Friday Hate: 2/27

Friday Hate, coming at you a little bit late. But oh, wait, check the timestamp, it was actually posted Friday, even though I'm writing in on a Saturday afternoon. Good luck proving it assholes.

This week's subject: people who post on discussion boards, including Digg users.

They are the biggest pieces of shit on the planet. But don't take my word for it.

We'll start with discussion board users.

I listen to several radio shows in this area on WJFK, a local talk station. The shows are good, and the station is good about providing venues for feedback.

Except most of the people who offer feedback are total and utter pieces of human shit.

For example, the station post podcasts of each segment of every show. Which is awesome. I can't be around a radio at all times, and I like catching up on segments.

They do this free of charge, and it's very easy to find each segment by date and number. Sounds like a pretty sweet deal right?

Well, not according to the douchebags who post on the message boards. Here are some quotes:

"Can't anyone get these podcasts up by 1:30? I mean, the other shows do it, and I don't think it's too much to ask to have them in a timely matter? Just another example of the show not caring about its listeners." NOTE: The show is question ends at around 10:15.

Oh, I'm sorry asshole. Is your free, on-demand entertainment not getting to you as fast as you'd like it to? Well, here's a suggestion: don't fucking listen.

You obviously enjoy the show, enough to sign up for a message board account, and find a witty saying to put in your signature line, as well as a goofy looking .gif to put under your name.

So why do you spend most of you time bitching about things? Just a standard case of trying to make it all about yourself.

You see, the majority of us hear or see something, and if we disagree, we bitch to someone we know. A friend, a family member, a significant other.

Well, logic suggests that the people who post on these message boards do not have such a person to vent to. So they merely have to post anonymously on the internet, where they can spread their ignorance with no social consequence.

For the sake of my blood pressure, I don't read discussion boards anymore. I used to check to see what people thought about a certain TV show, or sporting event. But then I realized that if these people are ignorant enough to not have a proper venue to spew their venom, then the discussion board serves as the toilet, collecting their excrement on one handy place.

If discussion board users are horrible people, then Digg users are a subset, much like child molesters, of horrible people. A special kind of horrible person that is worse is many ways than your ordinary sicko.

Have you ever been to Digg? It's a content aggrgator site, which was orignally designed as a venue to let users choose the content that they feel is important.

In a perfect world, that sounds pretty cool, right?

Not so. Becsuse every Digg user is the exact same person. Here are some characteristics:

• They love Barack Obama, and he can do no wrong, to the extent that you cannot find a single negative thing about Obama on this supposedly "bias-free" site.
  
• They hate George W. Bush, and by extension, anything having to do with Republicans.
  
• They are rabid athiests, who are the kind that love to tell people they are athiests, and will go to any length to argue with anyone with any religious belief.
  
• They think Rick-Rolling is the funniest thing in the entire world, when in fact it is quite possibly the most unfunny thing I've ever heard of.
• They are computer nerds, which means they love stupid webcomics such as XKCD.
  

It's not all bad. They do enjoy things such as Arrested Development and the legalization of weed.

But for a site that supposedly is free of the bias of normal media, they are the worst offenders, since every Digg user can be condensed into a stereotype, and the articles they feature reflect that.

You want an exercise in ignorance? Read the comments behind anything that's Dugg. THe users are so high on their own self-importance, that they feel the need to Digg or Bury things, and tell everyone exactly why.

It goes back to the not having other personal interaction to vent with. Why would you care about spouting your ignorant opinions to the anonymous masses if you had actual friends that cared about your opinion? The answer is: you don't.

So open up an ice-cold Haterade for these fuckers, because unfortunately, they represent the tech-savvy people of my generation, and in the following decades, when these people get into power positions in our society, I don't see anything good coming of it.

Glamour Shots

I'm not really a fan of magazines, and by extension, their websites. I read Sports Illustrated because it was given to me as a gift, and once and a while a copy of Cigar Aficionado finds its way across my desk, and I browse that, usually while on the shitter.

As far as those rags like Glamour, Madamoiselle, US News, and that tripe, besides a desperate whack-off when I'm away from home, I don't have any use for them.

But working 40 hours a week is a funny thing. I manage to stay pretty busy, but there are always times when I browse random sites. MSN.com is one of those sites, and you would be amazed as the absolute crap they link to.

And when I say 'crap,' I mean, 'stuff that is appealing at 3:30, and I've got an hour and a half before I can go home, and I've busted out of online poker for the day.'

So I end up clicking on stupid articles about cheating men, good pickup lines, as well as other slop that teach women that men are terrible.

But this one I found to be interesting. It's about seven things a guy has in his room, and what they say about him. Which is utter shit, but we'll get to that in a moment.

What disturbed me is how much my bedroom looks like the generic douchebag room that they set up for the photo shoot.

The room in the article:


Here's my bedroom (contain yourself ladies):


I always thought my room was fucntional, yet stylish, the typical room of a single guy in his mid-twenties. But I didn't think it fell into the category of the typical guy in glamour, who incidentally is the type of guy that women hate, because the magazine paints them as such.

Let us examine this further. I will show the picture from the article, followed by the description from the article, then the pic from my room, and my response.

The pictures were taken from my room as it was when I got home from work the other night. No doctoring whatsoever.


#1 - Unmade Bed

He might be a mama's boy. Bet she used to make his bed for him.

Look here cunt. I don't make my bed. I've never made my bed, unless I'm staying at a guests house. My mom never made my bed, and I don't know what the big hubbub is about making beds anyway. It sucks, and I hate sheets that are tucked in.

#2 - Plant

He's nurturing. A plant's not a person (or a pet), but it's a step.


Complete horseshit. I like plants because they look good, and they seem to add a freshness to the room. It has nothing to do with nurturing. If it was, I would be in trouble, because my plants die all the time.

#3 - Guitar
He's old-school. No "Guitar Hero" for this rock star.

I'm not old school. I don't even know what that means. I do know that my guitar is much cooler than the one in their picture. Score one for me.

#4 - Weights

He likes his arms. And hopes you notice they've grown a millimeter.

These were left in my room when I moved in, and a don't really use them. And I don't give a shit if you notice anything about my biceps. My penis growing a few millimeters, you better notice that.

#5 - Scattered clothes

He's not so anal. Did his ex get custody of his dresser?

I'm not so trendy as to have folding chairs in my room, but I do have a loveseat. Unfortunately, I don't have a sweatshirt showing my trendy unvisersity (though the picture of the whole room does show a Va. Tech hoodie on the chair, scary). I don't use my dresser because it's a fucking pain in the ass. The loveseat is right there.

#6 - Decor

He thinks of himself as an adult. As in, he has actual decor.

This is where it gets a little scary. Right down to the shoes on the carpet. While I don't have that stupid black and white carpet, I do have a bamboo-looking thing that covers the raggedy floorboards. I don't, however, think of myself as anything close to an adult. If anything, I'm a big child that likes to drink and swear. So there.

The last thing was something about hanging up personal pictures. I don't have any photos up, and the only thing personal on my wall is my college degree.

This whole thing was a disturbing exercise to say the least. I have six out of the seven things in this Glamour "typical guy" room, and while I don't use anything for it's "intended" purpose, my room does look similar enough to make me want to change.

I hope you enjoyed this little photo essay as much as I enjoyed putting it together. Which is to say, not at all.

The Hand Lotion Conundrum

I was at my parents' house the other day, picking up the mail I still get sent there, as well as raiding their pantry for free shit, and a possibly awkward scenario arose.

I was talking with my mom, and mentioning how my hands get incredibly dry in the winter, especially when I'm covering stuff outside. I mentioned that I grabbed one of those hotel-sized bottles of hand lotion from my bathroom, and she mentioned that she had an extra tube of Gold Bond (I can't say enough good things about this brand, just you wait until that blog post) hand lotion.

So I added that to my stash, and took off for my place soon after.

It wasn't until the drive home that I wondered if that was a weird thing to do. Because, let's face it, as a male, since the age of 13, hand lotion had meant something different to me, and I think you know what I mean.

In fact, since that time, hand lotion has always seemed like a dirty thing to me. Sure, there are plenty of uses that don't involve one's genitals, but that's just how my mind works.

I'm just going to toss this out there: I'm not really a lotion guy when it comes to that. Never was a fan, except on special occasions.

I remember the day I decided that I was going to spank it as often as I could, and since then, I've experimented with all sorts of various lubes, as a young inquiring mind is wont to do.

Warm water quickly moved to baby oil, vaseline, hand lotion and the like. Of course, we all learned the bad things to use, such as soap, shaving cream, and anything else that gets in the ol' pee-hole and stings like the dickens.

But I always preferred the 'au naturale' method, sometimes enhanced by an especially smooth fabric.

But we digress. I was wondering on my way home, at what age does hand lotion simply become hand lotion?

I'm not the awkward, pre-pubescent kid, but that doesn't mean I whack it any less than I did when I was younger. In fact, with the glut of free online porn and proper planning, I probably whack it much more than I used to. It's just who I am, and I won't apologize for that.

But as recently as my senior year in high school, hand lotion still carried that stigma. I remember holding a party the summer before my senior year, and a bunch of people ended up crashing at my house.

At this party was a girl I used to date, and several friends, all of whom were my friends as well. They ended up crashing in my room, and I remember trying to fall asleep on the couch in the basement outside my room.

I could barely hear them talking, and, as is the norm when several women get together, the coversation sounded to me like hens clucking loudly.

But I happened to have some sort of moisturizer on my nightstand, probably for my hands or something like that. And when they found it, the yentering slowed to a crawl, and these chicks were discussing what the lotion was used for.

I wanted to scream, "so I can fuck dried up pussies like yours!" But I didn't. Shame on me.

That was probably about eight years ago, and I wonder if someone in their mid-twenties is immune to such suspicion if they were to buy lotion at the store.

I guess there's only one way to find out. When my current lotion runs out, I'll have to go to the store and get some more.

I will try and get in line with the hottest cashier. When she scans the lotion, I hope she looks at me. If she does, I will wink at her, and do the standard jerking off motion.

Best case scenario? Monkey sex in the bathroom, which is a fantasy of mine, as I've stated before. Worst case? A trip to the sex offender registry.

But the joke's on her. I'm already in there. Who's laughing now?

Crisis averted. For now...

Every now and again in life, the worst of all possible scenarios happens. The cards fall in such a way that the outcome couldn't have been worse.

Often times these hellish experiences mark us for life, and we learn a lesson the hard way.

Not much of that applies to the following story, but I feel that it is as good a lead-in as any.

Last night, I had class. As I've mentioned before, I have class in a high school at night. It was about 10 minutes before class, and suddently I felt an impending intestinal requirement.

I had Chipotle for dinner, and my body clock had been off kilter ever since I had to cover something early Tuesday morning. So I had to go.

I went down the hall to the bathroom closest to the main entrance for the school. And what I found shocked and appalled me.

As you walk in, the wall to my right had the trash can, as well as two sinks. Pretty normal right?
Right.

The wall to my left had two sit-down toilets, and then three urinals. Sound right? Sure, except for the fact that there were no stalls. The sit-down toilets were just out in the open, separated from each other by a three-foot high partition.

I have never seen such an atrocity in my life.

How dare you not cover the shitters? How does anyone ever take a dump there?

No wonder high schoolers are so fucked up these days. There must be gang-rapes a-plenty.

I don't consider myself an overly sensitive person when it comes to male nudity. I take showers in the gym all the time, often surrounded by chiseled 20-year-old soldiers. Uhh...forget about that last part.

I played baseball in high school, and I used to shower with a bevy of naked men every morning. It didn't bother me.

Maybe it's the fact that I liked sharing my eight inches (or centimeters, I always get those mixed up) with the world.

Note: At the risk of spoiling the previous joke, eight centimeters equals a little more than three inches.

It's just not something that bothers me. But shitting in front of people, that's another story. There is no time when a man is more vulnerable than when his pants are around his ankles and concentrated evil is coming out of his backside.

I think every student in that school must have intestinal issues. Because when I was in high school, I took at least one dump in school a day. And I would never do that if I had gone there.

But, I reasoned, maybe I could find another bathroom, one that wasn't so maniacal in design.

With the clock ticking (seven minutes and counting...) I found a bathroom near the library. Which, incidentally was called "Michael Hall." If I had some spray paint, I definitely would have added the word "Anthony" to the top of the sign.

I got into the bathroom and lo and behold, they had a handicapped stall. If they required you to be handicapped to use the stall, I would have crippled myself at that point.

I went in the stall, sat down, and did my dirty, sinful business. With mere minutes to spare, I reached to my left for some TP, and the sight that greeted me was among the worst sights known to man:


Bare cardboard. What was once surrounded by beautiful, life giving toilet paper, now had been exposed to the world as nothing but an unusable shell. God help us all.

What is a young man in my position to do? Use my freshly laundered shirt? Go sockless for the rest of the evening? The dreaded five-finger poopywhistle?

As a fellow human being, I hope you empathize with the position, and know that not cleaning it up is not an issue.

In the battle between dignity and a shit-filled asshole, dignity doesn't stand a chance. Write that down.

So I decided to take a calculated risk. By standing, pulling up my boxers, and holding my pants around my waist (but not buttoning the waist), I could attempt to waddle to the sink and try my luck at the roulette wheel known as the paper towel dispenser.

I could leave the sanctity of my stall, not knowing whether the promise of glorious, paper towel-related satisfaction was a false one.

If someone to walk in during those few precious moments, all would be lost.

And by lost, I mean that I would have immediately given up on my dream of dying with dignity, and tried to hang myself with my belt in the stall, and hope the same janitor that carelessly allowed the toilet paper to run out would be the one forced to cut down my shit-filled asshole corpse.

But callooh, callay! There were paper towels, and like the hermit crab after feeding, I was able to make my way back into the stall safely.

This was the fist time I had ever used those brown, rough, school paper towels for that. Sandpaper would have felt better. Well, fine grained. I'm not too sure about that coarse-grained stuff. That stuff is a wild card, at least when it comes to using it as toilet paper.

But I digress.

Not to get too graphic, but the experience was weird, for two reasons. One, paper towels don't have the same....uh.. shall we say.....picking up ability? Let's leave it at that.

Second, you wouldn't believe how strange it is wiping with paper that is more than double the width. The possibilities are endless.

And I was doing fucking origami in there. I was almost finished creating my fleet of brown striped swans, when I glanced at my watch. Class was starting.

So I decided to abandon my flock, and I gave them each a full viking funeral. Now, I know you're not supposed to flush paper towels down the toilet, but I figured the same janitor that would clean up any potential overflow would be the same prick who didn't refill the TP, so I didn't feel too bad.

Although, now that I think about it, it's possible that the toilet paper had been used up, considering it was the only covered toilet in all the land, it must get its fair share of use. Oh well.

So there you have it. A brush with disaster, only to emerge triumphantly.

Monday Links: 2/23

• A good reference guide for movie trilogy nerds such as myself.
• I enjoy a fine wordplay once and a while. A 224-word palindrome is some fine wordplay.
• I've always been disgusted by the whole "lolcat" phenomenon. But this is something any good American (or commie) can get behind.
  
• Words cannot explain the hilarity.
• I don't know about you, but I like a little story in my porno. This is a good flowchart about said plots.
  

Friday Hate: 2/20

Apologies about missing last week's Friday Hate. If you think that its' absence means that I am slowly becoming less hateful as a person, you are wrong. In fact, it's just the opposite.

This week's subject: Kevin Rudolf and his stupid song, "Let It Rock" You've heard it. Just for shits and gigs, here's the song. You'll recognize it.



Where to begin with this gutter slime?

First of all, the official video has embedding disabled, so you already know he's an asshole. But let's delve deeper.

I actually sort of liked the song for a brief, two-week period in early October of last year. Then I started hearing it in the gym. And on every commercial. And at every Wizards game I went to. And every Capitals game. And at every game I cover for work. And every other shitty sporting event. And anything else where there are people doing things.

And then I saw him perform it live at the NBA All-Star game last weekend. Have you ever seen this guy? He looks like the biggest prick in the world.

He is about 5'4", and looks like he wants to be Izzy Stradlin from Guns N' Roses in the worst way.

Look how effortlessly badass Izzy Stradlin is. Cigarette hanging nonchalantly from the mouth. Awsome fucking guitar. An ascot that somehow makes him look cool. Beaded necklaces. God, I love Izzy Stradlin.

Now look at this prick.

What a fucking poser. I bet some makeup artist perfectly frayed that stupid-ass scarf he was wearing.

Not to mention his name is spelled R-U-D-O-L-F. What's the matter prick, Rudolph not good enough for you? You've got to spell it different to be different. You know who else was different? Minorities in Germany circa 1939. How'd that work out for them?

Here's what else pisses me off. You go to YouTube and type in "Kevin" and this stupid fucking song is the first thing that comes up.

What? No Kevin Spacey, Kevin Nash, or Kevin McAllister? Those three leave more talent in the toilet every morning that Kevin Rudolf has ever seen in his life.

Now that we've fully deconstructed this fuckstick, let's take a look at the song itself.

The chorus:

Because when I arrive
I bring the fire
Make you come alive
I can take you higher
What is this, forgot?
I must now remind you
Let It Rock
Let It Rock
Let It Rock

Wow. Move over Bill Shakespeare. What does that even mean. How exactly will you take me higher? By bringing the aforementioned fire?

What is this, forgot? That's not even a sentence prick. Where's the subject?

Some of the verses:

I see your dirty face
High behind your collar
What is done in vain
Truth is hard to swallow
So you pray to God
To justify the way you live a lie, live a lie, live a lie
And you take your time
And you do your crime
Well you made your bed
I'm in mine

We'll do these one at a time, so your brain doesn't explode with all the asshat-ness. The first verse seems to contain nothing but a randdom smattering of cliches, such as "Truth is hard to swallow," and "You made your bed, I'm in mine."

Keep in mind that this is how the song starts. What does any of this have to do with letting something rock? What is this lie?

The closest meaning I could glean after examining this verse was something about preists and pedophilia. And I hope I'm wrong, because the fact that this song is a hit with that subject could very well spell doom for our society.

Pop Music 101: If you're song can be interpreted as being about molestation, and you're not Pearl Jam, then you're fucked.

You know, I was going to examine this verse by verse, but al of a sudden I feel a migraine coming on. And I've never had a migraine in my life. So rather than think about this filth any more, I'm going to do something slightly more pleasent, like putting a power drill through my temple.

Yet Another Friday Night Shopping Trip

Back with you live (not really) with a new blog post! Apologies for the delays. It seems like most of my life of late has been apologizing for delays. Oh, well.

I've still got a Friday Hate almost ready, maybe I'll do it tonight (which means I won't). But for now, I shall regale you with my latest trip to Kohl's, which always seems to give rise to hilarity.

Every now and then I like to buy clothes. I'm not a shopping kind of person, but once and a while (usually when I have no clean laundry), I decide that I need a new shirt, sweater, bulge-enhancing pair of slacks, or some sort of doo-dad for my hat.

So I went there Monday night, and got a shirt, and got in line.

I don't know about you, but I find waiting in long lines insufferable. Often times I amuse myself by playing Yahtzee on my phone, or checking the latest NBA news. However, on this particular trip, my phone was dying, so I had to find another way to amuse myself.

In front of me was an attractive older lady with a kid that was probably around ten years old. They were shopping for some stupid birthday present, and I found myself listening to their conversation.

I don't know if it was because I was bored, but I became convinced that the ten-year-old kid in front of me was actually mentally retarded. I'm not an expert on child development, but if this kid wasn't retarded, he was fucking stupid.

He was giggling all the time, wandering away, and generally behaving like a snot-nosed little prick. Which seems normal for ten-year-old, after all, I'm pretty sure I was a snot-nosed little prick at that age, but I was still convinced.

"Uh....excuse me ma'am, but I have you ask you a question. Is that kid fucking retarded or something?"

I wanted to ask that in the worst way, but I figured a dose of pepper spray would be the only response, so I kept my mouth shut.

The people behind me were even worse. They were a couple in their late twenties, and let me tell you, they had the market cornered on drawing attention to themselves.

Within thirty seconds of standing in line, I knew that they were in the process of getting married, and they were talking as loud as possible about registering for gifts and all that other bull shit.

I don't know what it is about twenty-somethings that are engaged/married, but 90% of them want the entire fucking world to know that they are getting married.

I don't give a fuck. No one gives a fuck. You're not better than me (well, chances are they are). Just because you spent Valentine's Day with candlelight, wine and lovemaking, and I spent it masturbating with my own tears as lubrication doesn't mean you're better than me.

Wow, apparently we just entered dark territory. Let's move on.

I don't know if you've even been on one of those lines where there is a big line that feeds into multiple cashier, but that's the kind I found myself in. And here's the thing about those lines:

There is always two or three cashiers. And out of those two or three, only one is a remotely attractive female. The other two are ugly ladies/old men, which when you think about it, are the same thing.

And I never get the hot cashier. No matter how much it looks like I will, some stupid fuck always manages to screw me out of thirty seconds of banter with a female that will keep the darkness away for just a few precious hours.

As I was thinking to myself how I never get the hot cashier, lo and behold, she was waving me over to her.

I gave a nod and a grunt, and then I grabbed my junk in a deliberate manner, so she would see that I am indeed a virile male capable of reproducing. Reproducing all over her face.

I think that threw her off her game a bit. Either that, or she was naturally an ice queen, because I got absolutely nothing. Not even an invitation to sign up for a Kohl's credit card, which is usually a given.

Bitch. I'll have the last laugh when I'm savaging myself to your face in about 35 minutes.

Monday Links: 2/16

• My friend sent me this transcript of the Chief of the Virginia Commonwealth University police department soliciting underage sex. The fact that his handle is HotCop is almost funnier than the transcript. Almost.
• Look at him. He doesn't even know what a $1 bill looks like.
  
• Well, I guess I'm out of luck. Any girl I could have snagged, probably is all over this guy already.
• Elephants. Large. Smelly. Drunks. We need to save them.
• For some reason, the sound of the leader of the free world saying, "You ain't my bitch nigga. Buy yo' own damn fries" is the funniest thing I have ever heard that wasn't said by Ricky Gervais.
• And since I'm awesome, and as an easy way to apologize for not getting Friday Hate out on time, here's a bonus link. The worst song ever scientifically created. See how far you can get in. If you can make it over six minutes, you're a better man than I.

Monday Links: 2/9

Uh oh. Looks like someone has a case of the Mondays. Monday Links that is.

• If you're like me, then you like a good shit. Here are some receptacles that would be honored to accept your waste.
• If you're like me, then you've seen the Mexicans on the side of the road holding signs and you've wondered why. My brother thinks it's because it's easier to replace a Mexican than a wooden pole if they get hit by a car. Either way, this is an investigation into that mystery.
  
• If you're like me, then you'll like her. She seems smart.
• If you're like me, then you've spent many a night pondering the technologies of Star Wars, wondering how it would apply in real life. This is an interesting look at that.
  
• If you're like me, this is your worst nightmare. My favorite part is the following quote: "I went to her place for sex, not to be tattooed. I can't believe she did this to me and I hate her."

A Capital Idea

There are few things in life that are as much fun as being an asshole. Not all the time, mind you, but once every now and again, it's your turn to be the asshole.

Every drunken night needs an asshole. In your group of friends, you may not have anyone that qualifies as being an asshole, but everyone is capable given enough alcohol.

I really hadn't been the asshole for a good five months, since last September. So I was due.

Last night, me and several friends went to watch the Washington Capitals play the Florida Panthers.

We took the metro in, which means one thing: little to no drunk driving. Always a good thing. It also means that no restraint will be shown. Especially by me.

We drank some beers at my place, drank some beers at a bar next to the Verizon Center, drank some beers and shots at an Irish pub nearby, drank beers at the game, drank beers and shots in the Greene Turtle inside od the Verizon Center, then headed to a bar for beers and shots after the game.

So yeah.

The only thing of note that happened is the following story. Ladies, I would love to know your opinions on the wager discussed, so feel free to comment.

Me and two of my friends were outside smoking a cigarette. A mere six feet from us, were two ladies, both very attractive.

One of the had the king of blouse on that has a big bow right below the breasts, emphasizing the belly, and resembling maternity wear. I wish now that I'd taken a picture.

I don't remember how it came up, but me and my friends started debating whether or not this girl was pregnant.

I said she wasn't, that it was a poor fashion choice, and my two companions disagreed. We decided to wager on it.

If she is pregnant, then I will pay each of them five dollars. If she isn't, then they each owe me five bucks.

Thankfully for us (and you, fair reader), I was sufficiently drunk enough to find out.

I walk up to them, and here's how it went down:

Me: Uhh, excuse me ladies...
The Non-pregnant-looking one: She's not pregnant!
Me: What?
The Non-pregnant looking one: We heard your whole conversation. She's not pregnant, asshole.
Me: Hey! I was on her side. I just said that it was a poor fashion choice.

Then the non-pregnant girl pushed her friend inside.

During the whole conversation, she gave me this look that said, "I find you slightly more repellent than a slug on the ground, crawling through its own slime."

But I win the bet! Right?

Well, apparently this wasn't good enough for each of my friends to give up five dollars. Because they argued that she was lying.

Fuckers.

Now, she didn't have a drink in her hand, and I'm pretty sure she didn't have a cigarette.

But, we argued about it. And argued. And argued. We threw it to my friend's girlfriend, who happened to be on my side.

And we kept arguing about it, even on the metro ride back.

And apparently at least one fellow passenger heard us, and wasn't too fond of our topic of conversation.

"Hey, excuse me fellas," this guy said. "You know, it was funny for the first five minutes, but really, back it down fellas. The ladies on this train don't need to hear you talk like that."

Are you fucking kidding me? Since when is this not America?

If I had literally had one more beer and/or shot, I would have let it go up a notch.

But I didn't. The guy was a douchebag. He was on the train by himself.

I'm sorry, I thought this was America.

Gone Clubbin'

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Loneliness and Name-Changing MILFs

I'm not going to lie. I'm a basketball fan. Living in D.C., that is an awful thing to be, because the Wizards are horrible.

Recently I got tickets to go to a game against the Phoenix Suns. I was going to go with a friend, but he wasn't able to make it, so I ended up going by myself.

And that is where you, loyal reader, come in. What follows is an account of possibly one of the most pathetic things a human can do: attend a sporting event by himself.

I don't have anything against doing things by myself. I go out to dinner once an a while by myself. I've been to several movies recently by myself. I don't mind. I'm fabulous company.

But a sporting event or concert is something different. I drew the line at going to see Neil Diamond by myself when the person I was supposed to go with bailed.

I had the tickets, but I don't think I could live with myself if I ever had to tell someone, "Yeah, I've seen Neil Diamond. By myself. And I cried during September Morn" If the person I told that to didn't put a bullet in my head on the spot, I would have to do it for them later.

So I traded my tickets for a limited edition Neil Diamond figurine. God, I hate myself.

Anyways, back to the game at hand. I wanted to see the Suns play, the Verizon Center is like 15 mins from my office, so I decided to treat myself to a night on the town with myself.

Yes, I realize that's what divorced fifty-year old women tell themselves. I didn't say I was proud of it. Want to know how awesome my life is? I share many experiences with 50-year-old divorcees.

Hanging myself in the shower has never sounded so good.

I got to the game with plenty of time to spare, and I headed to the Will Call window. In front of me, I eavesdropped on a most interesting conversation.

There was a woman in front of me, with two younger kids. She was very attractive, and she was arguing with the lady at the Will Call about showing her ID to pick up her tickets.

"I know the name is different, but I bought these tickets a week ago, and I just got my name changed today."

I was hooked. Immediately I had to know more. Why did this woman change her name? Why is going to a hoops game a priority post-name change? Why the kids?

It got even thicker. And no, not my penis. Well, yes my penis. But it wasn't the only thing. The plot also thickened. Though not as much as my penis.

She was sitting in the upper section along with me, and I was behind her on the escalator. The escalator to the top stops on the club level, and you have to get off and get on another escalator to go all the way to the top, probably so the people on the club level can see the human scum who sit at the top, and will never sit anywhere else but the club level again.

As this lady and her kids passed the line of people getting into the club level, she clearly recognized a similarly hit MILF, who was waiting to get into the club. The mystery lady exchanged greetings with the club lady, and that got me even more interested.

Let's recap. This woman:

• Has changed her name in the last three hours, ergo her life is in shambles
  
• Made a point to go to the Wiz game, to watch a horrible team from horrible seats
• Her kids are with her
• She has at least one wealthy friend, who she ran into

Who is this minx? I guess we'll never know.

Odds are that she just got divorced, and wanted to spend the quality time with her kids, but that's pedestrian, so I'm going to pretend you didn't say that.

Sadly, this was the last I saw of the mystery woman. Her seats were not near mine, and my standard fantasy of some sort of covert bathroom dry-humping did not come to fruition. Such is life.

As the woman faded out of my life, I stopped at the beer stand to get a tall, frothy glass of "Life is okay after all," made my the good people at Budweiser. For all the crap that professional sports get about concession costs, a 24-oz. beer for seven bucks isn't too bad, especially compared to car prices in D.C.

I took my seat, and I entertained myself by watching the pre-game jumbotron fesitivites, and listening to the PA annoucner spew his filler. Some highlights:

• The PA guy announced that it was illegal to sell or buy scalped tickets. Oh really? If you're inside the game, it doesn't really matter who the fuck you got your tickets from, because you're already in the arena.
  
• The jumbotron had a big advertisement about the penalties for underage drinking, then an ad that no one was allowed more than two alcoholic beverages (fuckfaces), followed by an ad for delicious DeWar's Scotch. Good placement.
  

Every arena has championship banners posted on the ceiling. Unfortunately, the indoor D.C. teams have combined for one championship (Bullets, 1978). Which means that the banners were a motley collection of "Who gives a shit?" banners such as the Caps going to the playoffs, and my personal favorite, the WNBA highest-attendance from 1998, 1999 and 2002. Way to go ladies.

There must have been a hole in my beer glass, because it was empty before the game began. I went to go refill it, and got back into my seat just in time to see the Wizards cheerleaders start their pre-game routine.

I love looking at hot ladies as much as the next fella, but these chicks had something to be desires. When you have a cheerleader with love handles, you know that you only have nine wins.

As the game began, I started to think about writing a blog post about the game. It would be just me and you, dear reader, watching the game, and enjoying it.

Though, when the wave of crushing loneliness hit around the second quarter, that didn't help too much. Fuck my life.

People can text messages up to the jumbotron, and they're usually stupid things like, "Hey Stan!" and shit like that. I briefly considered texting: "If I blow my brains out, will anyone on this godforsaken rock care?"

My seats were so high up that the Chipotle blimp couldn't climb to my altitude to drop free burrito coupons, which was also sobering. Or drunkening. Yeah, drunkening.

Even though I was in the upper section, a surprising number of seats were filled. I thought no one was coming to the the ol' Zards anymore, but the people were here. I wanted to scream, "Damn you people! Go back to your shantys!" in the worst way, but I didn't.

What I did do was drink beer and hope that some married chick with a single friend who loves basketball and needed a place to stay tonight would sit next to me. No such luck. Instead there was a prick behind me who spent the whole fucking game complaining that The Dark Knight wasn't up for best picture.

Apparently there is a whole new generation of motivational songs that play at sporting events. I grew up with Gary Glitter's "Rock and Roll Part II" and Tag Team's "Whoomp! (There it is!)", but apparently that has passed me by.

Now they play M.I.A.'s "Paper Planes" and Kevin Rudolf's "Let it Rock," which I must say, isn't much of an improvement.

Also, I noticed that there aren't many things in this world more awkward than the Kiss Cam that they do at games.

They always end up getting one couple who is actually brother and sister, one couple who don't know each other, and they always focus on two members of the opposing team. If there's one thing that's funnier than interracial homo-eroticism, I haven't seen it yet.

Much like the Kiss Cam, the Dance Cam comes with it's own stigma. They always show a bunch of ugly white kids who have no rhythm, but they are obnoxious enough to get on camera. It always ends with a little dreadlocked black kid who has more rhythm than every whitey in the place combined (it's genetic, you know) and everyone applauds.

I knew I was feeling pretty good, but I didn't realize that I was actually pretty drunk until I let out what I thought was a quiet burp during the game, and the people sitting courtside looked up at me.

But I managed to make it out of the game without causing a huge scene, and other than the bottomless abyss of lonliness, it was good time.

This is the first in what should be a series of posts called, "Field Trips." I don't call them "On the Road," because I'm not really traveling, but they do involve me going to other places. So look for that. Or don't. I don't give a fuck.

Friday Hate: 2/6

When pondering what to discuss for the first February edition of Friday hate, there were many topics running through my mind.

Perhaps you noticed the lack of updates this week. It's not because I don't have material. Believe you me, there's plenty of that, I've got more in the queue than I've ever had, and hopefully I'll get a couple more out today.

No, it's because a fucking pipe burst in my office, causing me to lose at least two days of this week, and spending Wednesday, not only trying to qrite many stories for deadline, but also pack up everything in the office so it can me moved out and the carpet replaced.

But that's not the subject of Friday Hate. I enjoy pipes. Whether it's laying pipe, smoking a pipe, or.... well, I guess those are the only two analogies. Apologies for getting your hopes up.

No, today's Friday Hate is about: school.

I recently returned to the halls of academia, in the form of a photography class, which takes place at a local high school at night.

It's a decent class, doesn't go for very long, and is relatively inexpensive.

But school sucks.

As soon as I walked into that high school, it all came pouring back. The pastel-colored cinderblocks. Row after row of garishly painted lockers.

And then I see things like this:


Hate free zone? I want no part of that.

Here is a selection of DVDs that the students were enjoying:

Click on the image to see better quality.

Evolution? Stem Cells? HIV/AIDS? What are they teaching kids these days? When will they go back to like it was in the good old days. I mean, nothing bad happened in the 40s, right?

And then there's the classmates.

I remember being in high school, and if you were like me, you were bored 75% of the time, which you spent thinking about which girls in the class you would band, and in what order.

I went to a private high school, so I had a bonus during the warmer months: girls were required to wear skirts, so I could spend time trying to get a glimpse whenever they crossed and uncrossed their legs.

But we're in the dead of winter now, and people taking photography classes aren't exactly wearing skirts to class. Fucking teases.

The class meets on Wednesday nights, and I chose that one against one that met on Tuesday nights. Big fucking mistake.

I get there, and there are only three chicks there. Two of which, are extremely attractive, one of which is sitting right next to me. Score.

I won't lie. One of the things I was hoping to get out of the class was to meet some hot artsy chick that didn't mind giving up the butt, and/or smoke drugs with me.

Then the teacher came in, and mentioned that the other class, the Tuesday one, the one I was going to sign up for, only had one guy, and the rest were chicks. Fuck.

But, I reasoned, at least there are two hotties in this class that I can spit my horrible, horrbile game at.

At least, until I saw their hands.

Let me tell you something. There is nothing worse than seeing a hot chick, and the seeing a diamond ring on one of those fingers. It blows.

And one of these chicks, not the one sitting next to me, but the other one, she could not go more than one minute without mentioning her husband. A sample of dialogue:

Teacher: Why are you taking this class?
Chick: Well, me and my husband like to travel, and we take photos and I want to get better (hands out her samples)
Teacher: This is a nice one.
Chick: Yeah, that was a Virginia Tech. That's where I met my husband. He was in the engineering program, and we went there a few weeks ago.
Teacher: Where are you from?
Chick: Well, I live in Falls Church. Whenever me and my husband go into D.C., we always want to take a picture at the metro stop, there are so many people.

Bitch! How am I supposed to fantasize about face-fucking you if you keep bringing up your husband? I get it. You have a good thing going. But try not to mention him in every single sentence you utter.

I'm planning on counting the times she mentions her husband next class, and I will report back to you with the number. I know it will be fucking ridiculous.

This Friday seemed to have plenty of hate to go around. There are a lot of things I hate.

Like you. I hate you.

Monday Links: 2/2

If you are any kind of man, you slogged into work this morning hung over as balls from the Super Bowl.

So let's not waste time, let's get right into it. Tylenol. Water. Monday Links.

• Rickey Henderson got into the Baseball Hall of Fame recently. In honor of this, a list of his greatest moments. Absolutely hilarious.
• Bacon. Alcohol. My two favorite things that aren't attached to women (I stole that line). Here is a discussion about gloriously combining the two.
  
• Besides the imminent threat posed by SkyNet, nothing scares me more than this. This is your cue to start pouring bleach into the ocean. The future of mankind depends on it.
  
• Google maps. An invaluable tool, interesting to look at while bored at work, and killers of deer? Read it and weep (or laugh, as your beliefs dictate.
• We here at Fists With Your Toes are all about recognizing heroes. And heroism never gets called on account of bad weather.