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Archive for the ‘People Who Deserve It’ Category

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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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“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.”

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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.

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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.

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Fellow non-Inuit Northeastern inhabitants,

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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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 !!!

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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.

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!

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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.

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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).

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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.

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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”

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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!

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“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…

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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.”

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!

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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.

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