Full disclosure: we live in New York City, so when it comes to jaywalkers we’re generally pretty Nancy Pelosi. Want to walk on a full hand? Go for it. Want to txt while cutting across a side street? This is America. Want to stroll across Second Avenue at 3am? To each his own. However, there is one type of pavement flanneur that makes us angrier than Rush Limbaugh at a lesbian chili cook-off: Extremely Entitled Jaywalker.
This particular street stroller has gotten it into his head that Terry Richardson has personally granted him the American-Apparel-given right to own the roadway. As if you, in your mother’s Honda Civic, late for your $25 head shots, must wait while Mr. EEJ takes his time making his way across four lanes of traffic, while pondering the meaning of last night’s saliva session (“I was just experimenting…”) Heaven forbid you give him a polite stare, or a subtle honk, because any form of “what the fuck are you doing,” however polite, is instantly met with a look of utter repulsion from a douche bag who looks like he should be cleaning your windshield for loose change and a half-eaten banana. Ridiculous! This guy could be walking diagonally across a Los Angeles expressway as the entire city flees the impending Ashton Kutcher zombie apocalypse and this backpack of suck wouldn’t even pick it up one step.
Next time we come across one of these guys, we’re not even going to get angry, we’re just going to shove them in our car, drive them to the airport, pay for their cargo class ticket to Paris (maybe some duty free), take them to a confusing roundabout and let the Parisians deal with him. La vengeance est un plat qui se mange à la carte al, le meunier. Merci pourquoi.
Flying these days is more nerve racking than letting Stevie Wonder give you a bikini wax with packing tape. After all the checking-in, paying to have your bag stored in your anal cavity, making it through security with your bag stuck in your anal cavity, cancellations, delays, waiting to see if the Roy Rogers will digest, and finding your seat next to a terrorist toddler, the second to last thing we need is to be thrown around the cabin like a ferret being fucked by Shaquille O’Neil. But the official last thing we need is to be a confused Shaq-fucked ferret, wondering if we’ve just hit some harmless cloud bits, or if we should be figuring out how to use the air-phone to call our families and apologize for spending their inheritance on fancy dream catchers.
Of course, all this confusion could be avoided if Turbulence-Ambivalent Pilot would just come on the PA and announce our imminent death or tell us everything is going to be ok, except the meal, which would taste like sloth placenta, if we were to be served one, which we won’t. We plummet 5,000 feet, get puked on by a mid-western business man on his way to sell syringes to old people’s homes, and poop our newly-ironed track pants, and TAP just sits there in the comfort of his cockpit, silent as an mime orgasm.
Really, Captain Swirly? You’re gonna let us replay the crash scene in Castaway and imagine the inevitable loss of our best friend/volleyball on the choppy seas as you sit pretty with your finger on the seatbelt sign? Unacceptable. Next time you don’t address the situation, we’re going to drag ourselves out of this Xanax coma, barge into your control room and remind you that you have a throat by sticking our left elbow in it. It’s what Sully would do.
Today’s forecast: sunny, 110º, 98% humidity with a slight chance of Volcano. Geez, I better bundle up before heading to my freelance barista position at Granola Greg’s Bean Bazaar. Good thing I have my trusty vintage, organic, free-range Alpaca Alkaline Trio skullcap to keep me warm.
Wait, what the global warming, Troy? Do you have flannel in your ears? The weatherman said it was like a gazillion degrees outside, and you think it’s a good idea to plop on a wool cap that’s weather tested to survive Everest in December? That makes asking Lindsay Lohan to babysit your priceless necklace collection seem like a good idea. Honestly, we don’t often like to pick on people’s fashion choices, to each their own really, but this trend of sub zero summer fashion is boggling our brain cave, and not in a good Salvia type of way. More in a make us all hot n’punchy type of way. Now, we know the toque (its Canadian, look it up) totally completes your outfit and provides you with just the right amount of faux working class, sailor cred, to avoid beat-down outside the Short Pump Urban Outfitters, but c’mon buddy, let your follicles breathe – they’re dying under your sweat stocking. Not to mention what your”just-got-my-Graphic-Designer-TN-Visa” look is doing to the planet. Thanks to your 12 layers of graphic tees, we’ve got the AC cranked up higher than Harvey Weinstein’s Fort Lauderdale pad circa mid-August.
This epidemic has gotten so bad that the next time we see a HWWCG winterizing his wardrobe in the middle of a Western Sahara heat wave, we’re going to have to step in and provide six degrees of separation to his scalp. “Its getting hot in herre, so take off all your clothes…” Seriously though.
One of our favorite games to play here at PWDI is “Would You Rather,” in which we list two perturbed, mind-melting options and force each other to decide which seems least horrifying. Like, having monkey AIDS, OR getting cornered at a party by the guy who takes eight hours to tell the story of his cat’s leaky hemorrhoids which could have been distilled down to 27 equally excruciating seconds, after you’ve just dropped all the brown acid.
Tough call. Monkey AIDS would be pretty bad, what with all the shedding and stuff, but ultimately, getting stuck listening to Long-Winded Larry mumble on about the situation of migrant workers in South Guadalajara as they relate to season one of the original Buffy the Vampire Slayer when all we asked was “where’s the bathroom?” takes the proverbial urinal cake. In case you missed that, we’re saying we’d rather the monkey AIDS.
Taking care of this rambler requires precision. Wait for a breathy pause or break in conversation and you might still be standing there when your great grandchildren go through menopause. So, shake your polite willingness to avoid interrupting and hijack this conversation with a quippy one liner to the abdomen. He’ll be long-winded alright…as in winded for a long time…get it?
“Zoop Zoop,” “Booom,” Whaan Whaaan,” “Klaboom.” We know what you are thinking. You’ve been transported back in time to a 1940′s Warner Brothers sound lot where you will eventually be blacklisted for your leftist leanings and preference for commie red fedoras. Close, but not exactly. Unfortunately, the infernal racket is actually just a tasting menu of audio assaults from the notoriously obnoxious Constant Sound Effects Guy.
Known for his ability to bookend every sentence, statement, and action with a “bang,” “bop,” or “blooooozap,” this talentless Biz Markie is no modern day Ben Burtt (anyone?). In fact, his contribution to the office environment is only slightly less horrible then getting your scrotum caught on the paper feed during a mid-day copy room romp session. Why CSEG chooses to make his mark on this world by spewing bizarre sound effects every other second is beyond us. All we know is it’s hella annoying. There you are, trying to have a grown-up conversation about how the baby formula you imported form Burma at 10 shillings a barrel just might be tainted with asbestos, when buddy drops a “ruh roh” mid-sentence. Dammit Shaggy, we know we’re screwed, but the last thing we want to hear as we contemplate the FDA giving us a colonic is your commentary in the dialect of “Fucking Stupid.”
The next time your eardrums are given the Clock Work Orange treatment, the best thing to do is to record a couple sound effects of your own. We like to start with an original composition called “knuckles rapping heavily on the cheek” in the key of “DUN DUN DUN.”
According to a survey conducted by the Board of Sad Doctors, dentists have the highest suicide rate in the country. “Of course they do,” you say. “They yank our porcelains out of their skulls, shove needles longer than anything we’ve seen on Celebrity Rehab into our gums, and penetrate our canals with wrenches in broad daylight!” But if you think dentists off themselves because we’re scared of them, you’re wronger than a meerkat at a jackal convention. These teeth torturers are hanging from the rafters because they’re defaulting on their Porsche payments and being chased by bookies named Organ Grinder.
And what better way to make some fast cash than by diagnosing a one-too-many-BJs toothache as a skull-crushing emergency root canal, repairable only by replacing our natural pearly whites with authentic endangered Namibian elephant ivory? That’s right, Upselling Dentist gets us in for a cleaning and kicks us out with a second mortgage and a stinging sensation somewhere much further south than our lateral incisors (i.e. ass rape).
Next time you go in for a six monther and end up sold on Sun Bright®, “the only whitening system that sends you to space and exposes your teeth to real sun beams!” take matters into your hands and give the fleecer a taste of her own fluoride. Literally – that shit tastes like the discarded diapers of real life sour patch kids.
Returning to work after the holidays is always interesting. The weather is shit, you’re stuffed worse than a Turducken at Golden Coral, and you can’t really remember what you do. But for some reason, there’s a smidgen of enthusiasm tickling the back of your throat. 2011 is going to be your year; you’re going to hit the gym, work harder, and stop sleeping with Bryn, the late twenties (?) intern. Yup, this is going to be your.fucking.year.
But just as you sit down to tackle the days work with a bottle of Cognac and the confidence of a tour operator, Brad from sales saunters into your cubicle looking like a microwaved George Hamilton. Soon as he regales you with stories of exotic nude turtle swimming, that throat tickle turns into a scratch of strep with a side murderous jealousy. Because while you were Jack Torrancing around your in-law’s house playing the Romanian version of Apples to Apples, Obnoxiously Tanned Co-Worker was soaking up more UV than John Boehner on spring break. It’s not that we have anything against a little bronzing, but when this Oompa Loompa makes you rethink your life choices by beginning every sentence with “When I was in St. Barts, we just loooooved yachting with Roman Abramovich,” it kind of makes you want to shove his bottle of après soleil olive oil right through his perfectly toasted esophagus.
The best thing to do when confronted by OTCW is to pretend not to notice buddy is three shades closer to melanoma. But if that doesn’t work, squirting a little SPF 750 directly in the left eye will send leather-face directly to bed. Not the tanning variety.
Snowpocalypse 2010 is upon us, and though Roma Torre claims this is a perfect time to stay in and catch up on our kegel exercises, the involuntary isolation is driving us madder than Charlie Sheen in Inception 2: Dream in a Dream in a Dream, Squared. And who is to blame for this seasonal imprisonment? Look no further than “Ah, Fuck It” Snow Plow.
While the streets pile up with wintry cloud excrement, burying our motor vehicles and drowning our Pomeranians, AFISP sits idly by, sipping warm breast milk and not giving a shit. Really plow face? What kind of civil servant are you? Would an ass doctor turn the other cheek if earth was suddenly attacked by swarms of angry colons? Does a caricaturist run the other way when he senses a Bar Mitzvah nearby? Those are obscure rhetorical references, so we’ll help you answer the questions: no. So, why are you ignoring your duties worse than Bernie Madoff at the Money Return Center?
If you don’t clear us out of this Staten Island asylum soon, we’re gonna show you how to plow in the big leagues. Mainly by ramming our tractors through your garage. Translate those metaphors as you see fit. Oooh, Home Alone 2 is on.
What better way to ring in Ralien year 4538 than a topical roundup of people who deserve during the holidays? No races excluded!
#1 -Re-gifter: Finding a vintage collector’s edition minor league baseball jock strap from the 90s is no picnic. It takes time, effort, and latex gloves. So, when Grandma re-gifts it to the mailman, we get madder than an eBay super-seller with a fresh poor seller rating. Next time we catch someone unwrapping last year’s famed Mamma Mia Chia Pet, we’re going to lose our shit like a dog walker with Alzheimer’s.
#2 - Overzealous Christmas Song Player: Auld Lang Syne, White Christmas, Kool Kwanzaa! We love a good Christmas song as much as the next person. But, when our ears have to endure two months of Christmas tunes starting the moment the last poisoned Halloween treat has been handed out, we get a little bleedy in the ears. Making us listen to a thousand hours of “Dancing Through the Snow” is going to lead to someone getting a “One-toothed Open Smile,” and we’ll be laughing all the way.
#3 – Hannukah Skimper: Joy of joys! A festival of lights – eight days of Potato McGriddles, miniature acorn tabletop spinning games, and lavish gifting. Unless you happen to be related to Hannukah Skimper, the cheapskate uncle who gives you one “big” gift instead of eight medium-sized ones. And by big, he means the size of the box in which he wraps your Burlington Coat Factory Outlet gift card.
#4 – Sober at the Holiday Party: Ah, holiday parties. A time when friends and co-workers dress up and have sex with whoever they like, all under the assumption that everyone will be too drunk to remember it in the morning. Enter Sober At the Holiday Party guy, the office Boy Scout who passes on the hooch and is ready to recount all of last night’s debauchery in an animated Power Point presentation. Looks like we’re going to have to introduce SATHP to what the kids are calling, “getting totally punch drunk.” Love?
#5 – That One Faulty Christmas Light: It’s amazing with all the iPods, iPhones, and iBacon Fryers out there, technology continues to let us down. Case in point, the one faulty Christmas light that betrays the other 115,765 blanketing your one bedroom townhouse. How the hell is your 15-foot reindeer ever going to be seen from space if one little bulb can’t get its LCDs together?
As we type, Americans everywhere are giving thanks by ingesting enough tryptophan to kill a small gargoyle. And rightly so – there is much to be thankful for this harvest: Applebee’s new pillow top booth seating, legal sex at the David Barton juice bar, and the color blue! But none of these gems shines as bright as Does It For the Story Friend, the mate you’ve kept around since Expo ’67 for the sole purpose of being regaled tales not even Darren Aranofsky after six expired Four Locos could think up.
Explicable only by a denting of the brain parts responsible for rational thinking, DIFTSF’s commitment to putting herself in excessively ridiculous situations makes her the best BFF in the land of BFF4Ls. Why? Because it means you’re not the one funneling eight gravy boats and performing an operatic rendition of 50 Cent’s newest single in a wet t-shirt karaoke contest at Bugsy’s (“Only 22 minutes from the strip!”) on a Monday night. But come Tuesday morning, you get to facetweet all the pictures, and recount the story to any creature with a pulse for the rest of your boring-in-comparison life.
So thanks DIFTSF. You put the enter in entertaining. And for this, we both salute and worry about your mental and physical well-being. THE END.
Everybody knows the only real way to fly is half cut. Even God needs 12 Sambuca Cranberries just to make it through the full body scans and cavity spelunking the good employees at the TSA treat us to these days. So, it’s understandable that by the time you fill the 0.4 square inches beside us, you can really only see colored shapes and your breath smells like an anesthesia from the 1800s. And guess what? We are in the same boat captain. Bon voyage!
However, the last thing wished for at the TSA free wish counter was to spend the next 18 hours flying to Bhutan sidled up to a guy so blacked out he uses our shoulder as a drool wipe. Sure, we love a good sob story about the life ruining losses suffered during the great Laser Disc crash of ‘94, or how long it takes to bring a Dallas Cheerleader hermaphrodite to climax, but brothers have got to stop close talking our face, because the alcohol content in 16A’s breath is making our eyes water worse than the time we tried limited edition onion-flavored contact lenses. The only good thing about “I’m Totally Wasted” Airline Passenger being more liquored up than Michael Caine at a vodka heiress’s open bar wedding-karaoke festival, is knowing he’ll pass out somewhere over Uzbekistan. Unfortunately, all is mitigated by the fact that when boozy the bear goes down, it’s open mouth time all over your lap.
Next time you come across ITWAP hammered in 3H, channel your best Steven Slater and remind him to keep his mouth securely fastened by securing your fist to the upright position of his chin. Flight attendants cross check for paiiiin.
A roundup of people who deserve it on All Hallow’s Eve.
#1- Slutty Tease: Everyone knows Halloween was invented by a nun who needed a loophole with which to bypass her bond with Hova for one night of dirty body-slapping with a “Hacksaw” Jim Duggan look alike. And god bless her – a girl’s gotta eat (even if it is a 2×4 jammed into the back of her throat). But ever since Sister Mary Clarence’s contribution to the holiday calendar, women worldwide have only taken her intentions halfheartedly. I.e. If you’re gonna dress like a sexy cat hooker on October 31st, you better be ready to hump like a Jaguar. Otherwise, you’re just a rooster tease, and it’s hot enough in this giant bird costume without the burning loins.
#2 – Teenage Trick-Or-Treater: Some kids wait all year for the chance to spend a little quality time with their biological parents collecting razorblade infested apples and supporting obesity. But, guess who ruins the party every year? That’s right, Teenage Trick-Or-Treater, the seventeen year old souped-up Acura driver too cool for a costume, but not cool enough to realize raping a new suburban development (they always have the best candy!) of all the good stuff before 6 oclock and leaving the kiddies to forage through leftover condoms and pre-chewed bubble gum is a knob move. Go huff a gluestick Chad Baker.
#3- Pumpkin Smasher: We didn’t spend 91 hours on a to-scale replica of the 1995 Metro Mayors Caucus Meeting in pumpkin form (no stencil required), for a drunken divorced guy to chuck it at his ex-wife’s new husband’s bimmer. Just saying.
#4- Office Party Planner: Offices are for crying, not draining people of their last $12 dollars to plan a “Halloween Haunt Fest the likes of which you haven’t seen since the old management days.” Thanks Frank, but we’re pretty sure the last thing we want to spend our mildly-earned pesos on is watching you do the monster mash in your signature Ru Paul costume (transvestite Rand Paul) while noshing on cauliflower brain dip and hitting on the sexy maid, who always ends up being the weeknight janitor, no many how many times you block it.
#5- Terrible Treat House: If there’s one certainty in a night full of abstractions and illusions, it’s that we will come home to a shag carpet, empty our pillow cases, and consume high fructose corn syrup at the rate of Charlie Sheen’s penis on speed, before feeling our abdomens cramp up and suffering through Lebanese meat caliber night sweats. Unfortunately, some pills get off on breaking tradition, choosing instead to stock their homes with low-calorie, gluten-free, fiber-enhanced, carob-flavored sawdust bars. Next time, better have some mallomars on hand Terrible Treat House, or we’re gonna make sure you wear the “Sham Wow Guy” costume all year round.
For those of you who don’t know, salmonella (also known as chicken surprise) is a microscopic living creature that passes from the feces of people or animals to other people or animals, causing illness and diarrhea. Shorthand: it’s the double-ended runs you get after Step-Aunt Doris serves poultry cooked in her 1982 dBay (eBay’s second second hand off shoot) bedazzled Easy Bake Oven.
It’s bonkers really, how someone could think serving a bird pinker than Perez Hilton’s g-string could be a winning idea. Almost as amazing as going through 14 rolls of Charmin in one night. And as our digestive system suffers the Altamont treatment at the hands of Miss Salmonella Surprise, we can’t help but wonder what on Christine O’Donnell’s green earth we could have done to deserve this? Sure, we tried to back out of dinner at the last minute to go see Jackass 3D and then showed up with a four-dollar bottle of wine product from Bodega Supreme, but we’re poor and bored, and it’s not like the angry blog market is booming. Certainly the crime doesn’t fit the punishment. So, as we simultaneously glue our ass to the can and our face to a bucket for the next 14-1567 hours, you know we’re going to be busy planning our revenge. And like the prehistoric mutant feces that just crawled out of our esophagus, it’s not going to be pretty.
Next time we find Mrs. SS serving a chicken that still feels like dancing, we’re going to throw our health inspector hat into the ring, write up a 65 page citation, let it incubate for 24 hours and then hit her directly in the long intestines, just as she boards an Air India flight to Mogadishu. The things you can do with a turkey baster – fascinating.
It’s true. Someone over at the company that makes penguins believed us when we said we could write English. And now you can read our English in this convenient cargo-pocket size tome. It’s got a selection of our favorite blog entries, and lots of new ones you can’t read here, which forces you to buy the paper version. See how that works? It’s also got pictures and graphs and shit.
Stevan Segal had this to say about it: “The secret is not to act, but to be.”
Thanks Steven!
People Who Deserve It makes a great gift for people who can read, people who can’t read, and people who don’t know what reading is. So buy one today!
In case you didn’t know, arms serve like a gazillion purposes. Not only are they essential to a flawless dance routine of YMCA, but they also make up one half of your armpits. And somewhere between using your arms to hold a SoniCare toothbrush sideways Al Capone style, and aiding in the creation of giraffe shadow puppet shows, arms are great for swinging back and forth while walking. Not the most ostentatious purpose of our torso legs we know, but of great importance to the provision of forward momentum and the avoidance of looking like an orangutan zombie on our way to the Comic Con.
Unfortunately, there are some of us who take the whole arm-swinging thing a little too far. And by too far, we mean flailing like a coked-out elderly Cro-Magnon who is late for the early bird special at Cracker Barrel, far. And by coked-out Cro-Magnon who is late for the early bird special at Cracker Barrel, we mean elbow murderering Reckless Arm Swinger. If you’ve ever had the unpleasant experience of being trapped behind one of these pendulums of pain, you know that unless you stick and move, you’re liable to take a spastic left forearm straight to the gut, or nut, depending on height and trajectory. Either way it sucks, because no matter how careful you are every time you encounter one of these Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em robots, you always end up keg standing a triple hot, extra large Lava Latte from Tim Hortons. And if having your chest hair burned off by molten caffeine wasn’t bad enough, the fact that the arm assassin is oblivious to the carnage left on your cream corduroys, is enough to make you see more red than Lou Piniellay circa 1990.
Now, the best way to deal with RAS is to fight fist with fist. Next time you encounter the pointy-jointed beast power walking their way towards your personal bubble like a nuclear North Korean military parade, go ahead and serve up a Kim Jong Un upper cut routine of your own. 그것은 빨아 !!!
Flying these days is more nerve-racking than being a horse’s penis before a barn bris. The packing,the undressing, the unauthorized anal probing, the post-security repacking, the athlete’s foot contracting, the x-ray laser machine organ burning, the delays, the cancellations, the Sbarro food poisoning, the cramped seats, the blood clots, the $9 stack of Pringles (CREDIT ONLY!), the only guy who looks mildly like a terrorist texting you over the Virgin IM…And then, to put the icing on the cake, you get seated next to Airplane BFF, a carbon-based chatterbox who’s sole sky mission is to put a stitch in your Ambien/Pinot Grigio cocktail by recounting her every waking moment since expulsed from the tender loins of a mother who left her and a turrets-afflicted father to fend for themselves on the rough and tumble streets of Connecticut.
By the time you land in Wichita for the Goobers 2-in-1 Portable Peanut Butter Jam conference, your brain has exploded from the slow grate of of someone else’s butter knife dull problems and your ears are bleeding all over your Ann Taylor fitted pant suit. ABFF manages, in the span of 2 hours and 17 minutes, to talk faster than the abnormal weather pattern causing the turbulence that makes you hurl on her, which she continues to talk through as you regretfully wipe your vom off her crotch with the back of the Skymall.
Holy Halal Airlines, ABFF. How are we supposed to follow the plot line in Letters to Juliet with you incessantly removing our headphones to report your newest cloud-shape interpretation: “That one looks just like Daniel Day Lewis!” Shut the fuck up lady, or we’re going to tell you our story and it involves snakes on a plane. Only we’re the charmers and Sammy Jackson missed the flight.
Moms can be embarrassing. Sometimes they show Chris Thompson (who you “randomly” got paired with to do a science report on eagles after secretly trading Jessica Steinberg a week’s worth of Swiss Rolls) pictures of you in a diaper on the day you got your period but were scared of using super tampons because they might get stuck in your vag forever. But one mom takes it a step further. One mom gives Chris Thompson a back rub in his pants while you’re in the bathroom re-applying your Lip Smackers.
Her name? Cougar Mom. Her mission? To dry hump all your boyfriends before you can even get to first base. Her technique? Casually rubbing up against your crush’s tight ass while he reaches for the Sunny D, which she strategically places in the far corners of the Subzero. Jesus, Mary and Joseph Rosenthal (from biology class) Cougar Mom! What is wrong with you? Can’t a girl get through one session with her prematurely hairy Indian sophomore tutor without you showing up in your Rocky Horror negligee under the guise of fresh baked cookies? How’d you do that by the way? Last time we checked, you were using the oven to house your collection of exotic Schnapps.
That’s it Mommy Sluttiest. Offer a free inner gland massage to the football team one more time and we’re going to permanently remove your libido by getting Dad to dress up as Faith Hill and reenact the entire “The Way You Love Me” video. Again!
Coffee tables are pretty dope. They’re a place to put up your feet, lay down remote controls and display gigantic photography books you’ll never read about pretentious places you’ll never visit – like Marrakech. They are however, not the most sacred place this side of the Holy Land Experience Orlando (now with 2-for-1 Tuesdays) – a fact unfortunately lost on Coaster Nazi, the Third Reich Monica Geller who treats her coffee table like it’s a live dolphin and your cup is full of equal parts The Cove and homicidal tuna fisherman.
Well guess what, CN? This shot glass is actually full of Sprite, and the only thing this 2 fl oz of lemon-lime is capable of harming is our blood sugar level, so back up the crazy coaster blitzkrieg. So sorry we put our mug down on your precious Klubbo coffee table sans protection; pretty sure the hot second they kissed didn’t render irreparable damage to your particleboard furnishing. Last time we checked, coffee table cooties had a five second rule and IKEA had all its shots. How about we see if we can work out an armistice, aight? We promise not to recklessly drop our acid-flavored big gulp down on your naked LACK, in return you promise not to go all Goebbels on us when we inevitably break said deal.
This is really in your favor lady, because according to Emily Post, megalo-coaster-maniacs of any variety aren’t exactly the most popular people on the potluck dinner circuit. And unless you want to spend the rest of your days entertaining your cat and a box of Uncle Ben’s, you’ll take our fist marks on your forehead as a reminder to take the stir stick out of your ass hole.
Hear ye! Hear ye! On this, the one hundred and twenty-eighth celebration of our nation’s nefarious relationship with economic masturbation, we present you the most vile exploiter of the civil freedoms our forefathers anally-pillaged the Indians to achieve: Unemployment-Collecting Trust Fund Baby.
Often identified by an inexplicably expensive pygmy-skinned handbag and Oliver Peoples collector’s edition triple gold-plated diamond spectacle frames, UCTFB can generally be located by following the pallid light of afternoon television sets, only to find the room empty, while the America’s Next Top Model marathon pushes the electricity bill past the federal deficit ($89.6 camillion). That’s because this Harvard-educated government raper is out spending her free money on a new pair of booties for the Persian camel she had imported from Iran to comfort her during these recessionary times.
Enough is enough UCTFB. All the food stamps you’re collecting for your subversive new photo book, Hungry Art (still shopping for a publisher), would be better spent by someone with a homeless hangover in need of some Ho-Hos. So, dust off that Macbook Pro, make some shit up to fill your CV and start reporting to status meetings with silent farters like the rest of us. Or you can sit in your apartment fingering your Pomeranian and smoking truffle-flavored Gauloises. Just stop pretending to be “in the struggle.” Otherwise, we’re going to show you the true meaning of the term, and it involves consistent Indian rugburns. To the cornea. God bless.
Here’s an awesome thing about fridges: you can go ahead and buy food stuffs in advance, eliminating the need to worry about eating everything all at once. Yes, you can actually save some of your double stuffed peanut butter M&M Oreo popsicles for that second round of gravity bongs. It’s about time. Unfortunately, we have yet to see a Sub Zero that comes equipped with any defense for today’s feasting felon, Eats The Last Everything Guy. And we’ve looked. The manager at the Massapequa Best Buy knows us by middle name and still no sight of a Frigidaire armed with barbed wire and a predator drone.
God knows the world needs one, because if you’ve ever been unlucky enough to live with ETLEG you know that no matter how hard you try hiding your last Vodka Fruit Roll-Up, that Basset Hound is going to sniff out the strawberry-flavored string cheese before you can say “we have to put you down”. The whole thing is plain unfair – we stock up on Trader Joe’s brand Brutti ma Buoni Almond Cookies so that even after a Tuscan-style cookie bender, we still have one left over for a lonely Tuesday night. Not so a middle-aged roommate can excavate the last savory morsel because he’s too cheap to go the bodega and purchase his own Mounds Bar. Whatever happened to private property in this country? Next thing you know the government will take control of our right to avoid free clinics. Oh wait…
Hey stuttering furry crumb monster: if you didn’t pay for the food, don’t eat it. And if you didn’t pay for the food, and it’s the last helping obviously hidden behind the milk to be consumed by the rightful purchaser, don’t even look at it. Because if we catch you eating our last soup dumpling, we’re going to beef wellington all over your face. And you’ll have no one to blame but your stomach.
Sometimes, when you’ve gone through Pfizer’s entire product roster and a super-sized Price Club box of pork rinds with little to no spiritual redemption, the only place to put your fate is in the cosmos. And by cosmos, we mean the corner gypsy who somehow manages to stay un-evicted, despite her only business hours being between 3:13 and 4:09 am, if and only if you have Panamanian I.D. Hence our mental anguish when we finally receive our Los Pollos driver’s license, set the alarm correctly, and trudge downstairs in our Rainbow Brite onesie, only to be told we’re going to live a long life of snake charming with our soon-to-be wizard king husband and two-headed dragon babies.
What a phony. Everybody knows about our phobia of magic. The chances of us ending up with little Medusas is about as high as Levi Johnston’s prostate rash winning the next presidential election. What are we paying you for Unreliable Psychic? Obviously the price of face painting has gone up considerably, and adjusting for inflation it’s only fair you up your prices, but the least you can do is give us a shred of useful information. Will we die in a plane crash? Inherit a Chinese Waterdog? Get caught up in the wrong crowd and start doing graffiti? We come to you for council, trusting your premonitions will transpire. Otherwise, we would have never bought these organic biohazard suits.
Next time we stop off at the local fortune teller and get a mouthful of lies, we’re going to get in our time machine, set the date to some futurish number and record the whole thing on our iphones (which may or may not work at said future date). Then we’re going to come back to the present and tweet the footage to put this soothsayer out of business once and for all. But not before we turn her face into a crystal ball.
If there’s one thing John and Kate Plus 8 taught us, it’s that there are always two sides to every story. Oh, and never have sex with an Ed Hardy Barney Rubble without a Plan B…pill. But we digress. The point is, for every Badass Babysitter who lets you smoke gravity bongs while watching Unsolved Mysteries till midnight, there are a thousand bitches out there waiting to lock you outside while they dry hump their boyfriends on your parent’s Pottery Barn two-piece. We’re talking to you Sandra Mitchell. Don’t think we forgot about February 21st 1992! But we digress again. It’s just that anyone who’s ever been born knows that Bx3 can leave you with some serious adolescent scarring – the type only cured by CIA grade therapy and dressing up as Count Chocula every day of the year except Halloween.
The worst thing about Triple B is the lack of initial bat-shit signs eminating from the 16 year-old body mom hired to look after you while she’s away at a militant vegan meet-and-greet camp. They start off all, “Sure Mrs. Johnson, Jimmy will be just fine. I’ll have him in bed by 9. Don’t worry about a thing. We’re going have a great time, aren’t we Jimmy?” Then BAM! Faster than the rents can make it down the driveway, lil miss Babysitters Club goes from Mother Teresa to Ude Usain with low blood sugar. All of a sudden it’s, “No TV! No food! No books! No computer! No fun! No laughing! No games! Nooo oxygen!!!” And if you even think about making a stink, she’ll lock you in the basement where the spinach monster lives. For the next five hours (and the rest of your psychological life) you’re fucked.
The only real way to deal with a bitchy babysitter is to take a few cues from the moving pictures; add one part Home Alone 2, one part The Parent Trap and three parts Starship Troopers, whisk to a foam and serve directly to her pimply forehead as she locks braces with the band leader who will eventually get her pregnant. Pee on that stick, sucka!
Saturday night circa your childhood. The parental units are getting ready for a big night of fucking and punching in the third stall of the more upscale Applebees in the “rich” neighborhood. Mom’s putting on her cubic zirconium, Dad just grabbed a magnum from a dusty box in the attic, and you are sitting on their bed watching Ed McMahon sneakily rub one of the model’s asses on Star Search while you wait for yet another stodgy old bitch to feed you frozen lasagna and tuck you into bed. But wait – who is this jewel of the Nile at the door with a mouthful of watermelon bubble gum and a bag bursting with forbidden treats? Oh shit! It’s Badass Babysitter.
Once in a blue moon, something magical happens: parents have a simultaneous lapse in moral judgment and hire Lindsay Lohan’s more fucked up doppelganger to make sure their children don’t die while they pretend to still be attracted to each other over frozen daiquiris at Dallas BBQ. And boy do we learn from their mistakes. We learn how staying up past bedtime to watch Little Shop of Horrors rules, even if the night terrors continue into early adulthood. We learn that beer tastes like ass, but makes us burp like Rufio. But most importantly, we learn that cigarettes are cool, especially when you share them with your super-pretty new friend who lets you try on her diaphragm and actually wants to play the Sweet Valley High boardgame for five hours straight!
Here’s to you, BB, breaker of mom’s rules, queen of chocolate sundaes and violent Xbox games before bed. May your future be filled with sunshine and lollipops, and may your inevitable abortion go smoothly. We saw you grinding with your teenage man stud in the laundry room, and we want to grow up to be just like you!
When Bruce Willis turned out to be a creepy doctor ghost, and Kevin Spacey revealed he was actually a gimp-free Keyser Söze, we were pleasantly surprised. It made staring at Stephen Baldwin and Haley Joel Osment’s respective moles for 4.5 cumulative hours almost bearable. Take away those unexpected plot twists and what are you left with? Nothing but ninety minutes of eating saturated fat soaked popcorn and a movie more predictable than a Lady Bugs sequel with a Jonathan Brandis lookalike.
Yet when it comes to ruining the surprise, Movie Ending Spoiler is an unstoppable geyser of unsolicited plot information, covering thousands of helpless bystanders in a thick goo of unwarranted information. Ruthless as the Predator, MES stalks office corridors and bathrooms stalls just waiting to expunge a load of knowledge sure to ruin any chance you had at being genuinely shocked when Charlton Heston finds lady liberty sunbathing in Planet of the Apes. What causes this cinematic whistle-blower to suck so badly? Unclear. Maybe his parents read him books backwards. Perhaps he has M. Night Shyamalananaablahblah-induced Tourettes. One thing is for sure, if there’s an astonishing answer, buddy’s spilling the beans.
Here’s a spoiler alert of our own: if Captain Blabber Mouth continues to ruin our favorite Bollywood blockbusters before we can get our hands on the German subtitled versions, we’re gonna plug the leak with a couple of junk shots straight to the well. And this time it’s most likely going to maybe work.
When Ludacris first sat down in his alpaca ascot to pen our sophisticated generation’s theme song, Move Bitch, Get Out the Way, he sure as mahogany wasn’t expecting his ladyfriend to step back into his vicinity anytime soon. That is of course, because Luda has never had the pleasure of dealing with Breakup Deniar, the Static Guard level cling monster who can’t take “I think we should poke other people in the bum with our dick lasers” at face value.
A typical run-in with BD usually involves five nights of exhaustive relationship analysis, thirty two hours of salty tear collecting, 30 minutes of light breakup petting and one final bloody goodbye. All this for crazy eyes to show up the next day as if nothing ever happened, climb into your bed and top off the marinated beef burrito she’s been working on since you saw her last. Poor Breakup Deniar, unable to process the cold hard truth that you’re gayer than a Pope at Cedar Pines Boys Camp and have been boning your David Barton trainer for six months. Not even the two-man luge competition you won last May or the Frappuccino tattoo you got on your nipple was enough to hammer it home.
Should you find yourself dealing with an emotional hangnail, there are two possible routes to freedom. One, remove your genitals – no one wants to date a Ken doll. Two, and less extreme, give the leech a lovebruise the likes of which social services can’t miss. Then let the authorities break you up. It’s mutual!
On June 15 1752, after being iced by his bros, Benjamin Franklin stumbled out of his log cabin and flew a kite directly into a lightening storm. 258 years later, the world is powering up everything from televisions to microwaves to television microwaves. Pretty awesome, huh? But like every great utopia, there are always a couple of rotten eggs. Introducing High Frequency Electricity Waster, the switch-happy power player who decides to leave every appliance, light and Playstation 2 on while spending three straight weeks sampling all the Applebees in the Sooner State.
Call us old-fashioned, but if you are going to leave the house, apartment or Cleveland, wouldn’t it make sense to turn off the mechanical bull? Not only are you helping slow our earth’s perpetual slide towards environmental destruction, where the earth will be ruled entirely by Icelandic fairies with Mel Gibson rage, but it also prevents you from opening up a utilities bill to a digit larger than the hummus export of Morocco. You know what? F the environment, there is just something incredibly annoying about coming home to find the only light that Captain Energy hasn’t left on is the one on his electric anal beads. Only one worse scenario can be imagines and it would be for him to host a one-hour prime time television special at the Boys & Girls Club of Connecticut just to announce he’ll be leaving the fans on when he goes to South Beach.
But fear not! Dealing with this type of luminescent lunatic doesn’t have to be painful. Simply unscrew your fist, flick your wrist, and knock Blinky’s lights out. The electricity bill will get real low. The hospital bill’s another story. Zing.
Don’t say it. We know we’re on a restaurant kick, but it’s 267 degrees in this town and we’ve been frequenting as many air-conditioned establishments as the city’s loitering limits permit. It’s not our fault doucheboats feed on public displays of depravity. Therefore, it was no surprise to run into one of the filthiest of them all, a man so unforgiving in his stinginess, it was shocking he didn’t pack up the bread basket on his way out. (He took the little butters though, weird). Yes, today we shine the spotlight of shame on Bill Skipper Outter.
Jumping ship has been a favorable method of escape for petty thieves and shitbag boyfriends who would rather not help clean the dishes for at least fourteen centuries, but BSO takes the disappearing act to a whole new level. Like Gary Busey sneaking out at dawn after a night in the pits of our passion, this sludge factory waits until you’ve signaled for the bill to announce the emergency tonsillectomy he “totally forgot about!” But before we can ask what kind of surgeon operates at 11:47 on a Saturday night, in Qandahar, BSO has slipped out the back and faded into the night like Jafar in that scene from Aladdin where he fades into the night.
Balls! How are we supposed to cover the 3 rounds of virgin Sex on the Beaches, the camel ass fondue and the hummus souffle on our salary? They don’t even take Diner’s Club in this Bedouin tent. Which is why, instead of waiting for the check to come and looking over at an empty silk cushion, we’re going to preemptively do the splitting. As in, BSO’s lip. All methods of payments accepted.
Some people might think dressing up like an 18th century bearded love fairy and sprinkling themselves all over the Greater New York area is a bad idea. Well, luckily for you and us, this guy thinks it’s the best thing since Sudafed started offering cherry cough syrup in 2L bottles. It takes some serious balls to sport a toddler’s christening dress, grow a mountain man beard, construct a love wand out of Sasquatch tears and dance your ass off to a Cher mix only you can hear. But shit, to Bearded Love Fairy that’s just a regular Tuesday.
We could all stand to learn something from BLF. While we wait for the train, worrying about whether we have enough argyle socks to get us through the week, this sequined sprite is partying like Obama just won a second term. And if power dancing all over the platform wasn’t enough to make you forget you’re going home to Lean Cuisine and an empty bed, buddy has got a giant heart sewn onto his underwear, and he is dying to show you. Literally, we think he might be dying. My God and Timothy Leary, we hope one day we can get our hands on whatever this crazy cupid is on. Sadly though, it’s a lot trickier to track down one part whiskey, one part Ethiopian qat, one part Keebler Elf sweat in a Gatorade bottle than you think. Ebay just isn’t what it used to be.
If you ever have the honor of running into Lord Linguine King of the Ravioli Children spreading cheer in your neighborhood, you best get down on one knee and show him some respect, because the only person who knows how long it will be before Xenu calls him back home is Tom Cruise. And no matter how many times you call 1-800-SEXYTOM, the fucker never answers. Check your messages Jerry Macguire.
A great menu item is like a Leslie Nielson movie – you’d never think to put the ingredients together, but somehow it all works and your chances of having explosive diarrhea are about 50/50. So, when some pussy-ass diner shows up with a laundry list of substitutions, our inner Emeril gets pissed like Jerry Seinfeld getting sold into sexual slavery and being forced to fingerbang Gaga.
You heard us Extreme Menu Modifier. There’s a reason the carne asada comes with salsa fresca, and it has a lot to do with thousands of years of late-night, peyote-induced experimentation in a taqueria south of the border. Replacing the beef with cucumbers and the tortilla with phyllo dough is enough to give Chastity Bono an identity crisis. Again.
Next time the waitress asks if you’re ready, think twice about ordering the pepperoni pizza without cheese, bread or meat, because you’re one more substitution away from getting served the rat poison special with a side of rust cleaner and a glass of O+ on the house.
Through the ages, men, women, and monkeys have developed countless ways to communicate with one another; some verbal, some not so verbal, and some involving flippers. But, none perhaps have left the same lasting impression as a meaty slap to the buttocks. Nothing says, “great job/nice to meet you/you smell like bacon” quite like force palming both cheeks as an unsuspecting person walks by. Versatility goes a long way, but doesn’t fully excuse going fully wild wild west, hand planting as many derrieres as a man can get his sticky paws on.
Know why? ‘Cause that’ll make you a Non-Stop Ass Slapper, and on top of nobody wanting to come within arms reach, you’ll probably get a little visit from HR, which may or may not lead to a little something called sexual harassment, which will definitely lead to a little living in an alley, unemployment, eating garbage bin Dominos, and getting dry humped by Lou Reed. You’ve probably seen thousands of players bum brushing on the gridiron or had a high school gym teacher treat your tush like a Whac-A-Mole tournament, but just because it was “kosher” in Mr. Cohen’s class doesn’t mean it’ll fly in the real world. A wicked cool Power Point animation is not grounds for celebrating like a 300lb JV linebacker, so leave our rears alone.
This isn’t an episode of Friends and we’re not Chandler Bing, so the next time you confuse our back sides with a petting zoo, we’re going to make some of our own “Must See TV,” starring you as the one-handed bus boy trying to make it in Cleveland and Ray Romano as your eunuch sidekick. Gold. Ratings gold.
Ah, the World Cup – a time for all nations to unite under the guise of sphere-kicking and raucous unprotected orgies set to the tune of Djembe drums. But, if losing your virginity to a child soldier at an Adidas Originals after party isn’t festive enough for you, there’s always the deafening cry of a plastic weapon loud enough to drown out the sound of Gilbert Godfried anally raping the Aflac Duck at a Rage Against the Machine concert.
Meet Overzealous Vuvuzela Blower, the clown who believes his passion for 90 minutes of erratic running and sliding can only be truly expressed in the form of a deadly noise horn that burns a hole through your cochlea worse than the morning after a screeching contest with a school of pubescent dolphins. As if it wasn’t already tougher than cartilage jerky for a North Korean soccer player to focus with Kim Jong Il screaming through the earpiece (“Run the Gong!”), now poor People’s Rooney has to guard against his ear canal melting like a South Korean speaking out of turn in a cross-country town hall meeting? Oh hells no.
Next time a band of hooligans puts the vuvuzela to their lips and conjures up their collective lung capacity, we’re going to wind them worse than team Ethiopia after an all-you can eat Bangers and Mash buffet. And then we’re going to force them to clean up the sick. With a shin pad.
Great news everybody: Slipknot is coming to town! So grab your Doc Martins, brush off your clown-hate-bondage-headgear and make your way down to the local arena for a good old kick in the junk dosey doe. Yee Haw. But buyer beware, because just as “Butcher’s Hook” is about to make your eardrums bleed beef stroganoff, not a moment after you’ve started dry humping complete strangers, Mosh Pit Psycho enters the ring like a raging bull with rabies and proceeds to body avalanche anyone who enters his sphere of insanity. Downer.
Lets get one thing straight, we love a good mosh pit, a bunch of sweat hogs still living with their parents rubbing up against each other lathered in Vics Vapo Rub is just the type of homoerotic behavior we feel comfortable with. That and Top Gun. But when our clothes-on musical circle jouney is ruined by some chode who tries to make it rain blood the second Slayer takes the stage, we get a little Panic At The Disco. Thing is MPP, you can get away with a lot in a mosh pit: running, kicking, jumping, tween angst, depression, frenching, but just because this musical wrestling match is about as lax as the law in Northern Mexico, doesn’t mean you can go totally loco, swinging haymakers to the rhythm of the beat.
How many times are we going to have our favorite Killswitch Engage track ruined by a flying elbow to the temple? Identity update: we’re not all Brett Michaels – there are only so many brain injuries we can survive. This mad man must be stopped and the only way to put a hitch in his plan is an old-fashioned fistful of Justin Bieber dance party. Eenie Meenie miny eye socket (feat. Sean Kingston).
Sonia Satomoyor, local Idaho judge with fortunate name, once said, “You can take the lady out of the law, but you can’t take the law out of the lady.” Of course, that was in the confessional on “Celebrity Idaho Judge Rehab” after a peyote relapse, but bygones. Point is, you can’t just go around suing people with the ferver of a middle-aged rush hour subway molester, just to score some extra cash to pay for your bi-annual vision quest retreat with the local YMCA. That’s what drug dealing is for.
Yeah, you heard us, Sues For Anything Lady. Your inability to multitask donut scarfing and coffee drinking while giving yourself a homemade anal bleaching is nobody’s fault but your own. Suing Dunkin Donuts because their coffee was so hot it melted your innards when you accidentally spilled it in your rectal cavity is a crock of shit. Maybe literally, though we’re not entirely sure what happens when scalding java is applied to the anus. Coffee is supposed to be hot! So, quit the Erin Brockovich routine and drop Midget You Ran Over v. Sues For Anything Lady. The accused being too short to see is not a defense. Plus, he’s dead. How much money can you siphon out of a non-famous little person’s estate? Exactly.
Next time we find our hard-earned taxpayers dollars being wasted on your trial against God for being too “everywhere,” we’re going to take the law into our own hands. Ever heard of the Black Eye OK Clause? Probably not, considering your disrespect for the justice system. Well, here’s a little refresher: Civil Rights Act, Section 603 – “Filing retarded cases for publicity or ice cream truck money is punishable by one black eye for each stated case, to be administered by anyone who has the balls to punch someone who will probably sue.” Court adjourned.
From the day man first parked his horse and buggy outside the Frankincense & Religious Persecution Food Emporium, he’s had to deal with a particularly menacing danger lurking in the mist. No, not a mutant strain of skin scurvy, but an invisible threat that goes by the call sign Phantom Car Dinger. Yes, this invisible motorized buggy molester waits till the view of your automobile is obstructed by Panda Express to scrape off three coats of paint, the left mirror, and your ’91 Yugo’s virginity in one foul swoop.
Given our usual habit of parking with three wheels on the sidewalk – pedestrians deserve a better view of a coral Chevy Nova – PCD’s success at banging us from behind is a mystery in itself. But, regardless of whether the automobile assault was an accident on account of a hot and heavy sexting session on three cases of Robitussin, the most agonizing question is why this super nova shit stain decides not to leave a note. Seriously mystery-ruin-our-custom-Pikachu-paint-job person, how low can you go? Even Stalin left a note when he clipped your Lada on the way to the gulags.
We don’t care if you’re blind and have no control over your leg spasms, rip the wooden sideboard off someone’s ride and you better leave an explanation, a phone number and some calla lilies. Stat. Otherwise, in your next life, we’re going to make sure you come back as a hair follicle on the ass of a newly re-employed auto mechanic in Detroit, hoping to pull through a rampant case of explosive sharts. But, we would at least have the decency to leave you a note. “Dear PCD, sorry for making you a pore on Uncle Morty’s crack”
There’s nothing quite as refreshing as a dip in the community pool after a long day of BJs in your boyfriend’s Camaro with the windows that don’t roll down and the radio that only plays Flock of Seagulls. So shave your legs, slap on your Umbros, and prepare to be refreshisized with the cool blast of, wait – why is this water warmer than all other waters? No it’s not passover, it’s Pool Pisser, the middle aged hussie who’s downed an entire case of wine coolers, a bottle of Alize, and a Sonic Peanut Butter Blasto and is poised to release the floodgates like a New Orleans conspiracy theorist.
Fucking Chipwich, that’s disgusting. Sure chlorine kills most water-born bacteria – Gonorrhea, Michael Phelps – but that’s besides the point, which was sneaking a peek at Mrs. Feldman’s cleavage from an attractive angle in the Northwest corner of the lagoon. Now that’s shot to shit, and we’re stuck swimming in a cesspool of PP’s Mike’s Hard Lemonade. Pun cruelly intended. We’ll tell you one thing: this is no Sunny Delight and we’re running out of drink names. Ok, so two things.
Next time the contraption that’s rumored to turn urine Embarrassment Red fails yet again, we’re going to take matters into our own floaties. And that means pulling a move we haven’t used since Rush Limbaugh’s Seaside Luau of ’98: the cannonball special. Step one: find a cannon. Step two: fire!
“Win an all expense trip to Atlantis!” “Get a free iPad!?” “Become the ruler of Ethiopia until the day of Reckoning*” Do any of these options sound like legitimate offers from your aunt in Iowa? We didn’t think so. Well maybe the East African tyrant-dealy, but that’s it. So why then is Gertrude littering your Facebook news feed with more tales of grandeur then that time you friended drunk Indiana Jones? We’ll tell you why, because Auntie G isn’t Auntie G at all, she’s an early twenties virgin with inner thigh acne from Uzbekistan, also known as Facebook Hacker.
How FH was able to learn that your super secret password was snugglebutt76, or why breaking into your social network page to push half priced Cheerios to your friends is finally going to lead him to the undercarriage of his cousin, we just don’t know. But one thing is for sure: Harold the Hacker is intent on messing with your status updates until everyone in your network thinks you’re a trans-sexual vacuum cleaner salesman pushing time-shares on the side. And worse than having no control of your entire collection of naked keg stand photos or social security numbers, is the fact that every one of your 14,987 “friends” must take it upon themselves to remind you that, “dude your FB has totally been hacked!” It’s like being told your dick is hanging out after catching it in the zipper at a Family Values abstinence pot-luck.
While we’re not going to pretend how to protect your inbox from being infiltrated – shit, we just found out that blog wasn’t slang for taking a deuce in the woods – we do know that best way to clean your cache is by taking a play out of Naomi Campbell’s e-book, and it involves control-alt-deleting his face all the way back to Myspace.
P.S. Happy 300th post to us! Protective custody never seemed so worth it…
Every now and then, when we’re feeling extra horny from the Blossom marathon on TBS and the free case of Magners we won at special ed trivia night, we’ll call up an ex and regale them with niceties we probably failed to mention when dating – like how shiny their hair is, or how we never thought we’d fall so hard for an inmate pen pal we never met, but had light phone petting with a couple times. But, sometimes we don’t get the same shower of praise in return. No, sometimes we get a filthy insult disguised in cajolery, and we realize why we broke up with the prisoner in the first place – and let’s just say it had nothing to do with the double homicide. That’s right, homeboy was a Backhanded Complimentor.
“Wow, that haircut really minimizes your hook nose!” “See, I told you your butt would look great in those new jeans for elephants.” “You throw pretty good, for a girl, with no arms, and a phobia of baseballs.” Thanks for the flattery BC, but we’d rather you serve your venom straight up like they do in the Thai snake pit where we renewed our vows. At least we’d know we got bitten, instead of realizing twenty minutes later when the poison has already infected our brains and left our self-esteem to die a slow death in the gutter by the black light bowling alley. Shit, you didn’t even give us a chance to use our favorite comeback: “Thanks, I borrowed these jeans from your mom!” OH SNAP!
When BC next delivers a scoff wrapped in a sheepskin blanket of worship, topped with a wasabi-coated maraschino cherry, give the passive aggressor a different kind of backhand. And be sure to follow through with a “That bruise does wonders for your complexion, rosacea face.”
With all of the seasonal flues, HINI viruses, and teenage boys out there, it’s fair to say the tissue industry is living high on the hog, on a boat, on a hog boat, in St. Tropez. That’s cool with us. Soft disposable pieces of redwood have become indispensable in today’s allergy Porn-Youniverse. Our bellyache isn’t with the makers of nose TP, but with the people who choose to sprinkle mini snot blankets all over the house like a Mardi Gras of communicable disease.
Used Tissue Sprinkler we are talking to you. Well, actually we are typing to you while our mom runs us an epsom salt bath, but you get the point. Where in the insane membrane did you get the idea that leaving little paper wrapped booger balls around the underwater glass submarine was an okay idea? Did you prema-blow your cerebrum into the hanky? Because we can’t comprehend why we have to come home from a hard days work of creeping on bloggers at Starbucks to find our living environment ravaged like a First World War minefield of mucus. Shards of bodily fluid are not how we normally polish the knock-off Design Within Reach coffee table we got from Sky Mall. Nothing is worse than collecting a used nostril tampon and being unclear of its contents. Is that face goo, or trouser snake surprise? That kind of shit can lead to serious PTSD and we already used up our Happy Meal therapy coupons.
Dealing with UTS is tricky; you don’t want to discourage them from using Kleenex altogether (some stuff just doesn’t come out on crushed velvet drapes), but you do need to halt the grossness. For best results, try explaining the concept of a trash can. If all else fails, an endless supply of bloody Puffs should do the trick.
A topical roundup of people who’ve deserved it over the last unspecified amount of time.
#1- Arizona: As if suffering the horrendously degrading practice of cactus-profiling wasn’t embarrassing enough, now the poor prickly people of the Canyon State have to put up with random mustache checks and passport sniffing. Pardon our Spanish, but last time we checked none of the hombres in this dios-forsaken pais were born here, and Mexicans make delicious guacamole! What’s wrong with you Arizona? If it’s the heat, take a long look at Lady Gaga’s Vajayjay, it might cool you off.
#2- Times Square Truck (Almost) Bomber: Stupid Faisal Shahzad. Don’t you know that Times Square is already the most miserable place on earth? What kind of terror were you plotting in your used Pathfinder? Because we’re pretty sure it can’t get much worse than the most hideous cross-section of America crammed into a 3 block radius under the fluorescent lights of soul-sucking commercialism, Applebees happy hours and enough homeless people to catapult a lice shampoo company into the Fortune 500. We’d punch you in the face, but we’re pretty sure Eric “Hammer” Holder’s got you covered.
#3- Heidi Montag: Here’s the thing – if you’re unhappy with the body the gods of Colorado gave you, by all means, get nipped, get tucked, graph your eyeballs onto your hands and call yourself the first real palm reader. But DON’T push Spencer Pratt out of the plot line. That’s just shallow and narcissistic. Now, how will our children learn the fundamental values of facial pubes and reverse baby talk? Bring back Hollywood Hitler, or risk not feeling the knuckle sandwich we serve your frozen features.
#4- Ash Clouds: One minute you’re on your way to see Abe Vigoda’s Greatest Barney Miller Moments on Broadway (in London), and the next you’re grounded in the very place you lost your virginity: Terminal 2 of the Louisville airport. What the Bjork, ash cloud? We understand that huge masses of toxic nature gas don’t get enough play and that this might have been your one chance at fame for the next 3 billion years, but we had a date with a suicidal Greek feta tycoon, and now he’s dead! Who’s gonna get us deals on salty bulk cheese now?
#5- Mike Bennett: Sorry Mike, this is really unfair of us. All you were doing was checking your daily “Topless Sluts of Daytona” email. We all get them. It could have just as easily been us caught sneaking a peek on tape by the Sunshine State News. Oh, but wait, we’re not Senators. And we weren’t sitting in the Abortion Bill debate. And we’re not stupid enough to open messages from court justices named Candy Blowyu – even if the subject heading is “Important porn for you to watch during the baby-killing debate.” You should be aborted, for being a moron.
It was 1923 when Donald Sutherland first rapped that oil and water don’t mix. Turns out that badass motherfucker wasn’t kidding. Case in point: the earth’s oily anal leakage currently spewing itself all over the Gulf of Mexico, threatening to turn the Southern States into the backdrop for Garbage Pale Kids the Movie: Rise of the BP Butt-Face. Now in 3D!
Shit Oil Spill, you aren’t playing around, are you? Thanks to your creepy advance on Lady Louisiana’s wetlands, Bubba Gump Shrimp Company is going to have to file Chapter 11, and every fish, bird and crustacean in the vicinity will find itself experiencing a black golden shower care of British Petroleum’s decision to bust a load and forget a Kleenex. Now all we’re left with is enough oil to power Jay Leno’s chin, floating towards a state that still hasn’t gotten over the giant swirly of 2005. Kicking a man while they are down, damn OS you’re like the rudest man-made bully ever. While you’re at it, why don’t you just steal all of Mississippi’s lunch money and push Florida into a locker. Oh wait…that’s happening. Tabernac!
Obviously, this procession of petroleum can’t be stopped by sitting in your Captain Avenger underwear spilling Fruit Loops on your Acer. But, that doesn’t mean you can’t try. So get out of that La-Z-Boy, put on some cords and punch the octane right out of the nearest gas station – you’re out of milk anyway.
Nothing beats a cross-country Tony the Tiger Collectors Cups road trip to every Exxon in America. It reminds us of why we bought this used stretch-Pinto limousine in the first place (besides the specialty neon Redbull holders). So we fire up the bootleg stereo, buckle up the padded Momo belt, pop in our favorite Jim Croce cassette, and get ready to – wait a minute! What’s that noise coming from the seat next door? Why are the gold-tinted windows coming to a slow crack? And is this blood leaking from our ears, or did we just drink too much New Bloody Big Gulp Flavor?
Jesus Effing Crisco. Who invited Radio Singalong? As if Top Forty radio wasn’t bad enough with its post-op disc jockeys and generic auto-tuned Susan Boyle remixes, now we have to suffer through the never ending serenade of a guy who was voted “Most Likely to Burn a Hole Through the Ozone with his Voicebox, Even After Global Warming Ends.” Great. Made even greater by the fact that this karaoke killer just happens to know every song on every frequency, including какой 107, the all Russian Hip Hop Broadway Station.
Driving is a time to reflect on the impending day, or the consequences of what we did with that purebred horse set to the tune of Rihanna in heat. It is not a time to butcher Casey Kasem’s suggested playlist or practice for the Olympic Diaphragm Hurl. So stop your Billboard butchering RS, before we ask you the lamest question in the book: “Who sings this song? Yeah, let’s keep it that way.” Oh SNAP! Face punch.
You are two minutes from finally becoming the first human being to land on Mars inside an eggplant spaceship, where you and first mate Tony Danza will be showered by sex spores and named solicitor generals of Kentucky, when all of a sudden the Martian landing disappears quicker than you and TD were able make chocolate muffins, leaving you staring not at a lunar landscape, but the ceiling of your apartment and a rainy Tuesday morning. It is at that moment you realize. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
Yup, that funny feeling tickling your thought factory isn’t so much outer space Caligula as brutal realization your far off fantasy has been shattered by the one person powerful enough to ruin a Carla Bruni and Clone Carla Bruni threesome: Dream Interrupter, the person, place or thing that swoops in just as you are about to score the winning goal, give the victory speech or conquer Jason Bateman at chess Cheetos, turning your rapid eye movement into a wide-eyed nightmare. The dream is dead and anyone who has ever slept knows not even an Ambien-Acid cocktail is going to get you back to sugar-cup land. Sure, you can try to fall asleep again, but the 2027 thriller starring you and a young Tom Cruise under the sea is gonzo. Like taxes and Coors Light, suffering at the hands of DI is just another cold hard fact that plagues humans.
Crazier than dream disruptor himself is the mystery of what you’re actually punching at, solved only once you peel open your peepers. So as a general rule of thumb, remove the sand for your corneas before swinging for the fences, because while sending your alarm-clock-megaphone-roommate into another world will sound your sleep, knocking-out your significant other, only leads to night terrors.
Sometimes the gapingly obvious slips by you like a Mexican at the Vermont border. Such has been the case with today’s entry, a scapegrace so filthy our subconscious has kept him at bay out of fear we might do something rash. Well guess what? We finally let the sewage seep in and immediately went out and bought Snow‘s 2002 hit single “Legal.” That’s right, we acknowledged the fact that Cock Blocker exists and now shit’s about to get real Informer.
Nothing gets our Scooby Doo panties in a twist like being mid-seduction with the Blanche Devereaux look-alike at Lucky’s Cheng’s Tranny Bingo Night and having Stan step in with his tweed pantsuit to fuck the whole thing up. What is it with these inhibitors of sexual satisfaction? Do they not see how long it’s been since we spent a night in the throes of golden age passion? Or do they simply get off on other people’s misery, because that is something we can totally understand, and if it’s the case, well then carry on dick defender.
Just not with us.
Yessir, if we lose another piece of tail to this third wheel on a unicycle, we’re going to do our own cock blocking. Namely, letting a rabid rooster loose on someone’s crotch and seeing how well they remember what they learned in sixth grade self-defense class taught by Rapist Sense. Scissor Sweep!
Urban scientists predict that by the year 2050, 110% of the world’s population will be living in urban centers. They also predict that 115% of that 110% will be rooming in holes they found in Craigslist’s “Will trade you ________ for room and board” section. Add this to the fact that the only place you can afford a free-standing house these days is Delaware, and basically all signs point to living in condemned apartments forever! That’s fine and all if you live on Park Avenue with a crystal-robot doorman and proper ventilation, but if you live anywhere else you must be aware that sharing a Jenga box with 200 people leads to some serious quandaries.
Case in point, Apartment Building Stinker Upper, the half-cat piss, half-moldy sock witchdoctor who mixes a caldron of exotic spices, Swanson’s Deep Dish Durian Pasta Bowl and soiled baby diapers down the hall every night in 7B. What exactly this gasser is concocting no one knows, but one thing is for sure: the paint is peeling and it sure isn’t because its’s special Pakistani peeling paint. Even if ABS were to crack a window (which he hasn’t – padded cell? air phobia? escape route for the wild opossum about to be blanched?), this is one stench that cannot be slayed. We’re talking odors strong enough to permeate walls and turn people inside out. Walking into your 14-floor walk-up after a hard day’s night at the box factory and having your nostrils violated like a piñata at a little league baseball cookout is enough to make you Owen Wilson your own nose.
We understand people need to eat and that shit requires cooking, but honestly Apartment Building Stinker Upper, if you deep fry one more musk ox without a fan we’re going to sauté your smell receptors with a side of stroganoff.
With the advent of ADD as an acceptable defense against not listening, it’s become increasingly difficult to care about anything that doesn’t emit laser beams directly into our eyes. It’s hard enough to focus on Heidi Montag’s new revolving nipples, let alone some schmucky coworker’s tale of two cities, about the time he got off at the wrong exit and ended up in Cartford, instead of Hartford, “and there were so many carts everywhere, I honestly didn’t know what to do, so I used my new GPS to…and that’s when the unicorn said “don’t put salt in your wounds,” and the candy cane house melted into the earth.” Wait, what?
Put a bookmark in it, Neverending Story Teller. Unless your punchline has something to do with a donkey strapped to a rocket made of frozen vodka, there’s no way this story merits the amount of time we’ve already wasted staring at your abnormally hairy mole pretending to listen. Have you always had that by the way, or is it new, because you should get new moles checked out by a dermatologist, especially if they’re dark and oddly shaped, at least that’s what our Auntie Phyllis says and she’s had lots of stuff removed, including a birthmark shaped like Chevy Chase that would sometimes tell jokes in her sleep, like this one about…Do you see where we’re going with this?
Your turn to sit back and listen up NSS: next time you need an audience for last night’s spilled spaghetti saga, better hand somebody else free tickets, because we’ve already worked out all the ways we could possibly kill ourselves in the breakroom should you declare it story time. Ok fine, we’ve already worked out all the ways you could commit suicide. And in exchange for all the vivid second-hand memories, please, allow us to assist.
When Nas first wrote, “money make the world go round,” he definitely wasn’t taking out bones from an ATM on Las Vegas Boulevard. Because after dealing with six different service charges, Nastradamus probably would have had enough money to make the world go all of three feet. No joke, last time we tried to take out a twenty, the machine charged us twenty-five. Of course we paid, Starlight doesn’t take debit cards, but seriously, ATM fees are getting abusive.
We understand that everybody needs to make a buck, and that being able to take out scrilla at 3:46am on a Tuesday in Reno is a luxury that we have to pay for, but do we really need to fork over our unborn child’s community college tuition? Seems a tad bit steep if you ask us. What are we even paying for? The money certainly isn’t going back into maintance of the machines. We’re pretty sure the last one we used was covered in Vaseline, had a broken screen and was missing more keys than a drunken contestant on Bangladeshi Idol.
Not that we have anything against capitalism, but we’d like to hold onto some of our hard earned cash, and handing over $5.50 to Scrooge McDuck-Gold-Underwear every time we try to take some out doesn’t exactly help the cause. What would help is if they added a third option to the above screen, namely “To knock out the fee charger press here,”shit, we’d punch that button all the ti-zime.
Some of the best things about living on planet Earth are the extra hot UV rays that burn our skins to crisps and leave us looking like healthy cancer tamales. Tans separate us from the animals and highlight our superior genetic brain candy. Therefore, all those who interrupt the act of shriveling up into a pile of raisin cells must DIE! Ha. Joking! But they will pay.
Oh yeah, we’re talking to you Splashy McSplashstein. When we invited you to “Get wet at Hedonism, Rhodesia!,” rancid chlorine water wasn’t what we had in mind. Now our signed original copy of Dorion Gray is soaked and the puddles on our reflector are making our chins look extra jiggly. How the flipper are we supposed to spot a German tourist ball sack if our binoculars are obstructed with your malicious aqua shrapnel? Don’t you have better things to do than loiter by the edge of the wading pool making it rain on unsuspecting country clubbers? Look, there’s a drain you can get your hair clogged in!
Summertime is for easy living and Super Splasher is making it harder than a night in the slammer for Adam Lambert. If our leisurely nipple roasting ever gets interrupted by a liter of rogue wetness again, there’s going to be hell to pay. Better get a lifeguard Merman, because when we’re done with the botched mouth-to-mouth, the only place you’ll be splashing is in the ER sponge bath.
We love to eat, yum, yum, yum. No matter what you put on the table — bread, steak, steak bread – we are going to masticate the shit out of it. You could say we’re bigger fans of sustenance than Mario Batali on a 3-day pot bender with the Cookie Monster. So it brings our Bolognese sauce to boil when we find an entire helping of Dinosaur Macaroni N’ Cheese discarded in the drain bottom.
Thanks a loaf Food Drain Clogger, you’ve condemned an entire herd of cheesy triceratops to death just because you decided to develop the appetite of a 17 year-old model on the Kate Moss diet. Didn’t your mama teach you, your eyes are bigger than your stomach? Small, poor, Xbox-less, African children in Ghana-Never-Getout Land are starving for trans-fats and you decide to waste an entire meal by treating our drain like a garbage can? What, did you think we wouldn’t mind the Hoover Dam of linguine occupying our sink? Or fishing out decomposing Dora The Explorer pasta shells and canned tuna with our bare hands? Because you’re wrong FDC, wrong like a lost Obama look-a-like at a Tea Party convention.
Next time we find you treating our water basin like a wood chipper, we’re going to fill your food compactor with so many beef shanks you’ll need extra-strength Drain-O just to turn tricks down by the docks. Slurp, slurp.
We’d write more, but the ringing in our frontal lobes is making it hard to concentrate on anything but the blood leaking out of our ears onto the keyboardddd. Great, the DDD button is stuck now. Fuck.
Fine, you got us, we don’t smoke. It’s a filthy habit invented by a cult of illegal butchers who needed somewhere to shovel the unspoken parts of the exotic De Moines buffalo without having to answer to the feds (kudos on the idea though – “we make the mad cow disappear in a cloud of smoke!”). However, there was one week in ’88, after Loverboy broke up, when we turned to the fags for emotional support and a short-term weight-loss program. And in those seven days, we encountered a mooch the likes of which we hadn’t seen since Marley Steinberg, fourth grade scrunchy-thief extraordinaire. P.S. We want our hypercolor denim hair-holder back you stingy little bang tease.
Obviously, we’re referring to Incessant Cigarette Bummer, the sensitive-to-sun maggot who manages to crawl out of his iniquitous den every time you light a Pall Mall. Yes, he can smell the sustainable menthol through the grates of his underground hovel and it calls to him like deep dish pepperoni to an anorexic Ninja Turtle. Before you know it, your pack of Gitanes looks eerily like your scalp – thinning, with some ominous flecks of mystery substance lurking in the corners that you try desperately to ignore, yet take as a sign that you will probably die soon.
Get your own cancer sticks you bronchial leech. It’s enough that we have to manage our own slow deterioration, now we have to be in charge of yours too? Not today Marlboro Man. No, today we’re going to loan you a much more addictive drug. It’s called codeine. You’ll need it for the throbbing after we rearrange your face with our yellowed fingertips. Oh, and if you need to speak to the Surgeon General about fixing your “deviated septum,” you can reach him at 301-443-4000.
You know who everybody hates? The inventor of individual sized ketchup packages. It has to be hard to find a single person out there who looks at him in a good light. And yet, we bet ketchup boy still has more of a fan club then the guy digging to China at 6am with a 10,000-horse power jackhammer right outside of our window. Because as soon as Early Morning Construction Worker lights up his first Red of the day we know there isn’t a single second of shut eye to be had until happy hour at the Jed’s Adult Jerk Shack pulls him away.
Obviously we understand that EMCW is just a hard working, blue collar, American man, making a living with his hand. But it is hard to be rational when you are woken up by the soundtrack of Bad Boys II played on steel pipes underneath your CO-OP brownstone. It’s tough to find any sympathy when our slacking, trust-fund, liberal ass doesn’t have to be at the blog café until 1pm. Especially when the entire night was spent playing a Malaysian bootleg copy of Modern War Fare 3 and screen printing ironic socialist t-shirts to sell for 50 bucks to Berkley Students. Can’t a 28 year-old journalism major just get some deserved rest? It’s scary out there, the last thing we need is some affront to our masculinity actually getting shit done before the View is over.
How about we reschedule 7am sawing to a more sensible hour? Say 2pm? We guarantee we’ll be up, showered and dressed in fine imported denim with pre-ripped knees. That way we can all go about our mornings without the unnecessary embarrassment of us trying to re-pave your right cheek bone, and you being caught on CCTV knocking out the future president of MoveOn.org. It’s win-win.
Education is the cornerstone of intellectual freedom. Take Einstein for example. He flunked out of high school and subsequently got turned down by the Swiss army. Who gets rejected from an army of pocket knives? Can you say L-O-S-E-R? Understandably, we spend most of our time trying not to follow in his footsteps, but some people are making it difficult.
You guessed it, today’s facial graphing goes to Teacher’s Pet, a scholarly specimen so perfect she doesn’t even have to open the book to get a triple A plus with a maraschino cherry on top. Home Ec, Biology, Organic Russian Rocket Science in Bulgarian, it doesn’t matter. If there’s a teacher, this bitch is passing with flying colors. How many extracurricular back waxes this puppy must perform to sustain her grade point average is beyond us. All we know is when we “accidentally” dropped our pencil under Mr. Johnson’s desk and tried to find it in his lap, his fly was tagged with the initials TP, and a rottweiler was guarding his balls.
How are we supposed to get into the University of Pheonix in time to make the 65 year-old continuing education cut-off, if the only student on top of the bell curve gives better hand jobs than Adam Lambert? The answer is we can’t. Which is why we have to cut the praise off at the source. So instead of feeding Teacher’s Pet the cafeteria’s famous knuckle sandwich, we’re going to spoon it into the mouth of her rightful owner. Open up teach!
With the advent of VHS, BETA, DVD, PVR and DRTTRVTFJ (out next year), it is safe to say the ye ol’cinema has had a lot going against it. But we go anyways, because we like giant screens, loud noises and the smell of dried urine. And on occasion we like to treat ourselves to a 12,000 calorie shot straight to the left ass cheek courtesy of a trip to the confections stand.
Unfortunately, somewhere between waiting in-line and reaching for our wallet, Chris the counter boy has decided to treat us like a graduate film student who just “happened” to wander into North Korea. Yes, we want popcorn; no we don’t want super-sized butter with reduced bacon on top. Lets stop with the gulag pressure Movie Popcorn Pusher, just be happy we are still frequenting your establishment, those frosted pubes aren’t going to pay for themselves. We are very happy with the medium size barrel, thank you very much, we shouldn’t have to feel like the creator of cancer just because we didn’t want to upgrade to a XL popcorn, 3-gallon soda, 16-pound bag of Mini Snickers and a small Burmese child all for an additional 75 cents.
We have enough trouble fitting ourselves into those movie seats, as it is, without being water-boarded with buttery-sauce. So see if you can follow our direction MPP —you refrain from acting like we have spludged on your family honor and we’ll refrain from casting you as the slab of beef in our remake of Rocky.
Oh, the glamour of celebrity: sweet, unattainable fame that only comes with the blessing of a perfectly proportioned face, or being born to some other famous vag, or having lots of Myspace friends, or uploading a video starring cats on Youtube, or birthing eight children and getting a dykish haircut. Ok fine, so infamy isn’t as elusive as it once was. Still, Shiloh Pitt’s sexual ambiguity sells millions of magazines a year and nobody gets off on the presence of tabloid greatness more than Star Fucker.
Like Macho Man to a Slim Jim, Star Fucker is magically drawn to anyone who’s even remotely notorious. Cameron Diaz, or Desperate Housewives’ Mexican Gardener #13, SF will go to any length to be acknowledged, pooped on, or kneed in the groin by a celeb. And usually, it’s at our expense. Like the time we agreed to be his date to the Siberian Tiger breeding party, where he ditched at the first sign of Siegfried and Roy, leaving us to make small talk with Mike Tyson while he subtly raped us in the corner.
Yes, as soon as Russell Brand’s stench wafts in from outside da club, Star Fucker is poised at the VIP line holding his ass open with a welcome sign tattooed on his prostate. Well we’re done playing second fiddle to this groupie. So how about we give the fucker a little attention of his own? Spa day at the hospital!
Dental hygiene is very important. So when it comes to the occasional slip up in toothly etiquette, we like to think we’re pretty lenient. Forgetting to put the cap on the paste – not the end of the world. Leaving your brush to drip on the sink – we’ll spare you the waterboarding. Sometimes stopping cavities equals getting sloppy. However, this does not give Floss Everywhere Roommate carte blanche in the lavatory. You big jerk.
Whether you’re mining out nachos, noodles or nuclear bombs, it doesn’t give you the right to fling your plaque thong wherever you feel like. After a long shift of trolling the streets, the last thing we want to come home to is a re-creation of the Spaghetti Incident all over our bathroom. If we wanted to live in Charlotte’s web of foodstuffs, the Craigslist ad would have read “2 bedroom share, spiders inquire.” Navigating through the half-digested Taco Bell wreckage on string is perhaps the worst thing we can think of, worst than the time we took a Mogadishu sight seeing tour with Adam Sandler.
What is it that possesses you FER? Putting your mouth string in the toilet is pretty low on the difficulty scale. You already make regular deposits there everyday. Just apply the same direction you do with your bladder, to your dental appliances. Seems like a good idea to us, and less painful than what we had in mind, which was a little tactic we learned in Somalia called the swirly. Water flushes counter clockwise there!
Only one scenario is worse than waking up naked in a shed next to a three-legged horse and a pool of ominous stick, and that’s waking up naked in a shed next to a three-legged horse and a pool of ominous stick and getting stuck behind a 57 yr old man with a plastic bag full of flyers when all you want to do is buy the booze to numb the flashbacks.
Holy Hanover Coupon Carl! How many pennies must you save on those dented corn cans to justify the precious minutes of life wasted in your wings? How many $0.99 ground beef baskets will you collect before contracting hoof-n-mouth and calling it quits? How many people will you trick into the express lane before pulling out the Cheap-Ass Mofo’s Guide to the Grocery and making us all rot in your wake as you await the arrival of the manager with the special code to your heart? We hate you so much that wasn’t even a sentence.
God dammit, we know. We know it’s the great depression and people need to save for their kids’ educations and subsequent huffing addictions, but unless you’re sending your baby to the school of bottle collecting, those rogue Lincoln monuments aren’t going to get you very far. So how ’bout you put away the pussy pamphlet and take the $0.10 hit? Otherwise you best step aside and let us through, because the longer we wait holding this bottle of Alize, the deeper the cuts are going to be – and we’re not talking the paper kind you’re used to.
We love sushi. Besides seizure-inducing cartoons and karaoke, it has to be our favorite Japanese export. No hard feelings Dance Dance Revolution. But when dealing with raw sea meat you have got to be careful. You gotta treat it with tender loving care – the same way you would your limited edition X-Box. Which is why it brings our digestive track much pain to swim into today’s entry, Sketchy Sushi Chef.
Why SSC? Why? Why abuse our insides like a cheap Cambodian colonic? Why use a piece of salmon if it smells like Paris Hilton’s sashimi? It’s just not right. Like taxes, death, the expiry date of raw fish is just something you can’t cheat. We don’t care how much ginger infused mayo you put on a piece of rotten yellowtail – if that sucker is moldy it’s going to ruin us quicker than the time we consumed every item on the Waffle House menu. We fork over our hard-earned Canadian pesos in exchange for a taste of manufactured Japanese culture and all we get is poisoned, like an exiled Russian journalist with the original Coke recipe.
This type of culinary catastrophe cannot be allowed to continue. Next time we catch you trying to slip us a putrid piece of nigiri we’re going to hand roll you a lesson that has more punch than an eight-ball of wasabi to the dome. それは吸盤にある!!!
Reliability is a sacred human virtue. When Milli got caught mouthing the wrong words, Vanilli was there to fondle his dreads back to D-list celebrity. When Michael Jackson’s face fell off the first time, Liza Minelli licked it up before anyone could notice like a kitty cat in a tuna factory. When Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman spiraled into a dark pit of Kay Jewelers commercials…well, you get the point. But some peeps are just born non-committal, and the only thing you can count on them for is standing you up at prom with a boner and a corset made of shards of your heart, held together by some weed you bought six months ago that you promised to use only for special occasions. Fuck you, Caleigh Calwell.
But we digress and present you Full-time Flake, the so-called friend who answers all your outing propositions with “Yeah, we’ll see,” hoping a better offer comes along before the date rolls aorund. What could possibly be more exciting than a Weird Al Yankovic look-alike contest with an open milk bar from 4:30-4:45? Exactly. So why you frontin’ Flakemaster Flex? You got an inkling the quarterback’s gonna ask you to go for a malt and a date-rape after the big game? Because otherwise, we really don’t see what prospects could motivate you to brush us off like a lint tray at the Yetti laundromat.
Whatever excuse your Full-time Flake comes up with next, let the twisted sister know you ain’t gonna take it. May we suggest making an alternate proposition. For example, dinner and an uppercut, or perhaps a stroll along Lover’s Loogie-in-her-eye. It’s all about quality time.
A topical round-up of people who’ve deserved it in the recent and tumultuous past.
#1- Luges: Stupid super-sleds. First, you rob the wealthy Swiss of their favorite winter spa activity by forcing them into restrictive spandex suits, then you ruin the 2010 All-Countries-Do-Sports-Games before they even start by literally launching a poor Georgian kid into a steel pole? Does Georgia not suffer enough, with its rowdy neighbors and ridiculously complicated alphabet? What the heterosexual figure skater? Totally uncool, even for you, fast little ice vehicle with no doors.
#2- Crazy Bitches: Well, duh. But let’s focus on one in particular, shall we? OK. How about the Mangum girl, who accused some of the whitest kids you know of shoving their lacrosse sticks in her poonany at the college with the evil smurf mascot and then admitted she was joking, only to resurface years later carrying the Olympic torch in the hopes of burning her boyfriend’s apartment to the ground and then kicking him in the nuts (or was it vice versa)? Also, we’re not sure if you heard us, but her name in Man-gum. Someone please smack this bitch up.
#3- Corrupt Cops: Unless you’re Al Pacino playing a sergeant playing a drug dealer playing a cop who’s really a murderer, there is no excuse for taking advantage of the badge. Yeah, we’re talking to you Bernie Kerik. As if you hadn’t already made it all these years without being thrown in the can for looking eerily like a matador, now you go and defraud the government and lie to the White House? The Commish would never have sunk so low. “A desk job? Not the way HE does it.”
#4- Fashionistas: Aww yeah. Mercedes Benz Fashion Week is coming to a close and if you weren’t trying to figure out where all the benzes in beaded evening gowns were like we were, then you would have noticed some skinny ass motherfuckers wearing sheep’s heads on their penises and robotic plastic salad-spinner hats. We’re not so much for condemning fashion itself, it’s more that the people who represent it can so easily be confused with the homeless. This makes it difficult to know who to approach about bum fights. And that adds up to a lot of wasted time on our lunch breaks. So how about we turn the derelict loose on the glitterati and see who comes out wearing the fur?
#5- Tea Partyers: This is really just one those cases of “they’re mad at us, so we’re mad at them.” Irrational? Maybe. But we’re on our period and they have signs.
There is something very satisfying about making yourself dinner. Using your hands, mixing up ingredients, wearing that chef hat completely buck-naked. It’s fucking money. That is of course until the ding-dong of dread interrupts your squash risotto and announces the arrival of your stomach’s arch nemesis: Pop-In Dinner Guest, the one person who somehow always “happens” to stop by at the exact moment you’re sitting down to feast. Oh, and who happens to not have eaten since Regan was in the moving picture business.
Thanks a lot PIDG, you’re about as welcome as a case of crabs on prom night. What was going to be a lovely dinner for one followed by a gentle night of cutting and cuddling (for one), has been thrown into utter disarray. Now all that’s left is half a meal, an empty stomach and an arm free of emotional love scars. Honestly, where did you learn your mannersDrop-In-Devourer? Cheneya? Were you raised in a barn? Would you turn on a cow’s milk faucet without so much as asking permission? Because for the Bobby Flay of us, we cannot understand why you think it’s okay to Hoover up half our grub without so much as a warning. You’re not Oprah or Jesus (fine, same same), you’re just a guy who lived down the hall from us in college – the same guy who once drank enough Yoohoo to warrant a stomach pump.
So here’s the deal Pop-In Dinner guest: you give us advance warning of your impending arrival, giving us time to barricade the door with out entire catalog of Barely Legal. Otherwise, you’ll find next time you try to invade our eat-in, we have a deliscious fist a la cart waiting for you. And if that doesn’t fill you up, there’s a poo-poo platter of kicks to the groin for dessert. Bon appetit.
Only a handful of places in the world are crawling with enough freaks to merit the title of Unesco Heritage Creep Site – The National Museum of Fingernails, Unsupervised Kids in Sandboxes Amusement Park, and the “Singles” line at the ski hill.
There you are with your three best ski-blading bros, poised at the pick-up line to slay the white beast with a bottle of Jager strapped to your jock, when suddenly a ’95 Spyder one-piece appears out the corner of your eye. Seconds later, you’re sidled up next to a child psychologist/performance artist who wants nothing more than a fresh soul to steal. Next thing you know, the bar’s being pulled back and there’s a third hand in your pants. Looks like you’ve met Chairlift Creep, the lone Yeti who can’t ski, but yearns for a human touch, even if it is through eight layers of gortex and a thin shield of dried snot.
For most outdoor-enthusiasts, the question isn’t “Will I,” but “When will I encounter this waterproof sketch-sack?” If the answer is now, there’s only one effective self-defense method to ensure you come off the chair with all your organs. It’s called the greaser and involves some left over lunch gravy and a Hot Paw to the gums. And cheese for a mid-day poutine. Woosh, woosh!
SNOOOOOOOOWWWW DAYYYY. Fuck yeah, Mother Nature we love you. We love that you can shut down the Eastern Seaboard in one night, we love that you make it impossible for us to get to work, we love you like that hole in our mattress. Long time.
Is there anything better than a Snow Day? Not in our books. It comes down from the sky, covers everything in white, and keeps you in bed till noon; it’s just like a Vietnamese mail-order prostitute with a key of coke. Minus the regret and obligatory paternity test. Seriously, we can’t get over how much we adore a good snow day. Not only does it keep us away from work, but it also keeps us in our one-piece pajamas, watching The Price Is Right re-runs for way longer than a grown adult should be. A Snow Day is basically like having a glimpse into the world of an unemployed 32-year-old who lives off food stamps and self-deprecation. And you know what? We like the smell of what he’s cooking.
So, if you are lucky enough to have more white powder dumped on your town than Mickey Rourke’s glass table, give it up. Give it up big time, because who knows, the next time you’re at home eating Lucky Charms at 1pm on a weekday, it might be because there is no job to go back to. “YEAH ECONOMY!”
Picture this. It’s 12:47 pm. You have thirteen minutes to get back from your rub and tug, heat up a pizza pocket and turn your underwear inside out, when you emerge from Octopussy only to find an empty ’87 Vega blocking your limited edition diamond Hummer with no driver in sight and a come stain quickly freezing on your cords. Shit son.
Where’d you go Disappearing Double Parker? Pop-in for a haircut? Quick back wax? Express AA meeting? Because regardless of how thin your spry-stache is, non of those appointments warrants the kind of hazard-light hold up you’re exhibiting outside our favorite topless breakfast buffet. Even Hitler had the decency to parallel park the Bimmer when he stopped in for his morning Sausage McSauerkraut. But no. Not you. You are much to busy and important. Especially since getting promoted to Asshole #3 at the Men’s Warehouse Customer Service desk. Better not be late.
Oh hells no. We are not gonna asphyxiate in our child-locked Buick just because you needed an emergency session with Dr. Psycho. Here’s a better idea: come back down here, climb into your Corolla and let us do the head-shrinking. It’s free and much less emotionally invasive. Could be hard on the organs though, so buckle up for safety.
Two hundred and seventy five assholes in, it’s time to talk about one of life’s most flagrant foulers. How it took us so long to call out this life-ruining cockroach vagina probably has something to do with the retarded amount of opium we keep receiving from our readers. Thanks guys. You’re the best. But we digress. Let us seize this moment of clarity to discuss a homosapien so low on the food chain, not even Bruce Phalange would take a nibble.
That’s right Willis. We’re talkin ’bout Shit Disturber, the instigating troll who limps around with an invisible shovel, attempting to unearth some horrible disturbance with every flick of her saggy wrists. In 2004, Will I. Am descended from heaven and proclaimed “the whole world addicted to the drama.” Shit yeah boyeee. And SD is the worst of them all, googling our names + “llama fucking” and forwarding the findings to the manager ten minutes into our Applebee’s interview. We had to use Crest Whitestrips and piss in a cup for that call-back!
What’s up lady? You wanna talk about it? Maybe you wage unnecessary emotional strife wars because you weren’t coddled enough as a child. That is sad. We feel for you. Dubya said no child should be left behind. That applies to cuddles too. So come real close and let us give you the squeezing you missed out on as a young anal probe. No,no, it’s ok. Closer…closer…Shhh, it’s not important to breathe. Close your eyes. Let the darkness envelope you. That’s it. Sleepytime.
Everybody gets thirsty; it is just a fact of life – like death, taxes and Blair Warner’s missing virginity. So when padre stops us and pleads to wet his whistle with a drop or two of our diet Fanta, well, we help a brotha out. Big fucking mistake! Because just as soon as we relinquished control of the aforementioned soda pop, did we witness our parched pal returning half of our Fanta back to the cup.
Dammmn, Big Backwasher, what ‘s your affliction? Do you have absolutely no control over your tongue? Have you forgot how to operate your lips? Are you intent on causing SARStastic outbreak 2010? Because we cannot understand why you seem so determined to spike our punch with a mickey of your saliva. Maybe you were raised by Garbage Pale Kids. Perhaps your real name is Mucus Marcus. There really is no other explanation. And like the Massachusetts special election, you too make us want to puke. Taking a sip of someone else’s soda is much like buying a pool ball choker, once it hits your lips, all sales are final.
So listen up Sideburns, the minute you try to sneak a little slime back into our styrofoam, it’s go time. And by “go time”, we mean “go to the hospital time.” We’ve got your prescription right here in our paws, and guess what? Free refills!
Now listen here. We’re all for the new age of technological robotic living. In fact, we’ve gone ahead and set up one of those electronic mailing accounts, but the second some shiny new gadget stands in the way of our tongues and the Jonas Brothers’ lips, we draw the line. Tickets weren’t cheap and we may or may not have had to give a happy ending to the soccer mom who sold us these seats in the back of a Bloomie Nails. So when some tweenie skank obstructs our view with her 167 megapixel Cyberbot, we get pissed like John Meyer relieving himself on a 14 year-old groupie face.
Go fuck a Hanson brother Concert Obstructer. How are we supposed to get a glimpse of Gaga’s gash when the whole show is being filtered through your 3.2 inch screen? Put the memory box back in your fanny pack and enjoy the moment like the rest of us. How often do you get to see Keith Flint drool on someone in person? Your friends won’t feel the spit in their eyes, no matter how many identical pictures you post.
If we’re ever forced to sway behind CO at an Indigo Girls show again, we’re going to give the little paparazzi a taste of her own obsession. And that means muscling her 107 pounds into the lesbian mosh pit and documenting every donkey punch. EEEEH O!
Stupid Slurper. What the Shirley Temple is your problem? There is not one ounce of liquid left in the bottom of that 304-ounce Dr. Pibb. Give it up buddy, it’s a desert at the bottom of that wax cup, you’ve successfully drunk your way to Diabetes. Yet you continue to vacuum the bottom like an anteater on ecstasy.
Why? Why do you subject our ears to such a horrendous hum? Do you wish us harm, do you wish us pain, do you wish our ears to bleed like a heavyset cheerleader on her period? Because you ain’t scoring any more Slurpee, Sanchez. All you’re doing is annoying everyone in your vicinity like a eunuch air-raid siren set to 11. How about you just give up the dream and go find yourself something that can’t be ingested through a straw, maybe a loaf of bread, a cantaloupe, perhaps a Turducken? Just stay away from soup, because if we catch you setting your slurping sights on a cup of New England Clam you’re going down, red coats styles.
But don’t fret SS, because today’s your lucky day. You continue your Hoover act double time, and we’ll ensure you get to slurp through a straw for the rest of your life. With sponge baths too!
With only three and a half more years until global warming melts the earth and leaves us swimming in a tidal wave of Jon Lovitz’s sweat, it’s important to seize every opportunity to show off your wintry quasi-athleticism – snowblowing, icicle dueling, qualude luging, whatever you can do in spandex. So you can imagine our impatience when we get behind Hill-Hogging Telemarker, the Jane Fonda look-alike who glides from side to side at the speed of Kirstie Alley’s metabolism, taking up the whole mountain and forcing us to watch as they scrape away the good powder with every Gold Bond-sponsored lunge.
Skiing is dangerous enough, what with all the camouflaged white people, abominable snowmen and Germans, without worrying about crashing into a human windshield wiper in a urine-soaked ’88 Spyder one-piece. On top of being a hazard to his fellow pole-wielders, this snowdouche is defying the laws of downhill skiing, namely going down the hill, by practicing a fake sport born in Crested Butte, a town who’s only other achievement is the invention of Heidi Montag, who is now also made of 100% carbon-Kevlar.
Next time you find yourself trailing behind HHT, give him a taste of his own horizontal medicine with a clothesline from the opposite direction. Don’t feel bad. Ski Patrol will be there soon and if they’re from the same year as his snowsuit, they’ll probably be topless and with Chevy Chase.
We hate you. We hate your destruction, we hate your choice of victims, we hate that you can’t strike Jeff Zucker’s house.
Seriously, go suck your own fault line. Next time we see one of you surface shackers shopping at Walgreens we are going to cause some of our own brand of tectonic shift with a 6.5 fist tremor right to your plates.
Oh, and Pat Robertson, you better watch out for an aftershock.
Donate $10 to the Red Cross by texting “Haiti” to 90999.
A topical round-up of people who’ve deserved it over the last however many weeks.
#1- NBC: Never before has a non-living thing had so much trouble making up its non-mind. Move the leprechaun up, push the chin back, get them to switch places – the whole thing is like an amateur porn circus, with no star ringmaster, but a lot of average-sized cocks. And the worst part is, nobody cares, because we all just wish Jersey Shore would play every night at ten on every channel. So here’s our recommendation: get the jacked-up, pumpkin-skinned, meatface who punched Snooki in the mouth to take Zucker out with 30 Rocks to the kepi.
#2- Harry Reid: Oopsie! Looks like the cat’s out of the bag. Senator’s a hood-wearing abolitionist and there’s a fiery cross burning on the lawn of his reputation. Turns out, the whole time ‘Bama was running for Prime Minister, dirty Harry was talkin’ smack about his complexion and vocabulary. And Negroes everywhere are now curbing their dialect to sound like 65 year old white men with glaucoma. You’re lucky Barack’s a pacifist Senator, because if we were in that Oval Office, you’d be dark-skinned by now. The kind that comes from caked-on blood.
#3- Tila Tequila: Ever since Casey Johnson bit the big one, Titty Patrone has lost all her sex appeal. What the Myspace Tequila? We understand you lost your fiance. Bummer. But your tears and confessed abortions are clogging our twitter feed, which wouldn’t be so bad if there were cleavage shots of you attached, like the olden days. Thoughts of loneliness? Really? Didn’t you become the avatar you are today because you had the most friends of any internet being in the history of internet beings? If you absolutely must spiral into darkness, at least rub on some Vicks Vapo Rub. And twitpic that shit.
#4- Whatever Minivan hit Joe Rollino: Dude was 104 years old and he doesn’t even get to die peacefully while having a three-way with Betty White and Dotti from The Wedding Singer? Bullshit Minivan. Take your automatic sliding doors and drive yourself off a cliff. Only after you drop the kids off at soccer though, ’cause that would be even sadder than killing a crotchety, old, almost-midget.
#5- Melodi Dushane (aka Crazy Chicken Nugget Lady): Listen, showing up at a McDonald’s drivethru after a long night of bum-showing at The Sultan’s Palace of Neked and being denied the greasy emotional comfort of breaded bite-sized rat meat would be enough to set us off on a Keifer Southerland-esque rampage too. So we sympathize with Crazy McNugget Lady, the poor man’s Alicia Silverstone who lost her shit and nailed some poor McDo employees in the acne. What we can’t understand is why she would expect nuggets at 11 am. That’s breakfast time biatch. Rub a McGriddle on your pole bruises and call it a day.
Few things in this world are as satisfying as popping a fat one. It’s like winning the Superbowl, sleeping with a super model and eating a super-sized nugget meal wrapped in a corn tortilla. But that doesn’t mean every time we find a volcano on our forehead we stop the press to erupt Vesuvius in front of the entire population of Pompeii.
Unfortunately that’s exactly how Public Pimple Popper rolls. Treating whatever shiny object they can find like a private popping platform, acne excavation is performed in airports, offices and restaurant bathrooms, exposing whatever innocent bystander has a case of the runs to a front row puss parade. It’s disgusting really, akin to watching a miniature face geyser give the mirror a bukake – nobody wants to see that. Especially when the person who just emptied their cheek cheese all over the restroom turns out to be your dental hygienist. That will leave you scared worse than Mark Sanford’s political career.
Seriously P3, do you really need to pop all your zits in front of a live audience? How about you just keep your blackhead burrowing to a minimal while outside of the barn? Deal? Good, because if you don’t, we are going to have to get all Proactive, and that involves deep fist exfoliation until the bruises match the blemishes.
Sharing a bed is nasty enough, what with all the suppressed farts, dried drool and night terrors. And that’s before you even fall asleep. Come shluffy-time, all you want to do is crush up your Ambien, close your eyes, and pray to Allah that the hairless Danny Devito impersonator you just had the sex with is gone by daybreak. Well good luck stallion, because Blanket Hog has other plans. Namely, freezing you to death through long-term exposure to the frigid air of the Flying Uterus Motel, with no quarters left to keep the vibrating bed running.
God dammit Blanket Hog. Where’s the empathy? Do you not see us shivering under the blood-stained top sheet like a shanked Eskimo ghost? Just because you have a doctor’s note describing your abnormally thin skin condition, doesn’t give you the right to bogart the comforter like a shock victim after seeing John Gosselin naked. There’s group therapy for that.
So, let’s make a deal. Next time you unconsciously wrap yourself into a tight little turd roll, leaving the rest of your group sex partners to die a slow hypothermic death to the tune and glow of Carson Daly’s Late Night Vagina Show, we’re going to hog something of our own: your face. And when you get it back, it will be just as wrinkled and come-stained as the hostage duvet.
Coat Check is a pretty great service. When you’re up in da club, getting your sweat on, you don’t want to be burdened by your Charlotte Hornets Starter Jacket. So when you have the opportunity to park that bad boy, you take it, knowing that when you are done two stepping, good old teal and blue will be there waiting for you. At least that’s what you thought.
See, you weren’t counting on leaving your jacket with Delinquent Coat Check Attendant, were you? And you definitely weren’t counting on returning your stub only to wait somewhere between 45 minutes and forever for your leather pea coat. But that’s how the cookie crumbles when you deal with DCCA, you might as well be handing over your fur to a blind goldfish with amnesia, because there is about a -300% chance of it ever being found. When today’s entry is manning the coat cubby, its like surrendering your jacket to the love child of the Bermuda Triangle and a Black Hole, not only is it never coming back, it’s most likely been beamed to a galaxy far, far away. Or at the very least Value Village.
What you’re going to want to do if you encounter a Jacky Loses Jackets-A-Lot, is stay calm. If meticulously describing your jacket’s details all the way down to the brown stain on the back, doesn’t produce said garment, a subtle coat hanger to the larynx, usually does. Just don’t forget to tip.
Whoa now. Before you get your hedge funds in a twist, hear us out on this one. Consider the statistics: 50% of all marriages end in divorce (196% if you’re Charlie Sheen), yet herds of brainwashed sickos continue to sign their lives away at the Oops-I-Got-Knocked-Up Drivethru Chapel and Car Wash every day to someone who will inevitably turn out to be a serial killer/show tune enthusiast ten years down the line. Gold Digger shows up on the scene with clear motives, a business plan and a charisma that could put Regis Philbin in a coma and she gets ripped apart like an Iraqi’s carry-on at DTW? Bullshit.
How about a little respect for a woman who willingly engages in foreplay with penises older than Andy Rooney if he stepped into a time machine and went back to before time existed? This bitch works hard for the money. And we’re gonna treat her right. So here’s to you mamacita. You can spin us into your web of silicone and peroxide any day of the week. And we won’t even make you sign a prenup, because when you find out we’re also screwing Janet Reno, you will be completely entitled to half our vintage WWF action figure collection. Just keep your paws off Kamala.
If you’re like us – and we’re guessing by the comments, you are – then you know when your computer only runs Windows ‘95, surfing the web can be a wee-bit disastrous. Especially when all your bookmarks start with “nude” and end with “chicken coup.” You’ll also know what you’re left with is an Acer laptop clogged with so many pop-up ads it looks like someone from Netscape threw up all over your screen, and herein lies our problem.
How in the Larry Flint are we supposed to catch the latest Lohan beaver shot or nipple slip if we can’t even make it past the coupons for “live girls”, “hot boys”, “diplomas” and “free Extenze” (which we may actually need)? Seriously. Every time we go online it’s all “buy this” and “subscribe to that.” It’s worse than the time we lived next door to the Avon Training Center. Can’t a guy or gal just dial up a little soft core without having to endure a University of Phoenix blitzkrieg?
Whatever MIT dropout invented the Pop Up, we hope they never lose that virginity they’ve so wonderfully cultivated. We also hope they cut us a little slack and stop blocking the door to what the internet was invented for: lots and lots of weird porn. Otherwise, our only option will be to pop-up at some nerd’s door and offer a 2-f0r-1, half price, 15% bigger fist to their face screen – and that’s a deal that can’t be beat.
Craigslist has given us many of our favorite things: above-average paying gigs as professional bone donors, a summer house in sunny Mogadishu, and a string of anonymous sex partners who put on the penguin mask without asking tedious questions. But sometimes, the intertubes backfire. Like when you agree to move in with Perpetually Naked Roommate after only meeting one time. In the “missed connections” forum. Sure his avatar was a huge pulsing cock, but how were you to know?
Now, we appreciate the human form as much as the next guy with a subscription to Hard Bodies and a lifetime supply of Nads DIY Bikini Wax, but PNR crosses the line. Just because Howard L. Brooks hosts the Christian Boys Choir meetings at his house every Tuesday wearing nothing but a baton and a pair of furry hancuffs, doesn’t give PNR the right to wag his prop eight around on game night. It’s like trying to play Trivial Pursuit with Noah Cyrus after she’s had too much happy juice.
If you happen to be rooming with the poor man’s Venus de Milo, quickly remind him you didn’t invest in eggshell terrycloth couches so he could stain them with the leftover hamburger helper meat sweats. Our suggestion? Plastify the furniture with the skin you scrape off his face.
While technically not a person, today’s entry is definitely up there with the all time offenders. In human form, Faulty Coffee Lid would most likely resemble something in between Jim Cramer and a toucher. It’s amazing really, how something with such a basic job can fail so miserably, it’s almost as if Michael Brown from FEMA was transformed into plastic.
There you are enjoying a double hot, no-foam, soy, chi, pump of caramel, pump of GBH, latte, cruising down 1-95 busting out to Men At Work, when all of a sudden you feel FCL making it’s present felt. And if having $80 worth of scolding hot liquid run down your neck wasn’t bad enough, what it ruins – a white cashmere mock turtleneck avec cats – is enough to make you pull an Alec Baldwin/Daughter reenactment with the lane divider.
Damn you Faulty Coffee Lid. Damn you for giving the appearance of functionality only to let us down when we need you the most. Damn you for laughing in the face of human progress. But mostly, damn you for spilling java all over our Men’s Warehouse suit ten minutes before our court-ordered sex therapy appointment.
Enough is enough. Next time you trick us into thinking you’ve got our back, you better watch out, because the fists you are about to receive are marked “extremely hot”. Except, that might make things worse for us. Fuck. You win again.
Ahh, the holidays. A time for Hot Topic gift certificates, Manchu Wok’s beef and broccoli special, and the Hanson’s Holiday Compilation on repeat. What could be better? Oh wait. We know. How ’bout getting maced with the essence of David Beckham’s taint as soon as you pass through JC Penny’s revolving doors?
That’s right friends – this is an ode to Department Store Fragrance Pusher, the jerkstore who’s sole purpose in life is to make as many people as possible smell like Britney Spears’ foopa in a given four-hour block of time. Not interested in reeking like Animale today? Too bad suckas. DSFP doesn’t give a Cattleman’s Whiskers what you want. Instead, he’ll fake you out by spraying one of those tiny horizontal papers over your crotch, leaving your junk smelling like Blackbeard’s Delight for the next four days.
So next time you get accosted by J-Lo’s fumigator, remind him his eyelashes are too long and pesticides are bad with a reverse-macing to the face. Suggested stenches include Smell My Dick by Tiger Woods and Kanye’s Fuck All Y’all.
Jesus’ birthday is coming up! To celebrate, we’re going to do what all good Christians do: hang ginormous socks from walls and stuff them full of shitty gifts we found last boxing day in the CVS damaged goods box. But this isn’t about Christ. It’s about socks. The regular kind you use to vomit in on the way home from a long night in Rodanthe. The kind Sock Thief, that invisible 97 year-old living mothball steals from the machine while you’re looking around for discarded Doritos 3Ds in the laundromat.
Some say Sock Thief is an urban legend, like Tiffany Amber Thiessen, or the All Reds Starburst pack. They say it’s our fault single socks disappear into thin air – that they fall from the basket, or get stuck in the lint tray. Wake up naysayers. The only inanimate object that walks away on its own is that evil Robot Dog with the crazy eye from 2004.
So next time your favorite Dora the Explora dick warmer goes MIA, make like Snuggles and rub this crooked pikey inappropriately in the face. Finish her off with a little mouth Clorox and a spin cycle to the shoulder blades.
When John D. Rockefeller first invented the office, we’re pretty sure he envisioned a plethora of people operating as one, a succinct shrine to capitalism, generating a symphony of sound all in the name of fleecing his gold pockets. What he didn’t imagine, and what is surely having him roll over in his golden grave, is that one day long after he chocked on his golden spoon, his piece de resisitance would be disrupted by one man with a set of golden pipes – and about as much control of his voice level as Tiger has with his long iron.
Well guess what, John John? It happened, and we feel your pain brotha. Every minute we have to sit behind Office Loud Talker is one more minute closer to us spooning you at the bottom of your gilded grave. No joke. Working in the same zip code as OLT is like trying to finish the Q4 numbers beside a bullhorn that is obsessed with the Buffalo Bills and blacking-out drunk. Its all “I TOTALLY LOVED THE WAY T.O. SPIKED THE PIG SKIN” and “FUCK, I WOKE UP IN A BATHTUB WITH BLOOD EVERYWHERE”, Jesus H. Christ, it’s enough to make you want to pull a double Van Gogh.
Now, if any of your out there in the blog-o-sphere also happen to have your own decibel-shattering co-worker creeping around your cubicles, do as we do. The next time Aaron the Air Horn blows his vocal load all over the back of your neck, remind him an office is like a library, and unless he keeps his voice down, a couple stamps to the trachea are way overdue.
Going to the gym is like making love to a wet poodle; you want to get in, get out, and make sure your hair isn’t too frizzy when you leave. Any setbacks just throw off your game, leaving you to think about why you came in the first place. So, you can imagine our malaise when some uncertified meathead in an Ed Hardy leotard interrupts our last set of cagles to offer some unsolicited advice about how our uterine wall would be tighter if we just extended our knees 27 degrees to the right.
Thanks Impromptu Gym Trainer. We’ll be sure to make that adjustment next time we’re working out alone and you aren’t rubbing our asses under the guise of selfless exercise tips. Speaking of which, where do you find the time for such altruistic behavior with all your neck shrinking, headbutting tournaments and lighter fluid chugging contests? Your time management skills rival those of Tiger Woods at an all-you-can-eat prostitute buffet. Bravo friend, bravo.
Should you find yourself being approached by a 235 lb ball of Dippity Doo in the middle of your reverse lunges, make like the lady in this photograph: accept his advice willingly and lay a silent crop duster as he positions himself between your thighs. And if you can’t muster the anal strength after all those cagles, you can always suggest he become a member of Crunch’s elbow-drop location. Membership is free and they don’t mind if you bleed in the showers!
#1 White House Party Crashers – Jesus, Tareq and Michaele! A national security crisis just so you can get on The Real Housewives of D.C.? Come on! Maybe if it was Orange County or even Atlanta we could understand, but D.C? Barf. Washington is like Epcot Center for middle-aged men and second-tier prostitutes. We hope next time you come within arms length of Uncie Joe, the secret service auditions for The Real Face-Punches of Douches.
#2 Fire Hydrants – Usually we have nothing against fire hydrants – they provide outhouses for dogs, sprinklers for kids and water for flaming Taco Bells. But then one of them had to go and lodge themselves into the front of T. Woods’ Escalade. Damn you fire hydrants! Instead of putting out fires, you’re starting new ones and now all we’re left with is a 24-hour news cycle dedicated to which holes Tiger dropped his balls in. Don’t make us tee off on your rosey visage.
#3 New York State Senate – Seriously Albany, when did voting “no” on same-sex marriage seem like the right thing to do? Did you fall down, bump your head and wake up in Texas? Did you forget you represent the state that’s home to Andy Warhol, Marc Jacobs and mother fucking Chelsea! The next time you vote on a bill by asking yourself “what would Tehran do?” we’re going to load Adam Lambart with ecstasy and unleash his crotch on yours.
#4 Crazy X-box Returner – Turns out having your X-Box freeze up the minute you are about to pass COD 2 for the 11th time in you grandmother’s basement is enough to make some people go postal. Just ask the 43-year-old dude who decided to try and return his faulty joy machine with a stun gun. Hey Wolfenstein, how about you relax? The teenage employee with acne and an overbite is not going to have the answers to why you’re still a virgin. If you don’t leave soon, Greg from Cinnabon is going to left, right, up, down you to the next level.
#5 Oprah Winfrey – Thanks a lot Oprah, there you are, all “blah, blah, blah I’ll save the world”, then you’re like “fuck it, I’m going to leave you suckas with Tyra and her giant forehead.” Well screw y…oh who are we kidding, we can’t stay mad at you. Please don’t go.
You know what’s great about hiking in groups, besides the sex breaks and splitting the cost of the shrooms six ways? It’s that warm, fuzzy feeling you get in your heart when you reach the peak and look out yonder next to the ten strangers you picked up at the truck stop two miles out. Except when you get there in the middle of the night because some lazy ass with acute asthma and random sleep apnea dragged tail the whole way, stopping every three and a half steps to refuel on trail mix. And by trail mix, we mean a 2L bottle of RC Cola and a six pack of dunkaroos.
You guessed it folks, it’s Dead Weight, the out-of-shape knitting major with a wooden leg who decided to take the advanced walking tour of Rome, only to drag down the rest of the group and sneak away for a nap in the lion cage at the Colosseum. Oh hells no, DW. We did not pay five gillion lira to watch you wheeze your way to the top of the Spanish steps, one cheeto-scented sweat stain at a time.
Fellow group members, if you should ever find yourself dropping whole sheets of acid while you wait for this useless formation of cells to figure out the whole walking thing, do the tortoise a favor and shove her head back in her shell. Just think how awesome the flashbacks will be.
Here at PWDI, we understand that everyone sheds. A little off the top, a pinch off the back and a smidge from the crack, it’s just human nature really – something exaggerated every time we jump in the shower to wash off the previous night’s tequila-infused Waffle House royal rumble. But what we do with the Cousin It leftovers after the final sausage link has been rinsed from our beards is what separates us from the beasts.
Of course, this is something lost on Ambivalent Drain Clogger, the yeti like son-of-a-gorilla who forgets that the hairball he, and sometimes she, leaves in the drain is not going to wiggle itself free. Instead, it’s going to clog the tub until you have a soupy mix of water, soap, urine (see #148) and hair soaking around the next person’s ankles – like being forced to shower in the Florida Everglades of nasty. And if that isn’t bad enough, once the sludgefinally does drain, all you’re left with is damp toupee staring up between your legs like a pervert caught in stripper headlights. Living with an ADC can make taking a shower scarier than waking up beside a Greek Centurion and Gerard Depardieu after a 36-hour bender in Cancun.
There are only two ways to deal with an Ambivalent Drain Clogger: 1) shave everyone in your house as bald as Michael Phelps ball-sac, or 2) turn your fist into your own brand of Drain-O and break up this little birdie’s nest with repeated plunges to the beak. Both work, but only one involves rogue follicles in your mouth. You decide.
Fellow Internetians, we apologize for the laps in postings, we’ve actually been holed up in our L-shaped bungalow for the past week because Pop In Pooper finally found out where we live. He set up shop outside the front door with a months supply of L.L. Bean catalogues and a long intestine full of revenge flatulence. If it wasn’t for the mini Cu Chi tunnels we built back in ‘93 we might never have made it out to the Internet café. Phu!
Speaking of bodily fluid malfunctions, check out the faulty gas cap on today’s entry – Boozy Bed Wetting Guest. This guy’s bladder control is about as safe as putting a piano-playing baby in a rusty MacClaren stroller. There you are trying to be a good high school/college/military/NAMBLA buddy, letting Ol’Hounddog crash in the spare room while he’s in town for the Bi-Annual Vacuum Salesmen Conference, only for Rummy McRummison to come back from the Bissell mixer so smashed that when he does finally pass out, there’s so much of the captain on the sheets you’re going to need a Wet Vac. Sure he’s sorry and he’ll pay for new sheets, but everyone knows that matters about as much as Carrie Prejean – buddy just pissed all over your mattress. That shit is like herpes, it ain’t going away. Ever. You might as well just turn your new giant urine sponge into a sidewalk trampoline for the homeless and cut your losses.
The only way to stop this pullout sofa soiler is to take some serious preventative measures. Think of your fist as a condom and BBWG as a giant virus-filled shaft – the next time he shows up at your front door, the best thing to do is roll a couple of right handers tightly around his head. To be clear, we mean punch him in the face.
So, here’s the thing: when Tony Danza invented the digital camera, it was with the intention of having the paprazzi upload naked snapshots of Rupaul quickly and efficiently, without the hassle of getting felt up in the darkroom by the old bearded guy who is always in darkrooms. But you, Picture Nazi, have taken the point and click to another level and Ted is very, very angry.
We understand that a trip to Cold Stone Creamery off Highway 50 might be a once in a lifetime experience – after all, the bathrooms do have those awesome glow-in-the-dark blue lights for Magic Card enthusiasts and heroin addicts alike – but come on! Is it really necessary to document the folding of the cookie into your double Mud Pie Mojo? Do we really need to pose with the underage sex worker moonlighting as an ice cream scoopeuse by day as she sings the anthem of obese people everywhere? And how many memories does one man need of the time he stood next to a sign that had a word on it that looked similar to his stepsister’s middle name?
Holy scheisse, Picture Nazi. Enough is enough. We refuse to enable your scrapbooking addiction any longer. So put down the Coolpix, unzip your neutral-toned vest, and engage in some undocumented debauchery for a change. Otherwise, we’re going to take a cue from the pros, stakeout your apartment and sell the pics of you trash-talking your cat at chess to the people at iplaychesswithcats.com. We’re pretty sure the rest will take care of itself. Say cheese biatch.
There you are: 5:45 on a Thursday afternoon, trying to finish up your last I-76 report so that you can prowl the local speakeasy for a recovering sex addict with low self-esteem and an ample supply of Vicodin, when out of nowhere the inappropriate fingers of today’s offender start making crop circles around your shoulders. And before your daydream has the opportunity to progress beyond the linen sheets and a furry 9-iron, you’re snapped back to your cubicle by the cold, hard, creepy hands of Touchy-Feely Co-Worker.
That’s right folks we’re talking about the high school gym teacher from a previous life who treats the office like her own personal Greco-Roman massage parlor, handing out shoulder rubs, back scratches, head taps, underarm tickles, ass slaps, thigh strokes, lower abdomen pats and bear hugs ever time she comes within five feet of your aura. It doesn’t matter if you’re in the middle of typing out an email, taking a call or telling your GP that the crabs have started fighting back, TFCW will take any opportunity she gets to treat your body like a container of Silly Putty at a German rave party – rubbing up on you like an automated car wash set to rape. Why Buffalo Bill feels the need to check every square inch of your epidermis in the work place is lost on us. But whatever the reason, this purveyor of petting makes even the most sexually frustrated sex offender take the lotion off their face.
One thing is for sure; next time Sexual Harassment Sally tries to give us an unwarranted strip search while we finish off the day’s numbers, we’re going to treat her to our own brand of Chinese Fistology, and Confucius say “only thing left to be messaged is heart by E.M.T.” Hi-Ya!
Birthing a human is no small feat. In 2005, a Brazilian woman pushed 17 lbs of baby flesh out of her buceta. If anyone could rationalize giving her kid a life-ruining name, it’s her. But guess what? She named it Bob. Or something. So there really is no excuse for the selfish twats going around knockin boots for the sole purpose of channeling Frank Zappa nine months later and releasing Dweezil Jr. into the world to be taunted and tea-bagged for the rest of his life.
Terrible Baby Namer, this post is for you. Just because Mr. and Mrs. Wiener were high on empty Pam cans when they decided to name you Seymour, doesn’t give you the right to take out your pent up childhood traumas on your own offspring. That’s called transference and our head shrinker says it’s pretty effed up. You better believe that when Wanna Towell is getting anally probed by Big Easy in the stoney lonesome after shooting up a private school wearing nothing but a peacoat, it won’t be anybody’s fault but your own.
A piece of advice TBN: next time you get roofied and forced into a threesome with Gwyneth Paltrow and Sylvester Stalone, better get to the baby-be-gone clinic quick. Otherwise, veto power is going to dub your lovechild Apple Moonblood and we’re going to have to change your name manually. To Smushed Face. Middle name: Bruise.
There are some things you just don’t mess with: a brotha’s family, his hair, or his Gameboy DS. But above all else, you do not screw with another man’s sustenance. Comprende? Why then, do some of you think it’s okay to bogart the Jalapeño Poppers when you explicitly agreed to share said finger food? That’s right Food Hogger, we’re el hablar con usted. And we’re mucho peeved.
Honestly, did you think we wouldn’t notice the half an atomic buffalo wing leftover after we just paid for you to scarf down the rest of the bird? Did you fall and break your mangina on Bernie Madoff’s seed? Because there is no way we’re letting you get away with a potato skin Ponzi scheme. It’s not that we mind going Dutch at the Olive Garden, its just that we don’t appreciate you trying your best Takeru Kobayashi impression on the Tuscan Spinach dip when we’re supposed to be going halfsies. Didn’t your Scout leader ever tell you that sharing is caring? Over “Shirley Temples?” In the backseat of his Winnebago? Every second Saturday? Without pants? No? Weird.
Nonetheless, here’s the lay of the land Rush Limbaugh: you better learn what it’s like to split a plate of crab cakes real fast. Otherwise we’re going to learn how to split your upper lip with a bread stick. And there’s no way we’re throwing in for the medical bill. But don’t worry, ‘Bama should have you covered by 2052.
Not much is worse than having a masked stranger shove their latexed paws down your throat and treat your gums like a callgirl backstage at a B4-4 show. Except when said mouth raper has the audacity to channel Joy Behar in an exclusive interview with Barbara Streisand midway through your root canal.
Holy fluoride Chatterbox Dentist! What the lateral incisor is wrong with you? Clearly, we cannot answer your questions about whether the market is bouncing back. And it’s not only because we don’t understand math, it’s ’cause there are two filthy clown hands blocking our aorta and we’re pretty sure they’re yours. And if they’re not, we demand to know what’s going on, because we refuse to be manhandled like an uncomfortably sexual episode of Seinfeld. Don’t pretend you don’t know the one. You plaque pushers love that shit.
If we show up six months from now and you’re still feeling the urge to make small talk while we gag in your palm, we’re going to turn the squeaky tool tables and give you an oral exam you never forget. So get out the Nitrous, pick a probe, set the TV to King of Queens and open your face up wide. Don’t worry. We’ll let you spit frequently and raid the treasure chest when we’re done.
We get it, being a bus driver sucks ass -you get paid very few shillings to shepherd around an oversized Astro Van full of bratty children, alcoholic receptionists and insurance salesmen. It’s safe to say life hasn’t turned out exactly how you planned, you don’t have a number one hit in Mogadishu, you’ve never scaled Mt. McKinley in a rabbit suit and there hasn’t been a single Keanu Reeves sitting on your bus route. Bummer.
Still, just because you never became a Hooters girl doesn’t mean you have to treat bus 2525 like your personal audition for “Who Wants To Be The Biggest Asshole Of Henrico County”. We know people are annoying, we know people are rude, and we know that people can make you so mad you want to dedicated an entire sliver of the interweb to the delusionary task of ridding the world of their presence while never leaving your mom’s basement. But come on. Nobody on your moving meat locker ever achieved a chart topping reggaetone track in Morocco either. So how about cutting the peeps a little slack Aggressively Anal Bus Driver? Stop yelling at people for paying in quarters, or coming near the yellow line, or for not being able to move any further into the armpit of the diabetic Hare Krishna. How about you just suffer in silence like the rest of us? Sound good?
Because if you don’t, we guarantee somebody, maybe Dennis Hopper (maybe not), is going to take offense to your sass and treat your face like a transfer card, punching holes until you have a free ride to the emergency ward. And we’re not talking about the nightclub in Texas.
Sorry all y’all Anne Frank wannabes. Turns out more people want to punch Aborted Fetus Costume in the face this year. You’ll just have to settle for blatant nonviolent disgust and a vexing by the voodoo rabbis. Not too shabby.
But, enough about you. Back to the filthy swine flu fuck who shows up to the Church of Latter Day Saints Halloween Gala dressed as a vacuumed embryo. Shame on you, Aborted Fetus Costume Guy. Don’t you know it’s offensive to paramedics everywhere to feign the fetal position if you’re not in serious danger? God, you are so insensitive. No, not you God. You’re cool. It’s just an expression. Please don’t give us herpes again.
So in conclusion Aborted Fetus, if you show up at our annual Spookfest dressed like Sinead O’Connor’s premature placenta, we’re going to show you what it feels like to actually be aborted. And we ran out of hangers last week, so it’ll have to be a rusty nail kind of procedure. Be sure to fill out the forms in advance.
Trick or treat suckas. The weather is cooler, the pumpkins are carved and the razor blades are hidden. That’s right interwebbers, it’s our favorite time of year – ironic costume time! But for every Gay Hitler out there, there’s a million Joe the Plumbers. So in the spirit of the season we ask you to pick the number one costume that deserves a punch to the gourd.
Imagine this: you’re up in da club, shit’s getting sweaty and the investment banker who dropped a roofie in your drink an hour ago is grinding up against you like a cocker spaniel on a fire hydrant in heat. The DJ throws on some R Kelly and suddenly you start to feel the pre-game mandarin chicken Lean Cuisine come back up. You run for the ladies/gay men’s room for a subtle upchuck and a quick bump or two, when BAM! Before you know it some lady is massaging your palms with a flowery lotion and shoving a stale mint down your throat, all for the low price of fuck-I-don’t-have-any-money.
We know what you’re thinking; this lady looks a lot like a man. No, wait, you’re thinking it’s not Overly-Aggressive Bathroom Attendant’s fault. She’s just doing her job. Bringing home the bacon to put herself through advanced education CSI night classes. Well guess what? Fuck that. That’s right. We said it. Some of us would like to take a peaceful shit between courses at the Cleveland Ritz Carlton without having to pony up our last shilling. If anything, OABA should be paying us. A good steamer rarely gets rewarded anymore. And another thing: stop forcing us to cleanse. The sign clearly states EMPLOYEES must wash hands. Last time we checked, we weren’t on the payroll at Forbidden Obsessionz. So if we want to get e coli, that’s our prerogative.
If we ever encounter this Coolwater pusher again, poop’s gonna hit the fan. The face fan. And it’s a lot harder to sell a loosie when you look like a regurgitated frozen beef and broccoli dish. We know, from experience.
Remember when people communicated long distances using only Swiss mountain horns like in that Ricola commercial? You don’t? Well, neither do we. However, some folks are still convinced that the only way to convey their reoccurring salad fork nightmare to their therapist, is to shout it as loud as possible into their mobile phones. As if the cellular device was merely a can attached to a string that only functions properly when details of said cutlery dream are belted out at 11.
Ladies and gentleman, members of the jury, your honor, we give you: Cell Phone Yeller. A particularly heinous victim of the technology gap, CPY can come in a variety of shapes and sizes, but is easily identifiable by their inability to realize that a cellular phone works just like a regular one. No need to compensate for the lack of cords and rotary dial, just go a head talk about your patchouli pancakes like you would anywhere else, science will take care of the rest. Seriously, we’re not making this up, and as much as we like hearing about how Uncle Ray may be the father of your thirteenth child from across the room, we’re at the clinic with our own problems and unless your breath smells like penicillin, having you monologue a Jerry Springer episode into your Nokia is not going to make these bumps go away.
Here’s the deal Bullhorn Betty, if you promise to keep your mouth in check when on your Motorola, we’ll promise to stop leaving you fist mail in your voice box. Sound good? Good.
A topical round-up of people who’ve deserved it the last month(ish).
#1- Balloon Baby Daddy (aka Dick Heenes): Every parent dreams of sending their kid away forever in a giant space balloon, but most of us refrain out of respect for the brave men and woman of the air traffic control coalition. What makes you the exception Dick? So you were on Wife Swap. Whatever, that was one time.
#2- The new housewife of NYC (Jennifer Gilbert): We’re pretty sure all the other granny tits on the Real Housewives of New York City have already been punched in the face by upstanding citizens of the streets, so we will take a preemptive punch at the new girl, who will most surely do something deserving of a cantaloupe fisting. Like naming her kid Blaise. Oh wait, she already did that.
#3- First Premier Bank: Their interest rate is 79.9%! Really? At that price we could borrow from Speedy P, the ecstasy dealer across the hall who masturbates to the Outhere Brothers at 4:32 every second afternoon. At least he gives free back rubs with every lend.
#4- Stephanie Pratt: Because her face is weird now.
#5- Christian Leboutin: Dude puts women in 37 inch heels and has the wontons to call cankles on Barbie? Of course she has fat feet holders you crazy shoe troll – she’s been giving hummers in those heels for fifty fucking years! You’d be swollen too. Maybe you should be more concerned about your own problems. Like the fact that your hands are way bigger than your face.
Ever since Eve became the earth’s first star of Girls Gone Wild, people have been slapping the pony. Two million, two hundred and eighty six days latter and you’d think humans would have gotten pretty good at hiding the salami, right? Wrong. And we’ve got breaking news for you Christiane Amanpour: some people haven’t been practicing at all. And last time we checked, laying pipe wasn’t supposed to be as exciting as watching paint dry on CSPAN .
But thanks to Cold Fish Sex Partner, aka Dead Vagine, waking up with a fresh pot of crabs between your legs isn’t the only thing you have to worry about when hauling someone home from Chez Jay. And what’s extra frightening is that the only motion in your ocean is coming from the waterbed you “borrowed” from Uncle Jack’s Goin’ To Prison party. Thanks a lot CFSP. Thanks for ruining our bi-annual, roofie-free sexfest by doing your best cadaver impression between the sheets. Sex is not for practicing mental long division. According to Kama Sutra For Virgins™, sex takes two, and both should be alive (if possible).
Thankfully, we’ve learned our lesson. Next time we catch a Cold Fish, you better believe we’re throwing it back. Right after we hook’em with a couple extra lefts under the gills. And by gills we mean boobs. Or balls, depending on which way you sling your rod.
On October 12th, 1492, Chrissy Columbus first docked his sea palace on the shores of this vast Indian paradise after having spent 40 days vomiting opium overboard and sodomizing nice African ladies. Five hundred and seventeen years later, thanks to Hooters Air, we can fly to China, pick up a garbage pail kid, a young bride and dried squid skewer and be back before dinner. But what would C-Lumb say if he knew that one unemployed T.G.I.Friday’s attention whore with a stand-up act from 1983 and access to a P.A. system was ruining modern travel for all?
“Walk the plank Stand-Up Steward!” he would proclaim. Take your Gilbert Godfried voice and your mild sexual innuendos, step away from the intercom and pop a vicadin like the rest of us. We didn’t shell out $1,200 for the overnight flight to Bangalore to hear you recite an old Dave Coulier act – unless we’re banging Bob Saget in the overhead compartment, in which case you can get us a couple of moist towelettes and a mini bottle of schnapps.
Next time you ruin another Air India flight with your botched Aziz Ansari impression, we’re going to test the dimmer on the cabin lights, forcefeed you the rest of our masala and crush up an ex-lax for dessert. Ain’t no microphone in the can Milton Berle. Looks like it’s gonna be poop jokes from here on in.
Full disclosure: we live in New York City, so when it comes to jaywalkers we’re generally pretty Nancy Pelosi. Want to walk on a full hand? Go for it. Want to txt while cutting across a side street? This is America. Want to stroll across Second Avenue at 3am? To each his own. However, there is one type of pavement flanneur that makes us angrier than Rush Limbaugh at a lesbian chili cook-off: Extremely Entitled Jaywalker.
So, here’s the thing: when Tony Danza invented the digital camera, it was with the intention of having the paprazzi upload naked snapshots of Rupaul quickly and efficiently, without the hassle of getting felt up in the darkroom by the old bearded guy who is always in darkrooms. But you, Picture Nazi, have taken the point and click to another level and Ted is very, very angry.
There you are: 5:45 on a Thursday afternoon, trying to finish up your last I-76 report so that you can prowl the local speakeasy for a recovering sex addict with low self-esteem and an ample supply of Vicodin, when out of nowhere the inappropriate fingers of today’s offender start making crop circles around your shoulders. And before your daydream has the opportunity to progress beyond the linen sheets and a furry 9-iron, you’re snapped back to your cubicle by the cold, hard, creepy hands of Touchy-Feely Co-Worker.
Birthing a human is no small feat. In 2005, a Brazilian woman pushed 17 lbs of baby flesh out of her buceta. If anyone could rationalize giving her kid a life-ruining name, it’s her. But guess what? She named it Bob. Or something. So there really is no excuse for the selfish twats going around knockin boots for the sole purpose of channeling Frank Zappa nine months later and releasing Dweezil Jr. into the world to be taunted and tea-bagged for the rest of his life.
There are some things you just don’t mess with: a brotha’s family, his hair, or his Gameboy DS. But above all else, you do not screw with another man’s sustenance. Comprende? Why then, do some of you think it’s okay to bogart the Jalapeño Poppers when you explicitly agreed to share said finger food? That’s right Food Hogger, we’re el hablar con usted. And we’re mucho peeved.
Not much is worse than having a masked stranger shove their latexed paws down your throat and treat your gums like a callgirl backstage at a B4-4 show. Except when said mouth raper has the audacity to channel Joy Behar in an exclusive interview with Barbara Streisand midway through your root canal.
We get it, being a bus driver sucks ass -you get paid very few shillings to shepherd around an oversized Astro Van full of bratty children, alcoholic receptionists and insurance salesmen. It’s safe to say life hasn’t turned out exactly how you planned, you don’t have a number one hit in Mogadishu, you’ve never scaled Mt. McKinley in a rabbit suit and there hasn’t been a single Keanu Reeves sitting on your bus route. Bummer.
Sorry all y’all Anne Frank wannabes. Turns out more people want to punch Aborted Fetus Costume in the face this year. You’ll just have to settle for blatant nonviolent disgust and a vexing by the voodoo rabbis. Not too shabby.
Trick or treat suckas. The weather is cooler, the pumpkins are carved and the razor blades are hidden. That’s right interwebbers, it’s our favorite time of year – ironic costume time! But for every Gay Hitler out there, there’s a million Joe the Plumbers. So in the spirit of the season we ask you to pick the number one costume that deserves a punch to the gourd.
Remember when people communicated long distances using only Swiss mountain horns like in that Ricola commercial? You don’t? Well, neither do we. However, some folks are still convinced that the only way to convey their reoccurring salad fork nightmare to their therapist, is to shout it as loud as possible into their mobile phones. As if the cellular device was merely a can attached to a string that only functions properly when details of said cutlery dream are belted out at 11.
Ever since Eve became the earth’s first star of Girls Gone Wild, people have been slapping the pony. Two million, two hundred and eighty six days latter and you’d think humans would have gotten pretty good at hiding the salami, right? Wrong. And we’ve got breaking news for you Christiane Amanpour: some people haven’t been practicing at all. And last time we checked, laying pipe wasn’t supposed to be as exciting as watching paint dry on CSPAN .
On October 12th, 1492, Chrissy Columbus first docked his sea palace on the shores of this vast Indian paradise after having spent 40 days vomiting opium overboard and sodomizing nice African ladies. Five hundred and seventeen years later, thanks to Hooters Air, we can fly to China, pick up a garbage pail kid, a young bride and dried squid skewer and be back before dinner. But what would C-Lumb say if he knew that one unemployed T.G.I.Friday’s attention whore with a stand-up act from 1983 and access to a P.A. system was ruining modern travel for all?
