, feeble, and overweight people who will slow you down and get you killed and eaten by blood-hungry cannibals. That means the next time your portly sister-in-law invites you to Thanksgiving dinner, tell that fat fuck she can go fuck herself. That way, once the Rapture actually arises, you will not be burdened with trying to build a shelter in the woods with a woman who's spent the majority of her adult life sitting on a couch watching daytime soaps and eating leftovers from the Cheesecake Factory. This person is of little value to you except as a high-value, corn-fed, sex-slave bartering chip when trying to requisition a half jug of drinking water and some tomato seeds.

So before you ask the question, yes, if your son is in a wheelchair you should absolutely burn him to the ground and collect the insurance money. You can never have too much gold bullion.

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Game, Set, Match: My Short-Lived Adventure in the Humanities

Jon Lowe — Sat, 28 Aug 2010 18:41:19 -0400

Article by Jon Lowe

When I graduated from college, I was a very confused person. They told me that since I was now educated in the Humanities, I had the broad picture of life. The theory was that, amid all those practical, near-sighted automatons who'd opted to attend technical school, I alone possessed sufficient vision to define the true parameters of man's social, moral, and ecological condition. And I can still recall vividly the commencement ceremonies when the dean waxed eloquent on the great challenges which faced us as we went out into the world with our parchments and our purple cardboard hats. It was the same night they found Eddie Fishbein, a credit-laden senior, curled up in his dorm closet with one thumb in his mouth and a sweat-drenched Sponge Bob blanket wrapped tightly around his neck.

I managed to con several commentators into spouting one-liners about my revolutionary style. This was particularly satisfying in that before then I wouldn't have been able to get a passing shot past a ball machine.Understandably even more distressed by the prospect of the competitive unknown, I soon became sullen, morose, and saddened to learn that my Alma Mater had betrayed me by not telling us about the injustice which allowed someone who could recite Shakespeare, Byron, and Yeats to lose out to some YUTZ who happened to know his way around certain bathroom plumbing fixtures. Here I was, able to grasp the really significant essentials of postmodern film, the art of Phyllis Diller, and the reign of Genghis Khan, reduced to trudging the city in search of beer cans, while investing my hard-earned assets in a diversified portfolio of lottery tickets and bingo cards. Would I make it? I wondered anxiously. Would I be forced to take up residence in a dumpster and start eating re-refried beans? Would the student loan officers from my Alma Mater attend my funeral and hold a pocket mirror to my nose? In the throes of my disillusionment, it all seemed highly probable.

Luckily, that was when I got lost while searching for a restroom at the US Open. Evoking some bizarre set of circumstances, then, I was immediately mistaken for a tennis player due to my resemblance to a man ranked 97th on the ATP computer. Evidently, the man hadn't shown and was presumed withdrawn. The official I addressed in the hallway as "Bud—hey Bud!" responded before I could complete my question by laughing and wringing my hand. The upshot is that he ushered me into this room where the pros were sitting around sipping Gatorade and discussing the cons of their investments. Now, not only did I have a job, but a few friends as well.

I wouldn't say it was sheer luck which enabled me to reach the second round. Even though my opponent made more unforced errors than McDonald's has commercials, I was pretty high on adrenaline. For instance, we were already three games into the match before I realized the warm-ups were over. And then some of my service returns had this knack for hitting the tape and rolling over on the other side like a prophetic yo-yo too. Toward the end there'd be sparks spurting up all over the forecourt as he tried to scoop the dead balls back. The topper, though, was when I miss-hit match point into a lob which caught the back of the baseline and placed my luckless opponent within slapping radius of our resigning chair umpire.

Back in the locker room afterward, I was accosted by several autograph seekers of the racquet manufacturing ilk. They wanted to know why I'd changed playing hands in mid-career, and if this meant I'd be changing racquets too. Muttering something under my breath about a new go-for-broke strategy, I managed to con several commentators into spouting one-liners about my revolutionary style, eventually "doing to Federer what McEnroe's serve-and-volley once did to Borg." This was particularly satisfying in that before then I wouldn't have been able to get a passing shot past a ball machine.

Here was poetic justice at last, I reasoned. Too bad the outcome of my second round established the record as being the only love match in history when I was ousted by the 98th seed, a defrocked ex-priest who nonetheless kneeled in supplication before serving four consecutive aces. I think it was at the 6-0, 5-0 point that I also began to suspect that my opponent had the psychological edge, much like Freud had over Skinner. When the linesmen and ballgirls began heckling me, I was sure of it.

Regretfully, there'd been little time for me to brush up on the paperback I'd found in my locker room, INTERMEDIATE TENNIS: RELIEF FOR THE FRUSTRATED BEGINNER. Now I'd either have to fill out an application as night shift relief at the nearest Di-Quickie Mart, or try entering the Papua New Guinea Open, hoping I'd get into the finals because no one else knew how to get there. Since I had no money for plane fare, I decided on the former.

It wasn't long before I began to realize that although being a jack-of-all-trades has its perks (one can always brag about being a "master-of-none"), I was somehow missing out on obtaining fulfilling employment and its subsequent burnout, and that if only I'd majored in Alternative Fuels or International Trade, I wouldn't be sitting around evenings contemplating the BIG QUESTIONS with Pan Pizza on my breath, but talking private condos in Big Sur, and maybe going on monthly junkets to the Cayman Islands to launder my petty cash.

To make this protracted story shorter, I eventually began attending night school, taking Real Estate Sales, and before long I was feeling much better about my future. That is, until several dishwashers told me about another course at the school titled Poetic Devices and Their Application in Government and Industry. The course instructor was Dr. Percy Snodgrass, former curriculum director at my Alma Mater.

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I Probably Shouldn't Ask This But... (Part 2)

Court Sullivan — Fri, 27 Aug 2010 23:28:11 -0400

Blog by Court Sullivan

« Back to Part 1

Isn't "black security guard" an oxymoron?

What color do Native Americans turn when they get embarrassed?

Is it accurate to assume every physically disabled guy is a handyman?

Have Islamic terrorists ever considered that it might be easier to just hang out around high schools with a bottle of liquor and try to fuck 72 virgins?

Has the oil spill created jobs?

Do Jewish people think WWJD means "What Would Jew Do?"

Which drugs is it best to do if there's a chance you'll be drug tested?

Do homeless people ever feel bad about the "beggars can't be choosers" argument when asking for a quarter?

Not trying to dwell on the past but... can somebody explain exactly what constitutes date rape?

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Something I Overheard an Old Man Say

Nathan DeGraaf — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 20:44:13 -0400

Blog by Nathan DeGraaf

"I never thought I'd see the day that the majority of American protestors would be employed, racist white people. Either we've come full circle, or we missed the whole damn shape."

--Some old Dude, on the Tea Party.

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Extreme Makeover: Home Edition™ - A Novelization

Charlie Mihelich — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 20:10:11 -0400

Column by Charlie Mihelich

The Extreme Makeover: Home Edition^TM bus is shown ambling down the highway towards its generic Midwestern destination. Four sleek black limos follow outside the camera's vision, waiting to escort the Extreme Makeover: Home Edition^TM team after they've fulfilled their contractual obligations to appear on camera together. Ty Pennington exchanges his comically exasperated tone for one of mock seriousness, which communicates to the viewer that he has made a connection with the target family's story. His hedgehog hair seems slightly less lively than usual, a little touch the Extreme Makeover: Home Edition^TM hair and makeup team thought would communicate emotional distress. He holds a VHS tape as he speaks to the Extreme Makeover: Home Edition^TM team.

L to R: Ty, The Lady in Pink, The British Guy"Hey guys, I want to introduce you to the Taylor family," Ty Pennington says, trying desperately to contain the Tazmanian devil within, "I think you're going to find them pretty incredible." He slides the VHS tape into the VHS player, which has generously been provided to the Extreme Makeover: Home Edition^TM team by Sears^®.

"HEY, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition^TM, WE'RE THE TAYLOR FAMILY!!!!!!!" the Taylor family shouts into the camera before engaging in a group hug, laughing uproariously into the camera. Extreme Makeover: Home Edition^TM is drawn to families like this because it looks like even though they've been through so much, they always look on the bright side of things. Despite not yet learning anything about the family, that lady who always wears pink already has tears streaming down her cheeks, which have been expertly placed by the Extreme Makeover: Home Edition^TM hair and makeup team.

"This Bible study is obviously real important," Ty says, trying to sound concerned, "but it looks like it would get really cold in there with that hole in the wall." "Something told me that the Taylor family was going to be pretty incredible," that lady who always wears pink says to the camera, wiping her eye and pretending to compose herself. Ty Pennington narrates the Taylors' story.

"The Taylors are just your typical, everyday American family," he begins. Every family that has ever appeared on Extreme Makeover: Home Edition^TM is just your typical, everyday American family. "But they've been through so much."

"Wow," that British guy says. He almost sounds sincere.

"Jim Taylor worked at the local steel mill until it closed down two years ago. He's been out of work ever since, but he stays busy running a Bible study out of the family's living room." The American public is drawn to people with religious convictions, a fact that has not escaped Extreme Makeover: Home Edition^TM. "The only problem is, the living room has a gaping hole in the wall where Dorothy Taylor, the family grandmother, drove her car through it. Worst part is, Dorothy was killed in the accident." The Taylors show a picture of Dorothy Taylor that adorns the family mantle. Ty Pennington is shown holding a hat to his chest, a new prop.

"We felt the Bible study was real important to the community," Jim Taylor says on the recorded tape. He has included footage of the Bible study, in which generic-looking, everyday Americans shift uncomfortably in their seats and try not to look at the camera. "It just gets so dang cold in here with that hole in the wall."

"This Bible study is obviously real important to the community," Ty Pennington says, trying his best to sound concerned, "but it looks like it would get really cold in there with that hole in the wall. That's no good for anyone." The Extreme Makeover: Home Edition^TM team nods in agreement. That lady in pink now appears to be sobbing.

"Pam Taylor home-schooled the family's four children out of the family garage until one devastating day last August. A category three tornado tore through the Taylors' neighborhood, destroying the garage in the process."

"Oh my God," that gay guy says.

"I kept thinking, ‘What if me and the kids were in there?'" Pam Taylor says, surveying the ruins of the family garage. Extreme Makeover: Home Edition^TM knows that natural disasters/acts of God hit close to home.

"Oh my God, I didn't even think of that. What if they'd been in there?" that gay guy says, looking at the Extreme Makeover: Home Edition^TM team for acknowledgement. That lady who always wears pink nods and wipes more superimposed tears from her eyes.

"Alright guys, now I'm going to introduce you to the Taylor children," Ty Pennington says, surprisingly holding it together. "The Taylor kids lost all of their school materials in the tornado. The family doesn't feel that the local public schools match with their particular set of values, and they just don't have the financial resources to put the kids in private school. The Taylors are concerned that the kids are going to fall behind."

"Wow, mate. Yeah, I can imagine," the British guy says. Extreme Makeover: Home Edition^TM feels that his accent and his use of regional slang make him appear charming.

Jim Jr. is shown riding his bike in circles in front of the camera. The front tire is obviously flat. "I popped it jumping off a rock," Jim Jr. says, looking away from the camera. He is then shown riding his bike over a small ramp made with a brick and a plank of plywood. His family cheers him on. Small-town families encouraging each other is what America is all about. "We haven't been able to afford to replace the tire."

"Oh my God," that gay guy says. He is affected.

"Christmas is kind of a hard time for us," Jim Taylor says as he videotapes Sara Taylor playing house with a roll of duct tape and prescription pill bottles. "With all of little Kimmy's health problems, we really can't afford to give the kids the toys they want."

"I....love.....my....family," 4-year-old Sara says into the camera, her eyes continually darting to the side. She is obviously looking to her mother for coaching. Extreme Makeover: Home Edition ^TM finds this adorable.

"This family has been through so much," Ty Pennington says, sighing heavily to communicate sympathy, "but the centerpiece of this family is really 2-year-old Kimmy."

The camera shows 2-year-old Kimmy Taylor, who is permanently attached to a respirator. She may never breathe comfortably without it. Extreme Makeover: Home Edition^TM saved her for last for all those people who thought this family's story wouldn't be as depressing as all the others. Those people were wrong.

"Kimmy was born 12 weeks premature," Pam Taylor says into the camera, choking up. She wipes her eyes. Jim Taylor places his hand on her back. He's a supportive husband. "We couldn't bring her home for two months. With all the appointments and specialists and whatnot, this has really taken over our lives." Despite her debilitating condition, Kimmy is shown smiling, laughing, and playing with her family. They seem to really love each other.

"God, that's so inspiring," that gay guy says.

"God, I know," that lady who always wear pink says. She puts her hand on that gay guy's knee. Extreme Makeover: Home Edition^TM knows that cosmopolitan women and effeminate gay men get along.

"So that's the Taylors," Ty Pennington says, switching off the VHS player and breathing heavily, a sign that this has been one emotional bus ride. "What d'ya say, team, can we do something for them?"

"I doubt you would have shown us that if we weren't going to do something for them," that British guy says, breaking character.

"I don't appreciate your tone," Ty Pennington says.

The Extreme Makeover: Home Edition^TM team agrees to re-shoot that last part.

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Trophies Mean You Were One of the Cool Kids

Erin Pesut — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 18:19:56 -0400

Article by Erin Pesut

When people walk into the room I grew up in at home, they probably first notice it's blue. Or teal. Or 13F-4 Chesapeake Cove, the color between Bristol Bay Blue and Bay City Blue on the 413 color palette. And then, they'll notice flowers, everywhere. My duvet cover: flower-patterned. My Andy Warhol poster: a yellow flower I got in the teen section at the National Gallery of Art when I went away to college in DC. Then they'll notice I have no trophies. They'll be looking for the rows of dusty, gold-plated, tomboy-shaped figurines draped in medals that will define how cool I used to be, and sadly, they're going to be disappointed.

My mother gets rid of bags of clothes that say "DON'T take to Goodwill," and Estee Lauder freebies I'm saving for when I hit rock bottom and need to look like a prostitute.

I played Dad's Club soccer and basketball when I was nine; I looked like a boy with a bowl cut and stick legs. I did gymnastics and played tennis when I started to look more like a girl, wearing sparkles and skirts. And, I did ballet long enough for my body image to become warped and to realize I hate leotards. Later on, I was even a semi-popular cheerleader, combining stick legs and skirts, while sacrificing my hatred for leotards with button crotches.

I have memories of eating greasy crustless squares called pizza and melty vanilla ice cream at award dinners. On the last day of the season my soccer coach, in between sips of beer, would call me up and whisper, "Now how do you say your last name?" and then give me my award. After I received it, he'd look at me and say, "That's how I thought you said it." I would sit back down, all smiles, at the long table surrounded by my teammates with either my vague "Team Player" award or the uber-specific "Most Cheerful After Being Kicked in the Shins Too Many Times" award. I've been to lots of these pizza-ice-cream parties, so where are all of my trophies?

My guess is Goodwill. Or was Goodwill. That was years ago, and maybe they've been recycled through a couple times. A kid who couldn't play sports picked it out as his one Christmas gift. A mother brought it home to her son who would never have the chance. Then, they didn't want it anymore, and it went through the system again like a dollar bill. It didn't matter that it was once for somebody named Erin Pesut (peh-shit), or that he didn't have a ponytail like the trophy did.

My mother usually cleans out periodically. I'm not sure if it's seasonal, or related to the moon cycle, or even her quarterly bank statements, but when it happens, shit disappears. Like: the Crest cups with a dancing toothpaste dude the dentist gave me, the six bags of microwave popcorn that would last years even in a bomb shelter, or stale marshmallows I was saving for microwave experiments. How about that color-changing oatmeal bowl I saved up box tops for months for? My bubble gum POG slammer? Art that my teacher said "portrayed the best techniques of Van Gogh"? Basically, things that would be worth a lot of money right now.

She gets rid of bags of clothes that say "DON'T take to Goodwill," and Estee Lauder freebies I'm saving for Halloween or the day when I hit rock bottom and need to look like a prostitute.

Looks like things are gonna get bloody.One time she gave my friend Andy a paper bag full of tiny hotel shampoos and lotions to take to the homeless shelter where he volunteered. The bag had lost its handles and as Andy picked it up like a fat watermelon, it ripped, and O.B. tampons spilled out onto the asphalt like a secret stash of pills. Andy has red hair and white skin, and grew up with four brothers, and probably turned the color of pumpkin pie, his version of extreme blushing. The only other time I know Andy to have been in contact with "menstrual materials" was when we first met. And that was only because his mom was taking his dog, Gunner, to the vet because Gunner had eaten a sanitary napkin. I mean, there was still a stomach muscle and lots of German Shepard fur separating Cody from that pad, but that was probably the closest.

How about old tables, chairs, and stools? My mom gets rid of it, although we could have furnished an apartment by now. Old Christmas decorations from the sacred days of my childhood? All gone. Dispersed out into the universe. She saves our old computers, not quite sure if we really deleted all of our personal information. She likes to save gym equipment, like that blue deflated ab ball, even though we don't have a pump, and the rower machine she used back in the 90's.

One summer I was in the attic looking at my baby pictures with my friend Laura. We were bored, or wanted to see what it would be like to suffocate in 102 degrees, I forget. I found a tiny hat with a pink ribbon around it and stuck my fist inside. In awe of my head being the size of my fist at one point in my life, I didn't see the piece of jerky fall out, but Laura did. And screamed.

"What....what is that?!" she asked.

"Oh, my umbilical cord?" It did look a bit like a dried up earthworm. But of course, something my mother has held on to.

To each of my trophies out there that is chilling on the top bookshelf of some kid who didn't even play basketball or soccer or have to wear a button-crotch leotard, I hope you're enjoying it. I hope my trophy is dusted weekly and I hope you've named her something exotic like Angelina Jolie or Erin Pesut. When you tell your made-up stories about how you scored that three-pointer at the last second or how you made that corner kick to win the game, you better cover up my name with your thumb. Because even though I don't remember that soccer season, either, I know there were snacks on the sidelines. And for all those Rice Krispies I ate, and all those Capri Suns I drank, I've got nothing to show in my bedroom, except flowers.

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Deez Nupts 2010: DirtyFest

Casey Freeman — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 02:59:28 -0400

Column by Casey Freeman

I go to a lot of weddings. Every year I write about the love, liquor, and languishing that goes on at the nuptials I attend. This year, I received an all-time low amount of wedding invitations. Mostly because my friends are all married (or hopeless), but also because I planned on moving to Korea. So this event would be my last wedding in America for a while. I guess by the time I return, maybe my friends will get divorced and re-married and then the cycle can begin anew.

KC: Aren't you supposed to be wearing a tux?
DM: This is a Chinese wedding. I've got like four costume changes.
KC: You're just like Celine Deon.

Dirty Mike and I roomed together in college. And he definitely lived up to his nickname. He didn't bang a lot of girls, he was just a filthy human being. But we did the usual roommate stuff: drink in the shower, drink wearing only underpants, and drink at sunrise (or sunset or both).

Over the years, Dirty Mike has become less dirty. Mostly because he's had a girlfriend. Which has forced him to become, Relatively Clean Mike. On one hand, it pains me that he doesn't fish old sandwiches out of the garbage to eat them. On the other hand, his living space smells a lot cleaner.

We all knew DM would get married soon. He tried to back out of the NYU Miser's Club Bet (we all bet a thousand dollars on who would get married last). Then he told us all that he'd never find a hotter wife than his girlfriend, and we all agreed. Because his wife is hot. And cooks. And makes sure he's wearing clothes when he goes outside.

Initializing drunk mode.So all this wedding planning shit happened. And a few months later, I found myself in my friend's apartment in Manhattan, trying to put on a suit and tie as I guzzled light beer and Red Bull vodkas at the same time.

BRAIN: Five minutes until the party bus gets here.

KC: Are we allowed to drink on the party bus?

BRAIN: What kind of fucking retard are you?

KC: I mean, do they have booze on there, or do you bring your own?

BRAIN: We better be safe and take these four cases. And these two bottles.

KC: I'll take my flask and back-up flask just in case.

So on the party bus, duh, we partied. And just like old times, some of our friends showed up late or missed the bus. Some of us continued to get dressed since they spent too much prep time drinking or rolling blunts. Unfortunately, my New York friends have started moving away from the city, so we see each other less and less. Luckily, when we do see each other, it's always just like we're undergrads. Which is fun, until somebody screams, "KC! Sing the ‘I put my hand upon her knee' song!!!"

If you've ever played rugby, or sung disgusting, sexist, un-PC, and awesome songs, you know, except for your shitbombed friends, most people aren't crazy to hear your singing. And I planned on not being the drunkest person at the wedding, because I wanted to actually remember this event.

So we arrived at this Chinese wedding castle thing in Flushing Queens. We were some of the very few white people. We met up with more people, who ushered us to some stools and said, "You'll never fucking believe it. It's an open bar. With everything. I mean. You want shots of Grey Goose, you'll get shots of Grey Goose. It's fucking crazy."

But still, I figured, I want to remember this. So I ordered a Beam and Diet Coke (I drink diet because I'd rather have cancer than be fat). We finally ran into Dirty Mike, dressed really dapper in a gray suit.

KC: Aren't you supposed to be wearing a tux?

DM: This is a Chinese wedding. I've got like four costume changes.

KC: You're just like Celine Deon.

DM: Exactly.

KC: Hard-fucking-core.

We milled around, ran into some old friends, other folks, and other shit. We ate a bunch of food, which they kept trucking in. Despite the fact they're tiny people, Chinese folks know how to eat. We scarfed on fried chicken (with the head still on it), fruits, shit I didn't know, and shark fin soup. Now, not to sound like a PETA pussy, but I felt a little bad eating sharks, since there aren't many of them. And how are people going to be afraid of classically brilliant movies like Jaws if all the great whites are extinct? But, I figured the shark was already dead. So I might as well eat it.

During dinner, a bunch of friends asked me about my move to Korea. Big effin' deal. A lot of the same questions: How old will your kids be? Are you afraid of getting blown up? How long do you think it will take until you marry a Korean girl?

I've never been one to back down from a challenge, especially when no challenge was presented. So I said, "You really think I'm going to marry a Korean girl? I've got a hundred bucks that says I won't marry a Korean." I don't care if I meet the big-boobied Korean sultan's nymphomaniac daughter. I'm winning that hundred dollars. Later, friends even made side bets behind my back to see how long I'll last.

Continue to Part 2 »

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Acceptance Speech By an Award-Winning Writer

Wesley Jansen — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 23:11:53 -0400

Article by Wesley Jansen

Greetings, Ladies and Gentlemen.

I cannot even describe how much of an honor it is that you have all decided to recognize my accomplishments this evening.

First and foremost, I wish to say that I have long had an intense yearning for my writing to affect the souls and spirits of readers around the world. A long time ago, I began to recognize that I had a God-given talent for reaching out to people with my words and enlightening them. I began to dream that someday I would be able to inspire international audiences with my creativity. This was the dream I had in mind. It was my heart's desire. This is the dream that fueled my passion when I spent all those laborious nights pouring my soul onto numerous, scattered papers beneath the weary lamp shade. So, it is with great relief and great pleasure that I stand here before you tonight.

I really must thank you, for it was the psychologically paralyzing experience of growing up around you fuckers that gave me motivation. But with all humility and respect, I must say that I have a confession to make. I cannot claim sole responsibility for the success of my work. Yes, you heard me correctly; I simply must acknowledge that I could not have reached this level of success on my own. The power and legacy of my writing has been inspired by the people I grew up with. It was the family, friends, neighbors, school classmates, church members, social acquaintances, work acquaintances, and all the other upstanding community members who played a part in weaving the very fabric of those special early years in my life.

Actually, dear members of the audience, the rest of this speech will be addressed specifically to these people, for I have many special things that I need to tell them.

To all of the people who helped me become what I am today, and to those who inspired the power of my writing, I would like to begin by saying...

SUCK MY DICK!!!

It's because of you bastards that I'm on stage right now.

I would have been a regular person and a functional part of your community, but NO!!! You motherfuckers can't handle anything different.

You know what your community motto ought to be? "ANYTHING OUTSIDE THE BOX GOES OUT THE DOOR."

Or better yet, here's a slogan with a baseball theme: "IF YA CAN'T HIT THE BALL, THEN HIT THE ROAD."

And here's a slogan that just plain tells the truth: "WE COMPLETELY SUCK...WE KNOW THAT...BUT WE LIKE IT THAT WAY...WE'RE NEVER GONNA CHANGE...AND THERE IS NO HOPE FOR US."

So I really must thank you, for it was the psychologically paralyzing experience of growing up around you fuckers that gave me the motivation to bring light to the rest of the world.

Painfully enduring your mandatory, meaningless, stupid fucking school and community activities gave me the knowledge to criticize the dysfunctional nature of society.

The cruel (and very carefully calculated) ways that you socially excluded me (simply because I was different) forced me to develop the power of introspection.

Surviving the damage created by your careless gossip and back-talking trained me to become resilient.

Having my reputation destroyed without any hope for repair taught me to express myself without caring what others think.

Enduring your treatment of me without committing suicide pushed me into a state of constant awareness of the dark side of human nature.

And finally....years and years of alcoholism, drug abuse, repressed memories, psychological counseling, and rehab sharpened both my writing skills and my insights, which helped my books become world famous.

Wait, I'm not finished...

Deep down, I had always hoped that there was some brilliant mathematical formula operating in the Universe that would eventually spit you rotten turds out of my life...like an accidental shit stain that had to be cleaned up and flushed down a cosmic toilet.

And now that I'm rich, successful, and loaded with cash....I finally have the financial power to cut you filthy, rotten cock-suckers out of my life forever.

I hope your lives are consistently plagued by economic problems, and I hope your spoiled, ugly, goddamn rotten children rebel against you and fuck you over repeatedly until you all DIE!!! And when you do die, I hope you die a painful and meaningless death in a second-rate hospital in a run-down neighborhood.

And when I'm in Heaven being caressed, fondled, and pleasured by angels with massive, beautiful breasts, I hope I always have the option of looking down and seeing all of you lick the Devil's testicles in the bowels of HELL. And don't bother praying to Jesus to get you out of it...I'M PRETTY SURE HE DOESN'T LIKE YOU, EITHER!!!

So it is with great relief in my heart that I will never again have to look at the stupid, dull, empty expressions on all of your ugly, fucking faces. And finally...FINALLY...the horrid, wafting stench of your hopeless, crippled, and doomed personalities will no longer crush my spirit and make me question my desire to live.

So in closing... all I'd like to say is....

FUCK YOU PEOPLE!!!!

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Working Out is Hard to Do

Joe Welsch — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 00:43:58 -0400

Article by Joe Welsch

On my list of the most difficult challenges I have ever faced, getting back in shape after an eight-month hiatus from the gym would rank way up there. I wouldn't say it's the hardest thing I've ever done—that would be ridiculous. Second hardest, though?
Absolutely.

My motivation came after a fateful trip to Chipotle. While eating a delicious steak burrito, made especially for me in a magical kitchen where happiness and sunshine are bundled into every bite, a piece of steak rolled down my white shirt. Sitting in the restaurant, wallowing in self-pity, I realized that I was not upset about the now very apparent stain on my shirt, but the loss of a tiny morsel of food. Then and there I decided that the gym and I had to become reacquainted. I would go the following day, fearing that running the same day as eating at Chipotle might cause my heart to explode.

Except for giving up fast food, heavy beers, and my reluctance to get out of bed before noon, I was willing to do anything. Rather than alter my diet and turn my back on the late night pizzas and cookies that have always treated me so well, I decided that going to the gym would be the easiest point of attack. It seemed so simple. Plenty of people do it, some even without crying, so why not me?

I had gained 30 pounds since starting college, and looking back now, I know exactly what to blame: beer. My great love. I set up a schedule; I would go every Tuesday and Thursday after class when I had hours of free time, along with weekends. I knew this plan would cut into my naptime but sacrifices must be made. On Tuesday, I quickly found that the last thing I wanted to do after a grueling hour of class was torture myself at the gym. I wasn't training for a marathon, after all. Working out could wait. Thursday rolled around, but as anybody over 21 or with a fake ID knows, Thursday is a day that demands going out and celebrating the eve of the weekend. I couldn't risk being too tired for the night by heading to the rec center. Besides, if I went out and drank too much, there was always the very real possibility I'd throw up anyway, making working out that day completely irrelevant.

On Saturday morning I woke up with cheese still caked to my hands from a drunken feast of nachos I managed to devour moments before passing out. I decided to go to the gym after reflecting on what I did the previous night and making all the appropriate apologies. But, by 1:30 it was clear I wouldn't be going any time soon, so might as well put in a movie. Turns out The Dark Knight is a little longer than I remembered and infinitely more enjoyable with a few beers. By the time it was all over, I was four beers deep and it was dangerously close to becoming happy hour. Working out would have to wait.

At about 10 a.m., light from the east window stabbed my eyes and I instantly regretted going to that last party. Clearly I would not be leaving the house on Sunday either.

Before I knew it, a week had gone by, and the most amount of exercise I had gotten was when I left my water downstairs and had to go back and get it. Student housing really needs to be equipped with escalators these days; it's barbaric how they make us live.

After many attempts to get out of it, I finally arrived at the gym, and instantly felt like leaving. No amount of Lady Gaga would make running enjoyable. Once on the track, however, I felt at ease. I couldn't believe this was what I had been agonizing over. I took off strong, easily overtaking my peers. With each new person I passed, I became more certain this had all been a big work up to nothing—then I finished my first lap.

After a mere quarter of a mile, each step became a battle. Those bastards I had so easily passed moments before were now passing me, glancing with pity as they did. I felt like the rhino from Jumanji that could never keep up with the herd. Panting louder with each step, I wondered if it was normal to sweat so much after half a mile. As the liquid poured down, I wasn't sure if I was crying or sweating anymore. Should have brought a headband. After what felt like hours, I finished my mile, still holding on to some small shreds of self-respect. Keeping my composure, I slowly walked toward the water fountain and set up camp there for a couple of minutes.

After the initial shock of the run wore off, my feet decided to punish me for making them work. It felt as if I had been running on hot coals, my feet throbbing with each passing second. I knew the first time back would be trouble, but this was terrible. I had gained 30 pounds since starting college, and looking back now, I know exactly what to blame: beer. My great love. She has turned against me over the years. Hangovers kept me indoors and exercise-free, which was only exacerbated by my deep love of drunken eating. After a few beers my body rises above feelings of being full and becomes a remorseless monster that wings and pizza can never satisfy. My years of drinking have helped me hold alcohol rather well, but at what cost? Should I sacrifice abs to last longer at parties? Through the rest of my workout I cursed beer's name. It wasn't my fault, it was my sweet, sweet beer's. After an especially tiresome experience in the weight room and nearly collapsing in public, I made my way home in defeat.

Tending to my wounded pride at home, I came to the realization that if I stopped drinking for even a month, I'd probably lose weight immediately. Drinking vodka and water at the bars wouldn't be that emasculating. I decided this had to happen, but, as usual, the idea didn't last.

The next morning I was greeted by the lovely workout-induced hangover. Each step produced a soreness I hadn't felt in months. Slowly making my way downstairs, I figured now wasn't the best time to turn my back on my deer friend beer. I have come to love my partying lifestyle; it's who I am. I would attempt to get the best of both worlds: drink, but with the knowledge that the next day, no matter the headache and aversion to moving, I would get to the gym.

Naturally, that wasn't the case. But, on the days when I woke up feeling capable of moving, I was able to wander over to the gym, and surprisingly, it wasn't as painful. I still had the same thoughts of collapsing and soreness the next day, but it was less debilitating. By the third visit, I didn't even feel like crying. It wasn't until my fifth trip that I felt back in the swing of things. Naptime is practically nonexistent and I unfortunately have to get out of my pajamas each Sunday to head to the gym, but in the end it's worth it to know that when I strike out with a girl at the bar, it isn't because I'm fat, it's for a number of other reasons that would take too long to name.

(There are 7 comments available on the full site version of this article)

Sumo Rivalry

Court Sullivan — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 05:55:51 -0400

Blog by Court Sullivan

It's been 3 years since the good folks at Sumo sent me their original bean bag creation, the Omni. (Who are we kidding, I barely know them—they could be bad folks who sell awesome chairs, I don't really care. Now I'm kind of picturing every one of their employees having personal "pedophilia reading beanbags" in the office, but I think I've reached the parenthetical thought limit, so it's up to your imagination from here.) Anyway, I wrote back then about how 13 years after my prized and only childhood beanbag chair was popped open and ruined for good (or in this case, for bad) by the fattest kid in my school jumping on it, the Omni had finally filled the soft spot in my heart and on my floor.

As it turns out, the worst thing to come of that story was that it now comes up #2 in a Google search for "Chris Shotts," aka Fat Boy. Which means that I'm now unofficially an asshole, because, even though I might have exaggerated the story a bit, every time Chris Shotts or any of his friends, family, or potential employers Google his name, the second thing they learn about him is that he "tried to make up for his social handicap with annoying humor, an overeagerness to please, and the ability to 'do all the same things skinny people do, only on a much grander scale'... oh, and he FUCKING JUMPS ON AND SQUASHES PRIZED POSSESSIONS TO DEATH. Good luck getting that museum job, buddy.

Also, he friended me on Facebook a year ago so that's... awkward.

So the new bag I got is called the Sumo Sway Couple. It's big enough for two people to masturbate on, but I don't know why you'd need to know that. It's probably satisfying enough knowing that there's room to watch a movie on it with someone you're comfortable touching. If this sounds vaguely like an invitation to experiment with mutual masturbation, then I'm glad I mentioned the first part, because you definitely wouldn't have been satisfied just watching a movie on it. But at least have a blanket handy if you're not the only two in the room.

Until setting up the Sway, I never would have considered using the Omni as an ottoman. But that's the American way: just when you start feeling like Queen of the Soccer Moms in your Chevy Tahoe, an old school Hummer H1 pulls up and brings back all those feelings of inadequacy. Suddenly you're just Slut of the Soccer Moms and you can't even run anybody off the road anymore (women aren't aggressive drivers, this just happens accidentally).

My new Sumo now rules the living room. Like an effeminate redneck in a yellow Mustang, it demands to be seen. If it could eat my old Sumo, I think it would in a heartbeat, but it looks too much like a vagina to do that (literally). It's even got the built-in curved back support shape that makes it look like a Venus fly trap of microsuede. Is that why they call them Venus fly traps, because they look like vaginas with teeth? ...Are men really from Mars?

For now, they're going to have to learn to live together. Which could be hard, give that they're of opposite sexes—the womanly Sway with her wide hips, flashy dress, and silky smooth touch; and the manly Omni, with his indestructible outer shell, shifting personality, and resigned stature in the face of a strong woman.

The new microsuede and corduroy Sumo Sways are available in Single and Couple sizes.

(There are 3 comments available on the full site version of this blog entry)

The Mosque of the Red Herring

Nathan DeGraaf — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 23:41:01 -0400

Blog by Nathan DeGraaf

I've been giving mainstream news my usual occasional glances and recently noticed that quite a few people are upset that a mosque may be one of the buildings put in near Ground Zero in the NYC, which is New York City (that's right, I'm borrowing from The Situation now; I'm more disappointed than you are but it had to be done).

Many of the people who flew the planes that killed the (more than likely) innocent people on 9/11 were of the same kind of people who pray in mosques. Or some such shit. I don't really focus much on religious studies. But I know them people are brown and hairy and prone to very directionally oriented prayer (I keep up on current events, which is the stuff that happens in the news).

And a lot of people are not comfortable with edificial representations of that turban-ish faith being so near the destruction that has become a symbol of fanatical Whatever They Are Ism to the part of the world that hates us more than most of the world hates us.

Or something. Truth is: I think I'm a little drunk.

And when I get a little drunk I get to thinking. And the great thing about thinking when you're drinking is that you boil stuff down to its essences (and occasionally you order pizza and then forget about it and then it shows up at your door and you're all like, "Hells yeah, pizza!"). So while I was thinking about mosques and whether they allow pizzas inside them I realized something:

They have Christian churches in what used to be Hiroshima. And they have a McDonald's in what was once Nagasaki. And over the last nine years our American leaders stole over ten trillion dollars from us to fight a war we didn't want, bail out bankers we didn't need bailed out, and steal an auto and insurance industry that they are not fit to run.

The people in charge of leading you to false wars are in charge of your health care.

And you're worried about a goddamn place of worship?

Look, I don't know anything about the Nation of Islam. Or the Muslims, or the Jews or the Scientologists or even the Catholics but I do know a little something about places of worship: not one of them has ever hurt a person. Of course, once again I must remind you that I'm not the smartest guy in the TPA, which is Tampa.

But here's the deal: the powers that be are going to make this a political issue. They're counting on your racism and your ignorance to help make it easier for them to steal all the freedoms they yank from your collective crank. Don't pay attention to the smoke: it won't even get you high.

Every religion is welcome in this country. Let's keep it that way. Every bullshitting, lying power thief is in charge of this country. Let's change that.

And if we do change that, then I'll throw the largest fucking pizza party any mosque has ever seen, rules or no rules, and I'll invite every person in the country and get them all totally wasted.

Except for that Angelina. She is such a bitch.

(There are 11 comments available on the full site version of this blog entry)

(Korean) Kids Say The Gosh Darn Funniest Things, Part 2

Casey Freeman — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 19:56:31 -0400

Blog by Casey Freeman

(Para's handwriting is on top, my serial killer-style block letters are on bottom. It's sad when a 10-year-old girl learning her second language has better handwriting than a native speaker—and writer.)

Kids all over the planet are hilarious. And mean. The twerps I teach in Korea are no different. Except they're ridiculously smart. At my school, most of my students have English names—so if you see a name that isn't "KC," you can safely assume it's a nine to 15-year-old kid in one of my English classes.

So, here are some more effed up things my kids say...

ALEX: If I could move anywhere, I'd go to Heaven, because I know Casey Teacher won't be there.

KC: Why do you call me the Apple?
ALEX: When you get mad at me, your face turns red, like the apple.
KC: ...
ALEX: See!!! You do it now!

DOOLY: Your mother wrote only two lines on that postcard. Does she not like you very much?

KC: Why couldn't they stand on the boat?
KID 1: It was too windy!
KID 2: Too much soju?

(Kids are all laughing)
KC: What's so funny? We've got a joker in the classroom?
LEO: Teacher. Why do you have fur?
KC: Fur?
LEO: On your arms. They have fur.
KC: Oh, that's just hair. Like on your head.
LEO: No it's not. It's fur.
KC: Whatever. So, what's the difference between "and" and "but." (Leo raises hand)
KC: What you got?
LEO: Teacher, can I pet it?
KC: Pet what?
LEO: Your fur.
KC: I have no idea how many code of conduct rules I'm breaking right now, but I can tell you won't let it go and I can tell you can't understand what I'm saying. So whatever.
LEO: So, Teacher KC. Can I pet your fur?
KC: Fine.
LEO: It's so soft. Like hair.
KC: It is hair.
LEO: Can you take it off?
KC: Leo, some people just have hair on their— OUCH! What the shit?!? That hurt. Why the fffffffudge did you do that?!?!
LEO: I didn't think it was real.
KC: How would it feel if I pulled your hair?
LEO: It would hurt.
KC: Exactly. No more petting. (Leo raises hand again.)
KC: Yes.
LEO: Teacher, what is "what the shit?"
KC: Eff. You're going to go home and tell your parents you learned two things: that I have fur and another phrase I accidentally said.

LEO: What the shit! What the shit! What the shit! Teacher KC, WHAT THE SHIT?
KC: You know what that means?
LEO: Shit?
KC: It means, "I have a Japanese girlfriend." (The kids hate Japan, and aren't old enough to like girls yet.)
LEO: Oh, it's a bad word. I will never say THAT again, Teacher!
{Sometimes you have to work really hard to be smarter than nine year olds.}

LEO (Next time): Teacher, let me touch your fur.
KC: If you pull hair, I'll send you to Japan and you'll have to sit with girls.
LEO: Teacher!
KC: I'm kidding, I won't sell you to Japan.
LEO: No, it's not hair. It's fur.

KC: The map was very useful to the tourists. Who can use the phrase, "Very useful for..." in a sentence?
AMY: The man was very useful to the woman.

KEVIN (writing in his diary): I think my English teacher has good thing and bad thing. Bad thing is he give us too much test. I don't know what's good thing about Casey Teacher but I know he have good thing.

(Chloe is by far one of my favorite students. She's brilliant, nice and sweeter than all the Splenda my Grandma steals from Denny's. I couldn't believe my ears when this conversation happened.)

KC: What's the difference between normal dogs and wild dogs?
CHLOE: Wild dogs are spicier.

Until next time my kids say some effed up schtuff!

You're the best!!!

(There are 6 comments available on the full site version of this blog entry)

10 Things Destroying America's Youth

Martin Stanley — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 06:36:49 -0400

Article by Martin Stanley

1. Themed Parties

I have no problem with a Christmas party during Christmas, or a birthday party on your birthday...but sending out an invitation in the middle of April that reads, "Come join us for a Pirate Party, Nyarrrrr!" What the hell is that? Not that I'm saying I wouldn't want to drink a few beers wearing an eye patch, but are you fucking kidding me? This is why we have Halloween.

If you really think about it, you're inviting someone to spend their free time with you AND giving them homework. "Oh, I'd really love to go to Bob and Martha's party, but I just don't own any fur suits, and they made it quite clear it is an Ewok party." As good of a job as you did turning your living room into the moon of Endor, I still think this is a bit bizarre. Yes, yes, we're all Ewoks, but I swear to Christ if you poke at me with that stick one more time I will beat you like a Swedish wife.

2. Affliction Clothing

"In God We Thrust" "I paid 90 bucks for this shirt, brah; and I love fighting!" Yeah, tell ya what, give me 80 and I'll kick you in the nuts and hand you a Fruit of the Loom. Sure your t-shirt with a tattoo designed on it is cool and all, I guess, but...why didn't you just get a badass tattoo? You're probably the same asshole who buys your t-shirts two sizes too small. It's easy to spot these fuckers out, you see them everywhere and they're all the same. The same dude with a shirt so tight you can perfectly make out the trendy Celtic cross necklace under it, sleeves all the way up to the armpits, hair gelled, leather wrist bands (like they're about to do battle with a Viking), expensive "fuck-me" jeans and some ridiculous yum-yum Arnette sun glasses. Wait...didn't I see you in a Nickelback video?

3. This New Rock/Metal Shit

Nickelback, Sick Puppies, Seether, Breaking Benjamin, etc. What the hell is it with y'all? You sold yourselves out. The shame is, as musicians playing instruments, it's some good stuff, but the second your spike-haired, Ed Hardy-shirt-wearing front man opens his mouth, it goes to shit. This new genre of Mommy-Metal is killing our youth. Quit singing about fighting, fucking in cars, money, hot girls, etc. That's what radio-rap is for.

You organic produce freaks are fucking up the economy. These poor chemists spent their careers making shit that kills pests, not humans, and now you're taking it away from them.I've never been to a Seether concert, nor do I plan to, but I can just imagine a sea of Affliction shirts, reeking of the newest Axe body spray, a ton of douchebags eye fucking everyone else's girlfriends, fights breaking out (not real fights, just a lot of "oh yeah, I'm so like all up in your face...what?!"), singing the lyrics.... Horrible. What happened to the real songwriters, the lyrical intelligence? I'm not suggesting every song be some Earth-shattering, enlightening eye opener, but damn, can we not put some thought into it? Zeppelin did it, Dire Straits did it, The Doors did it, Who did it...so I guess what I'm asking is, why the fuck can't you?

4. Hospital Dramas (Really Just One in Particular)

You know what America needs, another hospital drama...I think it's time. Really though, what channel doesn't have a doctor show? I would have liked to sit in on one of the board meetings.

"Well folks, we need something new, something funny and savvy, but emotionally deep enough to keep people tuned in."

"How about a funeral home drama?"

"Too much."

"College drama?"

"Not serious enough."

"How about....okay, now work with me here, how about a hospital drama?"

(pause)

"I think you're on to something. I mean, it worked for NBC, TNT, FX, Fox, Comedy Central, USA, Lifetime, Oxygen, Nickelodeon, why couldn't it work for us here at ABC?"

"CUT, CUT! Can we PLEASE get a black person in the shot? Come on, people, what kind of racist set you think we run around here?"And another one is born. "Oh he's not going there; he wouldn't dare mock Grey's Anatomy." "OH.... YES..... HE..... IS." And how politically correct: you got a big girl, a hot girl, a smart girl, an Asian girl, a black girl, a black guy, a hot guy (what the fuck did I just say?), a tough guy, and a gay guy playing a sensitive pansy guy...and through and through they're all good friends...kinda. Like this shit really happens.

And the women of the show suck. Katherine Heigl's character, quit trying to be so damn inspirational. Meredith Grey, quit squinting your damn eyes. Asian doctor Christina Yang, quit squinting your damn "oh...not cool dude, not cool."

The only thing Grey's Anatomy goes to show is that yes, a soap opera can be successful in a primetime slot. These shows are impregnating our youth with wild fantasies: "Hell yeah I'd like to knock up Katherine Heigl." 8-10 years later you have some disgruntled doctor working on you like a mechanic on a car, pissed off because he's a nobody doctor working every weekend, paying off umpteen thousand dollars in debt and the closest thing looking like Katherine Heigl is some queer dude who has a "flat" in Midtown. (By the fucking way, there are no "flats" in Atlanta.)

5. Smoke-Free Bars

Really? I can side with smoke-free restaurants, but leave the bars alone. "I just hate going to a bar and reeking of smoke." Then drink at home! It's a bar...you go to a bar to drink, smoke, shoot the shit. I have yet to go to the Derby and see a Bible study, or a nightclub discussing Little Women. If you want to ban something in bars, ban hip hop. Do you know how fucking stupid it is to hear Fergie in the neighborhood tavern?

6. Twitter

Face it, you're addicted. Now stop spreading your secondhand updates in our faces.Are you really that interesting that you feel the need to have more than a Facebook status to notify the world what you're up to? "Did you hear, did you hear? Ashton Kutcher took a shit." "Aw, no way!" And to you Twitter followers, or twitters...no, that sounds weird; let's just call you idiots. To you idiots, what do you really do with the knowledge of everyone's up-to-the-minute status? And for all of you who feel the need for an every other minute post, it's starting to get a little out of hand. Quit broadcasting so many of your damn personal problems.

TheHaitainActual: is starting to think this cyst is growing.

@ImaFukinDoc: dude, you should get that looked at.

@ImMarriedtotheHaitan: that's gross.

TheHaitianActual: I think there's blood in my stool.

@ImMarriedtotheHaitan: you're not sleeping in the good sheets until you get that looked at. I know how much you fart in your damn sleep.

TheHaitianActual: Damnit woman, what did I say about posting personal shit?

7. Cyclists

There is a huge difference between road cyclists and mountain bikers. Mountain bikers are cool, cyclists blow. Let me tell ya how much I enjoy some douche in spandex holding up traffic. The only thing worse than being stuck behind a cyclist is getting stuck behind a school bus. At least you can run a cyclist off the road.

And to you dumbass cyclists, what the hell is it with y'all riding directly on top of the white line on the road? They paved a nice wide shoulder for you to ride in, so why the fuck does half your body insist on perverting my lane? And if you see me jogging (hahahahaha...yeah) don't scream, "Passing on your left!" Just whiz the hell by me. In the event that I spontaneously decide to lie down in the road, just run over my dumbass. The last time some dude came out of nowhere and screamed, "Passing on your left!" I nearly shit. How about this, if you say passing on your left, I'll say "hockin' a loogie on the left."

8. Organic Shit

As far as I can tell our parents all seem relatively fine. They never had all this organic shit, hell, they most likely were getting shots of mercury as kids. Look at my old man, he never had any of that crap. He does eat some tofu, and sure he's an asshole, but those are personal choices. Hell, I'm an asshole, and to be quite frank it's fun. Call me stupid (no really, do it), but this organic trend is nothing more than a marketing scheme.

And what really kills me is this organic meat, or whatever the hell it's called. It doesn't get any more organic then going hunting and eating your kill. But oh "it's too gamey." Gamey my ass, how the hell does it get any more organic then a wild fucking animal. However, animals in nature are a little too organic for my taste; personally I'd rather eat the store-bought, chemically-fed, steroid-popping meat. I've seen wild animals eat their feces and I'd like to think that this guy sitting on my plate has never eaten feces.

Now as far as produce, you organic freaks are fucking up the economy. Think of all the poor chemists you're screwing over. These guys spent their careers making shit that kills pests and not humans, and now you're taking it away from them. Shame on you.

I think what really gets to me though is not the actual products, but the people who use them. Take Trader Joe's for instance. Now I love their wine, but aside from that, I hate going there. The only feeling I get from shopping there is that if some dude farts, I might get AIDS. "Oh my Lord, I can't believe he just said that." Yeah, I did. There's nothing more obnoxious then some hippy trying to sell you soy products. "Hey maaaaan, if you buy this soy butter you get a 10% discount on your next purchase of Birkenstocks." I'll pass. "Hey maaaan, I don't eat anything that casts a shadow." Yeah, well I don't eat anything that doesn't scream. And this "0 grams of Trans Fat," no shit...show me something WITH trans fat, I bet it tastes great.

9. Animal Rights (Regarding Livestock)

I'd rather eat a REAL prize-winning pig than a lazy fatass prize-winning pig.Let's first establish that I am referring to the activists against the cruelty to animals whose destiny is to be my dinner; abusing domestic pets or animals in nature is cruel. However...livestock...I mean really? It's going to die. So this pig was kicked, do you really think it matters, considering that in a week it will be a delicious breakfast meat? In the Marines we said, "Pain is weakness leaving the body"; I don't want to think I'm eating some pig that was a pansy. I want some pork that's been through some serious shit. Hell, torture the swine.

"Vear iz zee webel forces?"

"Nooo, noo, I vill not talk!"

"Oh, you vill talk....you vill."

(Silence)

"Ok zhen....you are of no use for me.....kill him."

BAM! Bacon, now how cool is that? These people who refuse to eat meat because of how animals are being treated...it's just craziness. Or you get these ass clowns who argue that pigs are pets. "Awww, it's a cute little piggy." So because it's cute as an infant you won't eat it? That's pretty dumb. People like this I want to have over for dinner and serve BuSeKoNda. It's like Turducken, but this is a bunny stuffed into a seal stuffed into a koala stuffed into a panda. Quadruple delish!

10. Twilight

Where to fucking start? Oh here's a start, how about the fact that the intended target audience uses lunch boxes. This Stephanie Meyer chick pretty much thought, "Ya know what would be cool, if like...like, Dracula was in Romeo and Juliet.....but neither of them died....and there were werewolves, and diamonds." All it took was some good peyote and it all came together. Bram Stoker has got to be livid right about now.

I know it sounds ridiculous to say that a movie based on vampires is far fetched, but damn this Twilight series is so out there. I have an easier time accepting the possibility of Lord of the Rings, or the Berenstain Bears coming to life. Sure, a bunch of Jewish talking bears living in a treehouse is a stretch, but this bullshit, hell no. Team Jacob....look, if you're on team Jacob then you are a certifiable idiot. I have not read this teenie-bopper propaganda but I know how it ends (thank you Wikipedia). Saying you're on team Jacob is like rooting for the Phillies to win the 2009 World Series and hoping it's a possibility ‘cause it's still on your DVR and you have yet to watch it. Sorry to ruin it for you morons, but Jacob, yeah, he gets no Bella booty. That's right, the tree leaper gets the girl.

And while we're talking about old Eddieboy, here is some tool described as "impossibly handsome, to the point of being almost godlike"....so....you picked that douchebag? Look, I'm not gonna lie, sometimes I'll go a day or two without showering if my wife is gone, but I don't pick that as my everyday look. And quit scowling at everything, you're a vampire, not a bridge troll.

Jasper, take a shit already. Bella, talk or exhale deeply, stop trying to do both at the same time. To the townfolk of Forks, are you people fucking stupid? I don't know, but if I had some neighbors that haven't changed since, oh let's say the 1800's....I dunno, I'd kinda be curious.

Now I will admit that some of the cars in the movie are pretty sweet. But, Edward drives a fucking Volvo C30. Ooooh, what a badass. What message are you trying to send Edward? "I'll kick your ass after I drop the kids off at swim practice"? Seriously man, you're supposedly this "tough guy" vampire, and THAT is what you drive? Why not scoot around in a Vespa?

And the whole damn name of this series...every good series of movies usually falls under the same main title, and each book/movie within it has its own sub-title. Take, for instance, Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back and Star Wars: The Return of the Jedi; The Indiana Jones trilogy; Harry Potter: And His Fucked Up Broom and Harry Potter: Still Trying to Get in Hermione's Pants. But you moron Twilighters are freaking nuts.

"Hey, did you see the new Twilight movie is out now?"

"Yeah, it's New Moon, seen it five times."

"What's New Moon?"

"It's the second book, after Twilight."

"So...it's the second Twilight."

"No, Twilight was the first book, New Moon is the second."

"Oh, so the first movie was called Twilight and this New Moon is independent of the first?"

"No, the new movie picks up where the first left off."

"So...it's Twilight: New Moon?"

"Like OMG, is it like that hard to figure it out?"

Author's Disclaimer:

To the lovers of themed parties: I actually love themed parties; what a fun way to get creative. Once I went to a "black and white" party....unfortunately, I misinterpreted the theme, but I still had fun going with my wife as OJ and Nicole Brown.

To the Affliction shirt guys: Honestly, I'm just jealous. If I wore one I'd end up looking like a pound of raw ground beef stuffed into a condom.

To you hippies, tree huggers, and animal lovers: No, it's just a joke. Cruelty to animals is wrong regardless of its purpose. But c'mon, don't lie to me. After the first bite, who really cares how it died? You're just glad it did.

To my old man: Quit eating that tofu shit. Seriously asshole, you're making me look bad.

(There are 62 comments available on the full site version of this article)

The One Job Department Everyone Shits On

Don Joe — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 20:35:57 -0400

Column by Don Joe

Departments in big companies have an unspoken hierarchy. The hierarchy changes a bit in different companies but typically it's the same department at the bottom: Facilities. Facilities is the bedrock on which every other department poops.

What would we do without coffee machines and office lighting? Ah yes, sleep peacefully at our desks. If you could lump together every job you'd rather not do into one department, you'd get Accounts. Sorry, I mean Facilities. Have you ever wondered who ensures the notices are taken down on the right day or who puts up the signs that tell you to wash your hands after a poo? No, me neither. But it's Facilities.

Colleagues of mine spent weeks doting over replacing the break room cups. They decided on a more eco-friendly variety. No one noticed. Hopefully some gophers lived longer as a result.

When I see someone walking around with a clipboard I feel a little jealous because they've escaped their desks. The envy subsides when I remember that they're taking an inventory of clogged soap dispensers. It's not all blocked soap dispensers of course. It's also blocked toilets.

But I'm not here to give the impression that the Facilities department spends all of their time in the toilets, working and dropping the kids off at the pool. Far from it. Facilities also holds sway over "signage" (or "signs" if you're a normal human being). Surely somebody has to tell you to watch your step or mind your head?

I doubt it. If someone has to be told to mind their head, they can't read the sign quickly enough to duck. Besides, if there is a Cro-Magnon skulking about the office, their knuckles are probably dragging along the carpet, in which case their stooped gait removes any need to duck in the first place.

But what if Facilities didn't exist? What would we do without coffee machines and office lighting? Ah yes, sleep peacefully at our desks. That said, there have been several occasions when my finger has been poised to send Facilities an email.

Good afternoon,

I would be most grateful if you could open a requisition order on my behalf. Within the last few weeks my career has been flushed down the toilet. I would be grateful if someone could fish it out.

Given that my job prospects are now something you wouldn't even wipe your bottom with, I'm pretty sure the toilet is an inappropriate place to have flushed them. We may need to check our plumbing because many of my colleagues have mentioned a similar issue.

Kind regards,
Don Joe

(There are 1 comments available on the full site version of this column entry)

Awesome Korean Beer Commercial

Casey Freeman — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 03:51:08 -0400

Blog by Casey Freeman

I used to think America owned the rights to the greatest beer commercials. Who can forget the Budweiser frogs, Bud Ice penguins, the Wazzup Guys, or the Tastes Great/Less Filling guys (actually, they were really forgettable). Even the Dos Equis ads rock. The Canucks also rock with the Labatt's bear and well, that's about it.

But Korea is on another continent—geographically, and in terms of their awesome beer selling attempts.

None as awesome as this though.

However, its greatness leaves so many questions to be answered:

Why is there a beer in the middle of the road?
Where did the Mexicans come from? It's not like Korea is close to the Mexican border.
Do Koreans really think all Mexicans are mariachis? Or look like fat Koreans with sombreros on?
Why is this cool-looking Korean dude wearing a weak-ass Canadian tuxedo?
Where is there a desert in Korea?
How does he not notice the Mexicans getting into his car?
How did they think letting the Korean dude drink the Hite and then drive would be a good idea?

But, it's still awesome.

And there's a sequel where the Korean dude plays a ukulele with the Mexicans. It's like advertisement literature.

(There are 4 comments available on the full site version of this blog entry)

5 Ways to Tell If Your Dog is a Communist

Joe Gillard — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 15:06:27 -0400

Article by Joe Gillard

We all love our dogs. But we also know the very real, and very frightening issue of the growing communist threat. Our country's freedoms and ideals are a stake. The iron curtain is spreading into our cities, neighborhoods, and schools. Therefore, it is necessary to be concerned that your canine companion may be a Communist, without you being aware of it.

Here are five ways to tell if your dog is a Pinko.

1. Plays well with other dogs.

Communists love to share. Is Fido running around and playing with the neighbors' dogs, or setting an example of group identity? Watch your dog closely to make sure that there isn't too much order and unity in its group of pals. If there's anything Commies love to do, it's form groups of like-minded thinkers.

In addition, observe the structure and hierarchy of the group. Is your dog a follower? If so, then it may be possible to sway him or her back to capitalist values. If your dog is acting leftist AND acting as a leader, call your local animal control.

2. Submissive.

Does your dog blindly follow your orders? Does he or she seem to do just about anything it's asked to do, without first contemplating the efficiency of it? For example, try asking your dog to "sit" and observe what happens. If it sits immediately and then looks at you awaiting further instruction, this is a tell-tale sign of communist tendencies. Encourage your dog to question the command. After he or she follows your order, slap your dog on the nose and ask it why it proceeded without personal consideration. Commies hate individuality. A good pup needs to think for itself, take up activities on its own, and learn to provide food and water for itself.

3. Lazy.

"By the time I wake up, there should be a nice, full bowl of dry food waiting in the kitchen. Maybe if I sleep with that irresistably cute smile, I'll get a biscuit too..."Make sure your dog is getting plenty of activity. If it spends an excessive amount of time lying around doing nothing, be cautioned. This is one of the strongest signs of communist behavior. Next time you see your dog lying on the floor like a furry sack of liberal, don't feed it, and don't pet it. Instead, ask it what it's doing to help out around the house. Communists do nothing, because they expect everything to be done for them. They know that if they just lie around, they will be taken care of eventually.

This should not be the case with your pup. Reward your dog for any extra activity and feed it when it has accomplished something. For example, seizing the neighbors' fugly cat and tearing it to bits. Dogs who receive nothing for doing nothing will become accustomed to this, and will actually start to think it's the right way. Just like Commies.

4. Foreign breed.

One the simplest and most accurate ways to tell if your dog is a Commie, is knowing where it's from. The traditions and values of your dog's native country are probably still ingrained.

Here are specific breeds to watch out for:

Phu Quoc - This breed is from Vietnam. Yes, we tried to stop it, but communism was too strong is this part of Asia. The domesticated dogs there were probably brainwashed as puppies to support the Viet Cong.

Korean Jindo - This breed came out of Korea, and it's safe to assume that a Jindo is ready to take down America at the drop of a collar. Don't let your Jindo fool you. It may be sweet, but it only wants you to accept communism. Or die.

Chow Chow, Shar Pei, Shih Tzu and Pekingese - These are just a few of the breeds out of China, the gigantic land of Commies and dogs. When the Chinese aren't eating dogs, they are training them to take orders from dictators and attack peasants who aren't being productive.

Cuban Havanese - If your Havanese is with you here in America, it's likely an anti-Communist that swam here to flee Cuba. Needless to say, it may have retained some communist tendencies.

Labrador Retriever - Yes, you read that correctly. This popular dog may be easily overlooked as a Communist, but if you have one, give it constant attention and be sure to show it the benefit of the free market. Here's why: The Labrador Retriever originated in Canada, a country quickly headed the way of socialism.

5. Dirty.

"I could bang on this drum all day..."Keep your dog clean. Emphasize the benefits of canine hygiene to your dog and bathe it regularly. Otherwise, your dog may get comfortable being dirty. Communists have little concern for their hygiene and rarely take showers. Habits to look out for include rolling around in dirt, pooping on the ground, and hanging out in drum circles. These are all frequent habits of communist youth in American colleges. Your dog may enjoy having a long, shaggy coat of fur, but don't hesitate to grab your clippers and give your dog a high and tight. Praise it for ostracizing dirty, disgusting dogs, and make sure your pet's canine companions share these clean-cut grooming habits.

Hopefully after reading this you have become more aware of the threat of communism in your own home. While it's important to have a loving relationship with your dog, it's equally important that your dog shares your values. Keep it from idolizing dogs in leftist Hollywood films, do not let it play with toys made in China, and support free-market capitalism by inspiring your dog to earn its keep in your house. There are no handouts in life, so do not feed your dog scraps. A long, prosperous life can be had for your dog if it applies itself and works hard.

Most importantly, if your dog exhibits many communist qualities, such as unquestioned loyalty, submission, playfulness with other dogs, and lack of hygiene, do the right thing and put it down. After all, a dog should be a man's best friend, not freedom's worst enemy.

(There are 4 comments available on the full site version of this article)

But Seriously Girls

Nathan DeGraaf — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 14:48:58 -0400

Blog by Nathan DeGraaf
Taylor: You need to write something like, classic Nate. You know, for old time's sake.

Me: We don't have any old times.

Taylor: Dude, I was reading you long before I met you. Trust me, we got old times.

Me: Now you're freaking me out a little.

I'm really jealous of women because they get all the good jobs: like prostitute. Something like ninety percent of all prostitutes are women: lucky bitches.

I mean, I work out. Why won't anyone pay me for sex? Women have it so awesome. You know being a prostitute has got to just make you feel so good about yourself. I know if I came home from a day of fucking women for large sums of money, I would feel like a god. You would have to scrape me off the ceiling.

Women are lucky. They use words like "harassment" and "exploitation" but every time I hear these stories of this alleged exploitation, I imagine the gender roles switched and all I can do is use words like "totally" and "awesome."

I don't mean to make light of prostitution; obviously, it's the world's oldest profession. That fact is awesome to me. I mean, it shows that since the beginning of humanity men and women didn't want to talk to each other. We've known this for thousands of years and yet we keep talking to each other. And it keeps not working. Humans are stupid.

I'll give you another example of how humans are stupid (I'm good like that). Every man has a fantasy wherein a girl just walks up to him and asks him straight up for unattached sex. Few women do this but the truth is that just about every woman in America could get just about any man they wanted if they walked right up to said man and stated, "Hi, I'm Tammy and I would love to suck your dick right now." Ladies, it's that easy. And it'll get you better at blowjobs, which is the real key to keeping a relationship together.

Speaking of blowjobs, did you ever wonder how that came about? Do you think it was a woman or a man that invented them? I think it had to be a man. You know, back when we got to oppress women all the time I'll bet one man said to his woman, "You know what would make me feel really awesome right now? If you got on your knees and wrapped your lips and throat around my hard cock. I'll bet that would make me feel much better than would whipping your ass with this belt."

And you know she got down on her knees right away.

Ah, the good old days.

Kidding.

(Not really.)

Ah but there's a reason I'm not married. Actually, there are several reasons I'm not married but the main one is that, of the literally hundreds of married men I've known, not one of them has ever talked to me about how much they enjoy being married. I mean, those odds really suck.

Now, I don't mind the occasional gamble but the odds of a happy marriage are worse than the odds of successfully hitting on seventeen. (That was a Black Jack joke. You don't get those often so enjoy it. I mean it. Fucking smile. Don't make me get out of these parentheses.)

But honestly, I do think more couples would stay together if women regularly sucked their men's cocks. I think that should be the first assignment of every couple that seeks couples counseling. The shrink shouldn't even have a session. He should just tell the woman to suck the man's dick every night for a week and then come back for session two. And I'll bet when they came back the man would have zero complaints. And the woman's only complaint would be all the cock she has to suck. See, everybody's happy when I work out the universe.

And by the way, I don't care what you say: a woman with only one complaint is the happiest woman you will ever meet.

No need to thank me. I was put on this earth to help.

(There are 11 comments available on the full site version of this blog entry)

Five Ways to Beat the Excruciating Summer Heat

Keith Alberstadt — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 16:08:08 -0400

Article by Keith Alberstadt

Summer will be over in a couple of months. And not a moment too soon. It feels like Earth has a GPS system, and someone programmed its destination to be the center of the sun. Let's do some recalculating!

I bet Al Gore didn't grope that masseuse, but rather grabbed her in a "See? I told you so!" fashion. Whether man is responsible or not, this summer was hotter than any other. When Mr. Gore mentioned a "happy ending," I'm sure he was just talking about autumn.

I recently saw The Karate Kid remake simply to sit in air conditioning for what felt like 7 hours. I'm not exactly the "greenest" citizen in the country, but I do my part. Sometimes it's more trouble than it's worth, though. I tried to save energy once by shutting off the AC in my apartment for a day. After 30 minutes, I had lost twenty pounds and I looked like a Nick Nolte mugshot. So I happily welcomed back the CFCs.

New York City, where I live, has been especially unbearable. It's been scientifically proven that the two things that trap heat the most are pavement and homeless people. So the Big Apple is cooked. And no wonder why the Mets suck this year. What's the coolest place in the house? The cellar. So it makes sense why they want to get there fast. God speed, Mets. God speed.

The ghost of sunbaked past has a habit of haunting people who eat ginger with their sushi. In my neighborhood last week, I saw a redhead boy walk out from the shade and explode in thin air.* You probably didn't hear that story in the mainstream media, because if the media liked redheads, Conan would have a show and Ronald McDonald would have a better supporting cast. But it's true. Redhead kid...BOOM! It was very sad, but I'll say this...a shower of freckles looks like confetti, and that's super awesome. I ran through it and pretended I just won the World Series.

So how do we deal with it? Go to the beach and have a tar ball fight? Make some tar angels only to get up looking like a Louisiana pelican or Snooki in a hot tub? Beaches actually aren't a good choice, in my opinion. Laying out in the sun may be popular and fun for a while, but at some point you'll regret subjecting yourself. Think of it as Justin Bieber music or a night with Ben Roethlisberger.

Besides, beaches are scary. I find it ironic that visitor bureaus in the South are begging tourists to come back to the beaches...and then the Discovery Channel airs "Shark Week." It's like Iowa asking you to visit and then hearing AMC is having a "Children of the Corn" night. Or if someone asks you to a Rihanna concert and TBS puts on a Rocky marathon. Bad timing, Discovery. Let's show some class.

So...since I care for your well-being, I have compiled five tips on how to beat this excruciating heat.

1. Flip off the sun, but only after getting Lindsay Lohan to paint "FU" on your fingernails.

This won't help you beat the heat, but your misery may be reduced from 90 days to 14.

2. When at an airport, tell security you have a bomb in your pants...just to have an excuse to take your clothes off for ten minutes.

You may be asking, "But Keith, won't they charge me with lying to authorities?" Not if you put an M. Night Shyamalan movie in your drawers.

3. Eat ice cream.

Simple enough, but go hardcore if you can. A dessert vendor in Omaha sells what they call the "Brain Freeze." The "Permanent Brain Freeze" is also called the "Mel Gibson Special," but it's only served with vanilla.

4. Go to a grocery store's freezer section and just stand there with the doors open.

When a manager approaches, claim your last name is Favre and indecisiveness runs in the family. He should respect that.

5. Go to a movie theater, where it's always very chilly.

It's no wonder fans of the Twilight saga are so pale. They spend hours in theaters debating between Team Depression or Team Ab Flex; they don't realize they're slowly freezing. And all this time I thought they were just weird, blue-lip goth kids who'd rather play sports than eat dinner with their parents. Silly me.

Movies are a great place to go to escape the heat. I recently saw The Karate Kid remake simply to sit in air conditioning for what felt like 7 hours. It was way too long but decent. I heard it's a lot like Sex and the City, only with a lot less waxing on and waxing off. So I recommend it.

I hope those help. If they do, make sure to tell me so I can grab you Al Gore style and say, "See? I told you so!!"

*No redheads were harmed in the making of this article.

(There are 4 comments available on the full site version of this article)

Jesus: He is Risen, and He is Pissed, Part II

Charlie Mihelich — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 06:19:11 -0400

Column by Charlie Mihelich

« Back to Part I

Jesus' fitful, drunken slumber was interrupted by the sensation of cold steel against his forehead. He opened his eyes to find himself staring up at the underside of a double-barreled shotgun. He panicked. His heart raced. He was not prepared to die again, at least not so soon, and he felt genuinely afraid until he realized who was on the other end of the shotgun. He relaxed.

"A bit dramatic, wouldn't you say?" he said to the scantily clad woman as she lowered the weapon.

"I had to be sure it was you," Mary Magdalene said.

Jesus stood staring at the lonely, unremarkable grave that housed his ultimate betrayer. He was angry, he was sad, and he was confused. "I called you, didn't I?"

"It could have been a trap."

"Fair enough," he agreed. "That's some gun you've got there."

She laughed. "You didn't notice it mounted above the front desk? It's an old-timey prairie dog blaster of some sort. The guy down there doesn't even know if it even fires anymore, but it's most certainly not loaded. He let me borrow it. I figured it was at least a little threatening."

"A little. You didn't sleep with him, did you?"

"I did what I had to do."

Jesus sighed. He knew a lost cause when he saw one. He saw her eyes glance toward the burgundy stain and the torn out pages shoddily arranged in an attempt to soak up the mess. "Party last night? You should have invited me."

"I did. You're here, aren't you? I guess you were just fashionably late."

"Speaking of fashion...you're looking good." He was wearing the tattered robe the motel had included as a "luxury item." He didn't remember putting it on.

"It's comfortable, and I spilled on my other clothes."

"Nice. Infallible indeed."

"Look, I've got a lot of shit I want to get done today, and I'm going to need your help. Are you going to help me?" He had a raging headache.

"I wouldn't waste my time coming to this hellhole if I wasn't going to help. No need to get testy."

"Fine. I'm sorry," he said. He meant it.

"Don't worry about it. You're in better spirits than I 'd expected. Who's first on the list?"

"Judas Iscariot. You know where he is?"

"Undoubtedly."

"How long is he going to be there?"

"I'd say you've got a while."

"Take me there."

"Alright, but I don't think you're going to like it very much."

* * *

The sun was out, and a steady breeze blew throughout the cliff-side cemetery. Jesus stood staring at the lonely, unremarkable grave that housed his ultimate betrayer. The wind blew his unkempt hair in front of his face, and despite the comfortable temperature, he was sweating. He was angry, he was sad, and he was confused.

"Who did it?" he asked Mary, who sat on the ground next to him, playing with blades of grass.

"He did. He was dead before you were."

"Coward," Jesus said as he spit upon the cracked cement. It quickly dried. "Miserable coward."

"Yes, but you can at least cross him off your list. It doesn't matter how or why he's dead, it just matters that he is dead, right?"

"I think you're missing the point of revenge. It absolutely does matter."

"What, and you were going to kill him?"

"Yes, I was."

"Alright, Tiger, I'll believe that when I see it."

"You will."

"Is that a promise?"

"That's a promise."

"Okay. What now?"

"I'm hungry. I'm a stress eater."

"Then let's eat."

"Take me somewhere."

Looks like Jesus was going to be making more of his patented witches' brew. Jesus reached into the hideous motel bathrobe and pulled out the rusty dagger he'd planned to plunge into Iscariot's neck and drove it into the ground, directly in front of the grave. He didn't need it anymore.

They walked in silence back to Mary Magdalene's motorcycle. It was a Japanese model, and Jesus had turned his nose up at it slightly when he'd first seen it, and he found he enjoyed riding it even less. The hum of the engine was terribly obnoxious, and its zippiness was simply a feeble attempt to make up for what it lacked in horsepower.

As they sped down the two-lane highway he noticed a giant billboard advertising the local "Lebowski Fest" the following month, with Jeff Bridges clothed in a robe similar to the one he was wearing.

"Hey, he kind of looks like you."

"I think that's kind of the point."

"Oh yeah, I guess I never got that." It seemed like she never got a lot of things.

They pulled into the dusty parking lot of one of those standalone diners Jesus thought only existed in movies. He slunk into the first available booth. He needed a drink to get rid of his hangover.

"Jack. Straight up," he said as the waitress approached.

She laughed as though he'd joked. "Coffee, tea, milk, OJ, soda. That's all we got."

"Water, please," he said, disappointed. Looks like he was going to be making more of his patented witches' brew.

He ordered a Denver omelette with a heaping side of bacon. He also asked for an English muffin and some fresh jam, but all they had were those little packets. He hated those little packets. Nevertheless, he ate like someone who hadn't eaten in quite some time. He hadn't eaten in quite some time.

He and Mary didn't say much of anything to each other during the meal, but they didn't really have to. He was happy to see her again, and she him. He had business to attend to, but he was glad she was along for the ride. She smiled at him, and he attempted to smile back, even though his mouth was almost constantly stuffed with food. At the end of the meal, her face turned serious.

"Jesus?"

"Mm?"

"Do you have any money?"

As they sped off down the highway, satisfied that they'd both completed their first successful dine and ditch, Jesus felt a sense of optimism, something he hadn't felt in a very long time. Maybe everything was going to be alright.

(There are 1 comments available on the full site version of this column entry)

Top 5 Things I Like to Do When I'm Sick

Andrei Trostel — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 00:33:03 -0400

Column by Andrei Trostel

You may or may not have noticed, but I haven't been writing as much this summer as I have in the past. The reason for my little writing hiatus is that, by the very definition of summer, it is sunnier outside than the rest of the year (duh), meaning that I'm probably outside playing. I know this may suck for those of you huddled around your computers, on the other side of the world, eagerly awaiting new articles in the dead of winter, but just think, in six short months you'll be out playing in the sunshine while I'm huddled inside, over my computer, churning out articles you'll likely never have time to read.

I rock so hard, I require a helmet.Something else that has kept me away from the keyboard lately: I've gotten sick more times this summer than any previous summer in all of Andrei history. (Yes, it's true, I am my own era.) Personally, I think it should be against the universal laws of nature to get sick during the summer, but microbes are apparently Anarchists and don't give a shit about my rules.

Now I know what you are thinking, "Andrei, if you're lying in bed sick that means you should have even MORE time to write for our personal amusement." To that I say, "WRONG, dear readers!" The last thing I usually want to do when I'm home sick is stare at a computer screen trying to remember the difference between "affect" and "effect." (Being dyslexic, I have to look it up, every single fucking time!) Besides, when I'm home sick there are several other activities that take precedence over writing.

So without further adieu here are the "Top 5 Things I Like to Do When I'm Sick."

#5 Sleep

This one really is a bittersweet activity for me when I'm sick. While I obviously love and need to sleep while sick, it is my least favorite thing to do with my sick time. Once I've actually made that decision to stay home, it's almost like a little mini-vacation switch goes off in my head, even if I do feel like complete shit. I instantly realize I have the entire day to lounge around and do nothing, with absolutely no guilt whatsoever about being completely lazy and unproductive. So whenever I end up sleeping the entire day away, although I usually feel better physically, it always leaves me feeling like I've just been highly unproductive at utilizing my lazy time effectively.

There are so many better things to do, with my time off from the world, other than sleep, and most of these things I usually don't have time to do regularly on a day to day basis. So sleep is usually the thing I should be doing most, but is always the last thing I want to actually be doing with my time. Unless I get to have some bad-ass, psychedelic, multi-layered, NyQuil dreams—then it's kind of cool.

#4 Watch Daytime TV & Movies

Very little says "staying home sick" better than watching really bad daytime television. Whether you're watching soap operas, daytime talk shows, court room proceedings, or straight up trailer trash assaulting each other, they are always there for you when you're sick. The best part about daytime television is that you don't have to follow ANY of the programs to know what's going on. You could literally go years without watching any of these shows and then suddenly turn them on and know exactly what's going on.

The Price is Right hasn't changed in years!However, what I like to do much more than watch daytime television when I'm sick is to watch movies. My parents owned the movie theater in the town I grew up in, so there is quite literally cellulose coursing through my veins. Wait, that just sounded really disgusting and reminds me of cellulite, like I'm one of those people who are too fat to leave the house and need a crane to be lifted out of bed. Scratch that, there is absolutely NO cellulose in my veins...I just really like movies. The trouble is that I'm a fairly active person with places to go and people to see, and I can't seem to keep up with my feet, let alone all the movie releases each year. So sickie time for me is often spent catching up on movies that I've invariably promised someone I would see, but really had no intention of ever realistically watching due to a complete lack of time. Basically, watching movies when I'm sick makes an honest man out of me to all my friends. And on the plus side it takes minimal movement at best.

#3 Play Video Games

I love playing video games, however, I refuse to let it get in the way of real life, which means invariably there are tons of video games that I either need to catch up on, or maybe actually open and start playing. (Yes, I am ashamed to say that I have several that remain unopened to this day.) Staying home sick affords the perfect opportunity to spend many days lying in bed playing video games completely guilt free.

In fact, one of the main reasons I fall so far behind on video games these days is that it actually does take an entire day just to get from one save point to another. Either that or you have to create an entirely separate virtual version of yourself and immerse yourself in a virtual world for many days at a time. By the time you emerge into actual reality you are both extremely horny, due to lack of any actual real human contact, and five pounds heavier than you were when you went in, due to all the sitting on your ass for so long. Don't get me wrong, video games are great and they will always hold a special place in my heart, but repeatedly trying to get Kratos to bring those women to orgasm, in God of War, pales in comparison to actually doing it in real life. Not for nothing though, but if real women gave men the proper button combinations to press in order to make them cum, there would be a lot more satisfied women in the world. Just sayin'.

#2 Sing Barry White Songs

One of my all-time favorite things to do, when I have laryngitis and my voice is four octaves lower than usual, is sing "Love Serenade" by Barry White, in my crazy-deep sick voice: "Take it off. Baby, take it ALLLLLL...OFF."

Now I know that a certain adorable PIC writer named Ashley Garmany would say that Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World" is the better choice, but honestly Ashley, you're from Loveland, Ohio for crying out loud! You should be ashamed of yourself for hailing from a place called "Loveland" and picking Louis Armstrong over Barry White as your sick voice singer of choice (hey, that rhymed! You should know that I get very excited by rhymes). As your punishment for not adequately representing your hometown's name, I sentence you to seven extra hours of playing with your Pikachu this weekend. Who are we kidding though, Ash, being in Ohio, that's likely all you were planning on doing this weekend anyway.

Let me break this down for you. When I am sick, but still feeling up to it (and I am ALWAYS up to it), lines like, "I don't wanna feel no clothes...I don't wanna see no panties...And take off that brassiere, my dear" can only lead to me feeling that much better, that much faster. Conversely, if I am ever feeling SO crappy that I can't possibly be up for it (a major emergency situation), then lines like, "Help me...Help me...Oh baby help me" can double as a plea to take me to the hospital immediately.

Wow, all this talk of sex brings me to number one.

#1 Have Sex

Go ahead and climb up on this rock.Yeah, like you didn't see that one coming. Truth be told, having sex pretty much tops any list I could ever create about things I like to do, regardless of the subject matter. So it should come as no surprise that it tops this list as well, especially since it has been shown time and time again that having sex regularly leads to greater overall physical and mental health. It is a known medical fact that having sex has several health benefits, including, but not limited to boosting your immunity, increasing circulation, reducing headaches, reducing pain, reducing stress, helping you sleep better, boosting immunoglobulin A, producing natural antihistamines, stimulating antibody production, and the list goes on and on and on (*whispers* just like me). It's practically the cure for the common cold, people!

However, out of courtesy, you might want to refrain from kissing on the mouth during "Under the Weather Sex" * in order not to pass your illness on to your partner. Oh and just a word to the wise, if your partner is also feeling under the weather, beware of the dreaded sex cough. Guys, if you've ever had a woman cough when you are inside her then you know EXACTLY what I mean. It's a lot like being shot out of a cannon without a countdown or any kind of warning.

* Please note: There is an important distinction between "Under the Weather Sex" and "Sick Sex," which usually refers to either really good sex or something WAY MORE kinky.

(There are 31 comments available on the full site version of this column entry)

I Don't Know the Name of My Poison

Casey Freeman — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 08:19:57 -0400

Blog by Casey Freeman

Koreans love to drink. Mostly beer and soju (rice wine). I'm not the biggest beer person in the world, and definitely not a wino. So I decided to find some other liquor. Scotch is really expensive, as is most whiskey in the ROK (Republic of Korea). However, I found a few bottles of mystery booze. Here's what they looked like:

(Gross or delicious? I'll soon find out...)

And then I proceeded to drink them one by one...

(Looks like booze, sort of)

Er Guo Tou Chiew
Cost: 960 Won (less than a dollar)

This looks kind of like some sort of Korean medicine.
But it's Chinese or Japanese. The writing is Chinese.
Something says er guo tou is 56 percent. What the shit that means I
have no effing clue. Hopefully it's not made from "Cream of Sum Yun Gui."
It smells kind of fresh. Like ginger. Or some fresh herb or spice that
I don't know the name of. Well. here goes...
One minute later.
Oh dear God.
I couldn't breath through my mouth. It the shitty writer's easy way out to say it tastes like rubbing alcohol or cough medicine but it tastes like both mixed with a little diesel. And piss.

On second sip, it's still gross. My throat closes almost completely.
My body (especially my testes) start tingling. But not in the good way.
My mouth is sweating hot. Time for something else.

In the meantime, I figure why not go for a third gulp. Mostly because I don't want to walk over to the other bottles because I'm right in front of the air conditioning and it's still monsoon season here in Korea -- which means it's balls fucking hot.

Third time isn't a charm, it's still gross.

(I made some ASSumptions about this one.)

Captain Q
About 1200 Won (one American clam)

I know a lot of people who like Captain Morgan. When they can't afford Cap Mo they go for Admiral Nelson. And when he's not around I guess it's usually time for McCormick's - who amazingly, makes every type of liquor, just shittily made.
Captain Q is a rip off of Captain Morgan Spiced Rum. At least I think it's rum. There's a white dude with an eyepatch and some pirate boats on the label. The only English besides the label is "Extra matured."

I don't know much about rum, I'm a whiskey or vodka man myself, but here's to hoping mature rum ages better than aged pornstars.
Oh, the top says 35 percent. So maybe alcohol content. Hopefully not the percentage of buccaneer bukkake.

Smells like rum, looks like rum... Tastes like rum.
And not that bad either. Straight and warm. Not spiced, but not too
rummy tasting. Definitely tastes woody. I feel pretty pirate-like.
Maybe I'll put on my arrrrrgyle shirt.

Well shit. Looks like I fucked myself. The thing I thought was sake
because the bottle is covered in samurai or luchadore-looking masks is actually the awful guo cui chiew. Well there's another 2200 down the drain. But the bottle is cool so I may as well drink it.

(Turns out, these aren't Mexican wrestlers, but devil men who hide in bottles of Er Guo Tou Chiew)

Er Guo Tou Chiew (Part 2)
2200 Won (about two bucks)

The scent isn't that bad, but It could be just the fact I slugged
three shot of the one ETC and some Cap Q. This bottle only has an alcohol content of 38. So I guess we'll see.

I take a sip. Phew! It doesn't have the revolting dick bite of the other bottle, and kind of has a nutty aftertaste but whatfuckingever. Not bad but I don't know if I want to get drunk off of it.

Sooooo I kept an ace in my sleeve.

(This photo is about as good as it tastes.)

Commander Vodka
9700 Won (about ten bucks)

Looks like shitty vodka. Tastes like shitty vodka. Mixes well with stuff. Who cares? It's shitty vodka and the best I can do (without drinking a $90 bottle of Grey Goose that I wouldn't drink just because what the fuck do the French know about producing vodka).

Commander Vodka hails straight from Holland (it says so on the bottle) and just 9700 won and every penny of 3700 won. It's smooth kind of tastes like crappy vodka and enables me to think I can speak Korean swoon stupid white girls and not kill myself with nunchukas.

Update 1: I'm hammered. Now I'm just wondering, were those tiny bottles of Windex I just drank? Cleaning products? Fuuuuck. Well, I'm drunk so who cares.

Update 2: I found some cola flavored Freezy Pops in my freezer so I
decided to take a shot of Cap Q and wash it down with cola Freezy Pop. Result: delish.

Update 3: I ran out of cola-flavored Freezy Pops, so I found the blue color and took shots of vodka and washed them down with Commander Vodka. I didn't do much nunchucka work, but I did do some great George Thoroughgood singing while laying on my couch. Wearing nothing but a smile and the cheap aftershave I bought at the same place I bought all this mystery booze. Fuck my neighbors. I'm turning George up. Because I'm drunk and bad to the bone. And naked.

Update 4: I'm being asked to drink in public. I'll take a shot of each before I go out...For awesome strength. And to motivate myself to put on pants.

Update 5: Home. Afraid to sleep. I know I wake up and I be very sad. Hurty. Maybe bleedy. But, George Thoroughgood sounds even better. Blues are good. Weird booze can be bad. I = shithammered drunk. Still want no more of that Er Gou Chiew shit.

Update 5.5: When I woke up, I wondered why "Who Do You Love?" By George Thoroughgood played repeat. And why the sun was up. And where all my clothes were. And why my clock said 1:37 p.m. Strangely enough, I don't feel bad. I guess the hangover will come.

Update 5.6: A Google search tells me that Er Guo Tou Chiew is called Baijiu by other people, or "White Liquor," which is somewhat ironic since it's not white and most white people hate it. Basically, it's Chinese grain alcohol, but I'm positive demons live there.

Update 6: The hangover never came. I felt a little woozy, maybe that's because on top of some interesting new mystery booze, I drank some 56% alcohol shit last night. Maybe Er Gou Tou Chiew is some sort of healing potion. Maybe George Thoroughgood's blues contain magic powers.

The world may never know.

(Here's a photo of me with my bottle of Commander and my nunchuckas)

(There are 8 comments available on the full site version of this blog entry)

A Welcoming Letter from the Superintendent of the Perfect School

Wesley Jansen — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 18:31:54 -0400

Article by Wesley Jansen

Greetings,

My name is Mr. Bob. I would like to welcome you and your child as we begin another exciting year here at "St. Bob's International School of Profoundly Deep Thinking and Spiritual Uprightness." Just in case you're wondering, my name has nothing to do with the name of the school, it's just a coincidence. I don't even know who the hell St. Bob really is. I think he is located in our vault... I mean basement... I mean... there is a picture of him in our basement... hahaha.

Sorry for that misunderstanding. I would like to assure you that we don't have bodies or vaults in our cult... I mean school... ehh hem. Anywho, I would like to extend every promise that your child is well on his or her way to a future of success by attending our lovely school.

MISSION STATEMENT

(Not pictured: St. Bob's International School of Profoundly Deep Thinking and Spiritual Uprightness) St. Bob's International School of Profoundly Deep Thinking and Spiritual Uprightness aims to prepare every child to be versatile enough to survive the rapid changes of the world we live in. With our ever-changing global economy and our advancing technology, we make it our mission to produce critical and creative thinkers who can provide strong leadership as humanity reaches its next stage of evolution and continues to advance in the current Information Age. With our cutting-edge razors... I mean technology... we enable and empower our students to attain life-long defilement... I mean achievement.

SCHOOL PHILOSOPHY

Our school provides all the facilities you would expect at a normal school: classrooms, a cafeteria, exercise rooms, prison cells, a few taverns, and a morgue.Here at St. Bob's, we use a slightly unconventional method that we feel transcends the common practices of schools around the world. Rest assured, we have a very lively staff of energetic individuals who are well trained to educate your child. In order to ensure that our curriculum remains dynamic and that teaching practices continually evolve, we hire teachers without credentials... and then we fire them at the end of the school year. (We don't tell them we're going to do this, of course, because we like them to have a feeling of security and comfort while they are working for us.) After these teachers are executed...hahaha...I mean fired... out of a cannon... we bring in new teachers and begin the process all over again.

Also, in order to ensure that our teachers are extremely qualified, we refuse to hire them out of teacher's college. We simply feel that college training doesn't adequately prepare a teacher to enlighten young minds. We seek individuals with real life experience...so we hire people directly off the streets.

Here are a few examples of what I mean:

Our History Department is composed of carefully selected individuals (aged 65 and above) who we find in local taverns. We do this because we believe that learning about the past should involve living examples and not simply the words of a textbook. We also find that these old men are great at telling stories when given ample amounts of whiskey.

Our Psychology Department is sure to offer constant surprises throughout the year as we take them directly from prisons and trauma wards. Some have medication, some don't...but either way, students of psychology will be exposed to a nice variety of case studies.

Our Genetics & Biology Department is headed by numerous cross-eyed, inbred individuals we found wandering the countryside and howling at the moon. We usually open those classes by showing students the movie Deliverance.

We have no math department because we feel that calculators will suffice.

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES

Our school provides all the facilities you would expect at a normal school: classrooms, a cafeteria, science labs, exercise rooms, prison cells, a few taverns, and a morgue. But our most distinguished feature is the religious component of our school. As part of our stimulating curriculum, we require students to attend church services every Sunday, Monday, and Friday afternoon. Because we wish to acknowledge multiple religious affiliations, your son or daughter will have the choice of attending services at one of the following two churches:

1. The "Saint of our Holy Church of Repeating Cycles of Temptation and Forgiveness...Followed by More Temptation."

2. The "Fallen Angel Church of Profoundly Naughty Activities."

OUR PRINCIPAL, MR. ZODD

Every philosophy and every mission, just like every building, needs a solid foundation—a cornerstone on which to build. Any beautiful and magnificent structure would not be complete without a cornerstone. If someone were to look at an astounding work of art that had no cornerstone, they would say, "Something is missing." Here at St. Bob's International School of Profoundly Deep Thinking and Spiritual Uprightness, our cornerstone is our very Principal, Mr. Zodd. (His first name is Todd, but we try not to mention this because it pisses him off and sends him into a psychotic rage.)

Mr. Zodd is not only the functioning arm of the school, he is our spiritual leader and a Master of all knowledge.

And now, a word of greeting from Mr. Zodd....

WHERE AM I?

...Thank you, Mr. Zodd.

PATH TO SUCCESS

Here at St. Bob's International School of Profoundly Deep Thinking and Spiritual Uprightness, we use a special method to ensure that we continue to bring in enough students (and money) to remain operational, and to ensure that your child will be able to complete a 4-year diploma without fear of our school shutting down. Toward the middle and end of each school year, we take Mr. Zodd's Community College Thesis Paper (which he wrote under the influence) and blow it up into REALLY SUPER HUGE MAJOR BIG SIZE, and we cover the entire front of the school building with it.

This way, people who are driving down the street will do seven things:

READ Mr. Zodd's creative thesis statement and see how brilliantly it connects to all of his subtopics and key ideas.
EMPATHASIZE with Mr. Zodd's view of the world and how his proposals will make the Universe a better place.
APPLY Mr. Zodd's critical ideas to their own lives as they synthesize the key points of his major arguments.
REALIZE that their son or daughter is attending a school whose principal is inferior to Mr. Zodd in every way.
ENTER a state of euphoric connection to the spirit and vision of Mr. Zodd.
NEGLECT all physical and monetary desires and give allegiance to Mr. Zodd.
DECIDE that they will transfer their child out of his or her mediocre school....

....and then crash into the vehicle in front of them.

We call this the "REAR END Method" (Read, Empathize, Apply, Realize, Enter, Neglect, Decide).

(By the way, we sincerely hope that this method doesn't actually result in any fatal accidents, but that it gives the driver an adequate opportunity to explore the school and its facilities before continuing on with his or her daily tasks.)

With our success guaranteed, I welcome you to our school with my sincerest sympathy... I mean affection.

Regards,
Mr. Bob

P.S. We have schools located internationally in the North Pole, Bangladesh, and Montana.

(There are 3 comments available on the full site version of this article)

My American Bucket List

Casey Freeman — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 02:00:16 -0400

Column by Casey Freeman

I just found this. In case you haven't been watching my every Tweet, blog, and step, I've relocated to the ROK—The Republic of Korea—for at least one year. But I needed to do some shit in America first. Here is my American Bucket List.

1. Go to a Baseball Game with My Brothers

My girlfriends have always had natural cans. Which is cool, but I wanted something fake. Just how I like Kraft American Singles more than real cheese.I lived literally four blocks away from Coors Field, home of the Colorado Rockies. And somehow I managed to miss every single baseball game for an entire half of the summer. Mo eff. I suck.

RESULT: Big heaping bucket of FAIL.

2. Touch Up My Tattoos

There's a hefty amount of ink work under my shirt, in my pants and hidden across my body. After a while tattoos need to be touched up, reworked, or just added onto. I managed to show up, get one touched up and another one added. Then it was too hot so we gave up. Then my artist's kid got sick, so we needed to cancel.

RESULT: The bucket was half full. Or half empty.

3. Run the Bolder Boulder

I don't really compete in anything any more. I swim one or two swim meets a year. I don't wrestle any more. I rarely even play drinking games. But I really enjoy the Bolder Boulder 10K road race. It's just one of my things.

This year, I ran a personal best, didn't almost crap my pants like last year and beat my boss by 11 minutes. Yay!

RESULT: Kicked that bucket from North Boulder all the way to Folsom Field. Sucka!

4. Eat Rocky Mountain Oysters

I know they're not really oysters. I know they're really bull testicles. While most of my friends thought, "Why the fuck would you want to do that to yourself? Voluntarily?" I figured, "Why the fuck not?"

So we hit one of my favorite bars of all time, The Rocky Flats Lounge (literally, across the street from where they used to make nuclear bomb triggers). I ordered a serving and the waitress didn't even snicker, which was kind of disappointing. Then they came. Rocky Mountain Oysters don't come like two giant meatballs. They're sliced like deli meat (cue males grabbing nuts and saying "Ooooouch!"), deep-fried, chewy, and nothing special tasting. I kind of thought they would be, ahem, and juicer. But they were basically the texture of a football cut into slits and deep-fried. Something I guess you have to do once.

RESULT: Ate the entire bucket of balls.

5. Drive a Harley Davidson

My best friend coworker at my bar was a Jamaican with a Harley he never drove. There are tons of Harley dealerships in Colorado. I had free time, yet I could never scramble the leather pants and handlebar mustache to get on a real hog and ride.

RESULT: A loud rumbling kick in the buckets.

6. Visit the Commerce City Dog Track

I'm not really a gambler, but I really dig being around degenerates. So I figured, what's better than the Commerce City Dog Track? I mean, if you've ever been to the Denver Airport, you've probably driven through Commerce City, one of the worst smelling cities I have ever experienced. And I've been to NYC; Sioux City, Iowa; and Greeley, Colorado. It's like they're constantly either burning tires or dropping mothball fumes into the air.

But, again, I couldn't figure out how to get to the dog track, and rumor is it's closed. And the neighborhood was populated by the baddest assed of all Mexican Vatos in Denver.

RESULT: A yowling bucket of failure.

7. Watch Every Frisky Dingo with Snacks and, Um, Special Smoke Stuff

So my brothers and I failed to enjoy America's pastime. But, we didn't fail to get high, eat ten pounds of candy, and watch every episode of the incredibly underrated, quote-worthy cartoon Frisky Dingo, predecessor of the popular Archer cartoon and follow-up to Sealab 2021. We laughed at the perfidious Xander Crews and all his stupid shit. We chuckled at Killface's attempts to destroy the world and raise a son. We cackled at Wendell and his antics. In truth, with the amount of pot we smoked, I was still laughing two days later when a stoplight turned green.

RESULT: We filled that bucket with a bunch of "BOOSH!" Then kicked it. "KIK-KOW!"

8. Bang a Latin or a Black Girl

You'd think working in a club, I'd have easy access to Latin and black girls. I took Asian girls off the list, because, well, I'm moving to Asia (and I've had my Yellow Card for about ten years now). But the fact is, black girls see right through me and Latin girls just weren't around. And, in truth, I was working on something else.

RESULT: A heaping melting pot (or bucket) of FAIL.

9. Play with Fake Boobs

This has haunted me. My girlfriends, God bless ‘em, have always had natural cans. Some had hooters and some had mosquito bites, but all of them were real. Which is cool and all, but I wanted something fake. Just how I like Kraft American Singles more than real cheese—sometimes I just want something processed and totally made of plastic.

So instead of a Latin or a Black girl, I was much more interested in banging a girl with fake boobs. And looking at her fake boobs. And playing with her delicious fake boobs. And taking photos. And telling my friends. Blogging about it. Thinking about it on cold, lonely nights. I wanted this so much, I passed on a ton of sweet-assed Latin culos. I found my target. I didn't go in with cheesy lines. I didn't treat her like a one-night stand. We actually bonded, talked, and found out we had a lot in common. Except our views on casual sex.

HER: But, I don't think I can have sex with you.

KC: Whaaaaa? Why?

HER: Because you're moving.

KC: Exactly. We may never get the chance to do it again. So we should probably do it twice tonight.

HER: But I may never see you again.

KC: Exactly!

HER: But we've bonded. I want to be able to talk to you later.

KC: But what will we have to talk about, if not about the great five times we had sex tonight.

HER: Ugh, this would have been so much easier if you were just a douchebag who came up to me with a line.

So, you can probably guess what happened.

RESULT: Two perfectly formed buckets filled with silicone...and FAIL.

10. Bang in the Library

Ugh, this one was actually on my Undergrad Bucket List. NYU has an amazing library with tons of nooks and crannies. I studied all the time, sometimes even with girls. But alas. I only studied with girls.

Then a second chance appeared when I attended grad school at University of Colorado. The sluttiest girls in the world and a huge library... that I never banged in. Then it was off to NYC and their public library... but there were too many homeless people jacking off to free porn. Again, I moved back to Colorado and enjoyed the Denver Public Library system. I read so much I returned day after day, picking up new books and dropping off old tomes. Yet again, history repeated itself.

So like my past self and forefathers, I never banged in the library.

RESULT: An Incredibly Well-Read Bucket of Fail. Maybe I can bang with a Kindle or iPad nearby. That is, if I ever get one.

11. Have a Half-Assed Going Away Party

I've had a going away party about once every two years. Sure all my friends were there, I drank a lot, made a speech, took photos, but really...who gives a fuck if you aren't banging a Latin girl, black girl, or a girl with gorgeous, gigantic and appetizing fake tits.

RESULT: A bucket of success, but big fucking deal.

(There are 4 comments available on the full site version of this column entry)

A Brief Survival List for Z-Day

Keke DeVille — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 23:31:04 -0400

Article by Keke DeVille

I'm a rational enough person. I managed to graduate college with most of my vital organs still intact, I can hold down a steady job, I've never been beaten by the po-lice, and have been able to scrape by, so far, with few CNN-worthy acts of debauchery under my belt—Spring Break, no relation. But, for some reason I still have this resounding pang in the back of my gut—you know, that area not quite eroded by booze and not under complete paranoia by my love for ze sweet joy that is 420 sparkle brownies. And what is this fear, you ask? The one that surpasses even my unexplainable and completely embarrassing phobia of crabs (both kinds, if you will)? Well, just come a bit closer so I can whisper it to you (you never know when good ‘ol Al "Yehaw" Gore is listening...).

My greatest concern in life, my all-consuming terror is... the impending arrival of zombies.

Logic might suggest you run to the nearest Wally-World, but that is where you are gravely mistaken. Zombies love good ‘ol country alligator-eating folk.I won't lie. I know this is ludicrous. As if the undead spawn of the underworld could rise up and someday come to eat our brains and every other appendage that comes their way... not counting anyone on VH1 or MTV of course.

I have prided myself on becoming a pioneer in the study of Zombiology. In my free time, in the confines of my nonjudgmental walls, I have taken it upon myself to watch any and every piece of scientific study created by the geniuses of my generation on this subject matter. From Diary of the Dead, Dawn of the Dead, Dance of the Dead, 28 Days Later, 28 Weeks Later, I Am Legend, Zombie Land, Land of the Dead, All Souls Day, House of the Dead 1 & 2, Resident Evil (ALL), Scooby Doo on Zombie Island, Shaun of the Dead, Slither, Thriller, and any and everything zombie-related or ending with "dead," I have unselfishly researched so that, come Z-Day, I might be the very one to lead the masses to my floating hood-proof vessel of safety.

And why did I just document the fact that I haven't gotten out much since college? To prove to you my dedication of course. I know there are more of us, but I find that few are willing to acknowledge their internal preparation. So, in an attempt to single-handedly save humanity, I have compiled a survival list.

But, what makes mine so different from any of the other apocalypse crazies out there, you ask? Well I could break down the subtle intricacies for you, but why not waste a few more minutes of your parents money by not studying and take a gander on down.

1. Head to the most ghetto neighborhood you know.

Logic might suggest you run to the nearest Wally-World, but that is where you are gravely mistaken. Have you ever seen a zombie attempt to take on a street gang? The answer is a resounding NO. It has been proven via countless low budget films that zombies love good ‘ol country alligator-eating folk, and flock to places where, on a typical day, a normal person could easily take out a few of these willy nilly partners.

2. Get high.

The guy in the back right? Yeah, he just took five bong hits and started roaming with the herd. Nobody had any idea.Yes, again this might sound ludicrous, but have you even seen someone sparkled out of their ever-loving mind? They could very well pass for a zombie, and they have the added benefit of the idiot insurance plan. Have you ever noticed that despite attempting the most idiotic of activities and having only basic functions, most of us usually avoid serious injury while in happy land? It's like a natural defense mechanism that makes the mentally challenged and high impervious to damage. And, on the bright side, when your roommates start playing soccer with the neighbor's head, you will be too out of it to give a sugar honey iced tea.

3. Go apeshit!

Yes, I said it. You have my permission to go badass. I mean full on badass... but never full on retard... never that. This may require you, if white, to change race, but it's okay. The zombies have come, and rules no longer apply. Of course there's a bazooka and machine gun in good ‘ol Aunty Lucy's closet and damn skippy you know just how to use it. Just put on a headband and the laws of science go out the door. You'll be like the secret bastard child of Rambo, Rocky, Darkwing Duck, and Captain Planet, all the while having the insatiable desire to shout "I pity the foo!" F Chuck Norris! You got the Juice now, baby!

4. Surround yourself with the socially undesirables: the virgins, the nerds, the lovable losers.

Why? Because they too have that invisible force-field of protection. Life already dealt them a messed up hand by way of incurable sinus infections and constant flatulence, thus earning them the right to survive any and all post-apocalyptic mayhem.

I know I only gave you four (albeit amazing) tips, but alas, I must save some for myself, because if it came down to me vs. you on Z-Day, you better believe I'm going Tina Turner on your ass....

(There are 4 comments available on the full site version of this article)

Trader Slaves and Crashing Cars

Kara Carlson — Fri, 06 Aug 2010 20:02:21 -0400

Article by Kara Carlson

My friend Fi-Town's jobs have varied as much as a midget prostitute's clientele. In college we lived above a Hawaiian bar and restaurant and below drug dealers. We lived in a San Francisco flat that used to function as a whorehouse and, before us, as a ganja-growing den. Across the street, Trader Joe's radiated healthiness, two-dollar bottles of wine, and twenty-four dollar wine cases. We were told that if you worked there, you got a store discount.

Trader Joe's applications include basic math problems that we learned in sixth grade. The owners don't want to employ people who can't do addition to work in their grocery store. I was staring at our engorged pantry shelves debating between macaroni and cheese or top ramen when Fi-Town yelled from the living room, asking if I could help her.

"How is it possible to stock lettuce for that long? Wouldn't it take like a half hour to do the whole supply?" I asked.

"I'm twenty years old, in college, and I don't know if this math is right. I'm supposed to show my work and not use a calculator. Do we have a calculator?" she asked.

"Oh, that's easy. It's just addition, subtraction, multiplication and division. Nothing like calculus or that zero number thing," I replied after glimpsing her application.

Upon examining the problems longer than a second and a half, I realized that math concepts I learned from the age of nine onwards have dissolved into the chasm of my life. I may never recall them. Our other flatmates entered and we harassed them for help. An iPhone told us the answers. Between International Studies, English, and Exercise Sport Science majors, a few math problems took us forty minutes. And we had the answers.

Trader Joe's hired Fi-Town. Within two days, she referred to her new employers as Trader Slaves.

On her fourth day she told us, "Trader Slaves made me stock lettuce on the shelves for my entire shift again."

"How long is your shift?" one of our friends asked.

"Eight slave-hours," Fi-Town replied.

"How is it possible to stock lettuce for that long? Wouldn't it take like a half hour to do the whole supply?" I asked.

"Well, it's the fourth fucking day I've done it. Trader Slaves can suck my balls. The discount's not even worth it."

If there's one thing Trader Joe's puts stock in, it's.... oh sweet god, lettuce pray.

Five days later, Fi-Town entered on her lunch break. It was eight o'clock on a Tuesday night and our housemate and I were eating tri-tip, potatoes, vegetables, and salad while guzzling our second bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.

"I'm quitting Trader Slaves. I am not a slave. I am a college student. I'm done stocking lettuce," she announced for the twenty-eighth time in nine days.

"Oh, just quit right now," I said. "Just don't go back. Stay here and drink with us."

Fi-Town slung food into her mouth. As she left to walk back across the street to servitude, we yelled for her to bring back more wine when she got off her shift.

She returned fifteen minutes later. Her manager was baffled when she came up and declared she was quitting. When he questioned when her last day of work would be, she replied that that was her last minute of work; she was quitting mid-shift. Then she retrieved a case of wine, paid for it using her employee discount, and left.

Before Trader Slaves, she had worked at Pasta Pomodoro. Going to work animated her. She relished the work, people, and atmosphere. She got the job two weeks before we went on a week-long Spring Break road trip down California's coast. After working five shifts, she told the manager she needed to take a week off. He said no. She entered the apartment with tears ledging her eyes because she had been let go.

Before Pasta Pomodoro, Fi-Town worked as event staff for athletic events. Many of our friends and I worked as Event Staff. The athletic department paid us to watch basketball games. One game, Fi-Town got assigned to valet park. I wasn't working and walked by at six-thirty with K-Hoe and Twat to see Fi-Town standing at the parking garage entrance. Fi-Town was going to park a car. K-Hoe, Twat and I were going to get drunk.

"Oh, just come with us. We have vodka," I implored.

Fi-Town sprung to a group of male soccer players walking past us. She passed her job to someone else. We didn't know who he was. His name was Dumbass.

"Can you drive stick?" Fi-Town asked.

"No," Dumbass replied.

"Great. Here are the keys. You just drive it in the parking garage, park it, and come out for more. There's some system with the keys. You'll figure it out."

"But... I don't drive stick. I don't even work for Athletics Event Staff," he protested as feebly as I do when I say I don't want another drink.

"Ah, that's okay. I'm sure they know you. Seeya!"

Fi-Town left with us to get drunk. After sucking our beer bong Dick and inhaling a liquid dinner, we returned to the basketball game. Fi-Town was still supposed to be working. We later found out that Dumbass crashed a car in the parking garage. It was stick shift.

(There are 5 comments available on the full site version of this article)