End Segregation Once and For All

To the casual observer, modern society must seem a wonderland of harmony and equality. Flip through any college brochure and it’s plain to see: hearing-impaired white women love studying in parks with paraplegic Asian homosexuals while, nearby, black men in varsity jackets toss around the ol’ pigskin with Indian hermaphrodites.

And it’s not just in brochures. Everyday life is teeming with shiny, happy examples of this brotherly spirit. I couldn’t count on fifty hands the times I’ve seen a black man and a white man skipping along without a care in the world before pausing to refresh themselves at a mutual drinking fountain. Typically, the white man will stoop to take a drink, and as he starts to lap at the steady, cool stream of water, his black friend will push the button down all the way, splashing his gullible compatriot with a chilly jet of surprise. They then share a laugh and engage in an elaborate handshake that the white man is obviously unfamiliar with. Everyone knows that black people are cunning and hip, while white people are uptight and out of touch¹, but these differences only serve to make us ideal partners in police movies, and more importantly, friends.

¹ Source: the “comedy” of D.L. Hughley

However, underneath this shimmering surface lies a dark undercurrent. Our past successes in integrating and harmonizing the human race have failed to so much as budge this deeply rooted axis of prejudice, a facet so fully ingrained in our daily lives that most people don’t give it a second thought. It is the last bastion of segregation. I am, of course, referring to…..gender-specific bathrooms.

Pangs of societal guilt reverberate through me every time I embark on a bathroom excursion with nine of my best girrrlllsssss. Clutching our knock-off Prada bags, we laugh and gossip all the way to the back of the club, before we’re forced to part ways, as I enter my elitist “Men Only” bathroom.

To divide bathrooms by gender may seem natural, but what’s next? It is nearly unfathomable now, but will we one day see bathrooms for “Blacks Only?” What about “Well-Endowed Men Only?” That may seem absurd and redundant, but where do you draw the line? That’s why I’m demanding that the line be erased altogether.

The notion that women are inferior because they cannot pee standing up is accurate, but maddeningly insensitive. I am allowed to fight alongside a woman for the freedom of no one in particular, yet it is wrong for us to drop some bombs into peaceful waters, together, when we return from battle? I can freely consume alcohol, yet I am a criminal for wanting to become intoxicated by the after-dinner stench of a woman? I reserve the right to carry a handgun, yet I am denied the right to fire off a round into a porcelain bulls-eye with a woman at my side? The entire concept reeks of hypocrisy and is speckled with corn.

There is only one way for change to be brought about: a grassroots campaign to unite men and women under a unified, unisexual symbol. Do whatever is necessary to get the word out. Women, piss in the men’s urinals. Men, piss on the women’s walls where the urinals should be. Everyone, join the Facebook group. End segregation once and for all.

Integrate America’s bathrooms!

My Greatest "That's What She Said" Moment

Before you read any further, please read the blog that inspired this.

Kid is fucking funny and he’s only 17. When I was 17, I still laughed at the word ‘poopy’. Six years later, nothing’s changed.

Anyway, after reading Barry’s blog, I felt compelled to share my story.

Normally, “that’s what she said” is the ultimate “you had to be there” moment. It’s not nearly as funny if you haven’t experienced the full context, especially because the joke is so overdone. However, I think this instance was different. Allow me to paint the picture if I may.

It was spring semester of my senior year and I was taking statistics as a free elective. (Before you cry out, “DORK!” let me assure you…..you’re right.) In my defense, I majored in electrical engineering; I was rapidly approaching the job market with a less than stellar GPA; and it was management statistics. I don’t even know why they let me in the class. I liken it to Michelangelo taking a course on crayons.

Because statistics for mouthbreathers – as it should’ve been called – was required for management majors, the class was full: a good 60 strong. The audience was in place.

The professor was an Asian man with a very innocent nature. Needless to say, he was mostly oblivious to American sexual innuendo. It was only a matter of time before he served up a meatball of naivete for me to deposit in the bleachers of smart ass quips. The setup was inevitable.

On the first day of class, the professor had everyone break into groups of four to facilitate collaboration on the in-class activities we’d be completing throughout the semester. In order to help him put names to faces, he wanted to take a picture of each group at the end of class. The stage had been set.

The group that was to go before mine consisted of four – how should I say this? – fat kids. They waddled up to the front of the class and lined up to have their picture taken. The professor took aim with his camera, then motioned for them to squeeze together. Again, he tried to line up the shot and again, he motioned for them to squeeze. He raised the camera to his face a third time, peered into the viewfinder, and proclaimed…

“I can’t fit all of you in.”

And I was there to knock it out of the ballpark.

Getting Wasted

• If you start out a night of drinking saying, “I’m gonna get wasted”, you will.

• If you start out a night of drinking saying, “I’m gonna take it easy tonight”, you’re still probably getting wasted.

• Whoever said “hindsight is 20/20” was not a heavy drinker.

• If someone takes a picture of you doing a shot – it doesn’t matter how bad ass you looked at the time – in the picture, you will look like a fag.

• When I buy beer, I usually go for a 6-pack of something good and a 30-pack of something cheap. There’s really no point in drinking something more than a dollar per beer when you can no longer feel your tongue.

• I was doing some grocery shopping the other day and figured, “While I’m here, I might as well pick up some brews.” My eyes were immediately drawn to the old standby, 30-pack of Keystone Light: $12.99. But hey, I figured, I’ve got a steady job. I’ve got some money in my pocket. Why not upgrade to something a bit nicer? 30-pack of Coors Light: $22.99. Okay, fuck that. Come on, Keystone. Let’s go make some urine.

• Speaking of urine, I hate people who preach “don’t break the seal”, as if my package is kept airtight to maintain freshness. “Well, if you piss now, you’ll be pissing all night.” No, dumb ass, I’m gonna be pissing all night because I’m sending a half gallon of water past my lips every hour. There’s no reason to bring any more harm to my body than I already am. If my body tells me I have to piss, I’m gonna piss. Whether or not I get my pants off first is an entirely different story.

• I don’t gradually descend into drunkenness anymore. I’ll be at a party or a bar, not nursing my beers by any means, and everything seems perfectly fine. Frustratingly fine. And then all of a sudden, it hits me like a brick wall. “Holy shit, I’m trashed.” There’s no more tingly warmth of the intermediate buzz period. Just an even-keeled stroll through Soberbia before stepping off the cliff into Gone Canyon.

• I recently realized that when I’m drinking to get drunk, I no longer keep track of how much I’ve consumed, only whether or not I have a drink in my hand. I’m not sure if this is an accomplishment or a problem.

Light Bulb Jokes You've Never Heard

• How many lazy roommates does it to take to put in a light bulb?

Apparently more than two.

• How many blind men does it take to put in a light bulb?

Just one, as long as he appreciates irony

• How many college kids visiting home does it take to put in a light bulb?

DAAAAAD!! THE LIGHT IN THE KITCHEN WENT OUT!

• How many municipal workers does it take to put in a light bulb?

Six. One to put the light bulb in and five to make sure he’s doing it right.

• How many beers does it take to put my dick in a light bulb?

Nineteen.

• How many kids with obsessive compulsive disorder does it take to put in a light bulb?

One kid, seven times.

• How many kids with obsessive compulsive disorder does it take to put in a light bulb?

One kid, seven times.

• How many kids with obsessive compulsive disorder does it take to put in a light bulb?

One kid, seven times.

• How many kids with obsessive compulsive disorder does it take to put in a light bulb?

One kid, seven times.

• How many kids with obsessive compulsive disorder does it take to put in a light bulb?

One kid, seven times.

• How many kids with obsessive compulsive disorder does it take to put in a light bulb?

One kid, seven times.

• How many kids with obsessive compulsive disorder does it take to put in a light bulb?

One kid, seven times.

Make Your Own Insult

I spent a few minutes the other day perusing the world’s most comprehensive resource for crude insults or, as it’s more commonly known, Points in Case reader feedback. Most of the reader feedback is positive, but as you may have noticed, a good portion is intended to bash someone’s character. Readers disparage writers, readers disparage other readers, and – as is often the case – readers unwittingly disparage themselves. Never ones to sit silent, writers will often chime in to belittle those who publicly disapprove of their work. (We only throw insults in response to others’ insults. It doesn’t make sense to pre-emptively bash our readers¹.) While sifting through this mess of inflammatory remarks, I had an epiphany.

Insults have a formula. At least good ones do. More specifically, good insults are usually a combination of a swear (like fuck) and a noun (like fuck). Okay, bad example.

I thought about it a bit further, and decided that most nouns don’t really work for insults. Pairing a curse word with an inanimate object or an intangible concept doesn’t have much sting to it. For instance, emotional damage is minimal if you call someone a cocktree or a cuntsocialism. “What kinds of nouns best tie together a vulgar insult?” I ask myself as a segue.

Two kinds:

1) Places of storage or production

2) Professions or ranks

Places of storage or production are especially poignant because they imply mass quantities of the preceding swear. Professions and ranks work well because they imply a mastery of the particular field. To help you get a better idea of what I mean, I’ve provided examples of swears (required), places of storage or production (optional), and professions or ranks (also optional).

Swear

Shit

Piss

Fuck

Cunt

Tits

Fart

Turd

Twat

And to pick up where George Carlin² left off…

Ass

Dick

Jizz

Felch

Douche

Slut

² I omitted cocksucker and mother fucker from Carlin’s list because those are already fully realized insults using the swear-noun formula.

Place of Storage or Production

Depot

Warehouse

Dumpster

Basket

Bag

Factory

Distillery

Farm

Profession or Rank

Broker

Pirate

Burglar

Smith

Guru

Master

General

Admiral

Captain

Deputy

My New Favorite Insult

Twat Farm

Feel free to apply this formula (patent pending) (patent submission also pending) (indefinitely) and come up with your own insults to use on friends and enemies alike. By no means should you limit yourself to the swears and nouns provided, but they make a good starting point for your soon-to-be encyclopedic insult repertoire. Happy humiliating.