Fists With Your Toes

Musings on Pornography

2009-08-06T08:49:00.000-07:00

Kids these days. They have no idea how hard it used to be for the rest of us to find pictures and/or videos of consenting adults having sex.

Back in my day, I remember paying $10 for a picture torn out of a playboy. It was a woman in a bathtub, most of her covered with bubbles.

It was the greatest thing I owned. I used to go on camping trips with the Boy Scouts, and I would stash that picture in my backpack like it was a bag of weed, and I used to get paranoid if anyone came near my backpack.

Now, kids can get on a computer, type in a couple of things, and watch midgets fuck and blow each other's brains out as they climax.

Sure, there are parental controls, but I'm sure there are ways around it. After all, when my parents had dial-up I figured out how to bypass that shit. I'm sure they can do that much easier now.

I remember the first time someone hipped me to the fact that there were, in fact, naked pictures of people on the internets. My friend had it in his basement, I believe he had Netscape, and one time I was sleeping over at his house, and told me that we could see naked chicks online.

This was probably right around the time I had that naked picture, and the idea that more than one women would allow herself to be photographed naked blew my mind.

So he got online, and sure enough, 20 minutes later there she was. I can still picture it. I don't remember how or what my friend searched for, but it was a chick with a beer bottle up her snizz.

It was an exciting time to be alive.

My first experience with a full porno magazine came when I was in fifth of sixth grade. My friend's grandfather who lived across the street had a subscription to Playboy, and he managed to snag one, one with Drew Barrymore on the cover.

We ogled it aplenty, and then, because neither one of us wanted to be caught with it, we did what any kids would have done.

I stole several large ziploc bags from my parents, we sealed it in that, and we hid it in the woods in some hole.

Of course, it wasn't sealed properly, animals got into it, and it was all soggy the next time we went out, but it didn't bother us. It was still naked chicks.

A few years later, when my parents finally got the internet, I would get my jollies by going to pay sites, and taking the free tour. As horny and inexperience as I was, I could look at those photos where the actual penetration was covered by a star or a smiley face, and still get aroused.

My world changed when someone told me about thehun.com. Free galleries, where they would actually tell you what was going on. I never liked photos of lesbians, or chicks posing, I needed the penetration.

I remember being in high school, playing for the baseball team, and we went on a trip to Virginia Beach for a tournament over spring break. One player brought a VCR and a bunch of porno tapes.

I remember walking into his hotel room one night, and four or five guys were in there watching porno on the TV. Luckily they weren't all jerking it (although I could have blocked that out).

I remember talking to my friend, asking him why he didn't just bring a playboy like the rest of is. And he told me that he couldn't get off to pictures, he had to be watching moving people.

That always struck me as a very jaded thing to say. After all, I was more than happy with pictures. Dial-up took about twenty minutes to download a 10-second clip (after all, we just upgraded to 56K), so pictures had to get the job done.

Soon, after I went to college and had a constant high-speed connection, I got more into the videos, but The Hun was still my go to for many years.

I think it was my junior year when I got turned on (pun) to juicyclips.com. Nothing but video, and by this time, I needed video. Unless it was something really crazy, pictures just wouldn't do it for me anymore.

Juicyclips lasted me until very recently. Last summer, I was still hitting the juicy clips site pretty regularly.

Then, I was introduced to Redtube. Wow. Like a youtube of porno, you didn't even have to wait for it to download. It was glorious. But Redtube sort of sucked, because it would always resize the window and all that.

Then I tried youporn. Good, but not great. It wasn't until I got a tip from a radio show that I found my current number one seed.

Pornhub. A top drawer operation. It has a section with new stuff, it has a section for "videos being watched' it's great. Plus they sort shit my specific porn star.

Sometimes I'm in the mood to watch Taylor Rain's ass get rammed, and sometimes I want to go back to the glory days of fabulous asses, and I search for Nina Hartley.

The important thing is that the choice is there.

But this instant gratification (pun?) comes at a price. Namely, I'm starting to become jaded. Unless I've gone without for a while, a normal boy-girl scene doesn't do it for me.

Lately, I've been into the 2 girls, one guy videos, which isn't too weird. That's my go to when it's a standard time, but finding new ones has been harder and harder (pun!).

Sometimes I'm in the mood for anal, sometimes squirting, sometimes 69ing. It depends.

But what happens when that runs out?

Will I go to blacks on blondes? Huge asses? Double Penetration?

Who knows what the future will bring. But it's an exciting time to be alive.

A Shitty Conversationalist

2009-08-05T19:11:00.000-07:00

There are certain things people hear about, and while you nod in amazement as the tale is told, deep down you're thinking, "No way, that kind of thing only happens in the movies, it's too ridiculous."

Well, I had one of those things happen to be the other day, except I was the one performing the unspeakable act, and some poor sap was on the receiving end of it.

But let's start at the beginning.

It was a shitty day today. I was told to come into the office at 7:15 a.m., which for those of you keeping score at home, is an hour and 45 minutes earlier than usual.

The only thing worse than getting in so fucking early, is when you find out there was no need to have you come in so fucking early. I busted by balls to get in that early, including not taking a shower in the morning.

So I get into work, only to waste almost an hour because the stupid fucking thing I have to cover is not until 9 a.m. Which is the time I normally get in.

So I'm pissed, because I've wasted half of the day, and there was shit I had to do. Specifically, I had to track down eight people and get quotes and pictures.

But let me add a caveat to that last sentence. I was pissed, but a certain something calmed my mood. And when I say "calmed my mood", I mean "made me get a boner while standing," which is no small feat, especially with jeans on.

Because I was hanging out at some amphitheater, and there was a chick there filming video for something, and she was driving me up the wall. With hotness.

You see, she was dressed simply enough, with a navy blue polo shirt and some khakis. What enchanted me about this particular lass however, was how her khakis were molded around the most perfect ass I have ever seen on a white girl.

Now I'm not normally as ass man. I actually prefer a nice, tight stomach to a good ass most of this time. But I'm also a red-blooded male, and therefore, I follow the iceberg rule. For every foot you see of an iceberg above a water, there are nine feet of iceberg below. So for every inch this chick's stomach stuck out (which wasn't a whole lot) ninety percent of her depth was in the ass.

And it was absolute perfection. I have a picture of it. I might post it, but I don't want to violate this poor girl's privacy, even though her face is nowhere to be found in the dozens of photos I snapped, which I pretended to be taking of the ceremony.

Her ass is so signature, I'm sure every male in the D.C. metro area would recognize it.

But I digress. My day wasn't as bad as it seemed for the beginning part.

One of these people I had to track down is a general, who works in a certain five-sided building near Washington, D.C. Generals as a (general?) rule don't give random quotes to jerkass reporters like me, their executive officers get the quote from them.

Well, I get in touch with the XO, and he tells me that the general will call me in about a half hour. By now, it's 4:30 a.m., and I usually leave at 5. It's especially important that I leave on time today, because I have plans for dinner, which I never do.

So of course this is the one fucking day when I'm left playing with myself waiting for someone to call me.

To add a little bit if pubic hair on this shit salad, I really had to take a shit. And I mean bad. But it's 4:30, and I have half an hour to go before I can even comprehend leaving my desk, and I probably had to give it about a ten-minute grace period, just to be sure.

So I'm busting heinous ass for half an hour as people are leaving my office. I had to turn my desk fan off, lest the pre-shit flatulence set off the biological attack alarms, so I'm also sweating bullets.

At 5:05, I'm sitting at my desk, wondering how discretely I could dispose of a trash bag full of shit, the phone rings. It's the general's assistant.

She says, "General [blank] is still busy, but he should be available in about 20 minutes. What time do you usually leave."

At this point the pressure in my colon is causing me to hallucinate slightly, and apparently I told her I usually leave at about 5:30. That was utter horseshit, if you'll pardon the pun, but I said it without thinking.

So she says, "Okay, well, give me your cell, and if he's available before 5:30, and after that, I'll have him call your cell phone."

Like Ron Burgundy after jumping into the bear pit, I immediately regretted my decision.

What the fuck was I thinking?

Now I have to stay here another half hour, putting a serious crimp in my dinner plans, and an even more serious crimp in my colo-rectal health.

So I sweat out another 25 minutes, and then I limp my way to the bathroom. Of course the shitter stall on my floor is full (AT FIVE FUCKING THIRTY NO LESS!!), so I have to duckwalk up the stairs, careful not to let my cheeks spread too far apart on the dozen or so steps.

I get into the bathroom, hustle to the far stall with a window view (I like to look at fields while I BM), and drop trou.

I'm just about to let fly like Mussolini from the balcony, when holy santa claus shit, my phone starts ringing.

I have no choice but to pick it up.

And this is the situation you only hear about in the movies. No one ever talks on the phone in a public restroom in real life. Have you ever walked into a public restroom and heard someone on the crapper on the phone? Me neither.

But I'm here, talking to the general's officer while desperately holding in an afternoon's worth of leftovers.

And I couldn't make it.

"Thanks for getting back to me sir, I appreciate it. (and.......RELEASE!!!) What's that? No I don't hear anything. Oh, that? Uh...I just dropped a roll of quarters into a bowl of oatmeal here. Don't worry about that. What's that, you can smell it over the phone?"

I made that last sentence up. He couldn't smell it. But you know who could smell it for sure? The poor bastard who chose that moment to come into the bathroom to wash his hands before he left for the day.

He walks in, is immediately slapped across the face, with a hand made of stank, and has to listen to me talk to this general's officer.

"Yes sir, I'm so glad he'll be able to help. No, we'll be glad to put his quote and photo in the paper. Yep, it will go in this week."

I'm carrying on a perfectly normal interview conversation, despite the fact that concentrated evil is coming out of me. Concentrated evil speckled with the corn I had for lunch.

Here's the real sticky wicket. I am now the only male who works at the newspaper that writes. The other two guys are older, and they're the editor and assistant editor respectively, so they're not likely to be tracking down many leads, especially not on the second-floor shitter on a deadline day.

So this poor fuck, God bless his soul, now knows what I did. The worst part? I have no idea who he was. He didn't even scream, "Oh my God, it's like the holocaust in this restroom!" (which makes him a better man than I) when he walked in, so I couldn't get his voice.

So now I have to go into the office tomorrow not knowing which is my fellow workers now thinks that I am a subhuman piece of scum. That should be fun.

Friday Hate: 7/31

2009-07-31T16:36:00.000-07:00

This week marks glorious return to Friday Hate

Wedding rings.

For a guy in his mid twenties that is looking to bang every attractive piece of trim that comes across his path, there's nothing worse than seeing a wedding ring.

I would rather see an open, herpetic sore than see a wedding ring, because at least a sore means there's a good chance she'll bang you in some sort of closet/bathroom/phone booth.

A note to all you single ladies out there: avoid rings at all costs. It's just a turn-off, and no one wants to risk being that jackass that hits on a chick that is married.

At least with a boyfriend you have an excuse, because there's no instant boyfriend indicator like there is a wedding ring.

Side note: you chicks who have boyfriends that don't always come with you to parties or live in a another town, make that clear as soon as I start talking to you. There's nothing that pisses me off more than spending a party making inane conversation and pretending you're actually a funny girl (which don't exist), only to have you casually drop the phrase, "my boyfriend" at 3 a.m.

That shit is fucking infuriating.

I was at a party a few months ago, and spend the entire time talking with this bitch. We played shitty ass drinking games, like 'thumper' and I listened her talk about the stupid-ass degree she was chasing which would not have any practical application in the real world. Only, since I was trying to hit that, I was like, "Oh yeah, cultural anthromorphology, that's so interesting. Tell me, what does the inside of the zipper on my pants tell you about me?"

And of course, as the party is winding down, I find myself with her alone in the living room, trying to desperately close the deal, and the 25 beers I drank working against me in every way.

I comment on some movie that's sitting on the coffee table (I think it was Ghostbusters) and I go, "that's a great movie, the second one isn't bad too."

"Oh, I haven't seen that one, though I've always wanted to," she said.

Sensing the opening for a late night movie (read: genitals) showing, I say, "Oh, well, I've got it at my place if you ever want to watch it."

She comes back with, "Oh, that would be cool. My boyfriend says it's a great flick. His name is Chip, you would really like him."

BITCH. I WOULD NOT FUCKING LIKE HIM. IN FACT, I FUCKING HATE HIM.

Really? She couldn't have mentioned that five MOTHERFUCKING hours ago?

But there was no wedding ring.

The only thing that's worse than a wedding ring is chicks who don't wear them, then drop the h-bomb when I'm already committed.

I met a girl a few weeks ago, she was hot, and seemed to be digging the conversation. About half an hour in, she drops the "husband" bomb, and I got the fuck out of there.

To recap, I hate wedding rings, or chicks that are married that don't wear wedding rings, or chicks with boyfriends. Basically, I hate any chick that has a legitimate excuse for not boning me.

I also hate the chicks that have no excuse, but still don't bone me.

Well, that about covers the entire female species. I hate all you cunts. Prove me wrong.

First Contact

2009-07-30T14:44:00.000-07:00

I come to you now after a long vacation. Both from work, and an even longer one from writing for this site. Part of me was seduced by the easy lure of Posterous, (which I still update please to be checking it out), part of me was a little burned out from doing so much at work.

But I'm back now, brimming with fresh stories of alcohol-fueled obnoxiousness. Like the following, minus the alcohol.

I generally wear glasses to see long distances. I ear them when I drive, I used to wear them all the time in class, and I wear them a lot at work.

Lately I've gotten fucking sick of wearing my glasses, making sure they're clean, not losing them while hammered, all that stuff.

So I decided to make an appointment to get contacts. I had a Monday off, so I went to this place, and got an eye exam, before getting fitted for contacts. It was in my insurance and close to my place, but it was a new doctor for me.

I don't have a phobia about eyes or anything, but there is nothing more terrifying than waiting for that fucking puff of air to get your eyes. I would rather wait in front of a firing squad.

I always flinch like a bitch at every little shift, and then when the puff comes out, I always shove myself back, sometimes letting out a piglet-like squeal of pure terror. I hate myself.

Once the exam is finished, it was time to meet my new eye doctor. I've had a few eye doctors in the past, and they're usually the weirdest looking people you've ever met. Very nice people, mind you, but strange.

This trip was the exception to the rule. Because my doctor was drop dead gorgeous. Tan, dirty blonde hair, and about 6-2.

I love tall chicks. And most importantly, no wedding ring. See this week's Friday Hate for more info on that.

The problem? I've been on vacation for more than a week now, so not only are my shower schedules way off (shower at night), but I'm about a month overdue for a haircut, and I'm wearing the same filthy-ass shorts I've worn for the entire vacation, meaning they probably smell like fish and cigar smoke and beer.

I was hoping for one of those "Which is better, number one, or number two?" style tests, only instead of the stupid letter chart, I would get to stare at those gorgeous breasts, but alas, it wasn't to be.

So I get my exam, and go through all the shit, and then they hand me over to some Oriental broad, and here's where the trouble starts.

It was like the scene where the Asian chick is waxing Andy's chest in 40-year-old Virgin, except this bitch was putting shit in my eye.

Then I had to take them out. Then put them in. Then take them out. Then put them in. Then take them out.

In and out three times had to happen three times before I was finished (hey-oh!). By the end of it, my eyes were bloodshot, there were hot salty tears everywhere, and I had nary a shred of dignity.

It was like that, except replace "body waxed" with "putting shards of fucking glass in my eye."

Monday Links: 6/15

2009-06-15T06:37:00.000-07:00

Happy Mondee!

I'm a simple man, with simple pleasures. And high-speed photography of a pellet popping a bubble is something we can all get behind.
This is fascinating, and it explains how curveballs are so effective.
Oh, the irony.
Just ten more reasons that Clint Eastwood is better than you at everything.
Well, I'm glad we got that figured out.

Expansion Is A Bitch

2009-06-13T20:22:00.001-07:00

Apologies about the lack of updates, but it's not like I haven't been busy. I've been devoting a little more time to my posterous which is updated almost daily, albeit shorter.

Take a look see won't you?

Longer posts will be still posted here, so keep checking back, but you might want to bookmark the posterous as well.

Here's that site again:

http://popeofchilitown.posterous.com

Thank you, and good night.

Your Guide to Summer Fancy

2009-06-08T10:29:00.000-07:00

If you're thinking to yourself, "Boy, I wish some asshole would write 1,300 words to tell me how to enjoy my summer," then this could be the greatest day of your life.

You see, we here at Fists With Your Toes are big fans of summer. Whether it's drinking and grilling, swilling ice cold beers on the beach, making mixed drinks and playing golf, beers and horseshoes, hanging outside at bars, we like it all.

It is with this in mind that I present to you, the official guide to summer fancy.

Obnoxious Sunglasses

Obnoxious sunglasses are a must for any summer person. Let's face it, the sun is bright as shit. And squinting sucks balls, whether you're trying to find the pin in a horseshoe pit, or you're hungover, squinting never did anything good for nobody.

Any asshole can buy a pair of sunglasses that are tasteful,. yet functional. But the true summer aficionado isn't satisfied with an ordinary pair of sunglasses.

No, you want a pair that covers your eyes, and possibly most of your face. That way, when your face is sunburned, you've got giant pale circles around your eyes.

I myself purchased a quality pair of Ray-Bans for the summer, I figured I'd get a nice pair and hold onto them for a while.

Behold, the Ray Ban RB4112

If you're not going to get obnoxious sunglasses, the only other option is to get mirrored aviators.

I'm sorry, but they just make you look awesome, no matter how much you suck in real life. With mirrored aviators, everyone is just a little bit more like Sly Stallone in Cobra, and that's something this society needs more than ever.

Cigars

Cigars are awesome. People who smoke cigars, with the exception of Fidel Castro, are awesome.

Therefore, to inject more awesome into your life, you need to smoke cigars.

There's nothing better than a cold beer in one hand, a cigar in the other, as you peer through a dime-sized hole into a women's locker room.

Wait, what? Never mind.

Cigars are the summer version of pipes. They both are excellent ways to consume tobacco, but a pipe is shorter, you do it outside, usually with a scarf and wool hat, because that's where you look the coolest.

Cigars are meant to savor, so you need warm weather to truly enjoy them.

They range from very cheap to very expensive, so let's take a look at what you should be getting.

If you're buying cigars at a CVS, you better be pouring the guts out and wrapping marijuana in them. Otherwise, they are not acceptable, and often to more harm than good to both your breath and reputation.

Your standard tobacco store will have a good selection, I recommend not paying more than six bucks per cigar, unless you really want to go for broke.

I prefer a nice Ashton as my go to. Light, refreshing and mild, you can't go wrong.

The Churchill or Corona size is a good way to start, since they're middle of the road. I myself don't like anything longer than 5.5 inches (If I had a nickel...) but it's up to you.

If you're buying the stogies at a liquor store, you might not have a good selection, but if you get a Montecristo or a Romeo y Julieta, you're probably OK.

Beer

Beer now comes in seasons. Around March, the Summer Ales start pouring in, pardon the pun. As the leaves start to change, OctoberFest beers and the Winter Lagers start coming in.

You can't beat a cold beer on a hot day. You just can't. But the age-old question still remains: bottle or can?

There is no right answer, it depends on where you're drinking. If it's a controlled environment like a BBQ, then bottles are the way to go. The beer tastes better, and you can get better beer out of a bottle.

If you're going for specialty brew, I would recommend something hoppy. Troeg's HopBack is very good, as is Sam Adams' Summer Ale.

If you want to be cliche, drink Corona with lime. If you want to get the same effect, only with less douchebaginess and a better beer, try Pacifico with a lime. If you're a fuckstain, go with Bud Light w/ Lime.

If you're drinking somewhere where you need to be active, such as at a river/beach, you're best bet is cans. A lot of places don't allow glass, and cans are much lighter when they're empty.

Coors Light is a staple of summer drinking. It's slightly less alcohol content will help you get home from wherever you're drinking it, and the watery taste will give you the illusion of being hydrated, thus removing the possibility of a psychosomatic hangover.

Bud Light and Miller Lite. Two of the same, and it really boils down to preference, i.e. if you have a preference, you are undoubtedly an asshole.

If there's a choice, I usually get Miller Lite, but I couldn't give less of a shit. I know people that will not drink anything Miller makes, if they have a choice between not drinking or drinking Miller, they will not drink. Notice how I didn't say "I have friends that will not drink anything..."

There's a good reason that those fuckers aren't my friend.

Stay away from anything heavy. There is nothing that will turn you off of drinking faster than a lukewarm Guinness Stout on a hot, humid day. Like drinking roofing tar.

Music

Any good party begins and ends with good music. Just like beer, there's a time and a place for certain kinds of music.

There are two artists people tend to associate with summer, Bob Marley and Jimmy Buffett. While both are acceptable, be careful, overuse of either one can make you look like a giant tool.

Stay away from both "Margaritaville" and "Jamming" lest you look like a rank amateur.

For Jimmy Buffett, "Fins," "Cheeseburger in Paradise," "Son of a Son of a Sailor," "Volcano" and "Changes in Latitude, Changes in Attitude" are hits, but also good songs, and they are deep enough cuts not to make you look like a prick.

For Marley, "Natural Mystic," "Iron Lion Zion," "Exodos," "Is This Love," "I Shot the Sherriff" and "Get Up, Stand Up" are all acceptable, nay, awesome.

As for other music, obviously it depends on your personal taste. I always though that the Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Stadium Arcadium" is a great summer album.

The Eagles are great summer music, particularly, "Life in the Fast Lane," "Take it Easy" and "Already Gone."

The Who album "Who's Next" is good, as is Neil Young's "After the Goldrush." I would also recommend anything by George Thorogood, Oasis, Iron Maiden and The Doors.

Other summer-specific albums that I enjoy are: Bad Company's "Bad Company," Jackson Browne's "Running On Empty," Grand Funk Railroad's "Closer to Home," and Slobberbone's "Everything You Thought was Right."

Sunroof

Having a sunroof is absolutely essential for a glorious summer. Not only does it allow you to cruise with your aforementioned sunglasses, blasting your aforementioned music, but it's a great alternative to being a pussy who blasts their AC all the fucking time.

It allows you to park your car near a beach and blast tunes, as well as throw trash into while you are drinking far away, it's like a little game.

If you don't have a sunroof, I would recommend anything without a roof.

Sandals

Sandals are surely God's finest creation. The day he looked down and said, "My sons, you need not look like squares during the summer, yay, I give unto you these sandals, styled after my own comfortable footwear.

Take a look at these historic examples:

Fucking right God loves sandals.

There you have it, a guide to enjoying yourself this summer. No, I didn't cover everything, there's also grilling, sunburns, and the always popular theme, "keeping sand out of your asshole and/or vagina."

Perhaps we'll cover these another day. And perhaps not. Until then.

Monday Links: 6/8

2009-06-08T06:40:00.000-07:00

I've had just about enough of Obama negotiating with those pirates!
Whenever you think you're unlucky, at least you're not these people.
Possibly the greatest invention ever?
Ah, movie nerd-dom, you never get old.
That Craigslist. It'll get ya.

Just Another Fail

2009-06-04T07:28:00.000-07:00

Speaking of sucking at life, get a load of this one.

I was on my way to work Tuesday, and it was a fantastic morning. The sun was up, it was warm, and I had my sunroof open listening to tunes loudly.

Add that to the fact that I was wearing my new favorite pair of obnoxious sunglasses, and I'm feeling good.

As I pull up to the gate of the base where I work, I'm blasting Pantera's "Domination," which makes me want to run through a fucking brick wall. So I'm fired up, ready to kick ass and take fucking names at work.

I get to the gate, hand the guard my ID card, and he looks at it, looks at me, and hands the card back. As I'm about to pull away, he says, "hey man, you got something on your face."

I look at myself in the rearview mirror, and I get a shock.

For breakfast that morning, I made myself some yogurt with blueberries and granola, and I mixed them up in a solo cup and ate them on the road, as I usually do.

Well, apparently, some yogurt had missed my mouth, and gotten in my beard, around the chin.

So, looking at myself in the mirror, I appeared to have a fresh cumshot across my face.

If that doesn't ruin your day, I don't know what will.

Now do you get why I said "load" at the beginning of this?

Monday Links: 6/1

2009-06-01T11:24:00.000-07:00

Well, we're now in the sixth month of 2009, and what better way to start it off with some Monday Links?

I love the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles more than anybody, but this is a little ridiculous.
This is a fascinating long-exposure photo of the path taken by one of those room-vacuuming robots.
So many levels of fail.
A collection of Joker art. Some are interesting, some are funny, and some will haunt your deepest, darkest nightmares. That's sort of how I feel about this blog.

Have you ever read Amazing Superpowers? If not, here are a few comics to get you started. I suggest you check out the whole lot.

Weekend Video: 5/31

2009-05-31T20:07:00.001-07:00

Here we are with another in what's proving to be a non-consistent feature here.

The three best lines from The Departed, which is easily one of the best movies of all time.

Friday Hate: 5/29

2009-05-29T17:59:00.000-07:00

This week's edition isn't really about hate, more about disgust. But, to be honest, "Friday Disgust just doesn't have the same ring to it, so here we are.

I am on Twitter. I don't post a whole lot, if ever, but I follow a select group of people. And when I say select, I mean three groups of people. NBA players/writers/bloggers, comedians and porn stars.

And when I say porn stars, I don't mean a ton of them, only a few that I've seen have interesting/funny stuff to say, not just pics and links.

Well, some of them post pics on TwitPic, and occasionally its of themselves before they shoot. Generally, they're shot on cell phone cameras, so they don't look great, but it's sort of interesting to see them without makeup and without dicks in their face.

On TwitPic, people can comment, and that's where the disgust comes in. There's a certain group of people who are only on Twitter so they can tweet porn stars.

They're usualloy guys with ethnic names, e.g., Juan, Mario, T-Dawg, and it looks like all they do is flirt with porn stars through twitter. On the pics, they lay on the sleaziest pickup lines.

For example, Sandee Westgate, a hot porn star (duh) tweeted a pic of herself. Here's a comment:

robstaintonboss: ill bet god had u in mind when he created eve!!!!!!!!!

Really? How many times have you used that in a car and gotten laid?

Go to some of the guys pages, and all they do is tweet at pornstars telling them how hot they are?

Do these weirdos think that this will secretly lead to a meeting and fucking?

And here's the scary part: I think they do. After all, we've all seen pornstars just attack a pool boy, mechanic or cable guy, so what's to say they won't run into each other, remember to tweet in question that they just won't bang it out?

A man can dream, can't he?

People Staring At Me WIth Hate in Their Eyes

2009-05-29T13:55:00.000-07:00

We're going to introduce a new feature here at Fists With Your Toes, people who stare at me with hate as I take photos.

When I cover events, I usually take my own photos. Sometimes when I'm going through them later, I catch someone in the background, staring at me with unadulterated hatred in their eyes.

I'm going to start it out with one from a few weeks ago, when I was covering the Air Show. I was originally going to do a whole recap as Part II of my weekend in the trenches, but this was the only funny part about the afternoon, so I'll just add it.

I'm on the Andrews Air Force Base tarmac, where there are dozens of planes, and some speech going on. As I take some photos of the speakers, I snap a photo, the one you see below.

The gentleman in the front row is Gen. Norton Schwartz, Chief of Staff of the Air Force. I snapped this photo, because I thought it was a nice photo of him and his wife interacting with that little kid with the headphones.

But let's take a closer look at the women sitting next to Gen. Schwartz, his wife, Suzie. They were both at the event I'd covered the previous night, and both seem to be very pleasant people.

But Mrs. Schwartz apparently isn't very happy with me, as shown in this blown-up shot of her.

She does not look very happy with me. In the photo before this shot, she was all smiles looking at this kid, and now she's looking at some prick reporter take a picture, she isn't having any of it.

After the speech, I wander around, and snap a few photos, including this one:

Seems pretty ordinary, right?

Look closer at the man in the background:

He looks like he is about to rape me. In the face.

What the fuck is the deal? Was my dick hanging out or something? Was I mistakenly wearing my Nazi hat? Why are these random people glaring at me while I take photos?

Fast forward to yesterday afternoon. I was covering a burial service at Arlington National Cemetery, where a Medal of Honor winnder was being buried there. I snapped this photo of the soldiers folding an American flag.

Looks pretty normal, a solemn moment, featuring The Old Guard, who are the ceremonial unit for the Army. They are well disciplined, and represent the height of discipline of the U.S. military.

So why is the guy in the center of the picture staring at me with such rancor in the middle of the burial service? Take a closer look:

Ouch. He looks like he is about five seconds away from jumping across the grave and beating the everloving shit out of me.

I hope you enjoy this new feature, I'll try to post them as they come up.

I Digust Myself

2009-05-28T17:59:00.000-07:00

I am a filthy, disgusting human being. A vile, repulsive individual that is just a waste of oxygen and precious resources.

It wasn't always like this. I think at one point in the not-too-distant past, I was a productive member of society. I don't know where I went wrong.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Two things happened today that made me really question my place in this world we live in.

The first? Well, I'm glad you asked.

Last weekend, I went to a friend's river house, and got the living shit sunburned out of me. I mean, I've been a fucking lobster for the last few days. My shoulders, arms and chest were bright red.

I'm been trying to keep it properly moisturized, but some peeling is inevitable.

So this afternoon, I decide to wander back onto the hardwood. I haven't played hoops since the weather got colder, and our indoor gym has been taken up with intramural basketball.

So it's time to work on my baby hook, elbow jumper and trizzles. And I must admit, it was feeling good. I was hitting my stuff and feeling good, got a good sweat working.

So I'm in my car, sitting in mile after mile of fucking traffic, and I do what I normally do, start examining myself. I start with the ol' nutsack (can't be too careful with testicular cancer these days) and work my way up to my shoulders.

And that's when I see it. On my shoulders, it looks like a lot of tiny blisters. Weird.

I get home, and I get ready to jump in the shower. And when I take my shirt off, I'm covered in tiny blisters. What the fuck?

And then it hits me. I had all this dried up skin where I got burned, and when I sweated, it filled the space.

So I'm covered in sweat-filled blisters. I can't imagine anything more disgusting.

What's worse is that they're very thin, so when I run my hands across them, they burst, sending foul sweat all over myself.

I won't lie, if I had a bathtub instead of a standup shower, I might have filled it with warm water and slit my wrists, just to make my failure at life complete.

So I jumped in the shower, and tried my best to pop them all, making my skin normal again, or so I though.

I start rinsing off the soap from my chest, and as I step away from the water, I notice there still seems to be droplets on me, and they're not moving.

Except it wasn't just drops. The shower water was filling up the popped blisters. Gross.

I am hideous.

So I start trying to just take all the skin off, and pretty soon, I had a lot of dead skin on my hands.

Now it's going to get real real.

You see that thing on the left that looks like old chewing gum, the thing that's almost as big as the penny?

That's the ball of skin I took off of myself. I think I just threw up in my mouth as I typed that.

Now that I've thoroughly disgusted you with my physical maladies, let me tell you about the second thing that makes me disgusting. This one is mental.

I was walking down the sidewalk today, on my way to meet someone, when about a quarter-mile in front of me, standing on the corner, are two chicks.

Now, as a single guy in his sexual prime, a guy that always takes a second look when I see an ass in tight pants, no matter how ugly the chick is.

So as I get closer, I see at least one of the chicks is very...uh...how do you say.....ample in the bosom?

So I'm walking, I'm leering, just trying to get a close look at their faces. And all of a sudden, they both start looking at me as I walk on the sidewalk towards them.

Just as I'm starting to wonder how fast I can book a hotel room for a hot threesome, a school bus rides past me, stops at their corner, and both girls get on.

Apparently I didn't notice that they were wearing backpacks.

Now, there aren't many things certain in this topsy-turvy world of ours, but odds are, a chick getting on a school bus isn't anywhere close to 18, especially a hot one.

I am a monster.

The school bus rule is pretty much the same as the cigarette rule, except the opposite. If you see a chick smoking a cigarette, chances are she's 18, if she's getting on a school bus, she's probably not.

The odds in both instances are worth betting your cornhole on, especially if she's hot.

So there you have it, I'm covered with filth, and I was leering at a girl that can't be over 16.

And you wonder why I loathe myself.

Monday Links: 5/18

2009-05-18T19:52:00.000-07:00

I know what to get Michael Vick for Christmas...
A study in awkward, which I am always in favor of.
Not good news. I think I'm in the fever stage.
One of the more interesting movie theories I've seen in a while. Now I really want to watch the movie again.
Bart Simpson: prophet, clown, felon?

Another Weekend in the Trenches: Part I, A Sweaty, Formal Friday

2009-05-18T15:23:00.000-07:00

Sometimes my job requires me to work odd hours, which can include evening and weekends. I don't mind most of the time, because I get time off later, I have no life, and most of the time it's for interesting stuff.

So I found myself heading into last weekend with assignments as follows: Friday, 5/15, 6:30 a.m. and 6:30 p.m., and Saturday 10 a.m. Not the most productive hours, since all time in between is rendered useless.

But because I take many of my life lessons from 80's band Scandal, I am the warrior. So I sucked it up. And what ensued I hope is funny shit for you, because it sure was for me.

Friday night, 5:30 p.m. I am sitting in my office, waiting to head to a certain National Cemetery in a few minutes for some fancy reception. Now, since I came to work at 6:30 a.m. in the morning, I didn't get up early to shower, so my hair was a disaster (not to sound like a chick, but if you know me in real life, you'll get the clue), and I had a dirty pair of jeans on.

I was able to go home at noon and shower and change into a clean shirt, so I'm looking pretty sharp at 5:30.

I head over to the cemetery, park my car a few hundred yards from the building, which doesn't seem to me much of a big deal. I pop in a stick of gum to make my breath extra fresh, and I head over to the building.

Here's what I didn't count on. The late afternoon is a crisp 85 humid degrees, and I am in a heavy collared shirt and pants. The walk to the building is up several steep sets of stairs.

Can you see where this is going?

I start to sweat. I'm not a big sweater, I think my lack of excessive body hair helps me in that regard. I don't even buy anti-perspirant for my under-arms, just plain deodorant. But when it's humid out, the aforementioned mop of hair I have acts like a fucking ski cap.

So I start to sweat a bit, which presents two problems.

1) White people (myself included) do not look good when they sweat, unless their hair is very short. Watch any NBA game. The white guys look like losers when they sweat.

Black people get all shiny and smooth, and their hair carries the sweat well. White people, the bottom layer of hair gets all wet, so it starts sneaking underneath your hairline, and greasy tendrils of hair get plastered all over your forehead and neck. It's disgusting.

Us whiteys might have gotten the swimming ability and the grammar advantage, but I would trade those things to be able to sink 20-footers at a 60 percent clip and look good doing it.

and;

2) The B.O. conundrum. I am absolutely paranoid that I smell at all times. I don't think I do, but no one thinks that they smell.

I know a lot of people, friends, bosses, co-workers who smell and it makes me subliminally think less of them. I know they probably can't help it, nor are they aware of it, but if someone comes up to me to ask a question, part of me wants to answer, "Oh, I'm sorry, all I heard was 'blah blah blah, I smell like a taint in summertime.'"

So I'm always afraid that I secretly smell and people are thinking the same about me. Because no one respects a smelly fucker, that's just science.

At this event, I my media contact is a very attractive young lady (saying that makes me feel like I'm a 45-year-old kid toucher, but I don't know any other way to say it), who I don't really want to think I smell.

So I'm sitting there shooting some shit, and all I can think is, "Holy Santa Claus shit, am I washing over her with a wave of pure stank right now?"

I kept trying to get covert whiffs of my pits in the middle of conversation, which is probably even worse than smelling. I think I was okay though, either that or she was a damn good actress.

Since this thing is being held in a cemetery, naturally death is a focal theme of the evening, meaning respect must be at the top of every attendee's priority list. The music was soft, slow guitar music, which I didn't recognize immediately.

Then I hear the familiar verse, "Would you know my name, if I saw you in heaven?"

Tears in fucking heaven? At a cemetery? How cliche can you get?

Then I started to thing, maybe this is just their "Death Mix" I spent a lot f time figuring out what else it could contain, I'm looking for slow, mournful songs about a tragic death.

Neil Diamond - Morningside
Bob Dylan - Knockin' on Heaven's Door (possibly more cliche than Tears in Heaven)
Elton John - Candle in the Wind
Gordon Lightfoot - The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald (if you don't weep openly at this song you are not human)
Cannibal Corpse - Scattered Remains, Splattered Brains

But it was moot, because it wasn't "Death Mix 2009" they were playing (but tell me that doesn't sound like an awesome Jason Statham flick). No, it was Eric Clapton's "Unplugged."

Weird choice. Made even weirder by the fact that they skipped the unplugged version of Layla, which is a fucking travesty in and of itself. But how weird is that? Let's look closer.

Someone made the choice to put Eric Clapton Unplugged into the CD player, or queue it up in their iPod.
That same someone made sure that Layla would be skipped, or it was deleted from the album.
Layla is the most uptempo song on the album, so apparently someone thought that it needed to be skipped lest the atmosphere of a solemn occasion be besmirched.

The conclusion: Whoever selected the music was willing to have Tears in Heaven played at all costs. It's no coincidence that it was playing as soon as we all walked in. I'm surprised it wasn't on a continuous loop, but that probably would have been too much.

I'm working this event, and right away, there are no prospects in the female department. I'm trying to spend a Friday hunting stink, but there's little to be found.

The only person in the building I would nail (namely, the only person not collecting Social Security) was one of the caterers. I had a moment with her at one point. She walked by me with hands full of dishes, and a fork dropped in front of me.

Here's my chance, I told myself, if this goes well, you could be smashing some hot caterer ass in a bathroom stall within the hour.

I picked up the fork as slowly as I could, searching my brain for a good line.

"Well, well, well, stick a fork in you, you're done."

Not great, but not an abortion either. She gave a quick smile, so I had laid the foundation. Which promptly came crumbling down, as I laid the fork back on the plate, and it fell off again.

It's times like this that the men are separated from the boys. Can I come top my own mediocre zinger with one that's sure to make the panties drop, or will I fly to close to the clam on wings of bad metaphor?

"Of course, that's not all I'd stick in you."

Hint: I'm the plane.

So that was a no go.

But alas, the night had other options in laid out for me.

In this case, it was a blonde that was at least two inches taller than me, in just a knockout of a cocktail dress.

I don't remember if I've mentioned it before, but I loooove tall chicks. Maybe it's the subconscious knowledge that only by impregnating a giraffe and/or black chick will I be able to sire an NBA Finals MVP, or maybe it's just because I like long legs, but here we are.

So I started hovering creepily around this tall chick. She was with a chick that had the exact same dress on, only she was 6 feet wide. Yecccch.

I caught her in some pictures, which I would post, but I am currently touching myself to, and you can't upload an open file. I'll upload them when I'm done, so around Halloween. Look for them then.

But much to my chagrin, the delicious elixir that allows me to go up and get rejected by chicks I wouldn't even make eye contact with, alcohol, was nowhere to be found. The bar? Serving water, iced tea and canned soda.

Are you fucking kidding me?

So I went up to the bartender, and I asked for a coke, in a glass with ice, "and, hey buddy, why don't you only fill 'er up halfway with coke, wink wink."

My first mistake was saying the words "wink wink" instead of actually winking. Bad start.

He didn't know what I meant.

"I mean, why don't you fill it half full of coke, and fill the other half with some Crown Royal?"

That fucker acted like he didn't have a stash behind the counter. You're telling me that these people are this fucking stupid without booze. I had just eavesdropped on some general's wife's conversation, the bitch had to be hammered, she was slurring like a mug.

Either that or she was a stroke victim, which, now that I think about it, would explain the wheelchair...

The rest of the night was pretty uneventful, I did my shit, and spent the rest of the evening trying to insert myself into as many family photos as possible. With a nut hanging out. My khaki pants made it pretty easy, and I hope they aren't discovered until those photos are ten feet high on a projector screen.

Later, I'll get into Saturday, part II of this weekend in the trenches.

Sorry for this being so long. I would apologize, but I never apologize. I'm sorry, but that's just the way I am.

Weekend Video: 5/16

2009-05-17T19:03:00.000-07:00

Alright, back with another weekend of hilarious/interesting video.

We'll be going with a musical flavor today. First, Steve Porter's Rap Chop remix of the Slap Chop commercial. If ol' Vince Offer hadn't have beaten the shit out of a hooker, this could be a no. 1 hit.

Next, Guyz Nite's song about Die Hard, with a verse for each movie.

Me Fail English? That's Unpossible!

2009-05-14T07:46:00.000-07:00

A story of failure that doesn't involve alcohol? I'm becoming everything I've ever hated.

I spent four years in college studying English, my native tongue. I took classes in literature, composition, grammar, linguistics and many more. So I like to think I have a good grasp of this language.

I read a lot, and I think I have a decent vocabulary. I'm no David Foster Wallace, but I think I do okay.

So when I find out that I've been wrong about words for my whole life, it really sends me into a tailspin.

A similar thing happened to me about ten years ago. Up until that point, I had been pronouncing the word 'unison' as 'un-shun.' Because I suck, no doubt.

I thought 'you-ni-son' was just some crazy word that I didn't know, but when I learned it, I felt like an ass.

But it's excusable, after all, I was 15. I was an asshole, like all 15-year-olds.

But now I'm 25, with a lifetime of vocabulatory experience. So I didn't expect this to happen again.

This comes from an English nerd who get the steaming undies when I learn a new word. John Fowles is great when it comes to that, I learn a new word every 20 pages or so.

My favorite word I learned from him is 'eleemosynary,' meaning, 'tending towards charitable acts.' I dropped that shit like it was hot for most of my senior year, because I'm just that fucking awesome.

So I was on life tilt the other day, because I felt like a complete and utter horse's ass.

How would you pronounce the word 'segue?'

For 25 years, I was pronouncing it 'seeg.' I wouldn't use it often, but I can recall at least three distinct occasions where I used it in conversation.

Apparently, it's pronounced 'seg-way,' like the vehicle. I thought segway was spelled 'segway', because that's how they spell that thing.

Well, I couldn't have been more wronger.

How could this have happened? How could I have gone so long, gotten a college education and working in a job that requires me to know the English language without knowing that simple fact.

I'm not going to lie to you people. I went home that night from work, and strongly considered downing a bottle of Tylenol and a 5th of vodka, followed by a warm bath and a razor blade bracelet.

I was on complete and utter life tilt.

So the next day was Friday, and as is my usual custom on Friday's I get a fucking awesome burrito from Moe's Southwest Grill, which is your two-seed when it comes to fresh-mex as I believe it's called.

So I get there, and I order my burrito, which I get with steak and black beans, then cheese, salsa, cucumbers and jalapenos, because its fucking delicious.

The guy puts the cheese on, and asks, "pico de gallo?" And I say no. So he puts everything else on, except the salsa.

I say, "and the salsa, that will be it," and the guy (who clearly doesn't speak English very well, though he probably knows how to pronounce 'segue') says, "pico de gallo?"

"No, just salsa" I reply, and he says "pico de gallo" again.

Because apparently pico de gallo is salsa, or something very similar. For 25 goddam years, I thought it was the melted cheese, a.k.a. 'queso'

But I find that they're not the same thing, and I am in a full on questioning-every-facet-of-my-existence mode.

How the FUCK did I not know that? I love Mexican food.

I was at a party that very evening, and I went around polling people in random conversation about how to pronounce 'segue' and what pico de gallo was.

Surprisingly, I couldn't get a girl to let me touch her where she pees. I guess chicks don't dig vocab questions during parties.

It took me a while to recover from all of this, but eventually I did. After all, I had only been mistaken on three words in 25 years, plus I feel I still have a good sense of grammar.

Three words, 25 years. That ain't not bad.

Monday Links: 5/11

2009-05-11T17:54:00.000-07:00

My office lost power Monday, and I've been playing catch up all week. We'll have to wait until next week for the extended Monday Links.

A fascinating insight about movie stars and their movie deaths.
Finally, one of life's great questions is answered.
Continuing with our movie theme, there's not a single movie on this list that I wouldn't see.
More Monday Movie Madness! We can all learn from Predator.
Stupidity. It's recession proof.

Weekend Video: 5/9

2009-05-09T20:51:00.000-07:00

And here we are. We'll start Weekend Video with a double edition:

First, an outtake from Strange Wilderness, a movie which isn't great, but has some funny people and scenes in it. This is one of them.

And I will leave you with a scene from The Wire, possibly the greatest show ever. The scene below is the greatest scene in the series, therefore, you are about to watch one of the greatest scenes in the history of television. Enjoy.

Now With 45% More Drunken Photos!

2009-05-08T08:32:00.000-07:00

Couple of announcements for all of you fans out there. All eight of you.

We will be adding a new feature to Fists With Your Toes: Posterous!

If you haven't heard of Posterous, get with the now. Blogs are so 2008. Posterous basically is like a twitter, only it's much easier to post, since you just e-mail it in. I will mainly use it for short text notes, some funny pictures with commentary (possibly drunken), and other assorted shenanigans.

Check it out here, or bookmark http://popeofchilitown.posterous.com.

I'm gonna level with you, I'm probably going to do most updates while wasted.

What does this mean for this blog? Nothing, except more content. I'll still be writing longer pieces, but I will use the ol' posterous more a more live experience.

Secondly, we will be adding a new weekly feature that I can neglect and not do for weeks, just like Monday Links and Friday Hate. Weekend Video!

I will post a video of two every weekend of funny shit that I enjoy, all for your viewing pleasure.

We've got a big week next week, with the return of Monday links.

Friday Hate: 5/8

2009-05-08T07:21:00.000-07:00

Back with another edition of Friday Hate! I know it's been a lonely few weeks, but I've been around the world and back again (okay, only to Texas), so I haven't had much time to update.

But I'm back with a fresh slab of Friday Hate for ye.

I enjoy Dos Equis. It's a step above Corona in my opinion, but not quite as good as Pacifico. What I don't enjoy is their latest ad campaign, "The Most Interesting Man in the World."

First of all, it's clearly a blatant rip-off of the whole Chuck Norris joke thing, and that stopped being funny two years ago.

But it's a good concept, except for one thing: HOW ABOUT YOU MAKE UP A FUCKING NAME?

I mean, seriously. They probably spent millions on this ad campaign, and it comes off like at the last minute, they had their whole story down, and just didn't feel like coming up with a name.

How about, Don Diego, the most interesting man in the world. How about Sergio De Fiere? How about Inigo Montoya? Wait, I think that's taken.

Still, you can't go the extra three feet to the finish line and come up with an exotic sounding name? I came up with two in 30 seconds, and I don't even get paid for this shit.

With the extent they're going all out with this, I find it lazy and insulting that they don't come up with a name for this fucker.

Speaking of the extent they've gone with this guy, I lost a lot of respect when the ads migrated from radio to television.

On the radio, you hear his gravelly, slightly accented voice, and someone like Antonio Banderas comes to mind. A smooth, young latin man that gets the panties dropping.

Then I started seeing this mug on my television:

Who is this old fucker?

It doesn't necessarily have to be some young stud with washboard abs whose half naked all the time, but this dude isn't interesting at all. In fact, I'd be surprised if he could still BM regularly.

And they try to sell him like a James Bond rip off, hanging with mustachioed Fez-wearing people, riding a rubber dinghy with beautiful women and playing jai alai.

All this is supposed to make me forget that this guy probably has a prostate the size of a grapefruit? No thank you.

The last thing that makes me really hate this guy is the quote he uses, "I don't always drink beer, but when I do, I prefer Dos Equis."

Great salesmanship guys. He doesn't only drink Dos Equis, he just prefers it. If there's a Keyston Light in there, he might drink that as well.

Also, way to start out you catchphrase with, "I don't always drink beer," it's not like you're SELLING BEER! Idiots.

Luckily for the folks at Dos Equis, Corona has taken their image a step deeper in the shit with that stupid contrived Kenny Chesney commercial.

He's sitting by himself singing, while everyone else is chasing trim, like they should be, and we're supposed to believe that he's the guy we should buy beer from.

Mexican beer isn't that great anyways, they sell more bottles because of the image they sell rather than the quality, and if they keep up these shitty commercials, they won't even have that going for them.

4/20's Of Yore

2009-04-20T16:20:00.000-07:00

If you and I have anything in common, then you know the significance of April 20. No not the yearly neo-Nazi meetings, but the other thing.

The weed smoking.

I was in college when I first discovered the joys of 4/20. My freshman year, it was Easter sunday. Not many people were in town, but I found myself at a friend's house at 4:20 a.m., smoking out of a gas mask. Good times.

But it wasn't until the next year when I really made it count. Sure, I was awake at 4:20 a.m., as usual, although I think I had class at 4:20 in the afternoon. I'm pretty sure I didn't skip it, which boggles the mind, even now.

But I made up for it later. I ended up buying a quarter ounce of some okay stuff, not great, but good for rolling J's. I rolled it into about six joints.

Me and a buddy drove over to someone else's house in my 1999 White Jetta, an efficient German four-door sedan.

Two other people get in the car, we park behind their house so we can't be seen, seal all doors and windows, and we go to fucking town.

We start off with a joint for the front seat and a joint for the back seat. That is a nice start, and it gets pretty smoky in there.

The remaining four J's? Each person got one. By the time we were finished, I couldn't see the person sitting next to me. Literally.

You could hear people, the the music, but for all I knew, I was in a scene from "The Mist."

That's what it was like. It felt like every breath was like taking a bong hit. Good times, good times.

It's the first and only time I have blacked out while smoking when alcohol wasn't also involved.

I remember opening up my sunroof, and watching the smoke pour out. That's about all I remember. I don't remember leaving or going to sleep.

I was hungover the next morning. The smell was on my car for literally weeks. But it's the price you have to pay.

A Sleeping Bag Filled With Soiled Panties and Other Chicanery: Buffett Day 2009

2009-04-19T23:13:00.000-07:00

Back again with you all, after almost a two week absence. Of course, due to the glory of timestamping, it will appear that this went up in a timely manner. Because if there's anything I stand for, it's falsehoods for the sake of appearance.

Me and a friend drove to Blacksburg, and got there around 1100. We immediately head to a bar for some drinking. We have some beers and some shots, listen to a band play, and then decide to head to an apartment party, complete with kegs and the chance for glory.

We get there, and hard drinking ensues. In my fraternity, we have a tradition where if you go up to someone and say "to the old lady" anyone within earshot who is holding an alcoholic beverage of some sort must chug it, posthaste.

One hour and about eight "to the old lady"s later, everyone is feeling good. I found myself occupied by a fella with a Chris Paul jersey, and we spent some time drunkenly talking NBA, which has becomes among my favorite non-vagina related things to do at parties.

During my hardwood-related conversation, I managed to miss a fight upstairs, which included someone dropping an n-bomb in a crowd of Afro-Americans.

Taking that as a cue to leave, I got a ride back to the fraternity house, and proceeded to get back to what my degree should say I majored in: foosball.

A brief side note: there is no greater game on this planet than foosball. I like beer pong, horseshoes, flip cup and all those assorted shenanigans, but foosball is you number one seed.

So we play some foosball, and it soon becomes apparent that it's well after midnight, and there is precious little alcohol in the house. And by precious little, I mean a box of Franzia and a few Keystone Lights.

Let's clear something up. I'm 25, on my first job out of college, in the newspaper industry in a slumping economy. So I'm no alcohol snob. But I always thought the days when I would consume Keystone Light, Natty Light, Southpaw and Beast out of cans were well past me.

Except for Beast, I would happily drink any of those out of a keg, but I draw the line somewhere. Unless some strange set of circumstances arises, the cheapest tier of beer I make my purchases from is the Bud Light/Miller Lite/Coors Lite triumvirate.

But it was that or box wine. Warm box wine, on a night where I am already shitfaced. So pour that sweet, sweet, Keystone.

I don't remember much else. I vaguely remember telling a pledge that he was going to be my own personal rimshot, for whenever I dropped a particularly good zinger, and I know I got a ride home at about 5 a.m., which was helpful.

I woke up still drunk, and deep in the hurt locker. I stumbled my way to the bathroom, and something happened there that has never happened to me before. I took a piss, gave the ol' johnson a quick shake, and then came the point where I would usually zip up and walk out.

But as I turned around, my knees buckles, and I slammed the shit out of my face on the bathroom door.

It took me another few seconds to get my balance, and I walk out of the bathroom, then I hear the dude whose couch I passed out on yell something from his bathroom:

"Dude, did you just fall in there?"

"Uhhhh...no. I head that noise too though. Weird."

I stumbled back to my couch and lay down just in time for a full-fledged wave of sweaty nausea to envelop me for a few minutes.

Then it was over, and I could get back to being hungover as shit.

I walked to find my car (it's always in the last place you look), and grabbed a Gatorade and beer for the day.

We all gather at the house, and the beer starts flowing, the horseshoes are clanging, and the cops are called as least a half dozen times. They were cool, but some cunt kept calling, so they kept coming.

Funny story: We all assumed it was this lady that was out doing gardening, and when the cops came the first time, she came over and talked to them. She was out of earshot, but we all assumed that she was talking shit.

So as she was walking away, these dudes that were even farther away started dropping c-bombs, bitches, and all sorts of things. Which would normally be hysterical.

Except for the fact that this lady came over to defend us. She had been out all day, and we weren't bothering her in the least, furthermore, she has always gotten along very well with the people who live at the house.

The rest of the day progressed as planned. We got wasted, and played a number of outdoor games.

As the sun faded away, we decided to move the party to a local sorority house, where I was promised hot sorority sluts as loose as they come.

We bought some kegs and headed over there and played some beer pong. As I was waiting my turn, another Va Tech alumni and I were talking. We were right next to the door to the stairway leading to the girls' bedrooms, and as a girl comes down the stairs, this guy gives me a look.

A look that says, "panty raid."

So I ended up keeping watch (I was not about to go up there and get caught, that's about the worst possible thing that could happen that doesn't involve death), while this gentlemen looked for a few trophies.

He got them without any issues, and then the curiosity got the better of him. One of the chicks that lived there was playing beer pong, and my friend began gently inquiring as to which room she lived in.

"Big place you got here, I bet you have a nice room."

"Oh yeah, I got the master bedroom," she replied.

"That sounds right, I bet you're the queen of this castle. Is that uh...the big room at the far end of the hall?"

She gives him quizzical look, which he is able to explain away by saying he used to live here. Nice.

So we're sitting there, waiting through the longest beer pong game in the fucking world, and some chick stumbles in, fresh from downtown on her 21st birthday.

Hoping to possibly see some titt-ays, me and the panty theif follow her and her friends in the bathroom.

She is talking about how wasted she is with two of her friends, and gradually the suggestion comes in that no 21st birthday is complete with out a good old fashioned titty-flashing.

Which she agrees too. As she is putting down her glass, another friend of mine stumbles into the kitchen like a goddam hurricane, slams into the refrigerator, knocking a stack of cups off of the top of it, and then regains his balance.

He looks around, sees this drunk chick and lets loose with a classic, "SHOW US YOUR TITS, BITCH!!!"

Needless to say, the mood was killed, and no titties were seen. Fucker.

So the night continues, people get drunker, fights break out and fizzle, and me and the panty thief are outside. We're talking about his theft, and I'm trying to convince him to give his wife those panties as a present.

He's trying to convince me that he needs to make a second run, since the two pairs he got (!!) were clean, and he wanted to head to the hamper to get a "less fresh" pair.

Eventually this leads to him confessing that his dream is to be in a zipped up sleeping bag filled with soiled panties. The next morning, we have a long running joke about holding a fun run for Panty Thief (I've made it a proper name now), where chicks could run a 5K, on Phoenix, in August, and then donate their panties they wore during the run to his sleeping bag.

Good times.

Sooner or later we all crash at various places, waking up even more hungover than the day before. I head to my friend's place where three more people are crashing, and we're sitting there, recalling the night before, and bullshitting.

One of my friend's decides the needs to take a shower. Well, we here the shower go on, and immediately spring to action looking for something to throw on him. A box of powdered NesQuik mix does the trick.

That about does it for this year's edition of Buffett Day. Not the most embarrassing for me personally, but hey, I think it provided some good laughs.

Until next time.

I Cry Your Pardon

2009-04-19T16:11:00.000-07:00

Apologies for the lack of regular updates, I lost a lot (and I mean A LOT) of brain cells last weekend, which is good news for you once I get to writing.

What isn't good is that I'm in the midst of a hellacious week, so I'm not sure when they will get down.

What is good is that I've got a big trip coming up next weekend, with plenty of drunken shenanigans sure to ensue.

Until then...

Nobody Told Me...

2009-04-14T07:47:00.000-07:00

Fill in the blank from the title above.

If you said, "there'd be days like these, strange days indeed." Then you are a fine American (which is ironic because it's from a John Lennon song).

If you said, "that you had a boyfriend that looks like a girlfriend, that I had in February of last year." Then you're slightly less of a fine citizen, but it's still a good tune.

Brilliant musical references aside, the first answer is more appropriate to today's post. What a shitty day. And it's only 10:56 a.m. as I write this.

You ever have one of those days when everything goes wrong from the get go?

I woke up this morning, slightly hungover, and more importantly, late as shit. I didn't set my alarm the night before, so I woke up too late to take a shower.

I don't mind not taking a shower all that much. Sometimes I sleep a little late, or my morning masturbation session runs longer than expected, so I just throw a hat on and roll.

I only wear a hat when I haven't showered and/or hungover.

So that didn't immediately ruin my day. I go to check my phone for missed calls/e-mails, and it's not working. The phone I've had for NINE FUCKING DAYS isn't working.

The touchscreen isn't responding. Super. Don't have time to go to the fucking Verizon store, until maybe this afternoon, if I'm lucky.

I head out to work, and traffic in conspiring against me right away. Look, I live in the D.C. area, I know traffic is supposed to be shitty. But it's one thing when every single slow moving vehicle finds its way in front of my car, while I'm trying to get to work, and stop for breakfast somewhere.

As I'm driving my phone start ringing. It's my boss. Since I'm supposed to be in the office in a mere 15 minutes, I figure its something pretty important, something that can't wait.

But fuck me in the ass, it's not working. I poke my fingers at the screen like a madman, but it won't pick up.

And that's when I get the feeling. That horrible feeling that it's going to just be one of those days. Then that stupid Limp Bizkit song popped in my head, and I wanted to blow my brains out, for the first, but not last time of the day.

Then, while stopped at a traffic light, I try to pour water from this gigantic gallon jug into a smaller bottle that I can take to my office. Of course, I miss, and the water puddles around my groin, making it look like I pissed myself.

If I was anywhere near a goddam bridge abutment, I would have swerved into it.

I finally get to work (late, of course), no breakfast, and we have an early meeting. We lay out the paper, and my stories are getting killed like its a fucking massacre, which I HATE. I like writing, I like my job, but I hate it when my stories get killed. Just a waste of my fucking time. Kind of like this blog.

Anyways, we have our meeting, then its back to work. I'm putting some photos on a CD for somebody, and once it's finished, I take the CD out and prepare to label it.

I reach for my trusty Sharpie, and I left the fucking cap off, and it's all dried out.

That was the last straw. My day officially blows.

I went out to 7-11, got some coffee and something greasy, put a 50 ML bottle of sweet, sweet Kentucky bourbon on the coffee cups, and let pure deliciousness take me away.

Those alcoholics, sometimes they really know the score.

Marilyn Chambers, We Hardly Knew Ye

2009-04-13T11:09:00.000-07:00

Apparently 70's porn queen Marilyn Chambers, star of Behind the Green Door, was found dead yesterday at the age of 56.

You might be wondering why that is relevant on this here blog. After all, there are plenty of porn hotties that I love who have died in the past few years (Anna Malle, Haley Page), both of whom I've spanked it to numerous times), that I haven't mentioned.

And it's not like Chambers is a recent porn star, I didn't even know who she was until about a year ago.

Which brings me to the point. A funny story, to help you wile away the long-ass Monday.

Last year, I was interning at a local newspaper. I was doing a story about how a theater teacher was teaching at this brand-new high school and making their drama department one of the tops in the area. The lady's name was Marilyn Skipper. Well, not really, but that will do for our purposes.

She was very nice to me, I did a big feature about their upcoming play, and how the theater department was taking off there. She gave me all sorts of behind-the-scenes access, and had the cast run through a couple of scenes solely for my benefit.

So I wrote the article, and the paper came out on a Wednesday. I come into the office that afternoon (if I'm working for free, I'm sure as fuck not coming in before noon), and say hello to my editor, and she nods back. I take my seat, which happened to be right next to her desk, and prepare for my day.

About a minute later, she casually asks me a question.

"Hey, Alex, have you, uh, have you been watching a lot of porn lately."

Anyone who reads this blog regularly knows the answer to that. But my editor was a lady, so I didn't know quite how to respond. I went for the zinger.

"No. no more than usual, that is," I quipped. Nice.

Didn't get a laugh. This could be trouble.

"So what was this theater teacher's name?" she asked me.

"Skipper. Marilyn Skipper."

"Oh ok. Why don't you take a gander at page three?"

So I grab a copy of the paper, and open it. Let me tell you something about the newspaper biz. After you say someone's name once, you refer to them by last name only, unless you are doing a story featuring multiple people with the same last name.

So I actually read my story from the bottom, and I saw that the name "Skipper" was used throughout.

Then I get to my first paragraph, and I see it.

"At [High School], the play is truly the thing. Students all over the school are getting in touch with their inner thespian and drama teacher Marilyn Chambers is a big reason."

Besides the incredibly catchy lead, notice the porn star's name. Yep. Not good.

She had in fact, gone out to the store to get a copy of the paper, and that was the first thing she had seen. She didn't know who it was, but her husband did.

She wasn't upset, but she asked for us to print a retraction, which we did. I send her a long e-mail apologizing, and I never got a response.

I remember when I was writing the story, the name Marilyn Chambers was in my head. I kept changing it after typing it on the page, but I thought I had gotten them all out. I never heard of that porn star until this Little incident, and to this day, I'm not sure why the name was in my head.

Final note: While looking up the article online, so I could make sure I got the quote right, I found the article in the archive section of the newspaper's website. With the Marilyn Chambers still there.

So much for a retraction.

Monday Links: 4/13

2009-04-13T07:56:00.000-07:00

Well, I hope you all had a pleasant Easter weekend. I know I didn't.

I love Netflix, and I found this slide show about how it works fascinating.
I could link to cracked.com every single week, I recommend you bookmark it. But this one is extra special, even if I don't know all of the characters.
Those Japanese. Always one step ahead.
For some reason, I feel that I need to move to Elmhurst, Illinois. I'm not sure why...
I'm all about helping people. You're welcome.

Friday Hate: 4/10

2009-04-10T15:34:00.000-07:00

What's that? No Friday Hate? Fine, here it is.

I hate you for not being satisfied with the five days of gold I gave you all week.

'Nuff said.

Numero Uno: 21st Birthday

2009-04-10T10:14:00.000-07:00

It's all come down to this. Number one. Let's not beat around the bush.

The 21st birthday. The milestone of drunkenness for every red-blooded American. Our parents had the luxury of celebrating It three years earlier than we did, which meant that they could have possibly celebrated this momentous occasion during high school.

While the earlier the better is always a good thing, three extra years of illegal drinking give you some needed experience which comes in handy when you try and do the 21 shots.

My birthday is in August, at the end of the month, which is a mixed blessing. If you throw a party, you can have things outside, which is always fun. But for those college years, it often comes around the start of the Fall semester.

My freshman year, it was the day I moved into the dorms. My sophomore year, it was the Friday before classes started. My 21st Birthday, it was a Sunday, the day before classes start. Not good.

But it meant that people could come out with me on Saturday night, since it led into Sunday.

So I moved into my apartment on Friday, I spent all of Saturday drinking Gatorade (gotta stay hydrated, you know), and we threw a party Saturday night. Some people came over, and we spent the last few hours of illegality drinking beers and playing Foosball at my apartment.

When the time came, we headed down to a bar, and that's where the madness started. Shots all around, including the dreaded "Sweaty Mexican Lumberjack" One part bourbon, one part tequila, one part Yukon Jack (a sweet liquor), and one part Tabasco sauce.

While it sounds (and is) revolting, it's not as bad as a "greasy Mexican lumberjack," which contains a generous dollop of mayonnaise. No thanks.

So that was my first shot of the evening. I couldn't tell you what the other ones were, except I know one was a "prairie fire" a delectable concoction of tequila and hot sauce. The bartender recommended it. Cunt.

I remember very little about the rest of the night. I woke up with that same straight line of vomit coming out of my mouth, this time it went all the way to my loveseat. It was also the first and only time I ever threw up the next morning. I threw up straight lemon-lime Gatorade around noon. So much for the benefits of staying properly hydrated.

I turned on some DVD of the King of Queens, which as I have discussed, is a guilty pleasure of mine.

When I finally gathered myself, I headed over to my computer. There was an instant message from a friend, a guy in the fraternity, the guy who happened to move into the fraternity house as I moved out.

It started innocently enough.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Not much, feeling like absolute shit."

"Haha, yeah I bet."

Then, a shadow comes over the horizon.

"How much do you remember from last night?"

Uh oh. "Dude, I don't even remember leaving the bar."

"Oh. So you don't remember coming over last night?"

"Nope."

Uh oh. How bad could it be? Whatever you're thinking it was worse.

"Well, you came in and bashed my door down with a baseball bat, and screamed at me and my girlfriend for quite a while."

....

.....

I disgust myself. Flashes started coming back. Me, with a baseball bat. Shove the bat through the door, "Shining" style.

Him and his girlfriend, staring at me with the most pissed off, disgusted, yet disbelieving look on their faces.

And that's it.

I go over to the house, and the door is in utter wreckage. Beaten savagely off the hinges. Holes all over the place. Wood splinters everywhere.

Looks like I'm about to be the proud owner of a brand-new door.

I spent the next few days measuring, buying locks and a door, and installing it. If you don't think it was the most awkward moments of my life sitting their fixing this door, while his girlfriend was sitting there, then you're wrong.

As the door got fixed, more details came into play about that night. Apparently after my brutal attack, I started to walk home, unbeknownst to anyone else in the house. Apparently I made a call at 2:15 or so (and my call log confirmed this), saying I didn't know where I was.

I was literally a stone's throw from my house, in a Taco Bell parking lot. Of course, I couldn't see my house because I was face down on the pavement. Drowning in dignity, no doubt.

My friend finds me, and takes me back to my place, which happens to be locked. I decide to open it with my keys, and by that I mean, run into the door and fall down. I assume my friend was able to find the key and deposit me inside.

I was hungover for days, and I didn't even go to the store and buy my first thing of alcohol until almost a week later.

Although I never got pneumonia from the night, the sheer savagery of the attack on the door makes it the drunkest I've ever been. I'm usually not a mean drunk. Sure, I like to be a jackass sometimes, but I don't get in fights, and I rarely cause intentional property destruction.

This night my friends, I was angry, like an old man trying to send soup back at a deli.

Don't know why,.. nor does it matter now. And it's not like I learned anything, since most of the stories took place after that night.

But that night has yet to be topped, and probably won't until I got out Jimi Hendrix style and choke on my own puke.

Just thinking about that story makes me hungover.

Bonus Honorable Mention

Speaking of birthday drunkfests, let's go back in time to the second time I ever got drunk in my life, my seventeenth birthday.

It was the summer before my Junior year in high school, and my family had just moved. I lived in the basement, and we had literally moved three weeks before, and we still weren't all the way unpacked. In the basement was a bunch of bottles of liquor, in their own box.

My parents don't drink a whole lot, but when people came over, they would buy a bottle, or get one as a gift, and not drink much of it. As a result, they had quite a stash of barely opened bottles of all sorts of liquor.

It was this very same stash that got me in alcohol-related trouble the first time. I snuck a fifth of Stoli out, and took a sip at a friend's house. It tasted like rubbing alcohol, and I refrained from drinking for another few years.

Anyways, on this birthday, my friend stayed over, and we spent the evening going through all of these boxes, taking a sip from one old-ass bottle after the next.

I know I was pretty drunk, and it was the first time I had felt like that, like I could do anything better than anyone, and that my opinions were the most intelligent opinions anyone had ever come up with.

I had to wake up early the next morning to buy my books for school, and that was when I experienced my first hangover. My brother says he drank for a few years without a hangover, but I don't think he was drinking hard enough.

It was the first of two times I came to a high school function hungover, and the second was graduation. I had a party at my house, my parents got a keg, and I remember being late, and reeking of Bud Light. My friend also jumped off of my balcony and broke a tree. Good times.

Well, that's about it for this wee. I hope you enjoyed my tales of drunkenness as much as I enjoyed living and re-living them.

There are a lot of stories I didn't get to, but I tried to include the most notable in this list, hence the honorable mentions. 7,169 words of complete and utter failure.

And I'm sure there will be plenty more stories to come, especially with Buffett Day coming up in a week.

Good night, and go fuck yourself.

Number Two: Buffett Day 2005

2009-04-09T00:11:00.000-07:00

Alright, now we're getting into the meat of things. The second drunkest I have ever been in my life. And this one is a doozy.

Another Buffett Day, this one in 2005. The first Buffett Day that I was 21. Not that I ever had problems getting booze, especially on a Buffett Day, but it was still nice.

This year, due to some social probation issues, we couldn't have it at the fraternity house, so we had it at someone else's place. Poor them. They ended up with a horseshoe through big glass window for their troubles. And it rained all day. (UPDATE: I was informed by a gentleman who lived at that house, that it wasn't in fact a horseshoe that broke the window, it was a beer bottle, thrown by someone at another someone. Apologies.)

The day began with a usual Buffett Day challenge, and some horseshoes. I can't remember what happened exactly (shocker), but I remember getting into an argument over a horseshoe game.

My partner tried his most eloquent, logic-based argument to prove we were right. Meaning, he threw a folding chair at the other side.

Well, I'll be a monkey's bare-assed uncle if that there folding chair didn't land right over the pole, giving my friend a ringer. Greatest fucking thing I've ever seen.

Later, it was getting dark, and more rainy, and we got bored being cooped up playing video games. So we decided to get out the Pam, and turn the people's tile kitchen floor into an ice rink. Luckily the guy who suggested it happened to live there, much to the chagrin of his roommates.

I'll admit, with the inclement weather and such, I had pretty much decided that I wasn't going to do the challenge. For shame, I know.

But a funny thing happened. 11:25 rolled around, and I only had about five to go. Let me tell you something. Anyone that says peer pressure is bullshit is a fucking moron. You try to say no to people who just want to pour delicious alcohol down your throat.

So I ended up pounding the last five beers, doing three in the last ten minutes, finishing at about 11:58. But the night wasn't over yet. Not by a fucking long shot.

We kept drinking, and I don't know what time it was, but eventually my buddy suggest we head over to his boss's place and have a drink.

My buddy wasn't in school, he was working for a landscape company full time. His boss was the biggest redneck of them all, a former marine, and one motherfucking I would never, EVER want to be on the wrong side of.

So we head over to his house, which happens to be miles outside of town, I don't remember where. I didn't drive, we actually had a sober driver, which was nice.

So we get to the house, and the boss's wife is up, and his kids are having a sleepover in the living room. Of their trailer. So we stumble up, several of us holding cans of beer.

And the redneck stops us dead in our track.

"Hold up there, boys. We don't drink that shit around here."

What? Could my buddy have been mistaken? Were we about to get gunned down in a hail of glorious redneck bullets?

"Boys, we drink this shit here." And he pulls out a handle (1.75 Liters, for those of you keeping score at home) of Jim Beam whiskey. Oh. My. God.

I woke up in my bed on my side, and the first thing I see is a straight line. A straight line coming from my mouth, across my bed, onto my carpet, and on my loveseat, which is about three feet away.

A line, made of vomit. With chunks of potatoes. For some reason.

I had puked in my sleep, only the second time I ever did that in my life (when was the first? could it have been......I guess you'll have to wait until tomorrow).

I never found out what happened that night, we were all too shitfaced, except for the driver, but he waited in the car for the hours we were there. I'm pretty sure that poor, poor handle of Beam didn't survive the night.

So, needless to say I felt like shit in the morning, which was a Sunday. I drank water all day, got blazed a few times, and took the hottest shower imaginable, and I still felt like shit.

I went to a friend's place that night to watch a movie, and I still felt like absolute shit. I took some Nyquil, passed out around 10:30.

Woke up for a 11:15 class, still felt like shit. Skipped it. Took another hot shower, still felt like shit.

And so it went, until Wednesday, when I still felt like shit, and I decided I should probably go to the doctor's.

Went to the campus health center, and got the verdict: pneumonia.

I drank myself into fucking pneumonia.

Holy fucknuts. I didn't even know that was possible.

Bonus Honorable Mention

I'm a sports fan. Basketball is my favorite sport, but I also love football and baseball.

I will never forget the fall of 2004. My beloved Red Sox come back from a 3-0 deficit to win their first World Series in 86 years.

Ironically enough, I forget a lot about the night they won.

We had been getting into the baseball playoffs the whole Yankees series, and we were at a fever pitch by the time the Sox made it into the World Series.

The Sox were up 3-0 heading into game 4, which was a Wednesday night. I didn't want to jinx it, but I called a few friends and politely informed them that, if the Sox happened to be up late in the game, that we were getting obliterated.

Come the sixth inning, the Red Sox were up 3-0, and we headed to the bar.

The same bar that was a block from my house, and happened to take the Discover card, the card that got sent to my parents' house. How nice of them to by drinks for the night.

We were the only group there, and we were getting rowdy. One of the waitresses was from Boston, so she was just as into it as we were.

As the bottom of the ninth came, we did our usual tradition for big games: a shot per out. Tequila, followed by Jager, followed by Gentleman Jack for the third and final out.

One. Two. Three. Fuck yeah.

As I made drunken calls to my parents and my friends, we ordered champagne, which probably hadn't happened in that bar since the mid 90's. They did find us a few bottle, and we drank them without hesitation.

As the celebration continued, I went to the bathroom, most likely to piss.

However, very little piss came out. Vomit, however, went everywhere. I remember walking around the bathroom, puking all over the place, getting it everywhere but the toilet.

I came out, and loudly proclaimed, "I think someone puked all over the bathroom."

Needless to say, we were soon escorted off the premises.

But getting wasted while watching the Red Sox win big games is nothing new to me. Take 2007 for instance, when the Red Sox found themselves in a 3-1 hole to the Indians in the ALCS. I watched them battle back to a decisive game 7.

For game 7, a Sunday, I went out on the town. Germantown to be exact.

Now, you might be saying, "what sort of productive member of society goes out and get hammered watching a non-championship baseball game on a Sunday night."

And I answer, not a productive member of society. At this point, I had no job, no prospects, no conceivable reason to even get up in the morning. So I had time.

And use it well, I did. I got fucked up, and even did the three shots for the last three outs thing.

I think.

I was driven home in the back of a pickup truck, and I think I tried to get out during a stop to Taco Bell.

When I got back to my friends house, I spent most of the night throwing up, and laying on his bathroom floor, begging for death.

I left my car at the bar, and lost my wallet.

Not good times.

Who am I kidding?

Good times, good times.

See you tomorrow for you grand finale. It will not disappoint, I promise.

Number Three: Summer 2003

2009-04-08T09:28:00.000-07:00

Back with your third installment of the drunkest nights of my life. As you may come to realize, most of them involve personal humiliation and loss of dignity, and who knows, maybe some destruction of property and relationships as the week goes one.

I'm not sure if you've guessed by now, but each of these stories will involve puking in some form of another, each more humiliating than the last.

Without further ado...

Summer 2003. An innocent time. I was a smooth young lad, returning from my first year of college. My first semester was spent pledging a fraternity; my second spent smoking pot and drinking four nights a week at the fraternity house. While I was posed no danger to top 10% of my class, I was doing fairly well.

I came home with a newfound thirst for alcohol, and a newfound trust in my drinking abilities. Silly me. Exams finished up on a Wednesday, and by Friday, I was moved out of the dorms, and ready to begin my summer. While I waited to get a job (I ended up building decks for part of the summer, and as an electrician for the other part), I had nothing but time on my hands.

So on that first Friday night, a few of my buddies from high school, also home for the summer, came over to my parents house, and we made an evening of it.

I lived in the basement of my parents house, and it is out in the sticks, so it was a popular hangout, especially in the summer. My friends could come over, booze it up illegally, and no one would be any the wiser.

Before college, summer was my time for drinking. I never drank all that much during high school during the school year. I worked most weekends, and didn't have much time.

But the summers, oh the summers. The summer before my senior year of high school, me and a friend used to make it a point to get drunk once a week, and by the end of the summer, we considered ourselves full-blown alkies.

Now, I consider myself a square if I only get drunk once a week. Oh, the innocence of childhood.

Anyways, so my friends came over, and they brought with them maybe a case of beer between about five of us.

My staple back then would be a handle of Canadian Mist that I would pilfer from my parents' liquor cabinet. My mom used to buy a handle of that when my grandma came over, the two of them preferred whiskey sours. They would rarely drink more than a quarter of it, and it just sat there.

That's where I came in. And that's why I can never drink cheap Canadian whiskey again.

So we're drinking beer, playing video games, doing the occasional shot, and talking some bullshit. And as the pile of empty cans grows to fill the garbage bag I had downstairs, the shit-talking ratchets up a notch.

To the point where one of my friends says to me: "Yeah, you've been away so a year, I don't think you can really drink as much as you say you can."

Good sir, you might as well have spit on y ancestor's graves. I don't take such a slight lightly.

I don't remember what exactly led up to this (shocker), but somehow the more than half-full bottle of Canadian Mist got drawn into the mix.

And somehow it evolved (or is that devolved?) into the two of us passing the bottle back and forth between us, taking gigantic swigs of this foul-tasting rotgut. I think another one of my friends was in on it as well.

I do know the bottle was empty when I woke up. Luckily for my friends, we had a friend that didn't drink, so he served as the driver, and drive my friends home.

I woke up, felling like shit, but otherwise okay.

I think my mom called our house from work around noon, and asked how I was feeling.

Thinking nothing of it, I replied that I felt fine.

"Oh, that's good, because you guys had quite a night last night," she said.

How did this crafty wench learn of our nighttime boozing? In a more polite way, I asked her.

"Well, you, [your friend] and [your other friend] woke the entire family up, puking and screaming at each other in the backyard. I'm surprised you didn't notice that we flipped on the floodlights."

Good God.

Apparently, we went out back (where I conveniently had a porch in the back yard, allowing for easy egress and ingress. But it just so happens that every family member's bedroom also had a window that faced the backyard.

So when we went out there, apparently (that word again!), we were talking shit to each other outside, and then just started puking, loud as can be.

My parents flipped on the floodlights, and were treated to some of the Class of 2006's finest puking their guts out all around the backyard.

I'm told it lasted several minutes. With my little brother and little sister watching as well. Both of whom were too young to really understand the appeal of alcohol, so I'm sure they just thought we had a nasty case of the stomach flu.

All three of us.

That's the fourth drunkest night of my life, but it reminds me of a similar story, from the same summer.

Bonus Honorable Mention

The same group of friends came over, and one of them used to smoke weed with me a lot. Back then, this was before my parents caught me smoking (another story in and of itself), so I had all my apparatus in my room.

Well, this was getting towards the end of the summer, and the guy who I used to smoke with a lot was headed off the to Army. You can't say we're not patriotic.

Given that a drug-test is the standard part of the entrance exams to the Army, he couldn't indulge in the sweet, sweet reefer. So what was a man to do?

Well, it just so happens that I had recently purchased some opium from a friend of mine. It was only the second (and last, up through now) time I purchased opium, but I always liked to put a little bit on a bowl, to spice the whole thing up.

Since weed stays in your system from anywhere to two weeks to a month, that was out. But some diligent research on my part, I found out that opium only stays in your system for 24 to 48 hours. Golden, right?

Wrong.

Instead of putting a little bit in a bowl, I decided to pack up my gravity bong with some opium. I don't know if you know what a gravity bong is, but it basically is the most powerful way to smoke. You use a large plastic bottle that fills with smoke, and you take it all in.

I had a 2-liter bottle, so we each took 2-liters of straight opium smoke.

Yowzas.

I felt fine at first, took the hit, and sat back on my bed. Then I started getting the spins. Real bad.

I stumbled to the bathroom, and barely made it to the toilet before collapsing, breaking a towel rack in the process. I promptly deposited what remained of my dinner in the toilet.

I wake up, and my friend who partook in the opium is passed out on my couch. I go to take a piss, and there is puke EVERYWHERE. Everywhere but the toilet, that is.

Now, I could have sworn that I got all my puke in the toilet, but a drunken idiot's memories aren't always correct.

I just assumed that I did it, and I spent the next hour or so scrubbing puke from some obscure corners of the bathroom.

My friend wakes up after I finish, and he goes to take a piss. He comes out, and is like, "Man, I went to puke right after you finished, and I could have sworn I got it all over the toilet. I guess not."

Oh, the delicious irony.

Number Four: Buffett Day 2003

2009-04-07T08:26:00.000-07:00

Here we are with day two. You'll notice another theme comes to light with today's tale: missing time. Time tends to go missing a lot when you're drinking, and those are the times when bad things happen.

What is Buffett Day, might you be asking?

It's only the single greatest day of the year. Fuck Christmas, fuck March Madness, fuck the Super Bowl. It's the greatest single day of the year.

Why, might you ask? Well, its glory resides in its simplicity. A bunch of people, drinking from noon on, trying to finish a case of beer before midnight. Not to mention it takes place in April, just when Spring brings horseshoes, sandals, outdoor beer pong and Foosball, and an assortment of Springtime glory, all at my old fraternity house, the house that booze built.

So, needless to say, it's fucking awesome.

Still don't believe me? Well, two of the top five stories on this list take place on Buffett Day. Considering I've taken place in six of them (with the seventh coming this month), that should show you the precedent this takes.

This story is about my first Buffett Day, in the Spring of 2003. Mere months before Number Four, which took place about a month and a half afterwards.

Since this was my first one, I felt pressure to take the "Buffett Day Challenge." Twenty-four cold, tasty brew-dogs from noon to midnight.

I know what you're thinking. Two an hour? That's not bad. But let me tell you something my friend, it catches up with you. Quick.

Let's say you're going at a good pace, and 3:00 rolls around, and you get hungry. So you grab some food. Next thing you know, you're a beer behind. Then you go play some volleyball, and you get a beer behind.

Now you're chugging. But in the time it takes you to chug all those beers, you missed another half hour.

If you can finish it before dark you are truly a giant among men. The best I've seen was before 6:30, and the guy spent the whole night passed out on my couch.

He is truly a national treasure.

So this was my first one. And the pressure was on.

It was good times for a few hours. Drank my beers, played some shoes, played some volleyball, and generally horse-assed it up.

It gets darker, and people start getting behind. And the blackout starts enveloping everyone around it.

I've seen pictures from that night. Blurry, blurry pictures of people wearing straw hats, people who have no business wearing straw hats.

The last thing I remember? Don't know.

The first thing I remember? Waking up on the top bunk of my dorm room, thinking I slept through Buffett Day.

As the first wave of vomit exploded out of me, down to my trash can six feet below on the floor, I remembered that I didn't miss it. Not even close. Luckily, the second thing I didn't miss was the trash can.

I threw myself off the top bunk, and grabbed the trash can, walking down the hall, puking my guts out into the trashcan as I walked.

I had finished puking by the time I got to the bathroom at the end of the hall, so I took the trashbag filled with puke, and threw it away, despite the many signs that told me only to put paper trash in the trash cans.

Later that day, I went into my small fridge to grab a bottle of water, and a surprise awaited me.
It was a bottle of Captain Morgan's Silver rum, a product I didn't even know existed.

Apparently, I was walking back to campus with a few people, when I spied a car parked along the road with an open passenger window, and this treasure awaiting me inside.

I stole it, and insisted to my companions that we not take another step until we all took deep drinks from this glorious bottle of life.

Apparently we didn't finish it, because there was enough for a few drinks. I hope to holy hell that it wasn't full when I found it, but deep down, a part of me knows that it was full.

Bonus Honorable Mention

I've had my share of blackout drunk moments at the fraternity house, and I'll share several of them with you here, since this one was a little short.

The second time I went to a party at the fraternity I eventually joined, it was at a party called Hop, Skip and Go Naked. It was named after the punch served there, called HopSkip. This delectable brew is made with beer, vodka, and lemonade mix.

Needless to say, it will catch up to you. I found myself on the lawn, puking all over myself, until someone threw me into the DD's car. Apparently I passed someone in my hall, while I was walking to campus, and I gave him a shaky thumbs up, not bad for someone who was covered in puke. It was the first time I had ever puked because of drinking.

The night I became a pledge, I blacked out, and had to get a ride home in my own car. Apparently I was screaming out the window at people on campus, and when I was trying to climb into my bunkbed, I completely demolished my bookshelf, and woke up, and had to clean mountains of books off of my laptop so I could write a paper before going to class.

A month or two into pledging, October of 2002, we had our homecoming festivities. Thursday night rolled around, and I don't remember a single thing except puking in a trash can and waking up at the house.

I later found out that I had become a little lecherous with one of our alumni's fiancees, in addition to other things.

In September of 2008, I went down to Va. Tech to see a football game. I spent all Saturday drinking, and ended up playing poker at a local watering hole. I don't remember how I did, I only remember playing with a 12-year-old girl and her dad, and I'm pretty sure she sharked me.

I was shitfaced but I thought I remembered most of the evening. Then I was talking to a friend of mine who is from Richmond, and he said "We should chill sometime."

"Sure man, anytime, you still in Richmond?" I said.

"Uhh, no, I'm living in D.C. now. Remember talking about it?"

I didn't even remember seeing him in Blacksburg.

The second-to-last time I was in Blacksburg (the latest being the beer-pong tourney), I also went to see a football game, to see Virginia Tech play Virginia for a shot to go to the ACC Title game. We won, the game was at noon, so I was plenty drunk when it was still daylight.

I remember going to a bar (the same bar will be featured in a story later this week), and meeting some alumni, one of whom was there with his wife.

I don't remember leaving the bar, but sure enough, I'm assured I made an ass out of myself around this guy's wife.

I woke up on a couch, soaking wet, and freezing cold. I ran to my car, and drove to the friends house where I was staying.

Then I had to get up at 5 a.m., to drive home to make it to the Redskins-Giants game, and tailgate and drink more there.

That is a brief rundown of my drunkest adventures in Blacksburg, not counting of course, the ones that are yet to come.

Number Five: St Patrick's Day 2009

2009-04-06T11:35:00.000-07:00

Welcome, welcome, welcome, to a week of drunken stories, the top five drunkest night of my life. Since I'm so generous, and I have too many more drunken stories than time, I might even include a bonus honorable mention drunk story with each one.

I wrote a short piece about this the morning after, but I have since pieced together part of the evening, and what happened is not encouraging.

But let us start from the beginning. It was St. Patrick's Day.

Your drink of choice on St. Patrick's Day? The Irish Car Bomb. A delectable mix of Guinness, Irish whiskey and Irish cream, I make it my business to consume at least five every St. Patty's Day.

When I was on college, I used to buy two 12-packs of Guinness (one year it was Heineken Dark, since they were out of Guinness), a fifth of Jameson (or Powers) and a fifth of Irish Cream, and I would have a mobile Car Bomb Disposal Unit, where I would drive to various parties, bringing my dry wit and cold car bombs, and drunkenness would most certainly ensue.

The previous two years, circumstances conspired against me having a good St. Patty's Day, so I went into this one with a vengeance. That's never a good attitude to go in with.

Add that to the fact that I had nothing to eat since breakfast, save for a single hard-boiled egg when I got home from work, and we've got a recipe for disaster.

So my roommate and I, accompanied my by other roommate, who will serve as the driver for the evening, head out to a local watering hole.

We get there, and the green beer is flowing like water. Pitchers are immediately brought to the car, and we indulge. Our DD for the evening drank some of the first pitcher, than rolled home to do some work.

So we're sitting at the bar, and watching the World Baseball Classic, the Caps game, and I even got them to turn on the Mavericks-Pistons game.

So the pitchers vanish quickly, and soon several Irish Car Bombs come out. I believe four to be exact. My roommate and I alternated buying pitchers, and I think we each bought three or four.
Do the math, and we've got about seven pitchers and four car bombs each.

So we're feeling pretty good when my roommate gets a text about a party, near our house, at this hot chick's place. The beginning of the end.

So my other roommate comes and picks us up, case of beer in tow, and we get to the party.

The next thing I know, I'm waking up at 7:53 in the morning, pants off, one shoe on, and shirt on.
What happened in the meantime, I am still in the process of figuring out.

Here's what I have so far:

We get to the party, and it's in full swing. And when I say full swing, I mean a couple of dudes gathered around a beer pong table, talking about cars.

Apparently there were some hot chicks there, but I have no evidence of it, besides this picture, which I found a week after.

I don't know who these people are, but she is hot. This picture was taken at 11:10 p.m., and I was already blacked out, if that tells you anything.

So we got there, drank some beers, and apparently someone came around with a tray of Jello shooters. Green ones. With Everclear. Fucking everclear.

So I drank plenty of these shots, and at some point during the evening, I got into conversation with a fellow who, let's just say, preferred the company of men.

I sort of remember how the conversation started. We were talking about hot chicks, and this dude said, with the traditional gay lisp, "Oh yeah, I totally love poon."

And I started laughing in his face. He acted all confused, and I was like, "Come on man, we all know you're gay."

And he wouldn't admit it. So I kept badgering him, until he finally told me he was gay. Apparently (you're going to be seeing that word a lot during these stories), I didn't let it go at that. I was fascinated with this dude, and we kept talking.

I was following him around so much that his friends got concerned that I was harassing him, and my friend told them I was a reporter with the Washington Post, doing a feature about gay culture. Yikes.

Apparently (!!), I started going up to some of the more attractive ladies at the parties, and saying, "So you're telling me you'd like to suck a dick rather than fuck this hot piece of ass?"

Charming, I know. Fortunately, I think I was slurring enough that no one understood me. At least I hope so.

I'm not sure how conversation broke down with the gay fellow, but I think we parted on good terms (when I woke up pantsless, I thought for a moment that we parted on really good terms, but luckily that was not the case).

I was talking with someone else, and we happened to come upon a neglected tray of Jello shots, nearly filled to capacity. Soon enough, and I mean within minutes, they were gone.

And that's the last people saw of me for a while.

Soon, it was around 1:00 a.m., and my friends were ready to leave, and they went looking for me. They flipped on the floodlights, and there I was, passed the fuck out on the porch, on a deck chair.

But the failure doesn't end there. Oh no.

The floodlights apparently woke me from my restful slumber, and I started to wake up. In full view of everyone at the party, conveniently illuminated for all to see through big plate glass window, I began to puke all over myself.

I heard later that it was like slitting the throat of a fucking leprechaun, there was green fluid flying everywhere.

I'll always remember something a professor in college told me. "Alcohol is a poison, and the body will reject it, violently at times."

I was the epitome of that phrase. Puking everywhere, and nearby was the guy I took all those Jello shots with, apparently he was puking as well.

Some people came out to grab me after I was done expelling, and I stood up, only to drop like I had been taken out by a sniper's bullet.

I remember vaguely being carried to the car, carried into my house, and that was all she wrote.

I woke up at 7:53, and I had to be at work at 8. Yeah, not going to happen.

When I finally rolled in at 10:00, I felt like I was sweating green Bud Light through every pore. Luckily, since I had thrown up, I was nauseous (until lunchtime that is), I just felt like complete and utter shit.

I caught a bit of good fortune when I remembered that I had to cover a late game that night, so my absence during the morning wasn't all that unusual. Plus, the thing I had to cover at 8 got moved to the next day.

Damage: I lost my coat, which I eventually got back later. Also, my dignity was scarred forever, but let's be honest, at this point in my life, my dignity makes Rhianna look like a fucking picnic.

I wish my dignity looked this good.

So that's number five on the countdown of my drunkest nights. Stay tuned tomorrow for number four.

Bonus Honorable Mention:

The last time I drank Everclear.

I was mid-January, while I was in college, at two female friend's birthday party. I had been to Myrtle beach over Christmas break, and bought myself an handle of sweet, sweet, grain alcohol.

I'm sure that impressed my parents. It was on the same trip that I drank an entire fifth of rum in one night, then had a physical exam a week later, where I had elevated liver enzymes. Good times.

Anyways, I spent the evening drinking Everclear mixed with limeade. I didn't think I was that drunk until I stepped out on their porch to smoke a joint with some people, and it hit me like a fucking punch to the face.

All of a sudden I went from being buzzed to absolutely shit-housed. I remember leaving the party in a huff shortly thereafter.

Problem was, I had driven that night. So me and my friend are ready to leave, and I go to get the car. I'm waiting in the car, in the parking lot to come out, when I lean out the driver's side window, and puke all over the place.

Oh no, it's not over yet.

We're driving back, and one of us decides that we should stop at McDonald's. Well, I'm driving, so we went. I ordered at the speaker, and proceeded to drive to the window.

In between the two, I started puking out the driver's side window again. And I didn't stop. While I'm coasting through the drive-thru, I am literally puking my guts out as I get to the window.

I get to the window, and I'm still puking, head completely out the window. My friend pays the horrified cashier by reaching over me, takes the food, slaps me on the back and says "let's go."

I sit up, wipe my mouth, apologize to the cashier, and I drive off. I can only imagine what would have happened had there been a cop anywhere near there.

Next thing I know, I'm waking up literally curled around the toilet in my bathroom, and I look up to see my friend standing over me, puking into the toilet.

I shakily stand up, slap him on the back and say "good luck!" and then pass the fuck out.

Monday Links: 4/6

2009-04-06T07:39:00.000-07:00

Back with your first edition of Monday Links for the month of April!

I think we all know Sacha Baron Cohen is a genuis. If you don't, click that link.
Earth hour is complete bullshit, but this photo gallery is pretty awesome. Make sure to click on the photos.
Speaking of cool photos, these are really creepy.
Hyporcrite much?
This man is incredibly lucky.

New Cell Phone Awkwardness

2009-04-05T13:18:00.000-07:00

A got a new cell phone the other day, a money BlackBerry storm. Now I can be among those douchebags that sit and type on their BlackBerry all day, and complain about getting e-mails at all hours of the day, even though it is my choice to sync my e-mail with my BlackBerry.

I think it will really open up my douche horizons, and that's something I'm looking forward to.

But I have rather unique needs on my cell phone. I don't text a ton, and I don't really need a camera, although I have used it a lot more since I've had this blog.

But I do browse the internet on my phone quite often, and I use the phone to write notes a lot. Many of the blog entries you've read on this here blog have originated with some drunken phrase I've typed in my phone at 3 a.m.

So when I got my new phone, I wanted to make sure the NotePad function worked. So my first test was writing down directions to a local Air Force Base in Washington, D.C., because I had to go there today to cover a basketball game.

It just so happens that I have a female friend from college with the same last name. And it just so happens that she was in town this weekend. And this led to some awkwardness of the most glorious kind.

We were out in D.C. the other night, drinking, bullshitting, catching up, doing all that awesome shit.

I was talking about my new phone, and how I was still getting used to the touchscreen. I told her how I use the notepad function on phones a lot, and I wasn't sure how this one was going to work. She asked to see it, and so I pulled up the screen.

Something new about the notepad function on the BlackBerry Storm: You have to have a title for each note. So when I was typing directions in, I tried to save it, and it wouldn't let me without a title, so I just used the name of the base as the title.

So she's looking at my notes, and she sees one that has her last name on it. And she looks at it. And finds directions from my house to this base in Washington, D.C.

"395 North to 285 South to S Capitol Street..." and so on.

Well, it just so happens that the hotel she is staying at in the city, is very close to this base.

So from her opinion, it seems as if I have her name in my phone, as well as directions to get to her hotel room. Which is all fine and good, except for the fact that she never mentioned to any of us the exact hotel she was staying at.

This would suggest some stalker-ish behavior on my part, with a girl who I am friends with.

Believe you me, not an easy thing to explain away.

Add that to the fact that in my photo album, there may or may not have been a photo of my junk, which I used to test the camera on my new phone and forgot to delete, and as Ricky Ricardo would say, I "had some splainin' to do."

Saturday Night Bonus Video

2009-04-04T21:49:00.000-07:00

How generous am I? Not at all. But still, here's a hilarious movie trailer about Nazi Zombies. Make sure you watch past the lame first minute, and stay tuned for the slaughter, followed by laughter.

Friday Night Bonus Video

2009-04-03T18:33:00.000-07:00

I don't think I've ever laughed as hard in my life, especially at "The Road Warrior."

Make sure you watch it until the end.

A Special Treat for Next Week

2009-04-03T10:07:00.000-07:00

Alright kats and kittens, I'm here to introduce you to something that's going to be happening here at Fists With Your Toes next week. Something I think you'll all enjoy.

Let's face it, the best stories on this blog and in real life are about getting fucked up and doing stupid shit.

Whether its throwing up somewhere you shouldn't, hooking up with people you shouldn't, or just causing general mayhem and madness, it happens to the best of us.

Well, next week, I will be counting down the five drunkest nights (or days) of my life. I will start with number five on Monday, and lead you down the path of failure all the way to the number one drunkest night of my life, and the aftermath.

While I know you will be waiting with baited breath until then, here is a brief description of several nights that didn't make the cut:

Four days in Boston where me and three other people drank 13 fifths of liquor, just in our rooms, not counting going out to bars, which we did every single night.
Several nights where I hardly remember anything except for the first drink, then being bent over a trash can puking my guts out.
A few recent trips to Blacksburg, where I've blacked out most of the day, harassed friends' wives, and had long deep conversations with people that I don't remember seeing.
"Moonshine Mondays" as we used to call them back in college, that usually resulted in waking up too drunk to drive to class.
A trip to the Northern Virginia Brewfest.

Some of those stories I will recap at a later date, but they didn't make the cut for one reason or another.

And as good as those ones are, you better believe the five that did make the cut are epic. Epic in both scope and failure.

So until, Monday, go fuck yourself Planet Earth.

Friday Hate: 4/3 (D.C. Edition) and Some Detective Work

2009-04-03T08:21:00.001-07:00

This week you get an extra-long edition of Friday Hate, featuring some nifty detective work by yours truly.

I can't tell you how proud I am of myself for ignoring the possibilities of the phrase "extra-long." Or disappointed. Yeah, disappointed.

Last night I attended yet another professional sporting event in the fine District of Columbia, your nation's capital. I watched the Washington Wizards play the Cleveland Cavaliers, and it was a good time.

What I come to you today about is something specific, which is a little different from your usual Friday Hate.

Usually I rail about something generic, whether it be a group of people, a certain action, or whatever. This time, I come to you to rail about a specific person.

After the Zards game, in which I got pretty drunk there, including double fisting 24-ounce beers for the fourth quarter, since they stop selling them at the start of the fourth.

The Verizon Center, or the Phone Booth as the locals call it, happens to have a bar in one of the corners, and it's a good bar. So after the game, me and my friend decided to wait out the rush to the metro at the bar, and we head in there to watch some non-live basketball, and have a few drinks.

A few drinks quickly turned into a Jager bomb, then another, then I think one more. There might have been shots of Jameson mixed in there also, I can't be sure. And of course, the ever-present Bud Light in all of its drinkable glory was there to wash everything down.

The bar was very crowded. A big Wizards win, combined with a Thursday night, combined with a general love of alcohol in your nation's capital led to a festive mood for all. Lots of people, lots of loundess, good times all around.

But sitting at the bar was one douchebag that didn't seem into all of it. He's surrounded by big guys in LeBron James jerseys, and hot chicks ordering fancy shooters, and he's sitting at the bar, calmly, not watching TV, but reading while chaos reigns all around him.

This guy was a douchebag. I could tell right away, for reasons I'll soon get into. But first, take a look at him, and see if you can't spot some of the tell-tale signs of prickdom.

First of all, you can't see the title of the book he's reading, so let me enlighten you.

Eros and Magic in the Renaissance.

I shit you not.

He is reading this book at 11:30 in a crowded sports bar filled with rabid basketball fans in Washington, D.C. What a fucking tool.

Note the rings he's wearing. A thumb ring. Do you know anybody who isn't a complete fuckstick that would wear a thumb ring?

(Actually, I do know one. He wears a thumb ring, but his last name is Scorpio, and with a last name as awesome as that, you can wear whatever the fuck you want.)

Check out the other ring, a copper spiral on his index finger. This guy is a grade-A fuckstain, and he wants everyone to know it.

The picture doesn't do his hair justice, but it's that greasy, slicked back look of someone who reads Buffy the Vampire Slayer fan fiction. The drunker I got, the more pissed off I got at this dude.

Luckily he left before we took the second round of Jager bombs, because I was so ready to ask him something obnoxious.

But alas, I didn't. But I think I already made an ass out of myself the last time I was in D.C., so I figured I'm good for now.

So i got talking to some folks about the NBA, because there is nothing I like more than to talk basketball with people when I'm drunk.

Quick side note: Apparently the new slang term for African-Americans is "presidents." I hear it from good sources that it will soon replace the N-word as one of the more insulting racial epithets out there. You heard it here first.

Before I knew it, time had slipped away, and it was 12:30. It was then and only then that we thought it prudent to ask when the Metro closes.

The answer? Midnight.

Fuck.

Trapped in D.C. After dark.

Double fuck. (which also happens to be my favorite genre of porn)

So I call my roommate, who comes through in the clutch like Larry Bird (as long as we're sticking with the basketball theme).

A final note:

While looking for the picture I took of the prick reading, I found another photo, this one:

Looks like something pretty standard right? A mostly full bottle of Bud Light, sitting on a counter of some sort.

So, like I tend to do after several drunken nights, I played detective this morning. Fired up the ol' Photoshop at work, and did some sleuthing.

Clue #1: The shadow is my head, so I am obviously standing over the bottle, and the light s coming from behind me, meaning I'm not at the actual bar, because bars don't rest against a wall. Since it is florescent light, I am inside.

Clue #2: The surface seems to be white and shiny. There appears to be a line of caulk between the wall and the surface, suggesting an atmosphere involving moisture. Interesting.

Clue #3: The silver metal fixtures at the bottom left corner and top of the photo. They look like they could be connected in an L-shape. Hmmm...

My powers of deduction lead me to believe that it is a plumbing fixture of some sort. Since I am standing, it would have to be.......a urinal?

And that's when it all came flooding back. Where I was, why I took a picture of a seemingly innocent Bud Light bottle, and my general failure as a member of the human race.

I remember going to the bathroom. And when I got to the urinal, there was an empty bottle of Bud Light on top.

By now, you're probably saying to yourself, "but the bottle in the picture is full."

Right. Because I filled it. With my piss.

I don't know why, but for some reason, I remember thinking that it would be the funniest thing in the world to piss in this bottle, and leave it on top of the urinal. Like someone's just going to come by, see a full beer on a urinal (which is very, very warm), and just drink it.

I am a disgusting human being.

No one denies this.

Awkwardness in the Ol' Pool Hall

2009-03-31T07:46:00.000-07:00

Because I am such a model employee, I spent a few hours last Friday shooting pool at the community center near where I work.

It had been a long week, and Fridays are usually pretty slack, so I went down there. And in the midst of racking up some 8-ball, several young ladies entered the pool room. Three to be exact.

Now, despite what you might read here, I'm not a pervert. I have thoughts like any red-blooded man, but I don't think I go overboard.

But these ladies (and I use this term loosely, as you'll see in a moment), were a combined 21. Not bad, when you consider the average is a 7, but it was more like an 8, a 7 and a 6.

Problem was, I'm pretty sure they were high-school age. Something about the way they carried themselves, especially the hot one in tight black leggings and those furry boots screamed "jailbait." These were the kind of chicks that buying a pack of smokes is a big deal.

As if the plot didn't need thickening, these chicks were speaking a foreign language with each other. It sounded like German.

If you think a hot fraulein in f-me boots and tight leggings doesn't steam my clams, you'd be wrong.

I searched my brain, which is feeble when it comes to foreign languages. I figured, I mutter a German world or two, barely within earshot of the ladies, and they hear me, and if they know English, they'll immediately come up and

The only thing I know about German is how to count to three (eins, zwei, drei) and several quotes from Die Hard.

That's right, I went there.

I frantically pored over the German quotes in Die Hard, and only one came to mind, and it comes at a pivotal point in the flick.

So, under my breath, but loud enough to be heard across the room, I muttered, "schießen das fenster."

It had an immediate impact. But far from the "Ve must fuck you." response I had imagined, their eyes got wide. They looked over at me with something akin to fear in theuir eyes, then they looked around the room.

After a brief looking around, they ended their game, and quickly got the hell out of there.

And then it hit me.

You see, the quote I said came from one of the shootouts in Die Hard, right after Hans and McClane, have met, and Hans sees that McClane has no shoes.

So he tells Karl, "schießen das fenster," which roughly translates to "shoot the glass," or "shoot the window."

Well, it just so happens, that the pool room we were in, not only had two large plate glass windows separating i from the outside, and there is no wall separating the room from the hallway, just large windows, so everyone can see in and out of the pool room.

So to these young frauleins, I was suggesting to my friend that we should take out our guns, and shoot all of the windows. Better yet, since they probably didn't know I was listening intently to their German conversation, they probably thought I was trying to be secretive.

Let that be a lesson to all of you: Die Hard just doesn't impress the chicks.

I take that back. Die Hard never did anything wrong for anybody.

Yet Another Movie (Premiere)

2009-03-30T10:17:00.000-07:00

As part of my job, I get to go to movie premiers, in order to review them.

I usually go to one a month, and before the other day, they usually aren't worth mentioning. But this one was quite memorable, both for the general douchebagginess of the audience, and several other things.

To start things off, the film was Duplicity starring Julia Roberts and Clive Owen. Good flick. It was in D.C., at Gallery Place, which neighbors the Verizon Center.

I went there, and when I checked in with the press people, I noticed something amiss. The people working for the press company (who are generally hot chicks) were dressed in fedoras and trench coat. What happened to the low-cut outfits that served me so faithfully when I go to sleep later that night?

Undeterred, I get to my seat, in the press section.

Let me tell you something. I enjoy reviewing movies. I don't like going to every movie that pops up, because I don't like watching foreign dramas, or even dramas for that matter. I like going to see stoner comedies, action flicks, and the occasional porno.

While I like to review movies, I never want to be what's called a "movie critic." Those are some of the worst people on the face of the earth.

People who view movies as "high art" are scum, and they are just looking for a way to think they are better than you. Sure, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly is one of the most beautiful things ever, but that doesn't make me think that I'm better than you because I think it. I know I am.

It's possible for a movie to make you think, and have a great story and all that, but deep down, every movie ciritc will sell his integrity for a good line in a review.

I've done it myself. For example, before I saw Iron Man, I thought of a great headline for my review: "Iron Man shakes the rust off superhero genre." Brilliant, I know.

The thing was, I came up with that before I saw it, and I was going to use it no matter what. Luckily, the flick was pretty sweet, so I didn't run into a moral dilemma. But as a writer, make no bones about it, I would have used that headline even if it sucked, and then just spent 300 words justifying the headline. That's just how I roll.

But a movie critic would never admit that. They'd go on and on about how the film "spoke to him" or some other bullshit.

These same critics are the ones who are so pressured by other reviews, that it taints a lot of what they do.

Example: The Dark Knight. Great flick. But it is flawed, and flawed in a way that prevents it from being "The Greatest movie Ever."

Sure, Heath Ledger is great. But the plot has serious (get it?) holes in it. I won't go into a lot of them here, but it does. The performances make it a good movie, but it doesn't mean that it's a perfect flick, the way people were describing it.

And this pressure of so many positive reviews becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Critics who are worth their salt spent many pixels describing why the plot was a symbol o four current world and all that tripe.

The acclaim had a different effect on some reviewers, but a large effect nonetheless. Some reviewers felt the need to not flow with the crowd, and instead point out reasons that the film was incredibly overrated. Which is equally as wrong.

The film is a good story made great by good actors. It is a great film. Probably among the ten best of 2008. But that doesn't put it up there with movies like The Godfather. It just doesn't.

Anyways, I digress. Back to the premier, where I am surrounded by this scum at every angle.

Don't believe me that the people surrounding me were scum? Try this little nugget on for size.

There was a sign at the front of the theater, at the lower right hand of the screen, with the name of the organization sponsoring the premire. It covered literally a one foot long by four inches high of the 20'x45' screen. I didn't even notice it.

But guess who did? One of the horn-rimmed fucktasters in the press section.

Just as the audience got quiet and was waiting for the movie to start (no trailers at preimiers), and one critic had to make it all about himself.

"Uhhh, excuse me, Rebecca*?" Notice the use of the first name, trying to sound all important.

"Could you please move that sign, it's blocking the screen."

I wish the lights in the theatre had been on, because I would have loved to see this hot chick give this tool a withering glance, but she's probably better than that. She moved the sign.

So the movie started, and it was pretty good, but then trouble happened.

You see, I came straight to the premier from work, meaning I had to grab some dinner on the run. There happened to be a Chioptle right near the theater, so I ran in there, ate a quick burrito, and rolled to the movie.

Well, here's the thing about burritos...

Yeah, it's what you were thinking. The gas is brought into your body by the delicious, delicious beans, and soon it builds up. And once it hits a certain point, there's no more room for the gas, and it has to get out.

So I had myself a problem.

Let me clarify. The people sitting around me, packed in two media rows like sardines, they had a problem. Because this was more than just a case of gas.

You see, it was also nearing the end of the week, and my hamper was full, meaning my closet was rather empty. So I grabbed an old pair of khakis I had, but this particular pair had a twist.

You see, I had ripped this pair, around the crotchal region, slipping on some ice at some point during the winter. A photo, if you will:

Yep, there's a hole in my crotch. And this hole was special, it was like a chimney of stank, spewing my filth unto the unsuspecting populace.

I felt bad. For a second. Then some jackass critic started laughing much too loud for a movie that's not a comedy, again making it all about himself.

So I lifted my leg, and let fly with another toxic cloud of glory, and did my best to discretely fan the odor to him. I guess I'll never know if he smelled it.

Life's funny like that.

Monday Links: 3/30

2009-03-30T06:03:00.000-07:00

Monday links, hot and fresh out of the oven. Well, no...not really.

I like her. She seems....smart.
Honesty. It's always nice to have, even if it's from someone trying to rob you of your life savings.
No one is quite as accomplished in the art of making it all about themselves than PETA members. Their president is no exception.
Quite possibly the best name ever.
No one wants to die, but if you can be killed by pure, unadulterated irony, well, then, it might not be so bad.

Friday Hate: 3/27

2009-03-27T08:33:00.000-07:00

Welcome one, welcome all, to another edition of Friday Hate.

Topic for this week: the word bromance.

I mean, seriously. What kind of word is that? Let's examine.

It all started back in the magical summer of 2002. I was a young, smooth lad of eighteen, fresh out of high school, and killing time by working at a record store before I headed off to college in the fall.

I was drinking vanilla coke like it was water, got high for the first time, and tried to hang out with friends who were off to different places one last time.

As a nation, we were all still in 9/11 recovery mode, with airlines in trouble and an invasion of Iraq. Throughout all of this, the media found a story that they saw fit to beat us over the head with: Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck.

For those of you younger than me, you might not remember the frenzy that was that couple, but there was one. Jennifer Lopez was starring in horrible movies like The Wedding Planner but she could not get out of the public eye.

And some enterprising reporter came up with the term "Bennifer" for those couples. Little did he or she know what a monster they created.

Soon, every celebrity couple was an amagamation of both names. "Brangelina," "TomKat," and other abominations. People talked about how horrible those terms were, but they still used them, which really pisses me off. Now they're so cliche that everyone uses them.

Then came the combining of other words. "Chillaxin," "Metrosexual," and other staples of losers everywhere. And somehow, the word "bromance" came into play.

Like the others, people always talked about how they hated the term, but they still used it, and here were are. With a fucking TV show named after it, and anytime two men hang out, they are said to have a bromance. Give me a fucking break.

I'm not immune to having man-crushes. Sure, I have feelings for people like Dirk Nowitzki that no heterosexual male should ever have about another hetersexual male, but I own it.

Speaking of inappropriate feelings, is it wrong that Clive Owen makes me feel funny inside, like when I used to climb the rope in gym class?

He is a gorgeous man. I say that as a man who has no interest in having sex with another man, believe you me.

Maybe it's the combination of amazing movies he's been in (Sin City, Inside Man, Children of Men) and the fact that he seemed pretty down to earth, but I am fully in love with Clive Owen. Even his name is fucking awesome.

But I would never, NEVER, say that I have a bromance with Clive Owen. That's just gay.

And that's where I think the fine line comes into play. If you use the term "bromance," then you are probably a little bit gay. Ergo, if you have feelings about a man, and use the term broamcen, then you probably are gay enough to act on those feelings if given the chance.

And that's where you and I differ. Because I don't use the phrase, I wouldn't molest Dirk Nowitzki if I saw him in public. As least I don't think so.

So do us all a favor, don't use that fucking word, and better yet, walk into oncoming traffic.

How to Wear a Raincoat Like a Badass

2009-03-26T13:46:00.001-07:00

It's raining today. Which I don't mind all that much. At least, not since Christmas of 2007.

Because that's when I got a long, classy raincoat. A London Fog if I'm not mistaken. And there are few things in life that are as badass as a properly worn raincoat.

Let me clue you in on what a properly worn raincoat is. It's never buttoned. You let that bitch flap around you in the wind, because it's bad ass.

I don't care if you're in a fucking monsoon, you keep that shit unbuttoned. Sure, you'll have a stripe of wetness (that just sounds wrong) going up your body, but it's a stripe of brawn is what it is.

Think back to all those badass movies where people are wearing trench coats.

If it's in color, the coat isn't buttoned.

Humphrey Bogart buttoned it. Bruce Willis doesn't.

I don't really have anywhere I'm going with this, so I'll keep it short and sweet, kind of like my...

Oh, wait. I've used that one before.

On Archenemies

2009-03-24T12:57:00.000-07:00

Everyone needs an archenemy. Superman had Lex Luthor, Batman had the Joker, Rosie O'Donnell has her never ending losing war with dignity.

It's a fact of life, and it makes things more interesting.

I've had several archenemies over the past few years and they keep me on my toes.

The last couple have all been work-related. When I was interning at a local paper, there was another reporter who happened to be assigned to many stories that I was.

It was a chick. A breathtakingly attractive chick, who would always show up with this weird, Eurotrash looking guy, kind of like this:

Or maybe that's just my shaky memory. Still, I remember he was a weird looking dude.

It just so happens that this hot reporter used to work for the paper I worked for. In fact, I sat at her desk, and noticed that the user name I logged into the computer with was hers.

I could tell you that once I found that out I didn't lick the seat, but I'd be lying.

Ass-residue licking aside, she became my, albeit super foxy, archrival.

When I would see her show up, I would mutter her name under my breath menacingly. It was kind of my thing.

She had a good name for that muttering under my breath too. I won't use the real one, but it was similiar to Petruzzi.

So there I would be, working on my shit, talking the fuck out of people (not literally, unfortunately), and then she would show up. And I'd mutter to myself, "Petruzzi...."

It makes me feel like a badass. I don't know why.

Fast forward to today. I am still a reporter, though I currently get paid. One of my "beats" as it were, happens to be a local national cemetery.

When covering events there, there is a certain reporter for a local rag known as the Washington Post that happens to cover the same stories.

While he's always been more than cordial to me, I despise him. He is my new archrival.

He sits there, with his horn-rimmed glasses, using five-dollar words when normal ones will do, and he mocks me.

It's not that I have a thing against big words. Hell, I use them a lot. In writing. Where they belong. I don't want a conversation with you to be like reading the fucking dictionary.

What's that you say? Better than me? I don't think so! Just because you've never urinated in a coffee cup while driving, and then proceeded to spill it all over my fine leather upholstery, doesn't mean you're better than me. That's never even happened to me.

Fast forward to today. Wait, wait, you went too far. You're at tomorrow. Go back.

Good. Today, I was covering a separate event, with another Washington Post reporter. He had the same horn-rimmed glasses (what are they, standard issue?) except he wore a fancy suit. Fucking asshole. Just because the crotch in my jeans wears out faster than normal people's doesn't give you the right!

Worse yet, everyone was kowtowing to this fuckface like he was the cat's fucking pajamas. Just because the paper I write for has a circulation of less than 24,000, and his happens to be almost 700,000 doesn't mean shit.

Back to my original point: everyone needs an archenemy. It keeps things interesting.

If you don't have an archenemy, whose name do you scream to an uncaring sky at five o' clock in the morning?

No one's? What does that even mean?

Monday Links: 3/23

2009-03-23T06:56:00.000-07:00

Another Monday is upon us. Don't you think that instead of reading random strange and funny links, maybe we should have a discussion about the world and how to fix it. For example, did you know Thailand is at an economic crossroads?

No? Oh well, Monday Links it is.

Interesting stuff. That's the only way to describe it.
It's made with bits of real panther.
As nerdy as it sounds, I'm pretty sure I'd go on a Zombie Adventure.
I tried and tried to come up with a better headline for this, but I think they nailed it.
Awesome. Terrifying. Star Wars finally come to life. It's all that and more. So much more.

Friday Hate: 3/20

2009-03-20T12:16:00.000-07:00

This week's edition of Friday Hate is brought to you by: any and every douchebag that goes to the gym.

There's nothing inherently wrong with going to the gym. In an effort to be less of a piece of human shit, I've found myself going on occasion. But the problem is what the gym breeds. And I'm not just talking about antibiotic-resistant staph infections.

I hate the pretension that comes with people who go to the gym. I don't even tell people I go to the gym. I either say, "playing basketball," or "scoping out elementary schools for future victims." Both of those things make fill me with less shame than telling people I'm at the gym.

I'm sure we all know plenty of pricks who put up Faceook statuses, Tweets, or away messages (do people still use AIM anymore?) about going to the gym. Fucking pricks. The vast majority of updates are a case of making it all about yourself, none more so than telling people that you're at the gym.

But it doesn't end there. Oh no.

Once you get to the gym, there are the people. The majority of people there are fine. They do their workouts, and get on with their life.

Then there are the dudes that come in, polishing off the last of their protein shake, and looking for a place to store their Muscle Milk. The guys who haven't worn sleeves since 1998, and think that stonewashed jeans are about to make a comeback.

These guys love to make it all about themselves. They rack of the heaviest weights, they grunt like they're passing a watermelon through their colon, and they always have to slam the weights down the hardest, creating a clanking sound that says to them, "I'M A FUCKING MAN!!", but to the rest of us it says, "MY DICK IS SMALL!!!"

Now, let us move to the locker room. It's hard to imagine anything more terrifying than men in various stage of undress, sauntering around a locker room, balls flinging every which way.

The gym I go to happens to be on a military base, so I'm not sure if this is the exception rather than the rule. But the guys there have absolutely no shame. I can walk in at any given time to see an old dude, completely naked, brushing his teeth and shaving at the sink, the same sink that has a full mirror, tossing back the image of old hairy nuts right back into my face. Gross.

Or sometimes an old dude will be on the scale weighing himself. Naked. Also in front of a mirror. There's no just escape from from the nutsacks.

I never thought I'd have to type that sentence again.

The point of the whole thing is that going to the gym is fine. It's more than fine. But it doesn't need to be something that you advertise to the whole fucking world.

Because I hate when people do that. And you. I hate you too.

Piecing Together the Previous Evening

2009-03-18T08:11:00.000-07:00

7:53.

LED lights screaming those numbers are the first thing I see. Considering I have to be at work by 8:00, it's not good news.

Before I can process that information, full consciousness hits me like a freight train, bringing nothing but pain along with it.

I am wearing no pants, but I do have my socks and collared shirt on from the night before. Oddly enough, my pants are on the other end of the room, while my shoes are right next to my bed. Who'd-a thunk it?

Here's what I remember from the night before. It was St. Patrick's Day. Green beer. A bar. A party after the bar. Talking with a gay guy at the party. Falling, possibly puking.

That's it.

There's a glass of water on my nightstand. I didn't put it there. At least, I don't think. I stagger to the bathroom, realizing that I am still intoxicated.

Pain. Everywhere.

For the first time in my professional career, I say to myself, "Fuck it" and I got back to sleep.

I wake up about 9:45.

Pain. Everywhere.

I again stagger to the bathroom to get in the shower, intending to wash the stench of failure off. It doesn't work.

I get out, and the pain is still there, along with the alcohol in my blood. I almost slip getting out of the shower, which would have been a perfect end to a perfect morning.

I rush to get dressed, throwing on the same jeans and shoes I wore last night. As I'm getting ready to leave, I hear my roommate moving around, so I go to ask him what happened last night.

The facts are not encouraging.

Apparently I was sitting in a chair (outside, thank goodness), when I suddenly bent over, and puked in between my legs on the ground.

He said, "I would wash those jeans and throw away the shoes you were wearing last night."

I'm wearing both. They appeared to be stain free, but now, I'm not so sure.

I also dropped my glasses, the very glasses I'm now wearing, in the puke.

I notice my coat is missing, and I ask him where it is. He said he doesn't remember me wearing it, so it must be at the house. Probably sitting next to my dignity, which I also left at the house.

Just where I want to go back to. I'm sure my face is a welcome sight.

As I drive to work, some events get clearer.

The gay guy I was talking to, at first he said he wasn't gay. So I remember talking to him, half-belittling him, half friendly chat, trying to get him to admit he was gay. He does. A win for yours truly. The only one of the night.

I don't remember much else, including what time we left or any of that. I'm just glad I didn't drive.

And hey, if you happen to see a black peacoat in the Annandale area, it's probably mine.

Monday Links: 3/16

2009-03-16T06:29:00.000-07:00

Wellity, wellity, wellity. It looks like ol' Mr. Clean wants to hang out with Dirty Dingus McGee.

On to Monday Links.

I found this interesting, a photoshop contest in which movie posters were made by changing the title by one letter. Good stuff.
There are five sporting goals I have in life. Bowl a 300 game, get a hole-in-one, hit a walk-off Home Run, kick a field goal, and get a rebound over a black guy. I've only accomplished one. This bitch did the hardest one, and on her first try.
If you're a Calvin and Hobbes fan, you'll appreciate this. And if you're not, well then, we have nothing in common, and I think less of you as a person.
The only thing funnier than this is the people on Digg who thought it was real.
Nerd-dom. Sad, yet fascinating.

Friday Hate: 3/13

2009-03-15T10:43:00.000-07:00

Back with another edition of Friday Hate. Sure it's Sunday, but are you really going to bust my balls? You are? Then add yourself to this list, fucktaster.

This week's topic? Anyone who drives cars.

This includes you. And me. All of us. Since this topic fills me with white-hot rage, I'm just going to do bullet points, because having to think about this too long would make me point bullets. At you.

Wordplay. Brilliant.

I hate the fuckers who camp out for parking spots, clogging up the lanes, and just being assholes. Sometimes these people will wait up to ten minutes for a spot, just because they see someone get in a car.

I hate people who drive BMWs and Mercedes, because mot of them act like they can do whatever they want, and just because their car is nicer than mine, and they don't have to buy anti-fungal lotion every week, that they're better than me.

I hate people who refuse to make a mistake while driving. This means the people who realize they are in the right lane and need to make a left hand turn, and instead of being a normal human being an just turning around the block, they stop, put on their fucking signal, and disrupt not one (the lane they're in), not two (the lane next to them, for people going straight), but three (the left turn lane). These people are the patron saints of making it all about themselves.

I hate people who park across two spots, know they did it, but don't care. I was in a parking lot the other day, and a gentleman did this. He got out of the car, looked at how he was parked, and just kept walking into the store. How can you consider yourself any sort of decent person and do this? If I had balls I would have ran up to him and asked him that question, but I didn't feel like getting shot (after all, the dude was black).

I hate people who are in too much of a goddam hurry. I was at a red light, about five cars back, and I was the last car in front of the right hand turn lane. And some cunt came up behind me and starting honking, and I edged as close to the car in front of me as I could, so she could squeak by. This crusty bitch gave me the stink-eye of all stink-eyes. The car behind her waited for me to move forward before getting in the right hand turn lane, and you want to know the elapsed time between the first car and the second car taking a right at the intersection. Ten fucking seconds. God, I hate people.

A can feel my blood pressure rise just thinking about this, so I'll wrap it up. Like I've said to a handful of lucky ladies, sorry for the shortness of this one, I'll try and do better next time.

Culture? I Hardly Know Her

2009-03-14T13:36:00.000-07:00

Culture. It's more than just a sample in a preti dish that will tell you whether or not you have AIDS. It's something that people have. Other people, not me.

So when given a chance to meet with high-society types, I took this oppotunity to crawl out of the slop, hose myself off, and act like a human being.

Last night, as per usual on a Friday night, I found myself rather thirsty. Not thirsty for water or vengeance, but for delicious, delicious alcohol.

A friend of mine called me about a happening in Washington D.C., where some Libertarian website was holding a viewing party for their new special. Not that I give a shit about any of this, but it did have an open bar. Just try and keep me away from an open bar.

For most people, the evening was a chance to rub elbows with D.C.'s young, progressive elite, and meet like-minded people who would use these connections to one day change the world for the better.

For me, I could get drunk for free, and mabye create some awkward situations. A win-win really. And if I managed to find an emotionally distant chick with too much eye makeup to pity fuck me, well, it would be the cherry (if I'm lucky) on top.

So I got off work, and met my friend at his place, and we drove into D.C. The venue, as it turned out, was near DuPont Circle, which is a place that is rife with "the gays."

Nothing wrong with that, but I didn't want to find myself walking into the wrong bar and seeing bad things. Unspeakable things.

The club near the place I parked was called "The Ramrod" and it seemed to be one of those places where one might walk in to see an asshole stretched tighter than a snare drum.

I don't even know what that means, but I guarantee you the staff of The Ramrod do.

The guests at the particular event I was attending was the kind of people I rarely associate with.

Lime green sweater vests over pink shirts. Touch screen phones as far as the eye could see. Short, moussed hair. Chilled white wine in clear plastic cups. Goatees. Horn-rimmed glasses. Boot cut jeans over slip-on shoes.

That kind of crowd. Fuckfaces galore.

The event itself was absolutely perfect for two of my favorite pastimes: people watching and eavesdropping.

Most of the crowd was the mid-twenties, yuppie types who have likely never known the sweet sting of sweat after a hard day's labor.

But lo and behold! There was a mullet sighting. It was this guy who had a T-shirt tucked into jeans with elastic cuffs over white Asics. A classic look really. And timeless.

This guy was with a mousy looking girl, and they had a real Rocky-and-Adrian thing going on. He kept an arm around her the whole time, and she just looked like the sight of this many people would cause her to disappear into fine particle of pure estrogen.

Besides the guest lecturers, there wasn't any women over the age of 30. But there were plenty of gray-haired men, with nary a wedding ring in sight, and they always seemed to be following crowds of chicks. A little bit creepy (read: me in 20 years).

It was in an office on one floor of the building. It was a giant square room, with angled corners made of old brick and new white drywall between corners.

In the center of the room was another square, for glass walls and inside was the free food. The open bar was right next to this square, and that's where I decided to set up camp.

It was one of those parties where, if you came exclusively to drink (which I did), then you pretty much had to get back in line as soon as you got your drink (which I also did), because by the time you got back to the front, your drink would be empty (which it was).

The beer was pretty good, some micro-brew from California, but that didn't stop most of the doucebags from ordering Scotch.

I mean, seriously, Scotch, even good scotch tastes like shit. And they didn't have good scotch. They had Johnnie Walker Red, which is the equivalent of Budweiser in the scotch world. It's okay, but everyone knows the brand because of the advertising, and there are a ton of better drinks out there.

Everyone who ordered a scotch and soda made sure to say it really loud, and then look around, hoping to catch an approving glance from another like-minded prick.

Here's when I knew I was in a weird place. I went to use the men's room, where there were three urinals. I waited in line to use them, and I noticed a very curious thing.

Every dude at the urinal would unbuckle his belt to take a piss. Isn't that weird. Whatever happened to unzipping your fly? Freaking weirdos, man.

I decided to walk around spreading hate and awkwardness in my path. Since these were a progressive bunch, I knew which buttons to push.

A sampling of conversation starts I used:

Hey, the government has functioned perfectly for the past 230 years, why change now?
I miss Dubya.
I don't know about you, but I think there's just some things the government needs to do to keep us safe, and we don't need to know about it.
Sure, immigration needs reform, but won't that lead to a decline in white people? No one wants that. Right? Guys?
That Ron Paul sure is a kook, isn't he?

Blank look after blank look, sometimes with flashes of pure, unadulterated hatred, was the only response I got. This night was turning out to be all right after all.

The event itself was a series of lectures on things like: universal pre-school, privatization of roads, immigration and the like. BOR-ING!

At one point, they asked for questions from the audience, and I raised my hand, and they passed the mic over to me.

"Uh.. do you think the Celtics will overtake the Cavaliers in the Eastern Conference?"

Deafening silence. I continued, thinking the audience hadn't gotten the question.

"Because, you know, the Celtics have been pretty good without KG, and they did it last year, but I just don't see how they can match up with LeBron in crunch time."

Cricket. Cricket.

I took that as my cue to leave. And when I say leave, I mean go to another, straighter, part of D.C., get hammered, get lost in the city, and end up driving through the ghettoes to get home.

Good times, good times.

On Assignment: Covering El Presidente

2009-03-13T07:26:00.000-07:00

I enjoy my job. Some days more than others, but in today's economy, beggar's can't be choosers. And when I say beggars, I mean people with a Bachelor's Degree in Liberal arts with a sub-3.0 GPA, such as myself.

Yesterday was one of those days when I really like my job, because I get to cover something cool. This cool thing happened to be the 44th President of the United States, Mr. Barack Obama. Not bad for a 25-year-old asshole who still isn't quite sure about the social stigmas attached to hand lotion.

It's the first time I've covered Obama, and I was lucky enough to cover President Bush on two non-consecutive occasions. I always liked covering Presidents, because the leader of the free world and the effect he has on people is a fascinating thing to watch.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Yesterday, I happened to be the only non-White House Press Corps media assigned to this particular story. So I had to get into Washington D.C. by 10:15 a.m. Not a problem, right? Except for that fact that the president wasn't speaking until at least 1:00.

So I am forced to spend three-plus hours waiting for a speech that ended up taking 15 minutes. Not the president's fault, but I wish he would be more considerate of reporters who write for weekly community papers with circulations of less than 30,000. Where's the change he promised??

Anyways, I was forced to spend three-hours in the lonely press section of this auditorium. I had a book to read, and of course, my ever-present Yahtzee on my cell phone, but that only lasted me about an hour's worth of amusement.

So when I got bored, I had plenty of time to people-watch. And when you're surrounded by people who are waiting to see the president, it's always interesting.

Secret Service agents, for example. Those are some bad-asses to the Nth degree. You see the dark suit and the earpiece, and they may not look like much. Hell, the older guys look like they could just as easily be accountants or something.

Which is exactly what they want you to think. These fuckers see everything going on. And I mean EVERYTHING.

Example: I was covering an event last December in which the keynote speaker was the director of the FBI. Such an important gentleman has Secret Service agents that protect him.

I was sitting in the press section, with a bunch of cameramen. Next to me was a guy in a kilt, with a full bagpipe set-up. He played some traditional song beforehand, and he would play something at the end, and in between he was hanging out near the press, and we ended up shooting the shit for a little while.

So we're talking, and all of a sudden, a Secret Service Agent, who I swear was on the other side of the crowd ten seconds ago, materializes next to the guy. And he asks the bagpiper why he keeps reaching into his coat.

Now, I had been talking with the guy for about ten minutes, and I didn't once realize that he reached in his coat. It turns out, part of the harness for the bagpipes is right below the sternum, and the guy was fiddling with it while he was standing around. The Secret Service Agent noticed his fiddling from about 100 feet away, and he came over to check it out. Bad ass.

As the agent is turns to leave, the bagpiper says, "I thought you were going to ask me about the knife." See, as part of his ceremonial garb, he had a long, curved dagger in a silver holder on his side. And the Secret Service agent responded with:

"I saw that when you arrived, sir. I don't think you'd get too far with that thing."

I think I popped a boner right there. Fucking awesome.

Anyways, back to El Presidente.

The mood before a president speaks is unlike anything else I've ever seen. The closest thing I can think of is the buzz before a big boxing or wrestling match. The audience knows that something big is going to happen, something they have been waiting for for quite a while, and they know it will be over before they know it. The anticipation is thick in the air.

It's funny, I've learned that the buzz before a presiden comes is the only thing that stops me from playing the usual game I play when I'm around large crowds. I usually play the, "Who are the hottest chicks and in what order would I nail them?" game, which is always a winner.

Except, before the president shows up, I like to play the "which one of these people is like John Malkovich in In the Line of Fire and has some sort of composite plastic weapon to kill the president with?" game. Which is quite fun.

Note: Sometimes I revert back to the Who are the hottest chicks and in what order would I nail them?" game when a hot chick walks in, which they inevitably do.

As far as the John Malkovich game, the first thing you do is eliminate your suspects. In the case of Barack, you can eliminate black people.

I mean, for real, what black person is going to do anything to Obama? I'm pretty sure the Secret Service doesn't even put them through the metal dectectors. It's a waste of time.

I'd like to imagine some sort of reverse discrimination, where the Secret Service eyes white people with nothing but suspicion and the black folk in attendance are completely above suspicion.

So every single whitey in the place was under the umbrella of suspicion. Step one, complete.

Step two: I drop a test fart to see who notices the sound and/or smell.

You see, the standard maniac who is waiting to hurt the president is probably no nervous that he's not focusing on anything external, he's preparing to make history and/or get capped by the Secret Service for his trouble.

Judging from the disgusted looks and suddenly empty seats around me, no one in my section was planning anything shady. A standard check of the ol' underpants for a shart (yeah, it smelled that bad), and step two is complete.

Slowly but surely, a list of suspects presented itself.

Suspect one: McBeardFace. The old white guy in the suit with a unbelievable bushy beard. Is he some sort of Confederate General that has travelled forward in time to see if the South won the war? Upon discovering that one of the "slave folk" in in charge, will he immediately challenge the president to a duel with pistols at dawn?

Suspect two: TwirlyPen. The nervous looking white guy who keeps twirling and clicking his pen. Is the pen some sort of grenade a la, GoldenEye, where the right combination of clicks turns it into a live grenade with a five-second fuse?

Suspect three: Hooty McBoob. A buxom wench sitting near the front, who acts all high society, but is probably a half-generation removed from having slave labor. Bitch.

There you have it, a list of probable assasins.

The Secret Service ain't got shit on me.

But of course, they did their jobs, and despite what the agent said, I'm pretty sure I stopped an assassination, so I can feel good about that. Still, that fucker could have at least thanked me instead of threatening the taser.

After three hours of waiting, the president spoke briefly, and then it was all over. The people who were taking pictures were like little kids at a concert. The only thing that would have been worse would have been if they were all cell-phone cameras.

Let me tell you something about when a president enters a room. It's like a bomb goes off. The ripple that goes through the room as palpable. I actually noticed it more with Bush, but I don't know if that's just because he was the first one that I covered.

Anyways, if I had done anything obnoxious, I'm sure you would have heard about it on the news.

Monday Links: 3/9

2009-03-09T13:33:00.000-07:00

You fucked up. You trusted me. You should have known regular updates wouldn't happen.

A slideshow of female teachers accused of banging their students. Only two are "nice."
My new Master's Degree.
A list of drinking games. Some good ones on there, including ones I have never heard of.
Fast food is always evolving. It's not always healthy, but it's usually funny.
A very important list that not many people know, surprisingly.

There's No Day Like A Snow Day

2009-03-03T07:12:00.000-08:00

To paraphrase Cyrus the Virus, "my proclivities towards winter are well-known and often lamented facts of blogging lore."

But yesterday was something different.

Yesterday, the heavens poured forth with a frosty melange of winter's finest. Now, normally I detest snow days. Unlike the glory days of my youth, when such a day meant canceled school, now it just means I have to plan an extra hour into my commute, what with the scraping, the brushing, the skidding, and general assholiness of the other drivers on the road.

Not today my friends. Today I woke up to more than six inches. Which is better than the four and a half inches I wake up to every morning. Hey-oh!

After I got back in from scraping off my car, I took my wet shit off. And that's when I decided: I'm not wearing pants for the rest of the day.

There are very few joys in life as simple as not wearing pants at a time when you always have pants on.

At 11:00, I'm usually at my desk, drinking cold coffee in a desperate attempt to stay awake until lunch, as I get bad beat after bad beat in online poker.

Today? I was watching The People's Court on mute, listening to Neil Diamond with my hand down my boxers, deciding which porn site to go to. Just as God intended us to live. It was a regular Garden of Eden.

But sure enough, boredom soon enveloped me. And by boredom, I mean that I had viewed so much porno in such a short period of time that I had to be on some government list somewhere.

What to do? The NBA was almost seven hours away, and they still hadn't plowed by street.

I shuffled downstairs to my kitchen to find something to eat, and there, lit up in a golden halo of light, was a fifth of Gentleman Jack Whiskey.

I don't know if you're familiar with fine bourbons, (if you're not, re-evaluate your life) but Gentleman Jack is among the finest. My friend had given me the bottle the week before for giving him a ride to the airport, and it was time for this bad boy to get drank.

But alas! There were no mixers in the house! Nothing except the remnants of a flat 2-liter of Sierra Mist Cranberry Splash, while still delicious, wouldn't mix well with fine whiskey.

So I had a choice to make. Do I venture out across the icy tundra in search of the glorious mixture of high fructose corn syrup and carbonated water that they call Coca Cola, or do I just sit at home like an asshole and not drink.

If I leave, I have to put on pants, if I stay, I have to remain sober. Not an easy choice, believe you me.

My love of delicious brown liquor eventually won out over my infatuation with pants-lessness. I put on my soggy shit from earlier in the morning, got my down jacket, and prepared to face the elements like the man I've seen so many times in movies and television.

I fortified myself for the difficult journey ahead with several slugs of Gentleman Jack. How ironic, the very whiskey I drank would give me strength to get a mixer so I could drink more of said whiskey. Circle of life.

And it was cold as balls. Face-numbingly cold. And the fact that the wind was howling like a mad bitch didn't help things. I had barely got to the end of my block before my feet were soaked. And I still had another few blocks to go before I got to the gas station.

As I walked across the newly formed Annandale Glacier, the footprints I left behind me would be the only evidence of the pioneer who chose alcohol over warmth. I fully expected to freeze to death, and my frozen corpse would be found at the first thaw, a mere hundred yards from the gas station I so desperately sought.

And still a trudged on, the tears freezing on my face faster than I could cry them. Snot covering my face like Lloyd and Harry in Dumb and Dumber as they entered the town of Aspen.

When I got to the gas station, I entered, and fell to the wet tile floor, kissing it, grateful for the warmth that radiated out of the store's central heating.

"Sir? Are you okay?" The concerned cashier asked.

"I've just been to hell and back shopkeep, and I'm only halfway to my destination," was my reply.

"Uh, aren't you the guy that lives over there?" He then nodded out the window, where my place is fully visible from the gas station.

I quickly composed myself.

"Yeah, but...uh...there's a fence, I had to walk around the block.."

"And that took you what, five minutes?" he asked mockingly.

Searching frantically for a reply that would cork his sass-hole, I replied, "Yeah, well, it took me at least ten, you know, the wind's pretty rough out there."

Just then, as if they were sent to undermine me, a mother and two young children came into the store. The children were begging their mother to be allowed to go back outside and play in the snow.

Little fuckers. I had just been on an epic journey.

I forked over a hard-earned $1.98 for my 2-liter of coke, but the cashier accepted my dignity without offering anything in return. We'll see whose laughing when I lob a molotov fucking cocktail into your precious gas station fuckface.

Once again, I braved the hard, cold, bitter wind in getting back to my warm, safe house. And once again, I saw reltives long dead, who beckoned me into the white light, which promised me nothing but endless, warm sleep. All I wanted to do was curl up in the snow and take an eternal nap, but I soldiered on.

I finally made it home, fingers black with cold, and I immediately relieved myself of my pants. Much better.

I made myself a tall drink, and suddenly, life wasn't so hard.

I amused myself with several cocktails, and then boredom struck again. They had still yet to plow my street, and as much fun as it sounded to try and get out of the snow while heavily buzed, I decided against it.

I moseyed my web browser over to NetFlix, where I decided to take advantage of the "Watch Instantly" feature. Soon, another conundrum presented itself to me.

Do I watch Eraser or Hard Target? Arnold or JCVD? A tale of redemption and the battle against government corruption, or one man's quest against a rich New Orleans man and his love of hunting homeless people?

No one told me life would be this hard.

I chose Eraser, and I soon discovered that with a decision like that, there really is no wrong answer.

And sitting there, watching U.S. Marshall John Kruger dual-wield futuristic rail-guns that fire caseless aluminum rounds at almost the speed of light, with a stout Jack and Coke in hand, I was content. Heaven itself couldn't be more satisfying.

And I wept with joy after John Kruger exacted his revenge by trapping his enemies in a limousine on a railroad track, just like the fairy-tales of my youth.

All in all, a good day to be alive. No work, got drunk, braved the elements.

Just another day with the burden of mankind on my shoulders.

Monday Links: 3/2

2009-03-02T08:10:00.000-08:00

Daily posts kicks off with a cop-out! Monday links. Woooooooo!

I'm a fan of history. And poop. But rarely are the two combined with such elegance.
Some causes are more important than others.
How has the life of the supervillain changed since the advent of the internet? Take a look.
This has become one of my go-to sites when I'm bored. The stories are priceless.
Apparently there is a new European sport. It's called Sharking and, well, it's just a big bag of alright.

A promise to you, Loyal Reader

2009-03-01T10:48:00.000-08:00

I come to you, Loyal Reader, on this first day of March with an apology and a promise.

An apology for slacking on updates. My goal was to have more articles every month. I started in October 2008 with 7, ten in November, 16 in December, and 22 in January 2009.

This month I only had 14, so I have failed in my mission.

A promise that updates will soon flow like the wild salmon of capistrano.

I've got a lot of half-written articles, and I finished several of them on Friday, which explains the triple update. I'm hoping to get a new article out every weekday, including your favorite bookends to the week, Monday Links and Friday Hate.

The daily updates probably won't last long, because three brand-new articles a week will tap out my reserves pretty quick, and unless some crazy shit starts happening, I don't know if I'll have that much to write about.

So hopefully the half-dozen of you who read this weren't put off by my slack-ass February. It will change, starting tomorrow with Monday Links, and on Tuesday with a brand-new hysterically funny update.

In the coming weeks, you might see some changes in the design and name of this blog. While Fists With Your Toes is a good URL, I'm trying to come up with a better title for the Blog as a whole.

Onwards and upwards...

Friday Hate: 2/27

2009-02-27T19:14:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-27T08:53:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-27T06:19:00.000-08:00

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...

2009-02-25T20:31:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-23T11:02:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-20T12:26:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-17T19:23:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-16T07:34:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-09T07:11:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-08T12:53:00.000-08:00

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'

2009-02-06T18:37:00.000-08:00

I'm not a much of a club guy. The kind of clubbing I enjoy involves baby seals.

I live eight miles Washington D.C., where there are apparently some top-notch clubs, but I've never been, nor have I been inclined to go.

Being an awkward white guy, I was always sure I'd do something that would result in me getting shot in or above the torso.

But during my recent trip to Blacksburg, I ran into a friend of mine who was working at a new club in D.C., 24.

It is located in northeast D.C., right off of New York Avenue. They held parties on New Year's and for the inauguration, but last week the the official grand opening.

My friend said he could get us on the VIP list (which means no cover), a lounge, and perhaps even a bottle or two.

If I was paying for this, there was no way. But when it's on the house, I think I can make my way over to northeast for some horse-assery.

So me, two friends, one of their girlfriends, and a couple I had never met rolled out.

We got there at around 11:30, and there was no line outside. In fact, the valet parking lot was empty.

We get in without paying a cover, but the bouncer makes me throw away this bottle opener/pocket knife thing that is attached to my keychain.

A brief note about this bottle opener thing. It causes me nothing but trouble. Every time I have to go to court (which, believe you me, is much too often). But it is a large, metal bottle opener, not one of those shitty ones that businesses give away for free.

So instead of throwing it away, I merely threw it on the sidewalk, to hopefully retrieve it later. I guess I'll just have to knife someone with my house key.

The club itself was massive. There was a large dance floor, surrounded stadium style with couches and coffee tables. It was so new, you could smell he fresh drywall.

Here's what I learned on the dance floor: vertical striped pants turn a good ass into a great one. Write that down, ladies.

Fortunately, it was also more than half empty. There was a small crowd on the dance floor, but other than that the club had plenty of room.

The loud music, low lights, and stench of pussy and perfume (okay, just perfume, but the alteration is nice) reminded me a lot of the strip club I was in in Manhattan.

My friend who worked there got us a bottle of this liquor called Nuvo. It was supposed to be a carbonated vodka, but it tasted like champagne. Not to say that's a bad thing.

We also went to the bar to get some dranks. My poison for the night? Good ol' Jack Daniels. Enough time has passed since my Manhattan trip (Part II) that I felt comfortable welcoming Mr. Daniels back into my life. With open arms, I might add.

It was $14 bucks for a double Jack and coke.

I originally, thought that this was officially the worst drink rip-off of my life (the other one being $10 for a double Captain and coke at Red Robin, that came in a single highball glass), but I was wrong.

Though they came in your standard 10 oz. plastic cup, the bartender filled the entire thing with Jack and ice. He added a splash of coke for color, but that's it.

And $14 for two shots of Jack on ice didn't seem like that bad of a deal.

While were on the subject of liquor, here are some of the prices:

The only word to describe those prices: ricockulous.

The chicks at the place were hot. Most of them had multiple guys groping them, but they still looked good. The skinniest black girl I have ever seen was doing a number on the dance floor, and my boxer shorts came (get it?) perilously close to becoming soiled.

There were only two fat chicks, and they stayed apart from each other for most of the night, possibly for gravitational reasons, I'm not sure.

The music was the same ol standard, and aside from the occasional T.I. songs that I like ("Livin' Your Life," and a bitchin' remix of "Whatever You Like") I wasn' much interested.

But I did notice that it's disturbing how much I like a voice through a vocoder. That weird digital singing is awesome to me. Especially when it's chicks singing. Speaking of soiled boxers...

Speaking of disturbing memories, I had one come up. For some reason, whenever I used the urinal, the smell of my piss hitting the urinal really reminded me of a chick I dated last summer. I'd prefer not to delve in that particular tidbit of my mind (or my love of a good golden shower), so let's let that one lie.

So we all got pretty drunk, and decided that my place was the closest (it was fucking far). So we decide to caravan. One of my friends needs to get gas before we get on the highway, and let me tell you something, nothing good can come when a white guy is getting gas in his nice car at 3:30 a.m. in northeast D.C.

So I decided to ride with my other friend.

So we're headed out of the city and we need to take a left on New York Avenue to get to the highway. I've already left my other friend for dead.

And here's how it all played out:

New York Avenue at that point has two medians. One median separating the people taking a left off of it, and one median separating directions.

So as my friend makes a left, he turns inside of the first median, which means we are now face to face with oncoming traffic, and trapped by medians on both sides.

And drunk. Did I mention that? Veeeeeeeeeeery drunk.

Luckily there are no cars in the lane that we're stuck in. But we are trapped. The driver decides that the only way to get out is to jump the first median, and make a U-turn down the road.

He jumps the median. One problem, we're halfway off of it, but we are the first car at the intersection, and th light in red.

Essentially, we're sitting ducks. If anyone remotely associated with law enforcement sees this, we are all going to jail, and my butt will be plenty sore tomorrow.

As we are trapped on the media, a car comes racing up to us. Behind the wheel, a white guy with a backwards cap.

He rolls down his window and starts screaming, and I shit you not, the following.

"Hey!!! You fuckers!! You're drunk aren't you!! You're drunk, motherfuckers. Y'all need some cocaine, that what's you need. You need some fucking cocaine. You all want some coke?"

Yeah, I want to buy coke from car to car in northeast D.C., in the middle of an intersection, traped on the median, drunk as balls, and a partridge in a pear tree.

Sorry, that sounded familiar for a second.

Luckily, we are able to refuse his business transaction without getting shot, we made a quick U-turn, and we got the fuck out of dodge.

It was a dandy of a way to end an evening.

We got my to my place at 5.a.m. I had to wake up at 9 a.m. to cover something. Fuck my life.

I'll end this with a brief anecdote from the weekend.

My friend who came from Richmond with his girlfriend stayed at my place, along with his girlfriend. I had met her before, and she is a very attractive, very nice girl.

When they showed up, they used my bathroom to change into their club clothes. Which I suggested, since I live in the master bedroom at my place (damn right) and I have my own bathroom.

So she changes in there. No problem right? Wrong. Because later, when we got back to my place, my other friend was using the bathroom, after my buddy and his girlfriend had crashed.

As he comes out he's like, "Man you better hide that hemorrhoid cream in there. You don't want that chick to see it if they use the bathroom tomorrow morning.

Well, she had already used to to change. And when chicks change in a bathroom (as opposed to going to the bathroom), they usually look at everything. Include one nasty motherfucker's hemorrhoid cream. Man, I suck.

But it's not over yet.

Right before we crashed, his girlfriend wanted to check some website, juicycampus.com. No problem right?

Well, it just so happens that I have the new Firefox browser, the one where websites in your history that are like what you're typing in appear.

Well, it also just so happens that juicyclips.com is one of my favorite porno sites. Top quality stuff really.

Except when this girl is typing: "J-U-I-C-Y-C."

And with every letter she types, more sites that I've been to that are linked to juicyclips.com are coming up.

So now this girl knows that I'm a pervert. That likes black chicks. And threesomes. And other horrible, disgusting things that college chicks don't even know their body is capable of.

So while I had a fun time, and got drunk, I'm pretty sure I can never look this girl in the eyes again.

Eh. Her loss.

Loneliness and Name-Changing MILFs

2009-02-06T08:53:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-06T06:50:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-02T07:17:00.000-08:00

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.

Friday Hate: 1/30

2009-01-30T07:17:00.000-08:00

Well, I hope everyone had a nice week. Maybe reconnected with old friends, made some new ones, and stopped for a brief moment or two to enjoy the little things that make life worth living.

Now that we got that shit out of the way, let's dive into this week's edition of Friday Hate:

Socks.

I fucking hate wearing socks, and by extension, the shoes that come with them.

If you read my earlier post about Winter, you would see that the two go hand in hand.

I'm a busy man. Between my job, the writing I do for free (including this little ditty here), and generally living the life, who has time to find a pair of matching socks, sit down, put them on, put my shoes on, tie them up.

What the fuck is that? We live in 2009. Shoes should put themselves on and tie themselves. Or I should be able to put my feet in a tub of goo, that will harden itself into a temporary shoe.

Summer, now that's the money season. When I didn't have a summer job, I once went an entire summer without putting socks on. Literally.

I also once went another summer by only putting socks on for work, and one other time, when I went to an arcade in Maine.

I would actually take a pay cut to be able to wear sandals every day to work. You can't put a price on comfort. (If my boss is reading this: A) Please don't read any more of this blog; B) If you do, please don't fire me and; C) Don't cut my pay.)

In a related hate-related note: I hate wearing dirty socks. And to me, dirty means once they're off, they're dirty.

The first time I went to Manhattan, I hadn't packed enough socks, so I spent a miserable day in dirty socks. Nothing feels worse than that.

From then on, I usually pack 1.5 pairs of socks for every day I am to spend away, and I round up the .5. So on a three day trip, I would take 4.5 pairs, rounded up to 5. You can't be too careful these days.

Let's crunch some numbers.

Let's assume it takes a total of three minutes to find matching socks, put them on, then put your shoes on. Add another minute for taking the shoes off at a later point.

Let's also assume that you only put your shoes on once, and only take them off once.

Now, assume you work a standard work week, five days a week, and that's the only time you wear shoes and socks.

Let's assume you work 48 weeks out of the year, average. So, five times a week, 48 weeks a year, times four minutes of shoe/sock nonsense.

That's 960 minutes, or 16 hours a year. Might not sound like much, right?

If you start work when you turn 22, retire at age 65, that's 43 years. 16 hours times 43 years equals 688 hours, or about 29 days.

That's almost a month of your life spent putting on shoes and socks. And I was very conservative in my estimates.

Why, that's almost as much wasted time as the time I took to figure all of those numbers out.

In conclusion, I hate socks. And you, I hate you too.

A One-Night Stand with Sweet Lady Blacksburg

2009-01-26T10:58:00.000-08:00

Occasionally, these vagabond shoes (Birkenstock, by the way) feel the need to roam. They feel the need to experience new and exotic locales, to drink deeply from this shallow cup of life of which we know not how deep it goes.

Basically, I wanted to get drunk in a different ZIP code.

So I decided to journey to the town where I cut my drinking teeth, Blacksburg, Va. To sweeten the pot (as if it needed sweetening, it was plenty dank already), there was a beer pong tournament going on, and I was planning on winning it.

This was just a one-night trip mind you, I left around 3 p.m. Saturday, and left Blacksburg around noon Sunday. But there was plenty of time to drink.

First stop? El Rodeo, a Mexican restaurant where the tequila flows like wine and the enchiladas are served up hot and fresh.

They have famous margaritas there, called the Jumbo Texas. You know how margaritas are generally a greenish hue? Well, these are golden-colored, the color of the finest agave fermented deliciousness.

I didn't indulge in a Jumbo Texas this night, for I wanted to stay sharp (well, as sharp as possible) for the Beer Pong Tourney, so I helped myself to the double X's.

The place was packed, as it always is. Years ago, the lackadaisical attitude when it comes to checking IDs gave the place quite the reputations, and though several ABC sanctions has made them much more active in preventing underage drinkers, it still was a hot spot.

Nearby our table was a group of African-Americans, who were doing the best they could to make everyone's dining experience all about them. There was picture taking, and screaming, and incredibly loud, obnoxious laughter.

When the Outkast song, "Hey Ya!" came over the speakers (no one said Mexicans were up to date on the latest club bangers), the entire table decided to sing along, incresibly loudly.

I felt like walking up to them and saying, "Don't you know that one of you is now in the White House? Have some respect fo yourself."

But as I said, I only had a beer or two, and my non-tequila-lubricated mouth wasn't about to cause a scene.

The dinner hits every spot except two: sweet sweet victory, and sweet sweet ejac....uh, never mind.

So we get to the house, and enter ourselves in the tournament. After a warm up game of pong, and a warm up game of foosball (you never know), it was on till the break of dawn.

The tourney was double-elimination and there were 23 teams, which meant that the winner would have to win at least five games to take home the pot (which, at half of the total collected ($10 per team) would equal about $115, or $57.50 per partner, which isn't bad for a night of free drinking), which is no small task.

My partner and I plow through the first three games like a fat kid attacking a pickup truck made of ham.

Since there are so many teams, there is often up to a half hour between games, even with three tables going. Since it's not like I am going to not drink between games, many personal beers were consumed between matches. And this is where the downfall begins...

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

In between games, me and a few people decided to play some card games. We started off with a classic entitled, "Fuck the Dealer."

Like an enema, it's simple and to the point. The dealer holds a card, the person gets two guesses as to what it is, and if the card is guessed, the dealer drinks, otherwise the guesser drinks. If three people guess wrong, the person to the dealer's left is the new dealer. As the deck is worked through, the odds become much smaller, and someone gets fucked. Good stuff.

Except we were taking the game literally. When the dealer went to go refill his beer, we looked at the cards. When he got back, we guessed every fucking card. We were smart, sometimes we did it on the first guess, sometimes the second. Needless to say, he got fucked.

Playing the game was this chick named Brandy (that's Brandy with a 'y', because, and I quote, "if it was spelled with an 'i', then I would be a slut). And this bitch decided that the game would be the perfect time to toss off some zingers.

Which is all well and good, hell, I'm as much of a fan of a good zinger as any one, except these pointed barbs were aimed at your truly.

Not that I mind that either. You've got to be able to take it if you can dish it out. At least, that's what I tell myself when I'm sitting in the fetal position naked under a cold shower, undeserving of such luxuries as hot water, wondering if I've finally hit the bottom.

But she hit where I'm most sensitive. No, not the nuts. That sort of thing only fills me with the most delightful mix of pain and pleasure that no amount of black tar heroin can match. And I've tried, believe you me.

No, she hit me in the ol' facial hair department. I've already discussed my self-loathing in this respect. So it should come to no surprise that being called "Patch Adams" was a bit much. You know, for my patchy-ass beard.

Also, and I quote, I believe this was uttered, "I would probably shoot myself in the face if I grew a beard like that."

Listen here Cunty McFaceFuck, I can't help it. In fact, I'll let your old pal Moe Szylak show you what happened next: (substitute "big ears" with "patchy beard" and the aforementioned Cunty McFaceFuck for Bart Simpson.

Needless to say, I was rattled.

What followed next was a shame spiral which included a blackout, and two straight losses in the beer pong tournament. Did that bitch have anything to do with it?

No, because I didn't remember that exchange until I checked my phone much later, and found I had written unintelligible garbage, that I decoded into the story about the chick. Who knows, it might never have happened.

So let that be a lesson to you. Don't.....uh.......don't....well, you probably shouldn't......uh....

(/eject)

Monday Links: 1/26

2009-01-26T06:48:00.000-08:00

In honor of the recent Oscar nominations, I'll let the late Heath Ledger intro this week's edition of Monday Links.

Rosetta stone, or rape?. Rape or Rosetta Stone?
Alright ladies, I don't want to hear any complaints when we check out your sweater puppies. Turns out it's good for us.
And if she complains? Samurai sword that bitch.
There were so many possibilities for bad headlines when it comes to the inaugural balls. Here is your winner.
Traffic has alwasys fascinated me, especially the phenomenon of backup with no visible sign. This is an interesting visual on what causes that.

The Great Mouse Detective

2009-01-23T17:33:00.000-08:00

I have a NetFlix membership, and I love it. Not only to I get to stick it to those fuckstains over at Blockbuster video, but it allows me to......

I don't know how to finish that sentence. Fuck you Blockbuster.

Actually, I do, but I think the above sentence was funnier, so I'll let it slide. NetFlix allows me to put random-ass movies that I haven't seen in years into my queue.

Recently I got the Disney film, The Great Mouse Detective, which I remember seeing in the theater as a smooth young boy.

It features Vincent Price as Professor Ratigan, probably the best villain ever for Disney, at least when it comes to pure voice acting.

I will always remember being terrified at this scene.

Notice the drunk mouse who eventually makes a drunken mistake that costs him his life.

I was convinced that alcohol was the Devil's Mouthwash, because the fact that the mouse actually dies terrified me. I never wanted to ever drink something that would make me do stupid things.

Did the eventual nightmares of that mouse's death eventually lead me to start drinking whiskey at the tender age of 9, just so I could get some dreamless sleep? Sure, but that's besides the point.

Homeowner's Associations: The Bane of Humanity

2009-01-23T09:06:00.000-08:00

Homeowner's Associations. Never will you find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. This could almost serve as your second helping of Friday Hate.

I live in a townhouse, in a suburb of our Nation's capital. I rent, but the house is owned by the parent of one of my roommates. Therefore, most of my neighbors do not rent, rather they own their place, and most of my neighbors are in their mid-to-late thirties and early forties, and their kids are middle school age at the oldest.

Due to my lifestyle choice (while those three words usually imply homosexuality, in this case it's just debauchery), this has led to many conflicts in the seven or so months I've lived there.

They don't like the noise when people step outside to smoke, and talk quietly. Never mind that it's ten o' fucking clock at night, and we are keeping our voices down.

A major sticking point has been outdoor urination. As in, I like to do it, my neighbors do not. To me, there's nothing that screams "I am truly a free man!" like pissing out of doors.

While drinking, I used to do that a lot in my back yard, until a letter mysteriously arrived in our mail slot one morning.

"Please refrain from outdoor urination. If this happens again, we will be forced to call the police."

I'm sorry, I thought we were in America! Is this a communist country?

A few days later, I was returning home from the grocery store, 12-pack of delicious beer in tow, when I ran into a few neighbors who were walking their dog. Here's how the convo unfolded:

Me: Hey, how are you doing?
Them: Pretty good. I see you've got yourself some beer there.
Me: Yep. It is Friday night. Time to get shit-tay and fuck shit UP!

(I didn't really say that last part sentence.)

Them: Okay. Hey, look, I know you've, uh, been getting some complaints about the noise lately. Here's a suggestion. When you all put your bottles in the recycling bin outside, the clinking sound can get quite loud, and sometimes it wakes up the kids. Maybe you should be more gentle.

Are you fucking kidding me? First of all, I rarely recycle. Don't believe in it. I think it's paving the way for the Rooskies to take us over as we use inferior recycled products.

Second of all, are you FUCKING KIDDING ME? The clinking of bottles is keeping the kids awake? I could give less of a fuck if it actually does, and I would love for you to call the cops on me about that shit.

Anyways, the nincompoopery did not end there. Oh no.

Me: Thanks, I'll take that under advisement.

Nodding and thinking of when John McClane said that, followed by him throwing twenty pounds of plastic explosives down an elevator shaft, killing at least five terrorists, and wondering if this cunt's house has an elevator, or I should just throw the C-4 through her fucking window.

I start to walk away, and am hit with this slab of bullshit:

Them: Oh, and hey, I, uh, heard that you all have been...uh.....you know....using the bathroom outside.
Me: Oh yeah.
Them: Well, uh, I know you guys have a few bathrooms, so why don't you try using those next time.
Me: BECAUSE I LIKE TO PISS OUTSIDE YOU CUNT SO SHUT THE FUCK UP AND MIND YOUR GODDAM BUSINESS BEFORE YOU GET A BOTTLE OF MILLER LITE TO THE THROAT!

The fucking nerve.

Things have been pretty quiet on the ol' homefront as of late though, but I did come home the other day to find some MILF dropping off th minutes of the latest Homeowner's Association meeting in our box.

First of all, had I known there was such a thing, I would have organized a bloodless (read: incredibly bloody) coup, and installed a vicious puppet regime which would have made Pol Pot's Khmer Rouge look like a fucking children's play date.

Secondly, the extent that these people need to get a life boggle the mind. Here are some of the neighborhood hot button issues they covered.

Adding three new pine trees to the island near the parking spaces.
Reminding people not to double park for longer than it takes to unload groceries.
Reminding people to pick up dog waste

And other tripe.

Conspiciously absent was a motion to have outdoor unrination allowed, nay enouraged from dusk till dawn. Maybe I'll go to that next meeting.

I never get these homeowneer associations. How bored do you have to be with life in general to participate in these. It's one thing if you live in an actual neighborhood, but a group of twenty townhomes? Really?

How about you do something productive with your life, say, learn to appreciate pissing outside?

You can tell this is a big issue with me. I's needs to be pissin' outsides.

Friday Hate: 1/23

2009-01-23T07:25:00.000-08:00

This week's edition of Friday Hate is about:

People who claimed on Tuesday, "This is the first time I've been proud of my country in eight years."

What the fuck is wrong with you? You don't get to choose when you are proud of the country that you live in.

Actually, you do. And that's the beauty of American. It's the same thing as the whole "Flag burning vs. people who died so you can burn the flag" thing. But that doesn't mean it's not a dick move.

Don't mistake this for a political rant, because it's not.

It's like being a fair-weather fan in sports. Not to trivialize the whole thing, but nobody likes a front-runner. Regardless of what you think of the president, you should always at least have respect for the president.

The people who say that are the same people who would boo President Bush when he appeared at public functions. It's one thing to not agree with politics, and let's face it, usually around hald of the country won't agree with a particular person's politics, it's quite another to show blatant disrespect to the leader of the free world.

There isn't a politician on this earth that I can't stand more than Hillary Clinton, but if she had been elected president (I just threw up in my mouth a little bit), I wouldn't dreamed of booing her under any circumstances.

It is interesting to observe in the opening days of the Obama administration that the country has seemed to rediscover its fascination with the highest office in the land.

I do think American needs to feel th romance that comes with being president again. For whatever reason (okay, I think we all know the reason(s)), the personal life of the president has lost its luster.

It began before Bush though. When Clinton was impeached, the natural charisma that comes with being president was diluted by the legal process. I think it led to Bush, a guy that seemed like a cool guy to grab a beer with, getting the chance.

For a while, his daughters' dalliances in D.C. were front page news, but since then world events have overshadowed his personal life, to the point that it barely made a splash when one of them got married.

With Obama, you have two young daughters who will spend their teenage years (and maybe beyond) in the national spotlight, and unless something goes awry, it will be hard to turn away.

Speaking of Michelle Obama, a brief and concluding side note: Doesn't she seem like she is a total bitch when the cameras are off?

Sure, she puts on a good face, but she strikes me as an ice queen. Not an ice queen like Hillary, because I don't think Michelle has any political aspirations beyond being first lady.

She just has something in her face that suggests that if the slightest thing goes wrong, she will smile and laugh in the spotlight, and then hand out a first-class ass-reaming in the back room.

I've heard this rumor from people I know who have been close to them, and I'd be lying if I told you that I didn't hope to see some sort of caught-in-the-act moment pop up on YouTube, a la Bill O' Reilly and Chris Berman.

Self-Loathing: Hairlessness

2009-01-22T07:10:00.000-08:00

I know I'm not what's considered a manly man. I don't hunt, I don't know shit about cars, and besides my knowledge of electrical equipment (thank you summer work in college) I'm not particularly handy.

But none of that fills me with shame. My lack of hair does.

Not hair on my head. Those of you who know me in real life no that I have no problem in that department. My hair doesn't grow long, it grows out.

Bald people hate me, because I have the kind of thick, out of control hair that they would love to take the place of their pale dome-skin, but alas, it isn't to be.

No, it's my lack of body hair, specifically on my armpits, legs and arms.

When I was in middle school, many of my friends began getting five o' clock shadows and hairy legs, yet mine remained covered with pale, transparent hairs.

I remember the first time I became aware of this. It was summer time, and me and several friends from my neighborhood were at the community pool.

As the mandatory 10 minutes break came on, we all ran to the hot tub, which only had room for eighty percent of us.

One of the older kids devised a way to decide who could get in the tub.

"Everyone with armpit hair can get in the hot tub," he said.

Slowly ten pairs of arms lifted up, and everyone began looking around to see which hairless wonder was going to spend the next eight minutes outside of the hot tub.

You guessed it. Yours truly was one of them. In fact, I had the least out of anyone, even the sixth grader that sat out with me.

I still hear their laughter in my darkest nightmares.

As the years progressed, My legs grew sufficiently hairy, my balls became groundhog-like, but my face never came around.

Even while in college, I never really had to shave more than once a week.

And then, a few months before my twenty-fifth birthday, I think I finally hit puberty. The number of hairs adorning my chest grew from one (literally, there was one hair. One.) to an even baker's dozen.

And finally, about a month and a half (okay, exactly a month and a half) before I turned 25, I went after a lifelong goal of mine: to grow a beard.

Supposedly you aren't supposed to shave at all for six weeks, and then you can trim your beard accordingly. So I did that.

Through most of the six weeks, I looked like this:

This is Gary from Team America, as he gets some sort of disguise to make him look Arabic. Notice the patchy-ass beard. That was me.

Though finally, I think my beard is semi-(read: not) respectable enough. It's still patchy below the jawline.

But I enjoy having a beard. Not only does it make me look hungover every single day, but it makes me feel like more of a man that I ever have.

You see, while some people get five o' clock shadow without shaving for a day or so, mine takes about a week.

And it quickly morphs into badass, Sonny Crockett-looking stubble, to Patches McGee over here. And that's no fun.

In the initial phase of not shaving, one of my roommates said he would do the same, After a week, he looked like fucking Grizzly Adams, and I looked like the above picture.

But hairiness is a mixed blessing I think. No one wants to be wearing a sweater, even when they're shirtless. I know people like that. In fact, I'm grateful for my lack of chest hair, and except for a little bit around my belly button, I don't have that much.

I'll pause to let all the ladies reading this pleasure themselves at that image.

..and we're back. That didn't take long.

As I was saying, I never wanted to have a mane of chest hair like Austin Powers.

This sort of thing isn't my bag, baby.

My arms aren't particularly hairy either. From a distance of not less than 20 meters, I appear to have no arm hair.

What's odd is that my feet are strangely hairy, especially from proportion to the rest of my body.

I'll let you ladies rub another one out right quick at the thought of that.

In fact, the other day, I tried using my beard trimmer on my feet, just to see how the hair would grow back.

If it's like my head hair, it will grow back thick and lustrous in a matter of days.

Otherwise, who gives a fuck? It's only foot hair.

Marketing to men

2009-01-21T13:43:00.000-08:00

I wrote about this on my old site awhile ago, and generally I don't like to repeat myself. However, while watching the Cavaliers-Lakers game, I've seen the same goddam Jim Beam commercial at least five times, so I am sufficiently fired up to write more.

I hate products that are marketed specifically to men.

And when I say "marketing specifically to men," I mean the image of a man as a chubby, hairy guy, who loves nothing except fixing old cars, watching football, and can't even butter bread or make coffee.

I resent that. Hardee's used to be the biggest perpetrator of that shit, with their commercials like the following:

"Why don't we have happy meals? Because a busted '55 El Camino won't fit in the bag."

And the video is of a grizzled, denim clad man who is in incredibly good shape, despite subsisting on nothing bu Hardee's, while his hit-ass girlfriend waits, presumably so he will finally fuck her when he's done.

Guess what? I don't even know what a '55 El Camino is. I assume it's some sort of seagoing vessel, most likely made for the rigors of salt-water.

I don't know shit about fixing cars, with the exception of putting air into my tires. And guess what? I'm not any worse for it, and I don't plan on ever learning how to fix a car. That doesn't detract from my masculinity. The fact that I have Cyndi Lauper on my iPod does. And not just the obligatory "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun," I'm talkin' the whole greatest hits. But that's neither here nor there.

The latest offender is the new Jim Beam commercial. It features a scantily clad hottie, talking about how she's loves guys with belly fat and who watch football, go out with the guys, and frequent strip clubs.

Now, more than 75% of those things might describe me, but I'm not stupid enough to believe that there is a chick on this planet that feels that way. If not, I wouldn't be writing off more than $300 in roofies from 2007 as a "business expense."

But the worst, the all time worst, is the Axe line of products. I will never, ever purchase one of their products.

"How Dirty Boys Get Clean." That used to be their slug.

Let me tell you something. I have never, ever referred to myself as a dirty boy. I might think to myself upon seeing my face in the mirror first thing in the morning: "Wow, fuckface. You look like someone shit on you." But I never say, "Oh, you are a dirty boy. You need to get clean."

But despite my pledge never to give them a dime of my heard-earned money, Axe does very well. So well in fact, that there are all sorts of three-lettered, hardcore sounding deodorants out there competing. Tag. Right Guard's RGX.

They do so well because there is a certain kind of douchebag guy that buys that shit, and unfortunately, there are plenty of them. These are the kinds of guys that do one or more of the following:

Wear "hilarious" shirts, such as "I heart MILFs," or a "Vandelay Industries" shirt.
Watch Adult Swim on Cartoon Network on a regular basis.
Pay extra for jeans and hats that look like they are worn out.
Thinks Fall-Out Boy is this generation's Beatles.
Can't get enough of shows like "Prison Break" and "Numb3ers" because, "they really make you think."

Yeah, those guys. I'm not saying that if you do any of the above things you necessarily are a douchebag, but guys who are douchebags necessarily do one or more of those things.

...

..........

I'm going to level with you. I wrote the above part a few nights ago, and I left it alone because I wasn't sure how to end it. And I'm still not sure. That's the trouble with spur-of-the-moment rants.

So let us part now, as friends, and I will see you on the flip side.

Parking Ticket Video

2009-01-21T08:17:00.000-08:00

While I finish several updates, here are two funny videos to help you wile away the time. Enjoy.

Monday Links: 1/19

2009-01-19T07:08:00.000-08:00

In honor of MLK day, this week's Monday Links is dedicated to the black man. Thanks for taking it all in stride.

The world hero is used all too often today. But this man is the greatest hero who ever lived.
Eric Cartman. Prophet. Role Model. Philosopher. Feeder of parents to their own children in the form of chili. Click here to revel in Cartman in all of his glory.
To me, Stonehenge is one of the most fascinating thing in the world. Of course, most people say that it is simply a primitive calendar, built by an ancient race of pagans. Oh yeah? Then how did it get underwater? Did that just blow your mind?
Okay, this guy is the most insane person on earth. That's all there is to say.
For fans of Super Troopers and Beerfest: Have you ever wondered how those guys would fare in a fight against each other? If you're like me, this idea has kept you up through many a sleepless night. Well, sleep easy tonight friends, here it is.

Confessions of a hat guy, and Paul Blart

2009-01-16T14:59:00.000-08:00

I'm going to level with you. I'm a hat guy. I love hats. The more obnoxious the better.

Ask anyone who knows me, and they'll tell you about my collection of hideous hats, hats that I wear on a regular basis.

I even have ten hat pegs in my room to display my gems. Presently adorning the pegs are:

A red New York Giants baseball cap.
A green Boston Red Sox hat.
A red Red Sox hat.
A blue Dallas Mavericks hat.
My straw golf hat.
My CIA baseball cap.
A felt trilby hat that I got in London.
A charcoal gray ascot.
A castro-style hat from Ernest Hemingway's favorite bar in Key West
a knit wool hat with a puffball on the top and two long strings going down the side

Some of the treasures that haven't made it to the rack are:

A felt jester's hat
An irish patchwork bowler hat
A crumpled up fedora.

Good stuff.

A quick note about the Castro hat: I invented that shit. Before every douchebag with mutton chops and a harmonica started wearing a castro hat, I bought one from Hemingway's bar in Key West. It was in 2003, well before the fad took off.

Anyways, I told you all that to tell you this: It's dangerous for me to be bored and around a store that sells hats.

I had to review a movie last night (Paul Blart: Mall Cop, more on that later), and I got to the theater about an hour and a half early.

The theater was in D.C., and it was part of a mall, which I decided to explore. First, I decided to get some dinner, since I hadn't eaten lunch due to a deadline.

The mall had a Subway and a McDonald's. Deciding that no, I didn't want to shit my lungs out for the next 36 hours, I opted for a five-dollar footlong, figuring I could eat a sandwich and nurse (read: slip bourbon into) a soda for ninety minutes.

But it wasn't to be. Because as soon as I got in line, this sign greeted me:

What the fuck? If I'm plunking down eight bucks for a sandwich, chips and a soda, I want to sit and read my Penthouse tucked into a U.S. News and World Reports if I want.

As I paid for my sandwich, I grabbed my tray and looked at the cashier and asked, "So did my thirty minutes start when I ordered, or do they start now?"

She looked at me like I had asked her to hold onto my AIDS for a second. I just walked away.

I finished my dinner with seven minutes to spare, so I got a refill of soda, and continued to read. I swear, literaly 31 minutes after I entered the store, a security guard came in and started looking around, rather than getting in line to order his sandwich.

I was ready for a throwdown. But he didn't say anything, just kind of took a lap aroung the store without making eye contact with me.

I decided I wasn't going to let a mall cop keep me from seeing Paul Blart: Mall Cop (oh, the irony), so I decided to browse some other stores.

Here's where I ran into trouble. Have you ever heard of Filene's Basement? I hadn't. But I walked in because it looked kind of like a Kohl's, and Kohl's is where I get most of my threads.

I went to the men's section, and lo and behold, they had an extensive hat section.

Cowboy hats, bowlers, Indiana Jones hats, wool hats with bills and without, and some sort of crazy shit I has never seen before. Let's just say it was a fishing cap with burlap sack sewn all around it. Something a douchebag would wear no doubt.

After walking out of the store with my freshly bought burlap sack hat...

Just kidding. But I tried on a lot of hats. I had already picked out a heavy knit green wool number, as well as the knit poofball hat that currently adorns my hat pegs (relegating the jester hat to my closet, I'm afraid).

I was this close to buying a grey pork pie hat and an Indiana Jones-style fedora when I stopped myself. I could have easily dropped $100 on hats, but I had to make myself leave after only two.

Like I said, I'm a hat guy. But I can't say that I won't stop by that place again to pick up a hat or two. I've wanted an Indiana Jones-style fedora since I was a kid, and something has always gotten in the way of me actually buying it, mostly my sense of shame.

On to Paul Blart:Mall Cop. My full review is now the propoerty of the people who pay my salary, but I will be brief.

After a summer of Judd Apatow gross-out comedies, it was actually refreshing to be able to laugh at things that aren't gross and obscene. Kevin James' brand of awkward, sweaty humor has always made me laugh.

A confession, one that fills me with no small amount of shame

The King of Queens is my one guilty TV pleasure. I even own a few seasons on DVD.

Wow. It felt good to get that out. I'd been holding onto that one for a long time. Feels good though. No, I'm not crying, why do you ask? Just dust in my eye.

Anyways, (sniff) I thought the movie was actually pretty funny. I wasn't expecting to laugh at all, but I did. I'm glad I didn't have to pay for the film, and I recommend that if you do see it, don't pay more than matinee price.

It's a fantasic movie to take kids to. There's no blood, no swearing, and I don't even think anyone dies. It sends up movies like Die Hard, Under Siege, and Rambo pretty well also, in more clever ways than you'd think.

It would be a perfect movie to watch on cable, especially when you're hungover. Which is actually when I end up watching most of my King of Queens.

The guy who plays the jerk pen salesmen is going to be the next Seith Rogen/Michael Cera ind of star. He's good at that obnoxious, awkward comedy. Kind of like a less funny, but still funny Ricky Gervais.

Anyways, that'll about do 'er. Go fuck yourself, planet earth.

Friday Hate: 1/16

2009-01-16T11:30:00.000-08:00

This week's subject of Friday date: people who treat their pets (especially cats) as children.

Seriously, get a fucking life. I don't have anything against pets, I've had a few dogs in my time, and I always liked having them around, and sometimes would even jokingly have conversations with them, mostly to annoy other people in the room.

But stop talking to your cat like it's a person.

Example: I was doing the part of my job that I loathe the most the other day, taking a survey for a feature in my newspaper. This week's questions involved people's plans for the inauguration.

One of my stops was at a Veterinarian's office on the base where I work, and I asked one of the patrons there what her plans for the inauguration was.

She gazed lovingly into the cat's eyes, and said "Oh, I don't know. But Arlo [the cat] is going to watch it on his favorite chair on Tuesday. Yes he is! He's going to watch it on his favorite chair in mommy's lap."

Sixty seconds and five sore and bloody knuckles later, the screams finally stopped.

Kidding, of course. But seriously. What makes you think that cats are people? Are you self-aware enough that you can see you are so desperately lonely to have any being who converts oxygen into carbon dioxide (though that doesn't mean the bitch doesn't have like 100 houseplants) seem like a friend?

Does that compute at all?

I used to think that people who used online dating sites were the most pathetic people (though I'm sure fate will eventually make me pay for that one by forcing me to eHarmony.com when I'm in my late 40s and so desperate to spread my seed that I'll hump any piece of online trash that will have me), but not any more.

What's even weirder is the people who consider their pets children who also have a husband and children.

At my previous job writing for a small community weekly paper I met a woman who has still in mourning over a dog that she had put to sleep years ago. She spoke of how looking at his picture brought tears to her eyes sometimes.

I wanted to find a megaphone and scream at her: "IF THE WORST THING THAT HAPPENS IN YOUR LIFE IS THAT YOU OUTLIVE YOUR FUCKING DOG, THEN CONSIDER YOURSELF LUCKY, CUNT!!"

But alas, I let it pass.

That doesn't mean I don't hate her though. And you. I hate you too.

Preparations A though G were unsuccessful...

2009-01-15T22:03:00.000-08:00

I start this next story with a question for you, the reader:

We're friends right?

We have a connection, I think. As much as a connection as we can when I type these words and you read them at your leisure.

So I'm going to tell you:

I went to the grocery store the other night to buy hemorrhoid cream.

Now that that's out in the open, I won't go into detail. Just know that things aren't right back there. And occasionally the toilet paper looks like it's been dipped in salsa. That's all I'll say.

And I don't think there is anything more em-bare-ass-ing (see what I did there?) in the entire world.

This is from a guy who is a little embarrassed to be buying toilet paper, and don't even mention condoms.

If it's a lady cashier, I know she's thinking, "Who are you fooling homo? You know you're just going to jack off into these after the expiration date on the spermicidal lube."

But I braved possible ridicule, and hoped that the self-checkout line would provide me with shelter.

As I browsed the shampoo/soap/medicine section of my local Giant, I quickly realized that not everyone is as shame filled as me.

There was an eldery couple standing near the laxatives, talking about the pron and cons of each like they were at a fucking art gallery. You know, that voice that is supposed to be soft, but they really want everyone to hear what they are saying.

"Well Stan, this one is higher fiber, but this one is orange-flavored."

Gross.

So I pick the classic. Prep H. Put in in my basket, and I felt like I might as well have been carrying child porn. I was putting stupid shit I didn't need over it, just in case someone happened. Now I've got two jars of pickled asparagus. What the fuck am I going to do with that.

The worst part was standing in front of the checkout line. I felt more exposed that if I was walking through the Gaza strip with a Star of David tattooed on my face.

If any sort of attractive female had come anywhere near me, I know what I would have done.

I would have literally punted my basket, breaking eggs and whatever else I had in the basket, and I would have run out of the store, probably all the way to my house (no time to find my car and start it), which is a few miles away.

I would have picked my car up well after closing, and I would never go to that store again.

Luckily, it never came to that. I went into the self-checkout, scanned my shit, and it was there that I realized my fatal flaw:

After you scan the stuff, you put it on a conveyor belt, and it goes to the bagging area, which is passed by each and every customer as they exit. And I almost lost my shit.

Everyone of them could see that I had a problem, and they kept looking at me, judging me.

My second fatal flaw: I was, as I've done on every grocery store trip since I turned 21, purchasing alcohol.

Quick side note: I always try to buy some kind of alcohol when I go to the store. Call me old, fashioned, call me paranoid that the drinking age might suddenly shoot up to 30, but I need to make sure I've got some.

Back to the story. When you scan alcohol at the self-checkout, it means a notice goes off for the cashier, and she must check your ID, and then type in her passsword to clear you.

Well, when the chick comes up to check your ID, she usually takes a second on her way back to bag some of your items, which I usually find to be quite helpful.

Not this time. The fucking meddlesome cunt was getting all in my shit, and it took every ounce of self-control I had to not run out of the store. Luckily, she was an ugly one, and who really cares what ugly chick think? I mean, come on.

So I managed to escape, medication in tow, and hopefully this shit lasts me forever, cause I don't know if I can go through that again.

Enter.... Baby Mangino

2009-01-13T07:46:00.000-08:00

I like to think that I have a good sense of humor. If you enjoy reading this blog, then chances are that you either have a similar sense of humor as myself, or at least you know what is funny and what isn't. Because it's all about the funny.

Having a good sense of humor is comprised of two things:

Knowing what is funny
Knowing what isn't funny

Naturally, I like to think I am a good judge of both. Things I find funny include:

Will Ferrell on SNL
Judd Apatow movies
Ricky Gervais and his brand of awkward humor
It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia

There are several things that are widely embraced as being hysterical that I don't find funny at all. These include:

Rick-rolling. I like the song, but I can't see where the funny is.
Dancing to the song "Crank That" by Soulja Boy. We've all seen the video, and I know too many people that have made their own YouTube versions of it. I've been to several parties when a group of white guys have danced in a line to that stupid song, and literally every single person at the party was laughing as if they were hearing Dave Chappelle for the first time. Ridiculous.
Pretty much everything on Cartoon Networks Adult Swim, with the exception of Futurama and Family Guy.

Does this mean I know better than these people? Probably not. After all, Adult Swim is incredibly successful while this blog probably gets five viewers a month. And Rick-rolling seems to dominate Digg whenever something new happens.

The point is, I don't consider myself a slave to fad humor.

Until now.

One of my favorite sites is Deadspin.com, a humorus sports blog. Around Halloween, they ran this article, which featured a young child dressed as Kansas University head football coach Mike Mangino. And it makes me laugh hysterically every single fucking time I see him.

A comparison:

Over the weeks, Baby Mangino, spawned impostors, rivals, and nay-sayers.

The cherub-cheeked lad was eventually unmasked, and then entered in Deadspin's Sportshuman of the Year Contest. I voted for him. Every time and repeatedly.

Like Gen. Sherman's, Baby Mangino's infantry (see what I did there?) march to the top left nothing but scorched earth (read: sports celebrities) in his path, before entering the final round.

And then the world took notice. Okay, just central Kansas. Well, and CNN.

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

So please to be enjoying the last link about Baby Mangino, which discusses his win, and contains a video about his quest to be named Sportshuman of the Year 2008.

Hopefully this isn't the last we'll hear of Baby Mangino.

Monday Links: 1/12

2009-01-12T11:44:00.000-08:00

Back again, with a heaping helping o' Monday Links!!

The Boston Globe makes its second consecutive appearance on Monday Links. This one about hallucinating and other awesome things with everyday objects, for those of us who can't afford delicious, delicious mushrooms.
Ever read the book The Secret? Well, here is a glowing review. Good for him.
A man gives his kidney to his wife. Sound romantic? Sure. But what happens if things go sour? This.
If you're like me, then you love delicious delicious alcohol. Well, here is a list of things that your bartenders are doing to cheat you out of alcohol and money, the two greatest things in the world.
You know what else is good? Sandwiches. A list of the ten best sandwiches. While I generally agree, I think the muffaletta is conspicuously absent from this list.