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Top Ten Places Sex is Overrated, Part 2

Andrei Trostel — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 05:08:38 -0500

« Back to Top Ten Places Sex is Overrated, Part 1

5. While Driving

The movie The Chase comes to mind whenever I think of anyone having sex AND driving. There go Charlie Sheen and Kristy Swanson barreling down the road being chased by every cop in the world it seems and they simply have no other place to do it than right there in the car going a hundred miles an hour.

Why didn't you get off at that exit?Seriously, the only thing more ridiculous than this is Henry Rollins playing a police officer, for crying out loud. I've seen you people drive and frankly you can't even do it when NOT texting, so what on earth gave you the idea you could actually have SEX while driving?! It's awkward, impossible to control your vehicle, and just shouldn't be even attempted for the sake of every other driver out there.

I wouldn't even suggest "road head" because if it's particularly good then you run the risk of running off the road during the climax. Besides, how would you drive, get a blowjob, AND text all at the same time? Because god forbid you miss a text.

So while all of us have actually heard our significant others scream, "OH! OH! OH! OH! GET OFF AT THE NEXT EXIT!" let's just agree to not get so literal about it while operating a moving vehicle.

4. In the Great Outdoors

Everyone has a "sex in nature" fantasy. Ever try it? Not as natural as you thought, right? Sex in nature is good in primal urge theory but in reality ends up being very different than what you thought. Sharp rocks in your knees/ass, tree bark abrasions, sticks in places there shouldn't be sticks, and bugs—lots and lots of bugs. Even something as simple as a frolic in the grass can be frightfully uncomfortable and off-putting since blades of grass have this way of itching every hair follicle on your body.

"UNLESS... you let me have a go."A blanket can go a LONG way in making your nature romp more enjoyable but then that almost kills the whole going natural, spontaneous, outdoor sex fantasy, doesn't it? Sex in a river or lake is usually cold (one word: shrinkage) and there is that whole water killing the lubrication issue again. Sex in a field is usually insect ridden—ants, bees, mosquitoes, you name it! Something about sticky bodily fluid excites the insect world almost as much as the idea of having sex in nature excites us. Sex in the woods is always fraught with abrasive discomfort, plus there's that uncomfortable moment when that small creeper guy pops up from behind a tree and exclaims, "I'm the Lorax and I speak for the trees, which you seem to be FUCKING ON as much as you please!" Talk about your mood killer!

3. In the Hay

"Hay, let's go in the house instead."I grew up on a five acre farm in Washington state, which means I know a little about boredom, nature, and hay. Hay is not only incredibly itchy, it's also sharp as hell. Having a roll in the hay is about as comfortable as rolling around in shards of glass that have been treated with allergens. Imagine going to your local allergist and getting a scratch test covering your entire body. Even if you aren't allergic to hay (which I am, gee I wonder why) it is also terribly unforgiving when it comes to puncturing your skin. You might as well have sex in a blackberry bush or on a bed of nails.

Furthermore, do you people have any idea what kind of vermin live in a giant pile of hay, inside a barn? Disgusting! If having sex on top of a pile of hay that is sprinkled with rat, mouse, bat, pigeon, and owl shit while being skewered by sharp grass is your idea of a good time, then I say go for it. However, if you absolutely must live out your Teri Garr, Daisy Duke, or whatever farm girl fantasies you may be having, please make sure you pack your EpiPen and disinfectant for your fantasy barnyard adventure.

2. On a Plane

Ladies and gentlemen, please remain heated.The Mile High Club...otherwise known as I've fucked in a honey bucket! Have you ever been in an airplane bathroom? It's a flying porta-potty, nothing more. There's more room in a used coffin than an airplane bathroom and the smell in the used coffin is probably better. Doing the deed at 35,000 feet amounts to playing a game of vertical twister (mostly clothed, mind you, due to time constraints), while both of you are doing your best impressions of a contortionist ninja in a very small box.

(whispering) "You put your left foot on that wall, your right one on the door without opening it. I'll put one foot IN the toilet and the other on the ground. You can rest your ass in the sink, but don't worry, no one EVER uses it to wash their hands. Oh and if you feel an explosive wet feeling, that is more than likely the faucet accidentally turning on and spraying you, because there is no way in hell either one of us will actually enjoy this enough to cum."

Hardly enjoyable to say the least! Furthermore, just before you two made this attempt, the 400-pound guy in seat 27A WRECKED the place with projectile diarrhea. Now the two of you are quite literally doing the nasty in there, just so you can brag about it to your friends? Jesus Christ, people, I've held it on six-hour flights just to avoid that shithole (an accurate description if you think about it).

The only way this isn't completely disgusting and uncomfortable is if you happen to be rich enough to own your own private jet, complete with sleeping quarters. Then you can brag about being part of the Mile High Club with some amount of pride. Otherwise you might as well be bragging about jumping into a porta-potty hole with your partner, because that's all I hear when you talk about it. If you just want to say that you have done it, simply go smoke a bowl and then get laid. Then you can say you got laid while being high as fuck and your sky high sex story will still be somewhat linguistically true. At the very least, you won't be in physical therapy or have hepatitis for the rest of your life.

1. On the Beach

Talk about getting caught in the sand trap...You know how when you go to the beach and lay out that huge blanket ever so carefully so that sand doesn't get anywhere on it? Then one nano-second later that entire blanket seems to be covered in sand? Well that's just the start of your beach fantasy, a nice bed of sandpaper.

To say that this sexual adventure is going to be rough is the understatement of the year. Sand has this amazing way of getting everywhere, and as soon as you throw bodily fluids into the mix then PRESTO you instantly turn into a giant piece of coarse grit sandpaper. Actually, I suggest building up to your beach romp by heading over to Home Depot and picking up some actual coarse grit sandpaper and switching it with your toilet paper for a few weeks. That way you might just build up enough scar tissue to be ready for sex on the beach, otherwise known as "turning your skin into bloody hamburger."

The best is when women want to do it in the actual surf! I think this is every girl's chick flick fantasy, at least from what I've been told. To which I always reply, "Have you ever had your vagina sand blasted before while someone was trying to drown you?"

Yes people, I am a dream killer, it's just what I do. Did I mention that sand gets EVERYWHERE?! Hell, you can't even keep it off of a towel or blanket that you put down for a picnic at the beach, so what makes you think you can keep it out of your crotch in the surf? Unless you have some desire to build a well-packed sand castle in your uterus then you're better off, ladies, just waiting until you get back to the beach house for your sexual notion at the ocean. Incidentally, there is a word for having sex in the surf: it's called DROWNING! It's almost like you ladies have never actually been to the ocean before. The break of the waves are constantly changing, so lying in one place is not only impossible due to the tidal current, but you are quite literally having sand deposited everywhere imaginable. Beaches are deposition landforms, meaning the actual sand is being deposited onto the beach by the water. Now imagine thrusting large amounts of that sand inside you while drowning, and there you have it.

Sex on the beach, in the surf! Anytime anyone tells me they've had sex in the surf, my first thought is that the guy is a premature ejaculator. I mean, come on, you tell me? Just how quick do you have to be to have sex in the surf, which is ever changing, and not drown or be dragged out to sea before the woman calls out, "Okay fuck this! This is NOT what I had in mind!" Like a jackrabbit on speed, that's how quick! Was being fucked by a jackrabbit on speed while having sand stuffed into you like a taxidermy trophy and being drowned REALLY your number one fantasy? I know that mine certainly wasn't having all the skin violently sanded off my penis while inhaling large amounts of salt water before being eaten by a shark that was attracted to all the blood in the water.

Top Ten Places Sex is Overrated

Andrei Trostel — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 20:01:42 -0400

We've all seen it in the movies. We've all fantasized about it. Hell, some of us have even gone out and tried it for ourselves. I'm talking about that super sultry place to have sex, that in your mind seems sizzling and amazing, but in reality, because of logistics, is not all you built it up to be.

I'm not saying these places can't be done, because they absolutely can and have been tested. And I'm not saying that you shouldn't try them just for bragging rights and the ability to mutter, "Been there, done that" when the location comes up in a sexually charged conversation. What I'm saying is that what you might think would be hot, wet, and wild, usually turns out to be uncomfortable, difficult, and awkward.

Let me just save you some time and many weeks in traction by listing, in descending order, the top ten places sex is highly overrated.

10. In a Hot Tub

It's just not all it's quacked up to be.Relax people, this is number ten so it has to be somewhat debatable at least. Sex in a hot tub is not only a cliche but also highly overrated.

First of all, I was a lifeguard for many years and thus know a little about optimal chlorinated water concentrations...oh and people fucking in bodies of water too. For instance, did you know that the amount of chlorine in a hot tub is higher than that of a swimming pool? Not just because of higher water temperature and the ease of bacterial growth, but because of the sheer magnitude of germs left behind compared to a swimming pool, due to various activities.... Yuck! Doing the freak nasty in a hot tub pretty much accurately describes the experience on a microbiological level: freaking nasty!

Spa sex is nothing else if not extremely HOT though. I'm talking about raised body temperature, sweat dripping, oh my god I'm going to die of heat exhaustion, HOT. You know how you sometimes get really overheated from hot steamy sex and feel like you might just catch flames at any moment? Well imagine starting out at that temperature and then going at it in a hot tub, thus doubling the heat index. Hot is an understatement!

One more thing my little aquatic delinquents. There is this stuff during sex that actually makes things easier logistically, maybe you've heard of it? It's called lubrication. Well you might think that being in water is about as lubricated as it gets, but you would be painfully wrong to say the least.

9. In the Shower

Stick it, test it, stick it to 'em!I know, I'm losing all of you by starting at the top and working my way to the good ones, but that's how these lists are done. You might think that the shower is a good place to lay some pipe, but ironically it isn't. Shower sex is difficult at best.

First, the quarters are usually cramped, unless you live in a house with a particularly spacious shower. Second, it's slippery as hell and unless you have worked out the whole height differential equation perfectly between the two people involved, it usually means there is heavy lifting involved. Don't get offended ladies, you ALL count as heavy lifting when it comes to sex. I know women like to think they're light as a feather but even if we're talking about a 100-pound wisp of a girl, it isn't easy to hold you up in the air for any length of time. Especially the length of time it takes to make this shower rendezvous "satisfying" for everyone involved.

Plus, there's that whole water lubrication issue to contend with again, and I don't recommend keeping an emergency bottle of KY in the shower for use in a pinch--you just may, one day in a haste to get to class, end up with the strangest hair day imaginable when you grab the wrong bottle to use as shampoo. Save everyone a pulled muscled or a shower slip concussion and just shower together as foreplay, then have sex afterward, then shower together again, then....you get the idea...rinse...repeat.

8. In the Movie Theater

Let's all go to the lobby...together?My parents owned a movie theater growing up and I was the projectionist for a very long time, which means I developed excellent night vision. That's right, everyone reading this from my hometown, I saw you buttering each other's popcorn in our theater, and what's more, you failed miserably at it.

I haven't found a movie theater seat in my entire life that I would ever classify as "comfortable." So to say that movie theater sex is uncomfortable would be a "Paramount" statement to say the least. It is "Universal" that if you want to make your dinner and a movie date have a happy ending then it is best to leave that for after the show. Movie theaters are not only dirty and rank but do you know how often some kid eats too much candy and popcorn and ends up puking all over those chairs? Gross!

In addition, it isn't like the rest of us don't know what you're doing back there. You aren't some super sexual ninjas, you know. While you may think it's all exciting and dangerous to have sex in a theater, you really aren't fooling anyone and you might as well just take it out to the lobby since you're actually just exhibitionists at best. "Touchstone" isn't meant as a suggestion, people, so please stop trying to turn the "Fox" you brought to the theater into a "Triumph" right then and there, thus ruining everyone else's cinematic experience.

7. In Front of a Video Camera

One night in Paris64.This is one of those places that definitely falls under "highly overrated." There is a reason actors, actresses, porn stars, etc. get paid to do what they do. It is their JOB to make it look good, and the amount of production that goes into making sex look good is actually quite mind boggling.

As much as you like to think you are all hot and sexy during your "dance in the sheets," you really look like a light sensitive epileptic at a Pink Floyd laser show having a seizure on top of someone else. Why you would want to film that and then watch it from the outside is beyond me.

You know why I know this doesn't work? Because I have the internet, that's why. How many sex tapes have hit the internet without the "stars" actually sanctioning their public release? Why would you potentially want to be one of those people? Sure, everyone thinks it won't happen to them until [insert almost anything here] happens and POW! You are now the latest viral video, forever. Is it just me or do all these internet sex tapes of "sexy celebrities" bear an amazing resemblance to a couple of dead fish fucking in slow motion?

Turn the camera off people and leave this to the professionals, because trust me you DON'T look as awesome as you think you do.

6. In the Car

They might not thank you for rear ending them like this.Sex in the car is one of those teenage pastimes that is really just about the fact that you can't possibly be doing this activity at home with your parents around. As soon as you leave home for college, this is also an activity you should promptly leave behind as well.

Parking the Plymouth in the garage may work as a euphemism, but actually having sex in the Plymouth is really just awkward and uncomfortable. I don't care where you are in the car: back seat, never enough room; front seat, even less room; in the cargo area of an SUV, better, but amazingly hard and not as level as you originally thought. Anyway you cut it, cars aren't designed for comfortable sex.

Fortunately for you, they invented this amazing thing called a bed that works really well. That's right, people, if you can drive your car then you can drive to a house with a bed, a hotel with a bed, someone's dorm with a bed, just about anywhere with a bed. If you're looking for uncomfortable yet mobile sex then by all means be my guest, but don't come (likely for the ladies during uncomfortable sex) complaining to me if you end up in traction for weeks.

Continue to the Top 5 places »

Halloween Double Feature: Top 5 Sexiest Male and Female Vampires

PIC Staff — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 20:22:00 -0400

Top 5 Sexiest Female Vampires
By Andrei Trostel

Nothing says Happy Halloween like sultry vampiric vixens. Us straight guys really only watch vampire movies and shows for one of two reasons: the occasional scantily clad hottie, dressed in all black, that you know for a fact will ravage you and suck you dry without giving it a second thought; or the idea of actually being an eternally young, hot, powerful vampire yourself and seducing, taking and having whatever woman you desire, who is left powerless simply by the superior strength of your mind.

The November 1st Walk of Shame

Marcus Terry — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 07:16:27 -0500

Ahh Halloween. I love it so much. The only night of the year where girls can go out in the outfits usually reserved only for the bedroom. Outfits that if parents even knew they owned would cause mothers everywhere to sob uncontrollably and fathers' heads to explode and rain down upon the ground in a flurry of rage and where-did-I-go-wrong shock.

Ladies, Stop Cutting Your Hair!

Andrei Trostel — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 21:51:11 -0500

I don't know how many times I have heard a platonic female friend say how hard it is to attract a good man out there, but let's just say it's enough to make my ears bleed more than once a month. What this means, other than the fact that I buy more Tampax than they do now, is that single women are concerned that their dating pool is dwindling, especially as they get older. So it stands to reason that they might want to significantly increase their odds of drawing more men into their cross hairs. (Hey guys, isn't the idea of a woman sniper hot? I wrote that just for you, in order to counter act the Tampax joke.)

One thing that women often do to increase their chances of attracting men is get their hair cut. Oh and stop calling it "getting your hair done" like you just got your hair laid or something—you went and got it cut. Women think a hair cut makes them look young, fresh, new—more appealing to men. WRONG! Ladies, STOP cutting your hair, men HATE it! I'm here to tell you one of a man's innermost secret thoughts whenever we see that you got your hair cut: we wish you didn't. So ladies, listen up to what I am about to tell you, and to all the men out there reading this, you're fucking welcome!

Nothing hotter than a girl with a hair-trigger.First, let's get one thing straight. I'm not saying the number one thing a man looks for in a woman is long hair. In fact, in a recent scientific poll the number one thing men universally desire in women is a sense of humor (by about 75%). Surprising, I know. Apparently, smiling releases hormones that make you feel happier (duh). Thus, if you can make your man laugh, then he begins to mentally associate you with his own happiness.

However, on the subject of physical features ALONE, statistically, your hair is actually the first thing a guy looks at. I know you're thinking, "That's a load of crap! A man will always look at breasts/ass/just about anything/legs/neck, before hair." WRONG AGAIN! The first thing a guy will check out on you, during the "3 second look over" is technically your hair. Yes, consciously he may not be aware that he looked at that first, but it turns out that hair is extremely important visually in the initial mating rituals of humans. Long luxurious flowing hair not only frames a woman's face, but sets the tone for her entire body, which is of course what the man will be looking at for the rest of the 2.999 seconds.

Finally, something the U.S. and France can agree on!From purely physiological and psychological points of view, there are certain features and chemicals that humans naturally respond to, as animals. The visual appearance of health plays a major part in physical attraction for both genders. Often women with long hair appear more beautiful to men because the ability to grow long healthy looking hair is an indication of the continuous health of the individual growing it. In addition it is widely accepted that hair traps pheromones which get released from your body. Men respond to these pheromones on a chemical level, and start associating long hair with an overall more desirable woman. This is why, flirting wise, it works so well with men when women run their fingers through their hair, twirl it, or do the "hair-flip." Ladies, you are filling the air with your pheromones whether you know it or not. (Come on, you know it, just fucking admit it! Nobody annoyingly plays with their own hair that much!)

There is a report that women who have long hair actually have slightly higher levels of estrogen in their body, which lead to more female pheromones released. Those extra pheromones get trapped in her hair to be picked up by men, as she twirls and flips it like Indiana Jones using a whip to get what she wants. All of this extra pheromone scent makes long haired women more appealing, unless of course you find her scent repelling, then it just makes you want to vomit on her for her ridiculous hair antics.

This is how I am going to wrap you around my little finger.There was also a recent study that stated that short haired women performed better in a professional arena, because their male co-workers subconsciously saw them as more masculine. Since most men do NOT want to see women they are dating as more masculine, then it stands to reason that a short haired woman has less of a chance of attracting the attention of a man. Hey, I didn't say the world doesn't suck or that it was fair, I am just trying to help you out by providing you with a window into the mind of a typical man.

Many short haired women out there will undoubtedly get upset and think that all of this is not true for everyone and subject to personal preference and they would be 100% correct. It definitely is subject to some opinion and there ARE indeed some men who prefer short hair on a woman. A recent scientific survey across multiple men's magazines, polling thousands of men, produced the answer to this question. "Do men prefer women with long hair or short hair?"

88% of men claimed to prefer long hair!!

8% claimed to prefer short hair.

4% said no preference one way or the other.

88% ladies!!!!!!

Wow, that is high, huh?!

Kind of makes you wonder why so many women cut their hair short and then tell you that they are having trouble attracting men, doesn't it?

There are several other points and advantages to keeping your hair long that are certainly worth mentioning as well.

Short hair does not allow women to take as much advantage of the many accoutrements that are available for long hair: clips, barrettes, pins, scrunchies, beads, etc. Short haired women also can not style their hair in as many ways as long haired women can: curling, braiding, straightening, crimping etc. Short haired women can't put their hair up in that sexy little way that men love. There is nothing hotter then at the end of the night to pull something out of a woman's hair that allows it to flow down her body. (It is like all of it was hiding there just for him to release and he is the only one that gets to see it.) That is very exciting to men, so much so that there was an entire generation of movies in the 40s & 50s where all that was needed to suggest that the couple in the movie was about to have sex, was that the woman's hair was released and the screen would go dark. Now imagine that same scene with a bob cut, it simply doesn't work. Men for the longest time then began associating sex with the image of long flowing hair. Rita Hayworth built an entire career on the suggestiveness of her flowing hair, not to mention a fine set of gams. If you don't believe me then watch the Shawshank Redemption. There is a scene where all the inmates are watching a Rita Hayworth movie and they all exclaim excitedly at her flipping her hair back after brushing it upside down. Even in the 20s when short hairstyles were all the rage, Southern Belles still kept their hair extremely long, because they knew that men actually preferred it that way.

There is also a school of thought that long hair means more time spent with appliances, accessories and bottles of weird chemicals in the bathroom, making women late which annoys men. Rubbish!!!! While men DO complain about waiting for a woman to get ready and thus being late, it is more about ego and not wanting to appear to society as not having it together or that they are unable to keep appointments. In the end, it is ALWAYS worth the wait and that can usually be seen in his first look at you, when he completely forgets that he is late and now realizes that he is about to walk into the room with the hottest looking woman in the place on his arm. That is far more satisfying to the male ego than being on time. Pathetic, I know, but true.

There is a somewhat silly universal belief that men IN a relationship hold subconsciously too, which is that when a woman cuts her hair she is preparing to end the relationship that she is currently in. Changing her hair means that she desires to change her appearance, and thus also desires to make larger changes in her life, which possibly includes changing her man. Most men's first response when their significant other speaks of a hair cut is to cringe at the change, because men don't like change all that much.

Furthermore, sex is better with a woman with long hair, not just for the man but for the woman too!

There is nothing sexier to a woman than a man undressing her and carefully moving her hair while brushing her neck with his fingers, so that her hair doesn't get caught up in anything like buttons, zippers, or even in just the shirt itself. The hair can also be gathered and moved aside gently while he kisses her neck and ear. This goes over well for both people obviously.

When a man is on top and in an upright position they enjoy seeing a woman's long hair flowing across the pillow, especially since he put it there so she wouldn't be lying on it (Which is always nice for the woman that he actually thought about that). He can put it there with his hand behind her head as he gently lays her head down on the pillow. (Also nice for the woman that he didn't just drop her head, but sweetly guided it to the pillow). Of course, if you like it rough well then of course long hair has it's advantages there too. In addition, where is a man's face if he is on top but in a lower position so that his head is next to hers, and in the pillow? Yep, you guessed it, in her hair inhaling hard and deeply.

If a woman is on top, wait, let's back up a little. When a woman "climbs" on top of a man there is a subtle little wave with a flip at the end, which her hair does when she slides one leg over his body. That motion of her hair sends a wave of air towards him that fills his nose with her sweet smell. Now that she is on top, her hair is either cascading down the front of her body or if her head is thrown back than it is touching his thighs.

Either way, it is all very good which keeps him...well, a lot more...yeah you know.

If a man is behind a woman then her long hair can... O.k. you get the point, just use your imagination. This isn't a freakin Harlequin romance novel for crying out loud! Jeez!

Your breath wreaks! Here have a Chick-lit.Oh and here is a little tip: Ladies, there is nothing more effective for initiating sex then to wake him up by lightly brushing your long hair over his back or chest. Men will always trade sleep for sex. Hell, they probably would trade anything for sex! Plus, if you want to get a woman in the mood, guys, then try brushing her hair. You can significantly turn a woman on by simply brushing her long hair in a very specific way. (For the record, I give great hair!)

In all 365 sexual positions...

(Pauses for the readers to think about that for a second)

Yes, 365 sexual positions, at least according to a book called "position of the day play book". Sure, some of them might leave you in traction for a week but the book is very funny, because it also has funny little comments about them and the calories burned while doing them.

Anyway, in all 365 sexual positions, long hair usually makes them all a lot more enjoyable, for both people involved.

Sex Every Day In Every WaySo I don't care what he says to you after you get your hair cut, he secretly wanted you to keep your hair long. For the record "cute" or "nice" when it come to hair, is not really a compliment from a man. If a man says your hair is "cute" or "looks nice" it means he can't think of anything better to say and is trying to be polite so as not to let you think he didn't notice the change you made. He is parroting back what he thinks women tell each other about a new hair cut. It is simply better to tell you it is "cute" than to say nothing, but trust me, he is secretly wishing you didn't cut it at all and is likely screaming inside.

So, keep your hair long ladies! Yes, it may take longer to deal with in the morning but if you want to be more attractive to the opposite sex then keep your hair LONG, VERY LONG! If you are going to chop it all off then don't later make my ears bleed by telling me how hard it is out there to attract a good man, because frankly wearing Tampax in my ears throws off my equilibrium and makes me dizzy.

The Bold and the Beautiful

Scott L. Goodyer — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 11:49:24 -0500

Dear Diary,

A long time ago, my brother Dwayne and I used to be best friends.

Today, we are arch enemies as we fight for the same girl.

I remember back in the day though, we used to have a lot of fun together. We would both come home after school and have the house to ourselves for at least 2 hours before our parents would come home from work.

One time, alone and bored, my brother Dwayne decided to call an escort service. He managed using my mother's credit card number, which he had memorized, to "place an order".

My brother was always the smart one in the family. He wore glasses and I used to call him "four eyes" all the time. But it was days like these when an escort actually came to the house when I was glad he was so smart.

When the escort rang the doorbell, my brother and I were so happy to answer the door. When she immediately saw how young we were she cracked a smile and said "Is this some kind of a joke?" I froze, but Dwayne flashed a twenty dollar bill and said "Is this?" She dropped the smile and lunged at the money.

Dwayne knew all the right moves.

He never seemed nervous either. I was so nervous when she was in the house. I kept thinking Mom was going to come home early and bust us. As Dwayne made the three of us Kraft Dinner, he dominated the conversation the entire time. She called herself "Tiff" but after a while, he was able to get her to admit her real name...which was Jamey. Interesting now that I think about it. Who knew a decade later, we would be fighting over a girl with the same name.

An hour later, I was still nervous. I kept thinking what was going to happen. I wanted to have sex with her so badly. I had never even kissed a girl though! I wasn't sure Dwayne had either...but he was being so smooth, maybe he's had an escort before?

Time was starting to run out and eventually Dwayne took Tiff upstairs as I sat on the couch and watched TV. They were up there for 10 minutes. I thought about going up to spy but I was too nervous to move.

Eventually, they came back down and she left without saying goodbye to me.

"What happened?" I asked.

He told me she got naked. But she had this huge weird looking scar close to her vigina. "I couldn't tell if she was stabbed or if it was some kind of a burn marking" he said. "It was disgusting." He started to get angry..."I couldn't get hard!" he shouted.

I just stared at him with a blank look on my face. He then looked at me as if he was looking at that scar.

"You big dumb fuck. You'll never know what it's like." And he ran upstairs into his room.

It's been so long since that day and so much has happened between us. But one thing still remains...Dwayne is with a girl named Jamey who I want and most days I still feel like a big dumb fuck.

Porn is Terrible, Part II (And You Enjoy Rape)

Xavier Holland — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 01:37:42 -0500

Read Part I

To be honest, I was a little of the fence about writing this part II, but hey, people seemed to be interested in it. Plus, I just watched Belicheck get fucked over by his own cleverness; clearly it's a sign that it's about time that people who aren't nearly as smart as they think they are to get their comeuppance.

(Note: I don't have any football allegiances. And I like Randy Moss and Tom Brady et al. I just think that Belicheck is an asshole).

I'm pretty sure I'm not taking anything out of context here, but if you want the complete post, have at it:

All Porn is Rape, All The Time

I don't think I should have to write this, but people like to make silly arguments sometimes so here goes: Rape is terrible. I'm not making light of rape. I'm making light of stupid arguments by pretentious people who use tragedies as jumping-off points for ridiculous arguments. Lets get into it.

and for the pornographers, various onlookers, and male porn-performers, the contractual nature of the transaction-and the industry-acts as the woman's consent to whatever comes next. except that it doesnt.

The last sentence is my favorite; it's like some part of her brain knows that her argument is nonsense and is trying desperately to sneak its way into the post, before it gets overwhelmed by senseless anger.

I also love the idea that despite the fact that women are paid much better and given much more choice on porn sets, the burden of rape falls solely on the male performer.

the "free-for-all" nature of even mainstream porn is especially problematic, when it escalates, always, to include acts that most people would not willingly participate in, such as gang-bangs, and "rage-in-the-cage" styled death-matches where the woman is presented as being "versus" the man.

Read that sentence again.

Mainstream porn (even!) ALWAYS escalates into acts that most people would not willingly participate in. Such as gang-bangs. So even though you think you're watching amatuer lesbian porn, there are 6 to 8 dicks lurking off-screen, no matter what was actually filmed. True story -- it's physically impossible to film and distribute an act that most people would consent to. I tried to film myself giving my customary excellent cunnilingus to an enraptured female fan, and when I played it back it showed a tentacle monster defiling a promising young schoolgirl.

True story.

both ethically and legally, without a constant negotiation and re-negotiation of consent, there is no consent.

I add this in not because it's wrong, but because it's the crux of her argument; I want to add as much context as possible, because otherwise she looks *really* crazy. She also offers no proof that porn has this issue any more than sex does; assuming that a girl on camera isn't consenting because she's being paid doesn't make any sense. At all.

consent, by definition, is a living, breathing, thing, and cannot be given prospectively.

I checked 18 different dictionaries. Fine. I checked dictionary.com, and barely read through the answer, but I'm still positive that nowhere in the definition of consent are the words "living" or "breathing" included. In fact, consent, by definition, can even be given passively (such as is the case in a lot of sexual encounters). In fact, porn, despite all its issues, has more active consent than the majority of sexual encounters.

I like that the phrase "by definition" can be thrown in when it has nothing to do with the definition though. I'll have to remember that.

the constant renegotiation required in consensual sexual encounters simply doesnt occur when deals are struck, and contracts are signed beforehand. did you hear that? let me repeat it: consent does not occur, in porn. therefore, porn is rape.

Oh, wait. I get her argument. Let me try one on for size.

A couple gets married. They have 2 children. One day, the wife proposes to her husband that they have sex. He agrees and pentrates her.

She offered him sex beforehand. At no point did she give him living, breathing, consent in the middle of sex. Therefore, marriage is rape. Except gay marriage, which is, by definition, worse than rape.

Man, now I know why she writes. Arguing is easy when you don't have to worry about logic.

but in porn, the woman is acting. that is, her communications to him are inauthentic.

I'm pretty sure this woman doesn't understand the concept of acting. That would explain the frazzled woman I found wandering the East Village trying to figure out why Chandler and Monica and Phoebe don't visit her picture box anymore.

This should be blatantly obvious, but here it is: just like in every other acting situation, if the actress truly does not consent to the sex, she can stop the scene. You might not like her reasons for consenting, but nobody really gives a fuck if you like their reasons for having sex. If the actresses are under no duress and are free to stop the scene at any time, it's not rape. It's not even close to rape. It might be dirty, disgusting, filthy job, but so is coaching the Browns. The only difference is, Mangini's tits are real.

what we have in porn, then, on both sides of the screen, are men who dont give a shit whether the sex acts being performed on a woman are wanted.

I just want to point out, again, probably not for the last time, how stupid it is to start your argument with "all porn" and then only talk about male-female mass-produced intercourse porn.

we have "consent" that was given prospectively, which means quite literally that it wasnt given at all. in other words, we have rapists raping women, and men watching episodes of rape, thousands in a lifetime, but convincing themselves each time that they are watching "sex."

We have consent that can be withdrawn (and is) at any time.

She is right though. Only men can watch porn. Two years ago, I tried to show my ex-girlfriend some porn and a leprachaun leapt through the floorboards and doused her eyes with corrosive acid.I broke up with my girlfriend shortly thereafter.

Not because of the eyes thing though. We were just moving in different directions, you know? I was moving forward on one path, and she was moving forward on a different path. Her path just happened to lead directly into an open sewage drain.

many, many men in our lives will continue to be consumers of porn, or wont see anything wrong with it, and radfems will end up endlessly having to explain ourselves, in the face of self-proclaimed liberal men and the fun-fems who want need their acceptance.

Ah, the weariness of idiocy.

"Why does nobody listen when I try to explain my "rain falling up theory?" All of these fun-fems and men are just deluding themselves by believing that the Bergeron process explain rainfall. Rainfall, by definition, goes upward."

as far as me personally, i guess i am "lucky" in a way, that i dont have to deal with numerous men in my private life:

This doesn't have to do with the porn argument, but some quick background. She complains in a different post about misandrist being a euphemism for feminist.

I don't doubt that some people call feminists man-haters without reason. However, it seems abundantly clear from what she writes that she hates men. I can easily imagine her consoling herself by thinking "oh, people just think I hate men because I'm a feminist." No, it's because you say things like this (from a different post):

what often gets left out of these discussions is the reasonableness of womens fear/avoidance/hatred or whatever of men.

i dont have a relationship with my dad

Well you could knock me over with a feather.

That's about the end of the post proper. People made some very good points in the comments (Genderbitch basically said everything I'm say here, only way more succintly and nicely); it was a long thread, and I couldn't go through all of it here, even if I wanted to. Here are some choice bits, though:

About her use of the term "fun-fem":

as far as whether the term is derogatory....i dont know. its a catchy phrase that looks good in a headline

Not sure if she meant to so clearly imply, "I deliberately sought to offend people with similar goals to mine simply to make my headline slightly better", but holy shit, that's basically what she's saying.

"being condescending and big-brained is misogynist, when its used by a man. taking an overly-unemotional, academic "tone" when dealing with emotionally-charge subject matter, such as rape, is also misogynist, when it comes from a man."

I don't even have to comment on how stupid it is to imply that a man being condescending (not even to a woman, per se!) inherently means he hates women. I just want to add her own words to the italicized parts:

despite my ambivalence, i performed an objective analysis of porn from the perspective of consent versus non-consent, and i came to believe that its objectively, inherently harmful, and anti-feminist.

I see. So being unemotional about rape is misogynist, when it comes from a man. But being OBJECTIVE about rape is...progressive when it comes from a woman? I am without comment on the blatancy of this hypocrisy.

i's a fucking idiot, i dont understand logical fallacies

Ok, to be fair, this was written sarcastically, but it was too good not to include.

I actually made some of these arguments in the comment section, in a much less dickish way, and this was her reponse (to me, I think):

and the man in the video...well, if its a home-movie there arent the kinds of circumstantial indicators of nonconsent (like money changing hands, or nengative consequences to stopping). thats more like real-life sex, on camera. very, very different from "porn" proper though isnt it?

the reason i bring it up is that there are people who do this very thing, call it "porn" and then use *their* kind of porn as an example of why porn as a whole is unproblematic, or why *some* porn is. trouble with that is, its not really porn, which makes it a straw man argument. saying A is just like B and then arguing for the merits of B. when the post is about A, and A and B arent the same.

Here's the problem, though: The definition of porn doesn't have anything to do with money changing hands. Or their being a studio. When the premise of your piece is "all porn is rape, all the time" you have precious little wiggle-room to qualify.

I tried to keep my argument objective, though. I quoted basically every reputable definition of porn I could find. Here they are (I swear, we're getting to the end of this; it's gone on long enough):

M-W.com

The depiction of erotic behavior (as in pictures or writing) intended to cause sexual excitement.

Dictionary.com

obscene writings, drawings, photographs, or the like, esp. those having little or no artistic merit.

Wikipedia.com

The depiction of explicit subject matter for the purposes of sexual excitement.

I also added the defintion from the OED, which I don't have on hand, but which was, of course, essentially the same as they above.

Common ground, perhaps? By showing her that I just wasn't making my own definitions for things, I figured I could at least get her to admit that her statement was overreaching. That was really all I wanted, in the end: I know porn sorely needs better legislation. How did this super objective, PhD respond?:

oh, and you are TOTALLY on moderation, for using dictionary-definitions and the term QED in a discussion of rape. (that post was spammed).

I, of course, was using the abbreviation for the well-known Oxford English Dictionary. Still, I guess this post was meant to show how stupid her arguments are so...

QED.

Halloween Headaches 2.0

Casey Freeman — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 16:33:51 -0400

Halloween Drunk Comment

"My eyes are tired from looking all over the room." -- Bossman

I'm back to reviewing Halloween costumes and experiences. Since today is actual Halloween, I'll make a sequel in a day or so.

Halloween rocks. Everybody likes to play dressup. Except for that one friend of yours who just complains. Even fat girls (and lardass boys with titties) find ways to enjoy this great holiday. What's not to like? People enjoying themselves in costumes, candy, slutty chicks and copious amounts of drinking. Maybe even sexing if you're lucky.

So, on with it.

Best Example of Not Taking Your Own Advice

I worked "Pirate Night" at my bar and came as the Dread Pirate Roberts from "The Princess Bride." Most people kept asking why I was Zorro. If I just made my costume for the lowest common denominator I wouldn't need to explain anything.

Always A Good One

I really like Super Mario Brothers costumes.

Ultra Nerd Shout Out Props

Monty Python and the Holy Grail costumes - complete with coconuts for horses.

My Favorite Couples Costume

Papa Smurf and Smurfette. Hopefully they don't get cancer from the body paint.

Worst Slutty Costume

I Dream Of Genie sluts. Those silk robes are not flattering. Nothing wrong with the sluts though.

Best Slutty Costume

There's just nothing wrong with being slutty.

Best Costume Or Just Fucking Douchebags?

At the restaurant where I ate before my bar shift, some Yankees fans made a huge ruckus (and there wasn't even a game on). Yelling, whistling, swearing and screaming. Were they really Yankee fans or overenthusiastic Halloween character actors? It doesn't really matter, they were fucking dickheads.

Costume I Wish I Would Have Done

I was thinking of wearing long underwear and a black stallion t-shirt and not combing my hair so I could be Charlie Kelly from "Always Sunny."

My Favorite Costume (Thus Far)

Plaxico Burress. Some guy had a Giants jersey, sweatpants, pistol and a gunshot wound on his leg. I cracked up big time.

I Eat My Pringles with a Fork (and Other Equally Absurd Poems)

Ralph Jones — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 00:47:58 -0400

I Eat My Pringles with a Fork

I eat my Pringles with a fork
...I don't know why I do it.
The crisp is broken straight away,
The fork just goes right through it.

Most people pick their Pringles up
And simply guide them in
But mine, they fly all over town
And hit me in the chin.

Abstinence 'til Marriage: Christians are Fucked

Jessica Lynn — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 04:33:32 -0500

When I was 13 or 14, my mom took me on a weekend trip to go back-to-school shopping and have guided discussions about sexual purity from a man on a cassette tape that read from the Bible and explained things like how boys like girls with large round breasts and why we feel funny urges in our private parts.

10 Classic Movies with Re-Worked, Oscar-Worthy Endings

Rich Monetti — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 21:40:07 -0500

Ordinary People, Dances with Wolves, Forrest Gump—we've all sat with disappointment on Oscar night as the wrong picture ends up with the Best Picture piece of gold. It's not something that would easily be fixed by shaking up those who cast the votes for the Academy.

What I Did When I Turned 18

Casey Freeman — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 20:49:27 -0500

The Setup

Lunch break time during one of my summer jobs—at the time I worked as a professional mover in Denver.

The Players

Jay: Old white guy. Swears a lot.

Red: Old black guy. Pretty much criticizes everything I do—justifiably, since I'm an idiot.

Cleo: Another old black dude, but this guy is nice. My best friend on the job.

KC: Back in time when I was a spry young lad at 20 years of age. In case you didn't figure it out from my profile photo, I'm white—race will come into play in the story, I promise.

Let the story begin!

(Scene: Eating on a picnic table.)

RED: (looking at KC's lunch of peanut butter and jelly) Hey Whiteboy! (Red's pet name for KC.) How you get so big eating that shee-it? You need some meat on your plate.

KC: This is all I know how to make.

RED: You ain't one of them herbivores... is you?

Motherfucking Whiteboy! Don't you know nothing? You never ask a man what the pen was like or what he was in there for!KC: No.

RED: Then get you a bitch to make you some lunch! Damn, Whiteboy.

CLEO: Red, lay off Whiteboy. He's got so many women, they don't have time to make him lunch. Ain't that right?

KC: Um, not really.

RED: Shee-it. Whiteboy. When I was your age, I'd be fucking two women a night. Drink two forties a night. And then wake up and work 40 hours a week. What's your problem?

KC: I don't know. Maybe I'm shy. I don't know many people in Denver.

RED: So, Whiteboy! What's to be shy about? Go out and meet people.

JAY: C'mon Red. It's hard in a new city when you're younger. How old are you, kid?

KC: I'm 20.

JAY: And what did you do when you turned 18?

KC: I went to college at South Dakota State University.

JAY: And you met a lot of new people. Right?

KC: Yeah.

JAY: Well, eventually you'll meet a lot of new people here. When I turned 18, I joined the Army. I met a lot of new people there. We old guys forget that being your age is a tough time sometimes. Especially when something new hits. How about you, Red? What did you do?

RED: When I turned of age, I started working even harder. I always worked, but back then I trained to be a chef. Black man shouldn't be in no white man's army, no offense.

JAY: None taken.

RED: (under his breath) Cracker.

JAY: How about you, Cleo?

CLEO: I wadn't always this kind old black man, Bill Cosby/Morgan Freeman, papa bear motherfucker. I used to run with some pretty bad people. I was young and stupid, did a drive by shootin'. Killed two dudes. I tossed the gun in the sewer. They found a shell casing with a partial fingerprint of mine on it. They only tied one murder to me. So when I turned 18, I ended up in California State Penitentiary.

KC: Holy shit! What was that like?

RED: Motherfucking Whiteboy! Don't you know nothing? You never ask a man what the fucking pen was like or what he was in there for!

CLEO: It's cool, Red. Whiteboy don't mean nothing by it. Jail is like here. Mexicans hang with Mexicans. White boys hang with white boys. We (motioning to Red) hang out with us. There's nothin' to do. Lots of weed going 'round. The food's bad. You can't leave. Motherfuckers watch you while you shit.

KC: Sounds kind of like college. (Everybody laughs, but Red. Then Cleo gets real serious.)

CLEO: Yeah. But then at night. The night motherfuckers. Night's the worst. You can't see nothin'. But you can use your ears. You hear motherfuckers crying at night. You hear people sharpening they knives. You hear people getting stabbed by them knives. You hear people getting buttfucked. You hear motherfuckers screaming.

(Any residue of smiles are completely gone.)

CLEO: And you know who gets it the worst?

KC: ...

(Cleo grabs KC by the collar and gives him the crazy black man stare—if you've seen it, you know it.)

CLEO: The motherfuckers that get it the worst...are the white motherfuckers like YOU!!! In the clink, you the motherfucking minority! (Cleo pokes KC) In the cage, you the NIGGA! (Cleo pokes KC again, now he's nearly falling off the bench seat.) You takin' notes, Whiteboy?

(KC starts choking on his PB&J. Cleo slaps him on the back.)

CLEO: How do you like that, KC?

KC: (shaking his head) I don't want to go to prison.

CLEO: Ah, Whiteboy. I just wanted to play with you. Whiteboys don't get buttfucked in prison. Everybody loves them. They get elected as prison presidents and movie stars and shit.

(Red and Cleo laugh their asses off. This time KC chokes on air alone.)

END

Epilogue 1: This is the exact moment I decided my minimal criminal career was absolutely not worth it—no more fake IDs, buying booze for minors, or even transporting tiny amounts of personal weed across state lines.

Epilogue 2: This story is completely true.

Bright Ideas and Grand Thoughts, With Your Internet Host Paul Frank

Paul Frank — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 00:59:54 -0400

This is the last time I talk about the 2000's, and don't worry this isn't a political statement, but how have we not found bin Laden yet? You have to be extremely talented to hide from the whole world. That would probably get pretty lonely. Sure, it's cool at first, you got a whole cave to yourself, no parents or infidels around. But I think it would get old after the first year or so. Seriously, I can't even find a room to rub one out in without my grandma, my priest, and my 3rd-grade teacher walking in, and this guy successfully hides from 6 billion people for 8 years running. Also, how is it the DIXIE CHICKS were the first people to realize that Bush was an idiot?

I will kill myself if I ever wear a Snuggie to a football game along with my whole family, and proceed to obnoxiously high-five each other and "raise the roof."

The best part about adopting a kid from a third-world country wouldn't be the fact that it's another in a long list of similarities between me and Brad Pitt, and it certainly wouldn't be the fact that I'm making someone else's life better, a suffering child who missed out on their basic rights as a human being because of where they were born. No, the best part about adopting a kid from a third-world country would be that when times get tight and things get rough, you can feed that little kid like 3 pellets of rice and they won't complain. They're used to it. You probably wouldn't even have to cook food for them, they could just have it raw.

I have a new hobby: pretending I have swine flu. I mean, come on, if someone tells you they have swine flu, you take their word for it. And walk away from them as quickly as possible, hoping you didn't breath in when they were talking. As I walked out of a bar last night at 2:30 in the morning, I coughed really loud without covering my mouth and said "fuck I really wish I didn't have swine flu." The two girls nearest us outside the bar freaked out, one screaming "don't share it with us!" The look on their faces was priceless, but I have a feeling they would've really lost their shit if I told them about my imaginary herpes.

If I ever get to tour a Holocaust museum, I'm going to walk in, take a deep, deep breath and say "this is where the magic happens."

Whenever I see someone who's Facebook relationship status is "In A Relationship" but then it doesn't say anything after that, I instantly know that relationship will eventually fail. Because it means either you don't want people to know who you're dating for some fucked up reason like you're ashamed, or because your significant other doesn't have Facebook. And let's face it, people who don't have Facebook have to be batshit crazy. Like, seriously, like Jeffrey Dahmer crazy. (Writer's note: Jeffrey Lionel Dahmer is less crazy than those people. He's got a Facebook page and you can become his fan here.)

I think my biggest fear in life isn't being morphed into myself as a baby permanently, and going through life not being able to say anything or scream for help without people thinking I just need a bottle or to be changed (which I do); my biggest fear in life is giving a presentation in front of a class, where it's like a Powerpoint or something, so I have to load it up off my flash drive and everyone's watching the large projector screen as I'm getting ready and I have some porn on the flash drive too and everybody sees it.

Why are drug addicts always so crabby? If I got to do heroin all day, every day, I would be the happiest person on the planet. I would be beaming constantly; overflowing with happiness. I'd probably start volunteering at the local soup kitchen. I'd start liking children and appreciating our existence on this wonderful planet and shit like that.

Well now we know why David Letterman is slightly funny: he's always just had sex. Anyone can be all giddy and silly and cocky and start making fun of everything if they've just had sex. The sad part, besides the whole thing, is that now I can no longer say "well, if David Letterman can't get laid in this recession, then I sure can't."

I've realized my whole life I've paid more attention to pleasing my dentist than my friends or family. Because no matter what, even if I get no cavities, the dentist always makes me feel like I'm a dick and I killed someone. The victim? My enamel. The murder weapon? Plaque. The accomplice? Sugary sodas.

Texts From Last Night (To Myself)

Casey Freeman — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 05:11:00 -0500

Since I'm on the go and can't be bothered to carry a notebook with me and never thought to buy a portable voice recorder, I send text messages to myself to remind me of column ideas or jokes that I think are funny. But the truth is, most of the time I text myself, I'm in that twilight area between sleep and consciousness. Or I'm really wasted.

And yes, I sleep with my phone. An awful habit I picked up as a reporter.

What I'm trying to tell you is that most of these ideas I come up with suck. But since we're in The Second Great Depression, we need to make use of everything we get. Also, I don't feel like writing anything else right now. So enjoy these little previews. (If you really really like them, comment and I'll see if I can artistically fudge them to work.)

Making the Most of Your College Tuition Money

So your parents started saving money for your higher education back when you were barely a hard-boiled egg. Now inflation's taken over and your parents lost most of that supposed tuition cash. So it's loan time. But going to college is so 1900s. Do something impressive with that dough. Follow Quentin Tarantino's and Kevin Smith's lead: make a movie with your student loan cash.

First, buy some cameras. Then buy two BMWs (six if you're thinking of going to private law school too). Get you and enough friends to drive to the Grand Canyon. Fill up each car with either gasoline, gunpowder, Pop Rocks, or napalm. Set up your cameras, start some fires, and drive each car off the cliff. Watch them explode. Try to sell the DVD to people, but enjoy paying the debt for the rest of your life.

Hey, it couldn't be any dumber than getting a philosophy degree. Plus, it's a pretty frickin' cool story.

Racism is Officially Over

Sure Obama did some cool stuff to end racism (or stir it up). The real proof these pointless bickerings are over is the fact that Seal fucks Heidi Klum, maybe the hottest chick ever. Seal's even knocked her up like 37 times, but still she's fucking smoking hot. I mean, who gives a shit about who's leading the nation when a black guy bangs hot Victoria's Secret models? It also goes to show that he's the only guy from Batman Forever doing something with his life.

Jobs White People Will Do But Mexicans Won't

Professional Grocery Shopper. (I doubt this was even possibly valid, and I never came up with any others. It's possible the two phrases don't even go together, but they're both in the same text and in my inbox.)

Mayonnaise Taste Tester. (I came up with this as I proofread this column, but then I remembered it's black dudes that hate mayonnaise, not Mexicans. And even as a white guy I don't like mayo. But the idea of somebody spending eight hours a day spooning Miracle Whip into his mouth cracked me up.)

Check Out America's Hottest and Newest Sport...

ANNOUNCER: The rave reviews have boosted a once everyday activity for most Americans into the country's—if not the world's—most beloved athletic activity: inhaling AND exhaling. The Professional Breathing League combines the difficulties of breathing with a point system. In some competitions gladiators need to breathe really fast. Other times they're forced to inhale through their nose around people who eat too much vegan taco meat. Then there's the strenuous breathing in a bowling alley. In today's matchup, we have Will "Wheezy" Johnson facing up against "The SCUBA Tuba" Jimmy Slaughterton. This should be a no-holds-barred match we'll see in the Breathing Hall of Fame in Boise, Idaho. Now a word from our sponsors...

When to Be Naked

Sex, showering, skinny dipping, locker rooms (only for a bit though), streaking, and sometimes sleeping.

When Not to Be Naked

Church, around your parents, first day of work (unless you're a stripper or porn star), cooking with hot oil, at a children's school during worm dissecting day, or when testing switchblades.

The Kind Of Sort Of Most Dangerous Game

If you're tired of me writing stuff, I'll allow you to hunt me for sport for the small fee of one million dollars. (Then I continued the text to myself by saying your prey wouldn't really be me but some drunk homeless guy I paid ten bucks to if he wore my Twins baseball cap backward and one of my old t-shirts I didn't want anymore. How I thought I could stretch this into an entire column, I don't know. Even the fact that the stuff in the parentheses is longer than the actual story idea shows you something about my thought process that night.)

Dogs are Assholes

Don't get me wrong, I adore most canines. More than most people actually. But they are completely selfish bitches and assholes.

Here's the scene: I'm getting a blowjob...as my girlfriend's two dogs watch. Oh, and I'm really really really stoned so I've managed to make a psychic connection with the doggies.

KC: You know, you'd think blowjobs would lose their awesomeness after a while. But they don't. Always a standard five-stars.

SPARKY: I don't see what you're so impressed with.

KC: What are you even talking about? This fucking rocks. My dick is stabbing her spinal cord right now.

FIDO: We can lick our own balls. In fact, I think I'm going to do that right now.

SPARKY: I spend a good portion of my day sucking on my own weiner.

KC: You're missing the point. She's doing this for me. I pee out of this thing.

SPARKY: No, you're missing the point. I do it myself.

KC: Yeah, but maybe like blowjobs are like sandwiches. They're cool both ways, but cooler when somebody else makes them for you.

FIDO: MMMM, loooop, MMMM, gulp. You see, I didn't need to buy no fancy dinner or drinks there. I win.

KC: Oh get bent. You drool on tennis balls and fuck couches for fun.

SPARKY: The couch isn't that bad really. Also, no listening to "Where's this relationship going?" type of talk.

FIDO: And no pulling out.

How to Get Kids to Stop Spiking Their Hair or Popping Their Collars

I was fine with the white douchebag thing. Okay, I wasn't, but it was just white people. But now other races are doing this, and it's making every Middle Eastern, Asian, Latin, and even some black dudes look ridiculous and act like fucking twats. So we've got to stop these fake-tanned, Axe body wash wearing toolboxes who wear sport gold sunglasses and clog up VIP rooms. To do this, I'm going to need five things: some rope, an empty room, a gun, Bon Jovi, and Bruce Springsteen. If I hold these two New Jersey superstars hostage long enough, hopefully these fucking douchebags will disappear back into their old NFL windbreakers or something.

Scariest Movie Ever

What if instead of a mansion being full of spooky ghosts, there were a bunch of really smart university students walking around doing math and writing two-column proofs? It would be called House of Honors. Or maybe instead of geniuses it would be full of TV judges like Judy, Joe Brown, and the Mexican dude.

Another Fucking Seinfeld Rip-off

Why do they call them shoelaces? Are your Nikes really wearing lingerie? They should be called shoestrings. (This is by far the worst joke I've ever written, but still cracks me up nonstop for some reason.)

MTV Sweet Sixteen Goes Back in Time to 16 A.D.

(Scene: Nazareth's dusty streets. Jesus, Mary and Joseph walk around the shops.)

JESUS: I told you, I want backflipping monkeys at my birthday party.

MARY: You mean, like black people?

JOSEPH: Damnit, woman. Black people aren't even invented yet. That doesn't happen until two years before the U.S. Civil War ends.

JESUS: Quit fighting! You're ruining my sweet sixteen! Just like how that fat man in the red suit ruins my birthday every year!

MARY: Sweetie, Santa Claus isn't real either...yet.

JESUS: What the crap do you know? I'm the son of God—the creator of the universe.

JOSEPH: And you're also part human, which means I'll spank your halfbreed ass if you keep acting up like this in public.

JESUS: Fine. John the Baptist had a locust buffet at his birthday party. I want a locust buffet. But instead of bugs, I want a build-your-own-candy bar thing. You know, people can mix Snickers with Three Musketeers and stuff.

JOSEPH: Look, son. I'm just a carpenter. Not even Caesar has that much chocolate. How about a nice pinata shaped like a lamb?

JESUS: Fuck you! You're not even my real dad!

MARY: Jesus, you're going to your hut now. Without dinner. Just this jug of water.

JESUS: I hate you! I'm just going to turn the water into Boone's wine coolers anyway.

Pointless Rap Beef

Xavier Holland — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 15:42:32 -0500

I'm sitting at work, wondering how I can distinguish myself. I run through a list of options in my mind; working harder? No, that sounds like hard work. Working smarter? If I could work smarter, wouldn't I be doing it already? Bringing in delicious red velvet cupcakes? Not bad, but easily forgettable in the parade of pastries passed through the people of the office.

Then, it hit me. What impresses employers more than rap beef? Rap beef is as accesible as hamburger and as delicious as Kobe.

But who? Who could I start a beef with?

Ah yes. Charles. Fellow intern. He's the perfect candidate, in that he sits close to me and (I don't believe) has the power to fire me. I was going to let him know about our rap beef, but I don't have his home email and I didn't see him in the break room. Well, lets hope he reads PIC!

Anyway, lets get to it. Here's a quick 16, basically off the top of my head (lets hope this beef catches on!):

Charles, I know you're confused like "what did I do?"

It wasn't even my choice to sit right by you!

Well I'm calling you out now, so no hidin'

You gonna live in the shadow of that new black guy like Joe Biden

I'm stir-crazy, you just stir coffee, you don't wanna see the fur fly

Stir shit up and get cooked up quicker than a stir-fry

Started out nice, flipped the script, yeah I spin words

And every intern that enters in turn gets interred

So step up if you got cojones, just know I'm a kick baller

I'm like 5 inches bigger than you -- and I'm a lot taller

You'll see how much courage not going away takes

When you get sliced and served at work like going-away cake

Make you wanna throw up, man I spit the shit raw

And beat up Chuck like Peptol Bismol

Everyone wishes you were me, lets see how the pressure sets

When everyone starts calling Charles Xavier like Professor X

Heroin, Handel and Tom the Bomb J.

Xavier Holland — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 18:18:16 -0400

I know I haven't posted much (or anything) for a while. I have my reasons, which aren't really important. Suffice to say I didn't post for a while, I have a couple things to put up, so hopefully you should hear more from me in the coming weeks.

It IS good to know that even when you haven't posted in a while, Google has a habit of popping this place up at inopportune times. Like job interviews. Where instead of discussing your qualifications, you instead discuss why your interviewer disagrees with your tips on Getting Laid Without Being a Dick. His argument: just be a dick. Persuasive stuff, from an internship I didn't wind up taking: It's never a good sign when your prospective boss's argument against being a dick pretty much boils down to: "Ok but how bout being a dick?"

It was at this time that I strongly considered a bunch of pseudonyms, but they were quickly discarded for a number of reasons: "XHHatfield?" Too pretentious. "Tucker Max"? Too clearly a fake name. "Paul Frank?" Isn't that a serial rapist?

In the end, I decided just to keep my own name. For better or worse. Though I might not do any more pieces called "I Sell Drugs" for a while, unless I'm interviewing in Baltimore.

Anyway, the actual point of this post: while thumbing through the internet, I came across a slew of interesting facts:

Beethoven was raised by an abusively alcoholic father who domineered him from an early age, and ended his life nearly entirely deaf to the point he avoided idle conversation.

Proust spent the last three years of his sickly-life essentially confined to his bedroom.

Van Gogh was reported to have suffered from syphilis, earlessness and, towards the very end of his 37 years, a severe case of shooting himself in the chest.

Maybe a career in the arts isn't exactly all it's cracked up to be.

This could very well be an egregious cherry-pick, but there seems to be a pretty high corrollation between being a person of note and being either a) absolutely insane, b) utterly miserable or c) both. There are even a bunch of modern parallels: sure I want to be a famous rapper but how do I get street cred? My distaste for weightlifting and aversion to forcible anal penetration make jail a less-than-attractive option, and a recent physical uncovered a latent allergy to gunshot wounds. I can't be a rock star—heroin makes me gassy and leather pants make my thighs sweat. I'm hard-pressed to find famous creative-types whose lives sound like anything less than exercises in self-loathing.

Except George Handel.

Handel seems to not only have avoided being thoroughly beaten for no reason as a child, he was, by most accounts, a generous, affable, happy adult. I'm sure he's by no means alone in this, but the more you read about famous people, the less it seems like it's impossible to be influential, happy, and noble. At least in a way that I would find appealing: as an obvious example, Thomas Jefferson himself was a terrible cook and regularly picked up the phone with the phrase, "You got Tom the Bomb J. what does your mom say?"

In conclusion, some famous people were also mean or unhappy.

Unironic

Xavier Holland — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 13:07:49 -0400

BOOM! The poem(ish) is weeks old, the song years old, but it's all fresh to you! Plus, people still misuse "ironic" more than they use it properly, so it's all good!

Unironic

A too-young girl used a fake id,
Got in anyway 'cause she's pretty.
It's spilling a dry martini,
It's being alone when playing Wii,
It's not really that ironic, if you think about it.

It's like rain on the day of the parade
Only you don't care because it's a parade
It's finding out she's not a hooker when you go to pay,
These situations are entirely plausible.

A lot of people are scared to fly
Statistically, it's riskier to drive
But it's not as feared, I wonder why
Then I looked up "availability heuristic"
And thought, "hmmm, interesting."
And not particularly ironic, no.

On your wedding day it pours and pours,
The sky is filled with moldy spores,
And you think "that's why we had it indoors."
This is called foresight, and is helpful if you live in Seattle.

Sometimes good things happen,
Sometimes bad things happen,
Many times these things are interesting, or strange
It is, in fact, quite likely that many unlikely things will happen.

It's lying to your boss about why you're late
It's putting in your contacts for a blind date
It's getting a spoon when you would really prefer a fork, but it's OK because you're eating pie
It's buying overpriced All-Star tickets
Only to see it end in a tie
Ironic isn't really the word...Maybe unfortunate. Should we go with unfortunate? How about, "unfortunately coincidental."

It's like rain on the day of the parade
Only you don't care because it's a parade
It's finding out she's not a hooker when you go to pay,
These situations are entirely plausible.

Sometimes good things happen,
Sometimes bad things happen.
"Unfortunately coincidental" isn't that catchy, is it.

So Long Foundry!

Casey Freeman — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 17:36:15 -0500

I didn't think I would ever write this. And I might not have if my good friend and former coworker DJ Petey didn't write it before me. I've actually said it two different times when parting ways, but this time it's for good. "Goodbye Foundry."

For those not in the Colorado area, The Foundry Billiards Club was the largest bar in Boulder. As equally popular for their drinks, dancing, beautiful people and music (DJ Petey) as they were for having dickheaded employees. I was one of those employees.

Just like the Foundry took Petey in, they pulled me in from the cold. I'd just parted ways with another Boulder mainstay, but Foundry's general manager decided to give me a chance -- and they really really really needed an extra guy on shift.

My first night was by far one of the craziest shifts I've ever worked. For some reason the Irish Football League scheduled their biggest tournament of the year in Boulder, but there was also a CU vs. CSU game. On top of that, the Best Damn Sports Show Period also made an appearance.

I came into my employment a pretty naive kid. After three years I learned everything I could about the bar business. And then some.

Working at the biggest bar in town has some distinct advantages. First and foremost, I made a lot of money. More importantly, some of my fellow bar monkeys became many of my most precious friends -- worth more to me than any paycheck. Even my bosses rank as some of my favorite people in the world.

Now, the Foundry wasn't all peaches and cream. Like I stated before, putting on a Foundry jersey meant you joined the ranks of some of the most despised people in town -- and often loved as well. Being a Foundry Guy (or Girl) compared to playing for the Yankees -- some people went out of their way to greet you, while others went out of their way to fight with you.

As a doorguy, yeah, I was rough with some people, but only once I can think of an incident when force wasn't necessary. Bouncers and cops share the same impossible tightrope -- people see you carrying a guy out and you're a brute but when you aren't around when a jackoff starts causing problems you're a lazy pushover.

Then there's the fact that you're dealing with people not necessarily in their right mind. You can politely ask somebody to behave all you like, and all you'll get is a sore throat. Sometimes force is absolutely necessary.

I've been knocked down by a suckerpunch while three guys tried to see who could put the biggest bootprint on my face. No amount of kind language, understanding reasoning or free drinks could have stopped that stomping.

As a barback, I didn't speak to customers at all. As a bartender, I did the best I could to serve people as fast as I could (while drinking and flirting with girls). Many of our customers were incredible dickheads, but even so, these dickheads allowed me to live a fun life, so I tried to make their stay at the Foundry as fun as possible.

The old Foundry lifestyle was great. Even though I put in maybe thirty hours a week (on top of graduate school, a few girlfriends and a full-time newspaper job) I still managed to enjoy myself. Actually earning, having and saving money was a completely incredible and new experience for me. And then there were the women. Granted, my stats aren't very high, but I did end up dating some of the coolest girls in my history.

On top of all this, I learned how to handle a lot of stress. Barbacking at the Foundry is by far the most mentally and physically demanding job I've ever done, no joke about it. I also learned many of the intricacies of the bar industry, but also how every business in the neighborhood creates a symbiotic relationship with each other.

Unfortunately, these lessons, friendships, memories and monetary opportunities won't be available to the next generation. I'm positive some ex-employees, customers and general haters are saying "Good," but they weren't in the mix like many of us. The fact that I could pay my rent by being employed as "The Lowest Of The Low" -- (what cranky folks call bar workers) gave me many opportunities I'd never been offered had I just been a waiter at Chili's.

The big reason I left The Foundry was the same same that I left Boulder. I wanted bigger and better things. And I've found bigger as well as better, but there was a certain chemistry, camraderie and sense of fun at the Foundry that I've never matched in all my searches.

So the doors of the Foundry (technically the New Foundry) will close tonight. Granted, this place hasn't been MY place for a while. But the friends and memories I made will last forever.

So Foundry, thanks for the good times and everlasting friendships -- and for paying my bills for so many years.

Most of all a huge special thanks to Byrne, Opie, Wam, Bones, Skeet, Vicious, Q, DJ Petey, Thunder, Chef Jose, Hollywood, Timmy, Fire, GP, Bertros, George, Goldberg, 4-5, Golddust, Deuce, Chachi, Scratchy Pete, Wheels, Big Dumb Mike, Boston Dave, Cookie, Nick A., Gump, Sarah, Jade, Angela, Bix, Julie, Tristan, Alyx, Mel, April, Lindsey, a few hundred other folks I'm sure I missed. I'll even thank Pony Boy. Thanks for all the memories. Take care.

You're the best!

15 Reasons Why You're Not Attractive

Ashley Solomon — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 20:29:06 -0500

Two weekends ago, at a friend's party, I found myself in the middle of several awkward moments involving a very unattractive man. From the moment he screamed, "Hey redhead! What's yo name, redhead?!" I knew it was fate. I knew I was not going to be able to escape. After several attempts to catch my name, he tried to woo me by making very low pterodactyl noises an inch from my face.

Life is Tweet

Xavier Holland — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 18:57:00 -0400

Just doing some catching up. If you're not already, you should totally follow PIC on twitter:

http://twitter.com/PointsInCase

If you think, wow, that's really funny, but I wish it had more ramblings about baseball and impromptu rap lyrics, feel free to follow me:

http://twitter.com/NomChompsky.

A random sampling of thoughts I've tweeted that you probably haven't seen:

Putting things on Facebook but then trying to make a "limited profile" is like wearing a short skirt, fishnets, and a chasity belt.

I love Outback trying to sell buying a moderately priced entree at a chain restaurant as "doing something exciting."

There are people in the world so crazy that bread can not help but appear to them in the form of God.

Do Clown Cars run on laughing gas?

"L'enfers, c'est les autres"—written by a man who spent his life around theater people.

Word of the day: thenspiration. Otherwise known as "it sounded like a good idea at the time..."

Do rock bands pretend to be regular people? Is Motley Crue at home playing DMV for Xbox 360?

I used to be an "emo cutter" kid. It was less about hurting myself than going to Bright Eyes concerts and stabbing floppy-haired whiners.

Porn is Terrible, Part I

Xavier Holland — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 22:29:18 -0500

It's bait.

We're being baited, it has to be a grab for pageviews, that ticking little scroll of internet legitimacy. In a way, it kind sucks that readership is the number one commodity of the internet, because it leads to people posting blatantly stupid things like this in hopes of getting attention.

I could have just left a comment on the post, I suppose, but this is so torrentially wrong AND self-satisfied that it deserves its own post. Congratulations, "Femonade" you've joined the big time.

Sorry, Men and Fun-Fems: All Porn is Rape, All the Time (Or, If You are Watching Porn, You are Watching Rape)

This is the title. All Porn is rape. Is the title. That is the central thesis of this post.

Not "all mainstream big-studio porn" is rape. Not, "all male-female porn" is rape. Not, "those videos that Paul Frank asked me never to ever bring up on my blog" are rape.

All porn.

Absolutes are fun, aren't they? Under her definition, if I film myself jerking off, yelling "THIS IS WHAT I WANT FOR MY LIFE", upload to xtube and link it on my facebook for everybody to see (again), I'm a rapist. Or a rape victim.

Now, normally, of course, that would be a ridiculous pro-porn argument. I'd be creating a straw-man: nideos of me masturbating loudly account for less than 5% of all internet pornography. But by couching her argument in ridiculous shrieking absolutes, the blogger essentially invites anyone with a modicum of imagination to make her point look incredibly stupid.

And I don't know much about debate, but I know that's generally frowned upon.

Nonetheless. I'll be charitable, and go past the headline. Lets see what the post actually consists of. It's somewhat long, so I've excerpted. I don't think I'm taking anything out of context. The lack of capitalizations are all [sic].

not unimportantly, i was afraid of a radical feminist analysis, and what that would mean for me, should i decide i was anti-porn, as a young female, a sister and daughter (of white men), as a heterosexual, and most recently, as a professional in a male-dominated field. instinctively and intellectually i knew that coming down on the side of anti-porn would cause a problem for me.

I quote this not because I think any of it is wrong, per se, but rather to give a bit of background. I have no problem with anybody being anti-porn -- I think a lot of the realities when it comes to filming and distributing mass-marked male-centric porn are terrible. I also realize that because porn is largely marketed towards straight men, it can be a difficult thing to criticize without fear of being labeled. So, not a terrible lede! Lets keep going.

i am not a fucking idiot, afterall.

And the surprising streak of non-wrongness is snapped.

i wrongly believed that my ambivalent feelings were somehow neutral, and unaffected by the culture i lived in-a culture that fully embraces not just porn but rape, too.

That this is slipped in unassumingly is astounding. I'll admit to not being a daily reader, but to casually imply that your culture embraces rape without at least a cursory attempt at proof, and then to use that as a foundation for an argument is mind-boggling. I don't want to get bogged down in semantical arguments here, because it's not really the thrust of the piece, but seemingly counterfactual.

we literally cannot trust our own feelings on this issue, although our feelings are not completely irrelevant.

I like the "literally" thrown in there for emphasis. Pro-tip: Literally doesn't mean "surprisingly." I could be wrong though: there could be a huge difference between "literally trusting feelings" and "figuratively trusting feelings." I'm also a huge fan of the not-so-subtle condescension: you make think you know how you feel about this issue, but you were too busy trusting your feelings to come to the truth like I have.

rape-culture

Neither here nor there, but "rape culture" is a hazily-defined and nebulous term that can so loosely by applied to such a wide variety of things that using it earnestly is utterly meaningless.

firstly, and problematically, in porn, consent is a non-issue. if its considered at all, its presumed. for the porn-consumer, the question of consent never even comes up: a woman's very presence on film acts as her consent as far as hes concerned.

Her already stupid argument takes a turn for the shifty here. It's unclear whether the onus of rape lies on the consumer, the producer, the actor or all of the above.

If it's the consumer, they have every reason to believe that consent is implied. It's the basis of producing anything, from staging Shakespeare to Gang Bangers III. Are consumers supposed to question whether grand theft auto, assault and tresspassing have been committed every time they watch an action movie? There are legimate concerns about the well-being of pornographic actresses (and actors!), but it sounds here like she barely has a conception of object permanence.

Alright, I know you have short attention spans here, so I'll continue with this tomorrow. And actually get into the good (and by that I mean truly terrible) portion of the post.

Halloween Headaches 2.51

Casey Freeman — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 17:05:40 -0500

Halloween Drunk Comment

"Her friends should tell her to have some decency." -- James

Another Halloween has come and gone. Luckily, I survived. But here's my second-day review of Halloween.

Best Example Of Not Taking Your Own Advice Part 2

Again, I dressed up like a lesser-known character. This time, Montgomery "Scotty" Scott from the Starship Enterprise. I fielded a lot of the same questions, "Where are your ears Spock?" Or "Make out with any green chicks today Captain Kirk?" Alas, this country is full of fucking illiterate heathens. But I did get an excuse to talk in a crappy Scottish accent again (I pretended to be Braveheart a few years ago). I also shaved my face completely for the first time in nearly eight years.

Least Humorous Nerds

I saw a Captain Kirk and Spock, but they didn't even register my existence. Granted, Scotty is just the chief engineer and they're the captain and the second-in-command science officer, but still, at least salute back you fucking dickheads.

My Favorite Costume Couples

I saw one couple each wearing giant pieces of bread on their backs, and the boy was dressed in all brown and the girl was all red. Then they kissed to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich - it's so cute I barfed.

I also saw a Cruella De Vil with two skanky dalmatian chicks on leashes. That was pretty hot.

Dumbest Costume Accessory

Rollerskates. Now, I'm a RollgerGirl and Boogie Nights fan, but I've seen way too many girls bust their faces or their asses trying to drink and rollerskate. This year, on top of three RollerGirls I saw a Terry (the gay Nick Swardson character from Reno 911!) and he nearly crushed crowds of people. Sure, it's a great costume, but you put way too many people at risk. Of course, watching people fall over is funny though.

Dumb But No Dumber?

Seriously, I saw a Lloyd Christmas but no Harry Dunn? What, you couldn't find the baby blue tuxedo and another friend? They could have been great together.

Creepiest Maybe Accidental Costume Prop (Tied)

Was Little Miss Muffet really pregnant? Or did some spider cum down inside her? If so, why the hell was she out at a bar?

Or...

Some dirty pirate hooker painted an amazing goose egg on her head. Oops. That wasn't fake, somebody accidentally headbutted her. Looked creepy as hell though. And painful.

Costume I Wish I Would Have Done

I really just didn't give a shit this year. I didn't try. I spent twenty bucks and borrowed another from my brother. Sorry.

Most Seen Costume

I saw a lot of Lady Gaga's, Cruella De Vils and a few Wolverines. There were a ton of Lt. Dangles from Reno 911! Surprisingly, I only saw one Joker, which I thought would be all over the place. And only one Obama. Come on people! Did political satire die?

Best Costume

The second night was a tough one, because I was much more critical. I saw a lot of great stuff though. Two cops at our bar wore some pretty cool mustaches. Humpty Hump made an appearance. There were guys from Tool Academy. I saw a cowboy riding a gorilla (complete with stilts).

But my favorite of the night was a spot on Billy Mays - the OxyClean guy. He even yelled a lot. That's pretty awesome.

Costumes I Will Do Next Year If I Remember (but won't becasue I never remember to read my own old stuff)

Hulk Hogan, Pee Wee Herman or Peter Pan.

Until next costume season, enjoy the rest of the year people. Remember to play dress up as much as possible to prepare for Halloween 2010!

What were your favorite and least favorite costumes of the year?

Why Doesn't Jadakiss Open a Checking Account?

Xavier Holland — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 20:31:54 -0500

As you may or may not know, I've been known to occasionally post some lyrics on this here blog. I had an idea for some, and was just listening to a few songs to orient myself in a proper cadence. Unsuprisingly, lyrics are easier to write if you have an idea of what they should sound like.

So I'm bopping along to the JoBros, Lady Gags, the usual, when I get to Jadakiss. I'm listening to his early aughts hit, "Why", when I get to the lyric that always gets me. Jada asks some prescient and hard-hitting questions beforehand: Why they never get it poppin' but they party to death? Why his diesel have fiends in the spot on the floor for days? Why did Kobe have to hit that raw? He was truly on a question-asking tear, when he gets to one that he answers himself:

"You know why they made the new 20's? Because I got all the old ones. That's why."

Far be it from me to criticize, but his question-answering leaves much to be desired.

First of all, I have an old 20. If your lyric can be easily disproved by a peek into the listener's wallet, you might have slightly overstated your wealth.

But it was hyperbole, you say. I say, fine. But that still doesn't excuse him, because it reflects a fundamental misunderstanding about the way our financial systems work. An egregious one.

If I can parse the lyric, Jadakiss apparently believes that in the event that one single person held every single bill of a particular denomination, the government wouldn't investigate this peculiar occurence, but would just begin to produce more. Furthermore, one has to wonder why, a man of such immense wealth wouldn't look into using stocks, or a bank, or even bigger bills. It seems foolhardy to keep all of your money in cash, especially when doing so can have deleterious effects on the economy it relies on.

Such deleterious effects, one might argue, that it would negatively impact the value of the bills. This isn't even taking into account the missed opportunity cost of keeping his money liquid and not investing so much as a single 20.

I've got a new lyric for you to Jadakiss:

"Why the fuck you got so many twenties/I can only surmise you didn't take Macro in college"

It doesn't rhyme, but I'm pretty sure it's more true than his.

Anyway, this was just a quick one while I write the lyrics. Those should be done tonight or tomorrow or whenver I'm not too lazy.

My Alter Ego: The Black Wolf

Scott L. Goodyer — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 18:31:44 -0400

Dear Diary,

His name is the Black Wolf...

You only call him that when he puts on his black vest and sexy shades.

Walking down the street behind his shades, he undresses you. With the shades off, he's too shy to make eye contact.

Entering into the forest, he disappears from sight.

It's in the forest, alone for hours, that he practices his dance moves.

He moves hard and fast. He starts to slow down but that's when he always spots the wolf in the distance...he looks away and dances harder!

Taking a break, he climbs a tree and sits up there for an hour...thinking about life. The break ends with a howl out loud. If the Black Wolf is alone in the forest and howls out loud...does anybody hear it? Or was it all in his mind?

The school dance is next week.

From a dark corner, the Black Wolf always watched the dance alone...but this time around, he will slowly step out into the moonlight...

and people will hear his howl.

What's With the Beard?

Casey Freeman — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 05:26:50 -0500

(I decided to extend PIC Hair Week. I experienced some computer problems, so my other Hair Week posts were left to sit.) (My computer problems were the fact that I started playing computer games again.)

Growing up, almost everybody I admired wore a beard. My father, Hulk Hogan, Abe Lincoln, Santa Claus, Jesus, the lead singer from Anthrax and Paul Bunyan. Naturally, when I could, I wanted to grow a beard. But I attended Catholic high school, so facial hair wasn't allowed, and truth be told, I didn't have much back then.

Then I graduated and started school at South Dakota State University. To my surprise, they pretty much let you do whatever you wanted. I wore blue jeans (also not allowed at my high school) and sometimes t-shirts with last night's barf on them. I figured out that shaving your whole face can be a complete waste of time (and later figured out most women can't stand beards, but whatever, I kept doing it).

For since my freshman year of university, I've kept a beard whether it's just a goatee, just the chin, full Grizzly Adams, the Abe Lincoln, chops, soup saver, chinstrap, trace-your-face and on. Only for swim meets did I ever completely shave.

But for one of my Halloween celebrations I decided to be Scotty from Star Trek. I originally wanted to be Evil Spock, but like and idiot I didn't buy my costume soon enough. But I easily perfected a crappy Scottish accent, but I still needed to shave. Now, Scotty sports a Magnum P.I. mustache in the later years, but I didn't want to be old Scotty. I wanted to be the nubile, young alien-outdrinking Scotty.

So I did some soul searching. I came up with, "I don't really give a crap about costume authenticity." I decided to keep the old hirsute.

Then I ate lunch with my mom and again she said, "You'd look so much better if you shaved." I told her maybe someday. "I bet you couldn't go an entire week of shaving," she said.

"Oh, I bet I could go a month."

And like that, I gambled with my mom that I could handle being beard-less for the entire month of November. I haven't been cleanly shaved consistently since those high school days. So this is going to be an adventure. My chin hasn't seen the light of day since my last month of New York University.

So we'll see what happens. Maybe the ladies will flock to me (even more than now) when my face is baby-butt smooth. Or maybe my skin will break out in hives when it's exposed to the elements.

All in all, don't make bets with your mom. She'll outsmart you every time.

Locks of Thinly Veiled Disdain

Xavier Holland — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 22:51:48 -0500

I was on the fence about writing about this, but then I saw KC's post about his hair and figured why not? I don't think the woman in question reads PIC, and if she does, well, I'll deal with it.

Not too long ago, I was leaving work for the day. A woman came out of the same office I did—she was presumably one of our clients—and headed for the elevator. Being a gentleman (in the streets of course—I'm a bonafide freak in the sheets), I let her get into the elevator first. The following conversation ensued. (Actual conversation in regular typeface. My thoughts in italics.)

Woman: Aw! How polite are you!?

X: A little, sometimes, I guess.

Woman: Those are some mighty long dreadlocks you have.

I'm clearly dealing with an extremely observant woman here. Her incredulous tone puts her only a couple notches above children who tug their mothers' sleeves and ask "why that man has a face made of chocolate."

X: Thanks, I grow them myself.

This, of course, isn't true. I pay a frail Indonesian child 3 dollars a month to grow them for me. I then glue them to my head using Elmer's finest and beeswax.

Woman: You should cut them shorter.

Was her third sentence to a complete stranger hair criticism?

X: You know, I've spent all this time growing them out, it's hard to let them go so easily.

Woman: Oh, I know. But there's a difference between being hip and looking like you should sell purses.

I was actually flabbergasted at this point. A litany of biting remarks scrolled through my head but I decided just to keep my tongue; I figured no good could come of what I actually wanted to say.

X: You know, I've actually never considered going into the purse-selling business.

Snatching isn't the same as selling, now is it?

Woman: Oh I know, you're obviously a very hip guy (gestures to my outfit, which is my usual psuedo-hipster nonsense). Just the hair is too long!

This elevator ride is taking forever. This woman clearly wants to say, "you almost look like a non-scary black guy, but the hair is making you look scary! You should look more like a friendly black person, like Wayne Brady or..."

Woman: Whoopi Goldberg cut her hair shorter, even!

X: You know, I actually don't follow Whoopi that closely for my own personal aesthetic. Not that she's not fabulous, I just don't know if her look is *quite* right for me.

(We've gotten off the elevator, but she's continuing to talk.)

Woman: Oh, but she's so nice! I met her on 3 separate occasions. Once, a long time ago. She was so nice to me!

Whoopi Goldberg is nice. She cut her hair. Therefore, I should cut mine. Thank god this woman never came across Ghandi's wiki entry, otherwise she might have tried to convince me to shave it all off.

Me: She sounds nice.

At this point, I'm not even trying anymore.

Woman: Your mother has never asked you to cut it?

Me: Nope. Never.

I decline to tell her that both of my parents have locks longer than mine, and neither happens to sell purses. I don't want to melt what few remaining brain cells she was left.

Woman: Oh, what do I know. I'm just a 39-year-old Jewish woman.

Me: Oh. Hey, I have to go that way (please don't let it be the same direction), but it was fantastic talking to you. Have a good night!

One of us should.

There aren't any recent pictures of me with short hair (obviously), but here's a picture of my purse-selling locks:

You, Too, Can Run the Wildcat Offense!

Paul Frank — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 18:07:00 -0500

Life got you down? Is your parole officer really annoying? Do your kids refuse to look at you or acknowledge your prescence?

I used to be just like you: fat, ugly, stupid, fingers stained orange from Cheetos you ate a day ago. But then I saw something one day on tv. I was at the lowest point in my life: I had just been laid off by the porn company I worked for and my girlfriend has just dumped me because she found out I was a male porn actor who starred in upwards of 500 adult films a year. I was sitting in front of my tv, crying and sneezing. On it was a football team, running the wildcat offense. I thought if they can do it with that much success, then I can too!

And I never looked back. I started running the wildcat offense at work, in bed with my wife, and brushing my teeth. Now here I am standing before you on tv, with designer contacts that cost me 5,000 dollars and a half-naked woman standing next to me who would never even look at me if we were both a party. We won't even talk after this shoot, probably.

You too can run the wildcat offense! You too can turn your life around.

It is guaranteed to bring you success and only takes several months of preparation. If you call right now, I'll throw in 3 extra plays!

Imagine how everyone will look at you when they see you running the wildcat offense in church, during a haircut, or while taking your Saturn off a cliff.

Did you know your friends laugh at you behind your back? Did you know that? No? Your family too.

But I'll tell you the one thing everyone, no matter who they are, respects: the wildcat offense. There are whole religions in the Middle East that pray to the wildcat offense as their one true god and giver of life and peace.

If you call the number on the bottom of your screen, the top of your screen, and flashing on the right there right now, I will send you an extra DVD titled "The Key to World Peace And Eternal Happiness And Youth Forever" starring the Wildcat Offense.

For just three payments of your dog, your sex life, and your right pinky toe, the Wildcat Offense will be yours!

Maine? Man!

Gavin Pitt — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 03:56:48 -0500

Bonjour, Best-Men!

Well, this week finds the Religious Rong winning another battle against love, compassion and fairness (honestly, American fundamentalist Christians seem so diametrically opposed to everything that nice Jewish boy Jesus Christ stood for they might as well just cut out the middle man and call themselves Satanists) by joining California's battle-cry of "Constitution, Schmonstitution!" and outlawing Gay Marriage in that state.

Bite my ah-yuhss, Chowdah-heads! I hope something fittingly monstrous from Maine-resident Stephen King's imagination is the reward for your bigotry.

"...I'VE GOT BALLOONS AND COTTON CANDY AND CIVIL PARTNERSHIPS..."

-Honestly, what exactly is the Wingnuts' major problem with Gay Marriage? We design your dresses, do your hair and makeup and dance in g-strings at your Hen's Nights, but we want one little ring on our finger and all of a sudden we're Gollum at Mount Doom?! A lot of fundawhackos say that Gay Marriage is forbidden by the Bible, but I don't recall seeing anything in there about "Thou shalt not get hitched to that comely gardener who looks like Justin Timberlake with a better ass if you are also packing a sausage lunch"; Jesus himself was single and unmarried, living with his parents in his thirties and often preached about being a "fisher of men"—I'm sure he would have been thrilled if Saint Peter had offered to make an even-more-honest man out of him.

"WELL SHIT.... I GUESS WE'RE HONEYMOONING IN SWEDEN"

But all the matriphonial mayhem the Religious Rong have been throwing around lately like rice at a (Straight) wedding has gotten me thinking about Gay Marriage, and the trials and tribulations that I'll have to mull over if Casey or Andrei ever pop the question to me:

PROS AND CONS OF STRAIGHT VERSUS GAY MARRIAGE :

STRAIGHT: Throwing rice outside church attracts/ hurts stomachs of local birds

GAY : Throwing rice outside church attracts Rice Queen looking for Thai Rent Boy.

STRAIGHT: Disgruntled ex posts sex-tape of groom on YouTube.

GAY: Disgruntled ex posts sex-tape of groom as critically-acclaimed series on HBO

STRAIGHT: Roses strewn in bride's path cause slipping hazard.

GAY: Sparkly rainbow glitter thrown in bride's path blinds mothers-in-law.

STRAIGHT: Bride/groom's baby sister as ring-bearer; gets nervous, cries.

GAY: Bride/Groom's white-tiger as ring-bearer; gets nervous, eats vicar.

STRAIGHT: Sailor groom can have captain perform ceremony at sea.

GAY: Sailor groom can have ceremony performed by cop, indian chief, leatherboy, construction worker.

STRAIGHT: Priest may find fault with couple, halt ceremony.

GAY: Priest may run off with groom just before ceremony

STRAIGHT: Best man loses ring

GAY: Best man loses ring inside groom's brother.

STRAIGHT: Bride/Groom's crazy ex may hold up sign: "I've always loved you, please take me back"

GAY: Crazy Reverend Fred Phelps may hold up sign: "God hates Fags Burn in Hell"

STRAIGHT: Groom's dad gets drunk before speech, embarrasses groom with tales of own first few dates with groom's mother.

GAY: Groom's dad gets drunk before speech, embarrasses groom with tales of how he only married groom's mother after being caught rimming star quarterback in locker room.

STRAIGHT: Empty tin cans tied to back of Limousine make annoying sound.

GAY: Full Amyl Nitrite poppers tied to back of Toyota Prius ignite on road, blow up passing taxicab.

STRAIGHT: Celebrity Marriage Celebrant Sharon Osbourne brings family along; Ozzy pees in punchbowl

GAY: Celebrity Marriage Celebrant Britney Spears forgets underwear; Justin Timberlake has threeway with groomsmen.

STRAIGHT: Bridesmaids fight over colour and style of dresses.

GAY: Drag bridesmaids fight over which one of them gets to be Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda.

STRAIGHT: Should Bride wear White?

GAY: Should butt-plug be glow-in-the-dark?

STRAIGHT: "Wedding March" or "Here Comes the Bride"?

GAY: ABBA's "I Do I Do I Do I Do I Do" or Meryl Streep's version?

GAY: Groom worries Best Man will tell everyone they fucked at Bachelor Party.

STRAIGHT: Groom *also* worries Best Man will tell everyone they fucked at Bachelor Party.

Mayans Predict "2012" Movie Will Suck

Casey Freeman — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 14:00:33 -0500

The Mayans say their people predict that 2012 (in theaters this weekend) will suck. The Mayan calendar discussed many of the globe's biggest events millennia before they happened, and is toted as one of the best examples of foresight and psychic abilities along with Nostradamus. The current chief of the Mayans says his people's calendar doesn't usually discuss movies, but in this case there's an exception.

(Chief High Priest Lloyd Squanto Dobler)

"This movie is just going to suck," says Chief High Priest Lloyd "Squanto" Dobler. "I mean, this is just another piece of Hollywood crap filled with a bunch of top-of-the-line special effects and great acting talent trying to cash in on a current trend, but you can just tell from the previews that this is going to suck."

(In the top middle, the blue bird with the red mouth is the part of the Mayan Calendar that predicts 2012 will suck)

The 2012 film focuses on a few survivors of the global disasters that destroy the world on December 21, 2012 - a phenomena which is predicted by the Mayan Calendar, as well as many other different psychics and well known fortune tellers. The movie features top Hollywood talent such as John Cusack, Oliver Platt, Woody Harrelson and Amanda Peet. The CGI effects are toted as some of the best ever.

"I still don't care," says Squanto Dobler. "I don't have a problem with disaster movies. I mean, who didn't think Armageddon was awesome? Bruce Willis, Ben Affleck AND Aerosmith? That's a brilliant combination that's never been topped. But 2012? Give me a break. I'm a huge John Cusack fan. If you don't like High Fidelity, you're not my friend. But for crying out loud, you don't need an ancient people telling you a cruddy movie about the world blowing up, then the humans get rescued by aliens is going to gargle mammoth balls."

Squanto Dobler continued. "Oh crap. Did I ruin the movie for you? You didn't know that the aliens rescued the humans? Well, I just saved you two hours and ten bucks. I did you a favor."

However, if moviegoers are looking for a good flick, the Mayan Chief High Priest does have an upcoming suggestion.

"My forefathers predicted that Legion, another movie about the end of the world, but instead of natural disasters, it's about angels. I swear, you must have seen that preview? Right? You know, it's a bunch of monsters and angels with machine guns attacking these yokels in some diner. Anyway, maybe it's just that the Mayan people are destined to be attracted to flicks about angels and bazookas and especially Dennis Quaid."

Legion comes out in theaters January 22, 2010 with another star studded cast.

"Well actually, our calendar doesn't predict that Legion will be a good movie. It just says it will be highly entertaining and totally corny - like Road House," Squanto Dobler says. "But I suppose you want to know what will happen in the real 2012. Yep, we're all going to die, but some of the greatest movies ever will come out in the next few years. So we've got that going for us."

My Organs and I Drive to Denver

Casey Freeman — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 23:30:48 -0500

(Scene: KC drives in his complete chick magnet Ford Focus on the highway during rush hour Denver traffic.)

BRAIN: Oh my God this is fucking awful! I'm fucking freaking out man. Look at all these cars and how fast they're going! Give me a fucking Valium.

JUNK: Why is this drive so boring? Can't we just get a job closer to home?

KC: No, because there aren't any jobs in Boulder. Mostly because we don't want to run into—

MOUTH: "Nice fucking turn signal you fucking shiteating fucktard!" Hands, give the signal!

HANDS: How do you like that middle finger? You big dummy. That'll teach you to cut people off.

JUNK: Icy Hot always feels so good, then sooooooooooooo bad. Why is that?
BRAIN: Maybe because it's not designed for wieners.BRAIN: Seriously guys, we're going to get in an accident. Lets just take the bus, that way we'll never have to drive again. I'm so scared.

JUNK: We're never going to meet a chick on the bus.

BRAIN: And you expect to meet a chick while you're driving a fucking Ford Focus.

JUNK: You never know. Maybe there's some porn site like Bang Bus, but it's called Monster Trucker Fuckers. And these chicks with giant cans drive around in Bigfoot or Grave Digger looking for hot fucking dudes like us to fuck on TV.

BRAIN: That is by far the dumbest thing you've ever thought.

NOSE: Plus, the bus smells like cheap vodka, sweaty failure, and pee.

JUNK: Eyes, start scanning for monster trucks driven by hot sluts.

EYES: Giving it my full attention.

KC: Holy shit, can you please fucking watch the road. With Brain freaking out like this and only having four cylinders of engine power, I need you all to fucking listen and behave.

EYES: Hey look, there's that big yellow Jenga thing. Are we ever going to figure what that is?

HANDS: I'll text everybody I know in Colorado. Just a second.

KC: Seriously! Texting while driving in bumper to bumper 80 miles an hour Denver traffic??!? What are you thinking?

BRAIN: For Christ's sake. I'm going to melt down if you don't do something to help me.

HANDS: Fine, I'll just turn on the radio.

EARS: AAAAAAHHHH!!!! Fucking Phil Collins! Turn it off! Turn it off! I'm losing my will to live.

(Hands changes the station)

JUNK: Awesome, NPR. Well, I can feel myself wither.

BRAIN: Look, honestly, I need this. If you want to try jerking off with Icy Hot again, I'll let you.

JUNK: Icy Hot always feels so good, then sooooooooooooo bad. Why is that?

BRAIN: Maybe because it's not designed for wieners.

JUNK: Why haven't they made a porn called "The Pleasure Principal"? It'd be about this school full of nympho whores run by this really strict principal named, um, me. We should probably copyright this and make a million dollars so we could quit driving to Denver.

BRAIN: Wouldn't "The Pleasure Principal" be about a psychologist? You know, because of the theory by Sigmund Freud?

JUNK: Holy shit you're so fucking annoying. The movie is about a principal in a school. Duh. Look at the title.

BRAIN: Well, actually the original title is "Pleasure Principle."

(Traffic looks like it's stopping again)

KC: Feet, hit the fucking brakes! Now!

FEET: Oh fuck, which pedal was it again?

BRAIN: The middle one you fool!

FEET: That's right. I always forget that.

(Feet stomp the brakes—the car miraculously doesn't hit the car in front of it)

KC: What the fuck was that all about? Seriously now, gang. Pay attention!

BRAIN: I don't know if I can take much more of that. I need to relax.

JUNK: I know how we can relax.

BRAIN: How?

JUNK: RJO.

BRAIN: And what the hell is that?

JUNK: Road Jerk Off.

BRAIN: And how the hell could rubbing one out help me right now?

JUNK: Well, you know after we beat one down, everybody feels better.

EYES: But playing with ourself without porn? That's like caveman shit.

JUNK: We used to do this all the time. It will be like middle school again, but we're driving not looking at the same drawing of Rogue on the Jim Lee X-Men poster. And then maybe that monster truck chick will see us. Or Brain can imagine us getting road head.

BRAIN: Road head is scary. It's so hard paying attention to the head and the road.

JUNK: But get this, we're getting road head while the chick drives. So we just sit in the passenger seat.

BRAIN: You know, that is pretty awesome sounding.

KC: I'm not fucking around here. We HAVE to pay attention to the road. Look, that guy's got a flat tire and that lady is just looking at a piece of roadkill. We need to watch the highway because nobody else does.

JUNK: Look how strung you are dude. If we just RJO, we'll be chill. Plus, you don't want all the folks at your new gig to think you're a tightass. Think of how a quick RJO will loosen us up. This commute sucks and makes us cranky. Maybe we'll be less pissy around the hot chick at work after doing a few one-handed pull-ups.

KC: He does have a point. We're all on edge because of this fucking drive. Hands, do your work.

(Scene: Five minutes later—still in the car.)

JUNK: Now that was fucking awesome. Too bad the windshield washers are connected to the car, I could really use a squeegee.

BRAIN: You know, I feel better too.

EYES: Yup, it looks like we're in a ditch.

KC: This was exactly what I was talking about.

BRAIN: Just chillax man.

KC: I just crashed my car!

BRAIN: It was a piece of shit anyway.

EYES: Um, it looks like a cop is coming to talk to us.

BRAIN: Oh fuck.

KC: Please Mouth, don't say anything stupid.

MOUTH (to cop): "Good day officer. You're probably wondering why my pants are off, I'm wiping my stomach with an American flag tie, and I'm listening to Hannah Montana's Greatest Hits...."

Fuck You, Bill Simmons

Xavier Holland — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 16:03:08 -0500

I apologize for the title. I was going to be a little more honest about how I felt, but, "Fuck You, Bill Simmons and our Masturbatory, Overrated Screeds about How Much Smarter You are than Everyone Else" didn't fit in the little title box as neatly as I would have liked. C'est la vie.

Now I don't have the literary chops of Ken Tremendous. I barely have the literary chops of Mose Schrute. But some things are so infuriating that you have to rip them apart. And today's submission comes from Bill "Lil' Willy" Simmons and is about his beloved Patriots, who, if you don't know, play a sport known to Americans as "football", to foreigners as "American football" and to Paul Frank as "pornography."

Let's go.

"After my beloved Patriots threw away Sunday's Colts game with one unnecessarily dangerous decision, my educated opinion was this: "That's the second dumbest thing I have ever seen any Boston team do."

That's your educated opinion? I think the thing that annoys me most about this article isn't Simmons' whining — it's his trademark! — it's that rather than just admit he's sad his team lost, he makes it about how smart he is. Keep in mind that Simmons isn't a football player. He's not a football coach. Hell, he's not even a football analyst. He's just a guy who likes sports and who treats MTV reality shows like a significant other.

Huh? Kevin Faulk hauled in a pass on the 30.3-yard line. It was spotted at the 29.

First of all, the pass was spotted at the 28. Secondly, it's hilarious that he's such a biased homer (excuse me, educated football connosieur) that even when he's whining about how smart he is, he has to make a point of how his team got screwed over. Bill's like that guy who whines all night about how a girl won't

These are the things that happen when you double on a 12 against a six because you believe — fervently — that a slew of non-face cards are coming.

In case you didn't realize, Bill is a blackjack expert. He deftly plays the odds at every conceivable juncture and knows that believing in "luck" or "magic" can be fun at the card table, but is ultimately a recipe for losing money. I mean, it's clear from his own words, from a different column (he talks about blackjack a lot):

For instance, this year we started comparing blackjack dealers to baseball pitchers. Have you ever noticed how the pit boss will always send over his most unfriendly, non-American dealer whenever the entire table is winning? It's uncanny. Anyway, within a few hours on Friday, we started calling this dealer the "closer"; by Sunday, it had evolved to the point that we would win a few hands in a row and start making jokes of the "Uh-oh, the pit boss just started warming up Mariano Rivera in the Asian Gaming Room" variety.

It's statistical science: your gut premonition has no effect on the cards. The only things that have an effect on the cards are whether your dealer is smiling and American.

Imagine that — a white guy from Boston afraid to engage with a non-American.

See, I never expected that fourth-and-2 call to turn into a lively sports debate. And I certainly never expected statistics to back up what seemed to be an unforgivable decision.

How could I, Bill Simmons, possibly be wrong? I'm so brilliant! What could these numbers do that I possibly couldn't while watching the game from my Man Cave and slurping on a Michelob Ultra?

Combine all these variables and what do we have? According to a formula called "Expected Win Probability When Going For It," Pattani believed that the Patriots had an 80.5 chance of winning the game. By punting, they had a 79.0 chance of winning. So my argument (made on Monday's podcast) that Bill Belichick should have "played the percentages and punted" was technically wrong. Barely. Belichick did play the percentages if you took those percentages at face value.

I like how blatant this is. I know I said "play the percentages" and "try to win", but really what I meant is "agree with me." Clearly, the percentages are what's wrong. Can't you just imagine Bill arguing with his professors at Holy Cross?

Sure, I got a 79 on this test, which is in the C range. I mean, if you take my grade at FACE VALUE. But instead, you should be playing the real percentages. It's like blackjack, and that scene in Karate Kid.

He played the percentages! It wasn't as crazy as it looked! By this logic, Belichick also should have held a loaded pistol to his head on the sideline, spun the chamber and tried to shoot himself like Chris Walken in "The Deer Hunter." If those 1-in-6 odds came through and he succeeded, we could have said, "Hey, he played the percentages: 83.6666 percent of the time, you don't die in that situation! You can't blame him for what happened!"

First of all, you YOURSELF said he should have played the percentages. What a fucking annoying tactic; screaming, "LOOK AT THE NUMBERS!" until somebody does and proves you wrong.

Secondly, the award for "least appropriate analogy" goes to...well, it looks like it went to a Karen Holmes in Deluth who said during an important work meeting that her schedule was wider open than the dude's asshole she was pounding with a strap-on last night."

Not going to lie, I was kind of hoping it would be Simmons, so I'm gonna criticize it anyway.

First of all, losing a football game isn't dying. Second of all, you've failed to specify what Belicheck would be gaining from spinning the wheel. Finally, football games have binary outcomes; either you win or you lose. It's not like Belicheck could do NEITHER. A more appropriate analogy (and a telling one) would be: You have the choice of playing Russian Roulette or picking a number from between 1 and 5 and having me shoot you in the face if you guess correctly. Losing in either case is terrible and unlikely, but you want to MAXIMIZE YOUR CHANCES OF WINNING. Which is the whole point of a football coach.

But to argue, insinuate or even blink that Tim Thomas is underrated — by any metric — cannot be allowed.

Bill then goes on to argue a.) that Tim Thomas is useless and that b.) any system that calls him underrated is crazy. Not only does he fail to establish a baseline for what Tim's rating is, he supports the exact point he's trying to refute. It's like being on trial for public indecency, being on the stand and yelling, "what did I do? Show strangers this???" and flopping your penis out. Not that I would know.

The "Belichick made the right move" argument was nearly as dense. In the biggest game of the regular season, when a football coach tries something that — and this is coming from someone who watches 12 hours of football every Sunday dating back to elementary school — I cannot remember another team doing on the road in the last three minutes of a close game, that's not "gutsy." It's not a "gamble." It's not "believing we can get that two yards." It's not "revolutionary." It's not "statistically smart." It's reckless.

Whether other coaches have done it has no bearing on whether it's the right thing to do. If Bill had his way, there wouldn't be forward passes or black players in baseball. The second one isn't really about coaching desicions, I guess, Bill just hates black people. Since elementary school.

I like that every single thing Bill says it's "not" is exactly what it is. If trying to help your team win despite convential wisdom and a very easy to defend alternative isn't a "gamble" Bill doesn't know very much about gambling.

Wait, that CAN'T be true.

After all, this was essentially a two-point pass play. The Patriots went five wide, stuck Tom Brady in the shotgun, shortened the field and tried to find a quick-hit mismatch. Sure sounds like a two-point play.

In a 2 point pass play, the defense has to defend 12 yards of field. In this case, they had to defend 80.

Sure sounds like you have no fucking idea what you're talking about.

by settling for a quick bam-bam pass, they also increased their own odds for a deflection, drop or bad spot. Statistically, it was a dumb choice. Their biggest assets on a fourth-and-2 were the field, the threat of Randy Moss going deep, the threat of a draw or a delayed screen, and the threat of a run. They ignored all four things. You cannot tell me the odds for success here were 55.7 percent for that specific formation at that specific moment in time. You cannot. Just stop.

Please, Willy, get your whining straight. Are you complaining about the decision to go for it or the play that they ran? Where are your numbers coming from? Have you noticed that everybody defending Belicheck has offered statistical proof, and that your argument, is, essentially, "nah, nah, I'm right?"

AND you think the Patriots got in and were victimized by a bad spot. So clearly in your mind the play worked as it should have. So which is it: did Bill make the wrong choice in going for it or in choosing a play? Or is it the refs fault?

OR IS EVERYTHING AGAINST YOU??

I know it's fun to think stats can settle everything, but they can't, and they don't.

Very few people think that stats can settle everything, and even fewer would describe that process as "fun". In this case, people are simply saying that Belicheck's decision was defensible, at least, and not "dumb."

And not the "second dumbest decision in Boston sports history." Do you realize how histroinic that sounds when the numbers you thought would back you up actually vindicate the decision?

Put it this way: The Colts weren't exactly on fire. Admittedly, I am terrified of Manning and have written as much. But Indy had already started and completed two long touchdown drives in the fourth quarter against a good defense.

This is basically what's he's saying:

Put it this way. The Colts offense wasn't playing well. Manning is a very good quarterback. The Colts offense was been playing well.

I asked Peter Newmann to research the number of times a team started and completed three touchdown drives in the fourth quarter to erase a double-digit deficit and win an NFL game since 2005. Here's how the list looked before that fourth-and-2 call.

2005: 1
2006: 2
2007: 0
2008: 1
2009: 0

In 78 weeks of football dating back to 2005, it happened a whopping four times. Four! If you're playing the statistics card, why not play that one? By punting, the Patriots would have been asking Peyton Manning to pull off something THAT DOESN'T HAPPEN EVEN ONCE EVERY EFFING SEASON. You're damned right I just went all caps. Hold on, I have to repeatedly bang my head against my desk again.

I wonder if Simmons is actually this stupid or if he's pandering to his readers. Just in case he actually doesn't understand how statistics work allow me to enlighten him:

The fact that the Colts had been down double-digits is only slightly material, and even then in an unquantifiable sense. You can't prove that the Colts were LESS LIKELY to score because they'd already done it TWICE BEFORE (I had to go all caps). Furthermore, the research you admit to having someone else do (it's not like this is your job!) is immaterial; the Colts aren't a team trying to score 3 times down double-digits. They're a team that's already scored twice that needs another touchdown. Run THOSE numbers, and let me know what you get.

Or don't, because it's a frighteningly small sample size that means NOTHING.

Isn't the impact much deeper than that of simply losing because Peyton Manning is great and he drove 70 yards to beat them? In the playoffs, when it's life or death, maybe that risk is more defensible.

This would normally just be stupid, but it's borderline crazy in light of his earlier analogy.

Look, this isn't life or death. It's just Russian Roulette.

After the kick return and TV timeout, had Belichick told his team, "..."

In case you didn't know, Bill Simmons was on the sidelines. He knows exactly what Belicheck said.Just don't tell me this Sunday night didn't mean ... something. In the aforementioned Game 6, I remember watching those Yankees fans celebrating after the seventh and thinking, "There is absolutely nobody in my sports fan life that makes me feel as secure as those Yankee fans feel with Rivera right now."

I used to feel that way about the Patriots. I did. And now we're here.

Whiny Willy, don't worry about it. This was a road game in the middle of the regular season against one of the best quarterbacks of all time. Now, if this was say the Superbowl, and your defense ruined your chance at a perfect season by failing to stop an inexperienced young quarterback, well, then, you might lose a little faith.

My Organs and I Return... From the Dead

Casey Freeman — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 15:00:00 -0400

(Scene: A dark hospital corridor near the morgue. Orderlies run around trying to figure out why all the body bags are moving and what all the banging is from the corpse cooling machine. A body covered by a sheet moves into the shot. Then it sits up revealing the incredibly handsome [but alas, dead] face of everybody's favorite person in the world: KC!)

BRAIN: Must get brains!

KC: Brains!

MOUTH: BRAINSsssssss!

NOSE: Brains.

HANDS: Brains.

BUTT: Brains.

GUT: BRAINS!

EARS: Brains.

JUNK: Wow. With all this rigor mortis, it's like having a permanent boner! Bring on the dead chicks!

BRAIN: Brains!

KC: Brainnnnnns.

JUNK: Come on... everybody? This blows.

END

8673

Paul Frank — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 14:49:08 -0500

I have to get something off my chest. I have this secret that I'm supposed to keep a secret my whole life, for my own protection. I'm not supposed to tell anyone. So it's just me and this secret, staring each other down.

But I cannot live like this, with this secret forever held deep inside of me. I feel so..I don't know, shady, I guess. Like I'm not being truthful with anyone. If I can't tell my family, my best friends, or even my priest this secret, then what does that say about who I am as a person.

I'm going to reveal this secret right here, right now. I need to. After I tell the internet, hopefully a weight will be lifted off my shoulders, as they say. Hopefully my life will be changed forever, as they say. Hopefully I'll be able to achieve an orgasm, as they say.

My PIN number is 8673.

There, I said it. That's my real fucking pin number.

Now, I know what you're saying, you're saying, Paul, is that your REAL pin number I bet you made up 4 random numbers cause this is a comedy article I get that and also once you put something on the internet its there forever?

Or you're saying, Paul, I have the exact same PIN #, maybe we should fuck! Well, I don't believe you, but okay, fine, let's fuck.

What's the significance behind 8673, my pin number? There is no significance. I think they gave it to me as my default pin when I opened my first checking account, and it stuck.

Now I use it for everything, debit cards, credit cards, passwords, NFL score predictions.

I'm not even going to change my pin after this article, probably another thing you were thinking.

No, it's me and 8673 for life. I am no longer ashamed. I feel free. Now I have no deep, dark secrets that I will take to my grave. Oh, wait, there's that ONE, but that's between me and me.

Kiss a Little Longer: A Hair's Tale

Casey Freeman — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 13:27:54 -0500

So, in honor of the most venerable PIC Hair Week (which apparently lasts two weeks)—I thought I'd take a break from writing about my own hair and write about somebody else's.

You see young lads and lassies, way back when I was a college-aged buck, there was such a thing as females with pubic hair. Revolting, I know. But it's a fact. We also thought Limp Bizkit was cool.

(In my college days, we seriously thought this guy was cool. I know, we were stupid.)

In my early twenties, I sported some interesting trademarks. I'd wear polo shirts with ties, I chewed Big Red gum all the time (especially while swimming) and covered my scalp with the same Stanford cap every day—even though I've never set foot near Stanford.

For whatever reason, my fashion sense still landed me a lady or two.

This particular girl loved giving and receiving oral sex maybe as much as I do. My own blowjob receiving etiquette is amazing—I squirm all over the place as I hold my breath.

This girl was better than me though. She moaned, screamed, cried, begged and called me mean names. Of course, I found this a turn on as well as absolutely hilarious. I don't know what's wrong with me that female orgasms (when delivered by me) are so fucking funny—but that's for Dr. Drew to figure out some day. Also, I enjoyed the eating out process even more because it pissed off my filthy roommate.

On this night, since I was (and still am) a gentlemen, I performed my skills first. Now, I didn't know that in a few short years female pubic hair would be as popular as Fred Durst with Swine Flu, so I didn't find her big hairy red bush offensive.

For a while I listened to her talk like a stuttering elementary school kid trying to read complicated words in front of class. Then she heelkicked me a few times in the ribs—which is fine, I prefer physical abuse rather than mental or verbal. As she orgasmed she pulled my face even farther into the back of her vagina.

Again, I laughed some more, but during one of her thrusts she popped my nose into her pubic bone which instantly made me sneeze a half-dozen times. She liked that feeling of me headbutting her clitoris. I couldn't stop giggling to myself OR sneezing—and she didn't have the decency to at least say "God Bless You"—but she did say something like: "Your tongue was sent from heaven."

After she finished beating me as she came, she pulled me up to her face by the ears and said, "We're skipping the blowjob, I just want to fuck." I thought this was complete bullshit because I just wanted a knobber and then pass out. When I tried to vocalize my opinions, I felt even more naked. Something was missing. My mouth felt wrong. I started feeling around the bed. This was very bad.

My Big Red chewing gum was caught in her hair... um, down there.

I'm pretty sure most gynecologists don't advise sticking cinnamon-flavoring up your Tunnel Of Lust. I really didn't want her to get an infection, and I really really really didn't want to be blamed for that infection.

I also didn't want to spend my naked time doing some home remedy to get gum out of hair—I heard you stick peanut butter on gummed-up hair which would have been the death of any sexual pleasure.

If we banged, I didn't want to get gum on my own pubes, so I made up some bullshit. I told her, "I want tonight to be all about you."

So I returned for a second helping of cinnamon-flavored hairy clam chowder, this time to peel all the fucking Glycerol and Red Number 5 out of her fucking pubic hair as I re-pleasured her (kind of a lot more difficult). I did my best to clear all the residue away. Luckily, she thought the bush-tugging was hot.

Then I was stuck with another decision: what to do with the gum afterwards? I still believed that swallowed gum didn't digest for seven years, but I sure as hell didn't want it in my mouth. I could just stick it under my bed, but I didn't really want that either. So I did the most logical thing: I spat it on my trash-taking-out-loathing roommate's keyboard.

Some more sexual stuff happened, but since this is a family website, I'll leave those details out. I still don't know if this girl ever knew what happened. But then next afternoon, my passive-aggressive shitbag roommate finally confronted me.

"Dude, I get the picture. I'm disgusting. I'll start taking out my garbage. You didn't have to leave gum on my desk." I nodded as if I understood what the hell he was talking about. "But where did you find the red hair to stick in the gum? Your hair is black."

Halloweenus Asstastic Extravaganza

Fugly Slut — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 21:04:24 -0400

Dear Fugly,

I find Kim Kardashian's ass to be alluring, yet a disgusting blob at the same time. It seems to be attractive under those sexual pencil skirts, but whenever she's at the beach, that mysterious rump is covered beneath a sarong. Just what is going on under there? More importantly, do I want to know what lies beneath the fabric?

Fugly, my question to you is this: Where do you draw the line between a nice round, shapely ass, and a fat disgusting ass?

Love Always,
Peter

Dear Peter,

Fugly knows a thing or two about delicious heines. Fugly's gentleman callers are always itching to know what's cooking beneath Fugly's chiffon underskirt... or maybe they're just itching from Fugly's fleas... or Fugly's five o'clock shadow (down there—the little man in the canoe is surrounded by thick foliage).

Fugly's asstastic rear once caught the fancy of one Mr. Evil Knivel. He parked his motor scooter in the crack of Fugly's rump after jumping over Snake River Canyon. To celebrate his historic stunt, he put his snake in Fugly's canyon. For some reason he made Fugly put his helmet over her face.

So to answer your question, Petar, clearly Fugly's ass is a delicious meat feast, but a disgusting ass would be anything that hangs over three feet and has over 17 bullet holes.

Love,
Fugly

Hey Goblin Tits,

Last night, after a nice mixture of PBR, Mad Dog, and THC was flowing through my blood stream, I made out with the most horrendous-looking female in history. Obviously this mixture of toxins didn't go very well. What should I be guzzling so that I can hook up with hot chicks?

Hugs,
Sal

Well hello there Sal,

Back in Fugly's youth, at St. Chatterly's Prepatory School, the school girls used to call Fugly "Sal." It had nothing to do with my name, rather it was a acronym for "Soggy Ass Labia." Those evil youths would chant, "Die soggy, clam, die" and pelt Fug with hard brown stones... or was it goat stool? Fugly doesn't remember. One horrible evening the evil pre-teens strapped hams on Fugly's back and left her young, shivering carcas in Coyote Ravine during our menstruation awareness retreat. Sigh, Fugly just wants some nice friends. *Fighting back tears*

Enough about me, Sal. Sometimes, after consuming a heaping vat of bathtub gin, even Fugly herself will romance an unsightly, Glad-bag-wearing vagabond or two, or three, or five, and a basset hound... mmmm, dog slobber.

The trick to landing a hottie every night is to lick hallucinogenic toad bellies so everyone appears to be attractive, even if they really look like they just climbed out of the bell tower. Keep an extra toad on your nightstand for the morning.

Happy Clam Hunting!
Fugly

What's up Fugly?

How do you approach someone at work and let them know you want to sha-bang-bang them without getting fired?

Kisses,
Martha

Dear Martha,

That's a tricky pickle. Fugly has been fired from many a job for performing "lewd acts" gainst co-workers.

One Halloween, a nude Fugly seductively mounted the copy machine in a pair of fun, flirty cat ears (Halloween is the only time Fugly can expose her tail without ridicule). Fugly waited for the boss, Mr. Johnson, to come in so I could leap atop his salami. Unfortunately, he dropped dead and faceplanted in Fug's lady folds. Fugly told the staff that he ate some bad cheese. I guess Fugly was too much sexy for him to handle.

This Halloween Fugly's going to pour a gallon of ether in the punch bowl at the Points in Case Halloweenus Extravaganza and ravage the unconscious body of Andrei Trostel.

Best,
Fugs

Okay Mac, Stop Being an Asshole

Alex Boonstra — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 07:57:21 -0500

Okay Mac, we get it: you're the best computer known to the universe. Your technology has overpowered other operating systems to the point where they kiss your Intel Core 2 Duo processor. As your advanced hardware slowly turns into a culture trend, none of America can escape your power over the modern technologists. But Mac, I just have one problem with your whole plan to take over the digital world: you're being a jerk.

Just because you're the best computer in the world doesn't mean you have to be such an asshole. We know you're brothers with the iPod and iPhone, but that gives you no right to shit on all the other operating systems. The power's gone to your head, man. Now all you do is make fun of the computers through your advertisements by rubbing your popularity in their face. That's grade-school-recess immature, bro.

I realize that you have revolutionized the technological world and given a spark of hope to the hipsters who infest this world, and that's cool. And the fact that your monitors are massive, sleek, and white? Radically stylish; you're a digital Zoolander. But that doesn't mean PC users are frittering old men in suits developing carpel tunnel in their cubicle—they can be cool kids too.

I assume by now you know that I'm referring to your commercials. I still watch TV—thanks to Hulu—where I am entertained not only by shows, but fascinating commercials advertising the most exotic products. Within one three-minute commercial break, I have been urged to buy items ranging from legal counseling to zebra-colored blankets with sleeves. It is during these advertisements that relationships are made with the public; from the hooker-beating ShamWow Guy to that question mark lunatic who would yell at us how to get "free money from the United States Government!!" And it is within these affiliations of characters dividing our late night dramas that you have abused your power. Instead of utilizing your 30-second portion of advertising to build a relationship with your audience, you have used it to insult a foe.

I ask you, Mac, why did you ruin this relationship by misusing your privileged commercial times to embarrass your fellow PC?Oh, believe me, your commercials started out fine. You had a cute, adorable Justin Long, fresh from the set of Dodgeball and Accepted, standing in stylish jeans and a button up. Beside him, a slightly balding older man dressed in a brown suit with glasses. They are in front of a plain white background. Cool, it's simple, I like it. And then you introduced the infamous phrase:

"Hi, I'm a Mac."
"And I'm a PC."

And then the two characters, each personifying an opposing computer, would banter on screen about whose operating system is better. In the beginning, you and PC each had equal talking time, going back and forth about who owns the more reliable system. But in the end, since you paid for the commercial, you were allowed to win the repartee and have Justin Long outwit this clumsy old man. He's so "square," isn't he? What a n00b, right? Yeah Mac, you're the man.

But come on, dude, I think you've taken it too far. Over the series of commercials you and PC had, I think you started to really rag on him. The relationship between you guys heavily compared to that of a modern teen drama television series, rivaling that of Seinfeld and Happy Days. So I ask you, Mac, why did you ruin this relationship by misusing your privileged commercial times to embarrass your fellow PC?

I'll tell you why, man. It's because all this popularity has gone to your head. Okay, I understand that you appear more hip to the masses of anti-mainstream urban culture that will—terrifyingly—one day run this world. But that doesn't mean you have to tease PC and embarrass him in front of the entire world! The new commercials are just distasteful. You just have him run his mouth and perplex himself through his own unreliability. Right? Admit it, you've been kind of a dick. You hardly even talk in the commercials anymore! Just because you start with the same introduction doesn't keep them innocent:

"Hi, I'm a Mac."
"And I'm a PC."

See? That's you in the past, a humbled Mac simply trying to help out his sick friend. You offer him a tissue, how kind! It's not your fault Macs don't get these viruses, am I right? You just continue being you, Mac.

Oh, look at this, how nice. You and PC are holding hands, a friendly gesture showing that the two of you are more than compatible—no homo, of course. But what's this? You bring some strange Japanese hooker in here during this commercial? And you brag about how the two of you are going to finger-bang in the back later, but that PC can't because he wasn't hip enough to take a second language in college. That's not really cool man; the two of you could have double-teamed her together if you weren't such an asshole.

Whoa, what the hell? That's not cool bro, you can't just show yourself standing off to the side while your competitor shames himself. He's just trying to publicize his product, and you're going to insult him? You're supposed to be supporting your own image, not disrespecting others. This is advertising, not government politics. If you're going to make this political, I'll whip out the guillotine.

What the fuck is this? This is still a Mac commercial, right? So why is the PC guy doing all the talking; anchoring a news channel anxious to advertise its new Windows 7? But what's this? Even in the midst of a news broadcast Mac still comes out on top? What kind of degradation is this? You can't just humiliate someone like that by pretending to interrupt a fake broadcast they were giving!! And when you had the woman brag that you were "number one in customer satisfaction," why wouldn't you have just said that yourself? Oh and hahaha, I get it: when PC wants to cut the feed and jump to commercial, you remind him that this is a commercial. Hahaha, you truly are one of the funniest computer systems I've ever met, Mac. But still, I think you're being a dick.

I also hate the fact that after you encourage this mortification of a fellow rival—who, might I add, has done nothing to upset you—you display your smug little Apple icon, reminding us all that you are beyond doubt the wittiest trend to lead scenesters to a new revolution against this establishment. Oh, I get it, an apple with a chunk missing. Like Adam and Eve, get it? Are you supposed to be the temptation that spawns the knowledge of mankind throughout this earth? No, you're not. You're just a stupid operating system. And furthermore, you're an asshole.

So please Mac, listen to me. As your friend, I am asking you to stop being such a dick. People will still like your products the same, and you can still be the greatest multinational corporation to bless this galaxy. Just, tone down the bragging and humiliating of your opponents. Maybe talk a little about yourself, instead of personifying your competition and then slandering him. Understand? It's not so hard.

Thanks man, this means a lot to me. I can now continue my life of mindless television without having to see your bromance with PC slip through the drain. You guys are made for one another, you can't throw it away over frivolous things like operating systems! I hope you take this to heart, and I'm only saying this stuff because I care. I love you, man.

Stoned Candy Adventure

Casey Freeman — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 21:11:09 -0400

I'm a paranoid smoker. Mostly because I worry that everybody knows I'm high. But the fact is, everybody does know I'm high because my eyes get big, I laugh at everything, and I constantly look around at stuff or get distracted by shiny colors. Also, passersby catch wind that I'm stoned because half the things I say are, "Holy shit I'm so high." Needless to say, I don't venture into public very often after I blaze.

On this particular evening, I smoked some weed. Then I decided I wanted candy. My roommate, Jewels, wanted cigs. So we jumped into my vehicle, The Skull Bus, and cruised down to the local supermarket. Dig, people?

KC: Oh, do they have those flavored Tootsie Rolls in there? Like lime and vanilla? I heart those.
Jewel: Are you seriously a guy?I'm not a bad driver, but when I'm high, I drive like an octogenarian on the way to a butt doctor appointment that I don't want to go to. Luckily, the grocery store lies just about a mile away.

And that's where the adventure starts.

As Jewels and I approached a curve in the road she pointed to some apartment building and said, "My boyfriend never wants me to walk to the grocery store alone because of this neighborhood. People are getting killed there all the time."

KC: Really?

J: Yeah, there's a murder there or some crazy drug house bust every so often.

KC: Well shit. Thanks for telling me that before I moved just down the street from it.

J: Oh, it's not that bad in our neighborhood.

KC: Holy shit!

I kind of screamed yet whispered.

J: I told you, our neighborhood isn't that bad.

KC: No... (I motioned to the three cops and German shepherd searching the boulevard.) What the fuck is going on?

J: I told you, there's murderers out there.

KC: Tonight?

J: Maybe. Who knows?

KC: Why are we whispering? We're in a car.

J: Good point. Should we still go to the store?

KC: I really want some candy.

J: Me too. Fuck this murderer.

We coasted down the block with our eyes peeled for cops, cop dogs, or somebody running from both. I pulled into the parking lot, but the weirdness didn't quit there.

KC: What the fuck is that semi doing here? What's underneath those tarps? Could somebody have stolen a tank or a Transformer robot or something and that's why the dogs are sniffing for him?

J: If there was a tank or a Transformer robot or something else don't you think they'd have a little more security than just three beat cops and a dog? There'd be, like, ninjas and stuff.

KC: Oh yeah. Good point, Jewels.

We entered the scared King Sooper's and traveled straight to the candy section.

J: KC, I need you to remember one thing for me.

KC: What's that?

J: Daytime cough medicine for my boyfriend. Got that?

KC: No, because I'm really high and I'll forget in five seconds.

J: Can you please promise to remember?

KC: No, just get the medicine first while I look for candy.

Thus we split up and I spent my idle time searching for the perfect candy. Do I stick with the standard Mike & Ikes? Or do I go with more exotic fare, such as Swedish Fish? Variety is the spice of life, but I don't like things too spicy.

I examined the variety of gummy stuff, jelly beans, and gummy jelly things.

Then a pitch-black devil shouted my name so loudly my eardrums popped. Or perhaps the message the demon delivered ruptured my auditory system.

J: Hey KC, do you think Daytime Severe Congestion would work or Daytime Multiple Symptoms would be better?

KC: Jesus Christ, woman! Don't sneak up on me like that!

J: Um, you've just been staring at the candy for about five minutes. I even asked you if you like Dots or Good & Plentys more.

KC: Oh yeah, I forgot about that. I like Dots more because Good & Plentys taste like candied Jagermeister. What's your question?

Jewels massaged her temples as my stupidity became contagious and started giving her a migraine. Then she held up two boxes.

J: Severe Congestion or Multiple Symptoms?

KC: Um, I like the blue box the best.

J: Seriously?

KC: Yep.

J: You're an idiot. Have you found your candy yet?

KC: Nope, I'm still deciding.

J: How can it be that hard? I'm getting these gourmet chocolates and this giant four-pound bag of Tootsie Roll stuff.

KC: Oh, do they have those flavored Tootsie Rolls in there? Like lime and vanilla? I heart those.

J: Are you seriously a guy?

KC: Yes. But I can't figure out which candy I'll want to eat. I don't want to get too much, because no matter what it won't be enough. So if I just get a little bit of everything, I won't send my self into sugar shock or give myself diabetes. Plus, candy hangovers are the worst.

J: Your argument is so idiotic, yet so beautifully illustrated. But the faster you pick, the faster we can actually EAT candy.

KC: Fantastic point. A blast from the past with Gummi Cream Frogs and, um, Giant Chewy Nerds.

As I walked to the self-checkout stand I saw Brach's bulk candy, so I decided to snag a few pieces to round out my sweets purchase.

Since I drove, Jewels decided to pay for everything. So first I looked at Halloween costumes until she asked me to get some fruit punch Gatorade.

KC: I hate that stuff!

J: It's for my boyfriend.

I walked to the Gatorade aisle and dropped off the grossest flavor. Jewels looked a little distraught. She pointed to the Brach's.

J: How the fuck do you ring this in?

KC: I don't know, it should have one of those produce codes, like for oranges, turnips or, um, oranges.

J: When have you ever bought a turnip?

KC: I don't know. Never. I think they're a root vegetable though.

J: I know what they are, but you obviously don't. But seriously. What should we do with this stuff?

KC: I was going to say "steal it" but that guy is watching.

J: Why didn't you say so? He can help us.

So the checkout guy tried to remember the number. We typed in about ten different numbers. He couldn't remember if the code was "7191," "7171," or "123456789." But we tried all of them and a few in between. Then our non-savior grabbed another dude, and then he punched in some numbers, but it wouldn't work. Finally, they left us to look for the manager on duty, who obviously wasn't on duty.

KC: I don't really want that shit. I figured I'd spend fifty cents on some weird candy. Let's just leave it and leave.

J: We can't just leave! We put these poor guys through hell looking for your stupid candy's stupid bar code. That is a dick move.

KC: So what? It's also dick to not have the fucking barcode on the thing.

J: KC, besides your mom, has anybody you ever known ever bought this stupid Brach's bulk candy.

KC: Fine.

So after five minutes of shopping and a quarter of an hour of waiting for the right price number, we finally paid and left. I stared at the military-looking semi trailer. Were there two things-that-looked-like-tanks on it before or were there just three? I shrugged, knowing if there was a giant robot attack, I'd probably hear about it, or finally meet a giant robot and make him my best friend.

We started driving and all the cops were gone. When we arrived home, Jewels' boyfriend was still sick, but I found two unwatched Netflix DVDs. So I sparked another bowl and watched some movies.

The moral of the story: candy cures everything.

If You Give a Mouse a Cookie...

Alex Boonstra — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 17:00:39 -0500

If you give a Mouse a cookie...

He's going to want a few more. After all, it's buy two get the third half off, so you have to buy in bulk.

After his fifth cookie, the Mouse gets an upset stomach, so he pops a few Alka-Seltzer. The Alka-Seltzer wears off after a few hours, so he takes a few Tums...

The next day the Mouse experiences heartburn, sweatiness stomach pains, and lightheadedness. He takes Advil and checks WebMD...

WedMD says he could have gastroesophageal reflux disease, an uncomfortable disease that could lead to vomiting blood. He quickly rushes to the store to buy Omeprazole, and while he's there he picks up vitamin tablets and calcium supplements...

The Mouse begins to feel better, and continues to eat these cookies. He goes to Costco and buys massive boxes of them, stocking up his cabinets...

Over the next few weeks Mouse begins to not only gain weight, but also experiences constipation, chest pain, and difficulty breathing and seeing. WebMD says it could be sickle cell disease or glaucoma, but his doctor prescribes him blood thinners, suspecting small blood clots...

The Vicodin causes constipation, and the mouse is diagnosed with Irritable Bowel Syndrome, and put on Miralax..Although the blood thinners stop the chest pains and difficulty breathing, Mouse still experiences constipation, weight gain, and the occasional erectile dysfunction. He begins to slip into depression, eating more cookies and gaining more weight. He takes diet pills, but they don't work and only serve to raise his blood pressure. Mouse grows anxious, starts smoking cigarettes, and begins slipping into depression...

Mouse attends therapy sessions and is given anti-depressants. To be cautious, the doctor tests him for Attention Deficit Disorder, and discovers Mouse is suffering from ADHD. So the doctor prescribes him Adderall...

The Adderall and anti-depressants makes Mouse very tired, so he pops a few caffeine pills to wake him up in the morning. By noon, the caffeine pills have given Mouse a headache, so he takes more Advil to relieve the pain. The side effects of his anti-depressants magnify his erectile dysfunction, so he buys some Viagra. While at the store, he buys some more diet pills and multivitamins...

In time, the headaches turn to migraines that keep him up all night. After seeing his doctor again, he is prescribed Excedrin to counteract the migraines. The Excedrin really helps, but makes it difficult for him to sleep at night, so he still takes caffeine pills.

For a while Mouse feels better, so he buys more cookies because he found a coupon in the newspaper. And you can't have a cookie without milk, so he buys a gallon of that too. On the way to the back of the store, he also re-ups on vitamins, diet pills and cigarettes...

That week, Mouse notices he has started to lose weight, but at the cost of nausea and abdominal pain. WebMD suggests pancreatitis, but his doctor says it's most likely a stomach ulcer due to a combination of smoking cigarettes and high blood pressure from the diet pills. His physician prescribes him powerful antacids, but when the stomach pain continues, he sees a different doctor, who prescribes him Vicodin for the pain...

The Vicodin causes constipation, and the mouse is diagnosed with Irritable Bowel Syndrome, and put on Miralax. The discomfort still keeps Mouse up all night, so he takes two caffeine pills every morning.

In time, Mouse is told he is lactose intolerant and that his stomach pains have been from drinking milk with his cookies. His stomach pains will subside if he no longer consumes dairy products. Miserable that he can no longer eat his precious cheese or drink milk with his cookies, Mouse begins to drink heavily...

After his third DUI, Mouse enters Alcohol Anonymous and attends therapy sessions. By this time, he has stopped taking diet pills and has gained morbid amounts of weight, leading to back problems. Even with increases in Vicodin, he is unable to work and loses his job at the factory...

Determined to lose weight, Mouse becomes anorexic and bulimic, throwing up to make him skinnier. His esophagus is burnt up from the stomach acid, and that, combined with his cigarette smoking, leads to a tumor in his throat. He slips further into depression and develops a drug habit.

Mouse is sent to rehab after a Vicodin overdose. His girlfriend walks in on him blacked out, surrounded by a pool of his own bloody vomit.

During his stay in rehab, a doctor prescribes Mouse medical marijuana for his symptoms. After picking up a bag of Northern Lights, he needs a way to smoke it.

So he buys a bong...

After two bong hits, three joints, and a hash brownie, Mouse no longer has back pain, anxiety, and stomach pains. His blood pressure remains normal and his anorexia is extinguished. After a few months, doctors see that his throat tumor has subsided, and after chemotherapy he is completely healed...

And at this point, all he wants is a cookie.

10 Fun Facts About Cliff Lee!!!

Xavier Holland — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 00:29:24 -0400

10. Cliff Lee doesn't actually have any friends. When pressed, he gets flustered and claims that "Mavis Beacon" is his best friend. Despite this, he still types with two fingers.

9. Cliff Lee once promised his children a new pet. On the appointed day, instead of visiting his local pet store or shelter, he changed the homepage on the family computer to icanhascheezburger.com. "It's like getting a cute new pet every day!" he told his disappointed children. This will still be the happiest day of their childhoods.

8. Cliff Lee TiVos The Jeff Dunham Show and Secret Girlfriend.

7. In his younger years, Cliff Lee stood around New York City accosting passersby and asking if they had "5 minutes for Greenpeace." He didn't need the money (there is no money), and he didn't give a fuck about Greenpeace (there is no Greenpeace): he just really like irritating the fuck out of New Yorkers.

6. Cliff Lee "doesn't get" the show It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Cliff Lee thinks the show has potential, if only they would just all be nice to each other.

5. Cliff Lee was born in Arkansas.

4. Cliff Lee regularly confuses Phillies shortstop Jimmy Rollins for first baseman Ryan Howard, and Ryan Howard for a janitor named Marcus. There is no janitor named Marcus.

3. Cliff Lee is going to be Michael Jackson for Halloween. So clever and so original! Oooh, what about the Joker? He can't go wrong, either way, Cliff Lee thinks.

2. Cliff Lee always orders dressing on the side at restaurants and then just dumps it all over the salad anyway. Well, if you were going to put it on the salad anyway, Cliff Lee, why get it on the side? Why?

1. Fuck Cliff Lee.

What's With the Hair?

Casey Freeman — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 17:54:16 -0500

I swear I'm not a dirty hippie. Yeah, my hair is long. But seriously, I'm not a hippie. I'm also not joining a band or making a statement. Believe me, I hate my long hair. I've got a reason to grow it out and it's a pretty good one.

A few months ago, I just hadn't cut my locks for a while. Then one night at the bars, I complained about it to a long-haired buddy who told me not to trim anything until a few months from now, when we'll both cut our prospective ponytails for Locks Of Love - a charity that provides wigs to children who lost their hair due to chemotherapy.

My well-coiffed friend told me "Besides, chicks love the long hair and they also love the fact you're growing it for charity." So I was sold. I said, "What the heck, why not?"

For about two days I felt good, then I wanted to cut it off. But I ran into him again. I hoped in our drunkenness, my ponytailed pal forgot about our hair-growing pact. Instead he said:

"Dude, I think we're getting sponsors and my bar is cool with us doing a big event. And people will auction off the chance to shave our heads. We'll make some money for the charity and donate our hair for the cancer kids. We're really making a difference."

"Great," I said. "Fucking great!" I cursed in my thoughts.

So now this has become some great big thing. A few weeks ago I attended an unrelated fundraiser for a good buddy going through chemotherapy, and now he's completely bald. Now, for guys, this isn't really a big deal. But I remembered I'm growing my hair out for little girls with cancer, and they don't like being bald. So I guess I'm keeping this stupid long hair. For now.

So that's why my hair is so long. Get over it. Or enjoy it while it lasts, because I'm never doing it again.

If I get a few friends, fans or family members to donate money, hair or time to Locks Of Love for me, I'll cut this stupid mop immediately as well as happily. If not, bring on the ponytail holders. Please -- somebody donate something to Locks Of Love. I hate all this hair.

(This is what I usually look like. Actually, I'm usually wearing a hat—but this is a good guess to what my hair looks like.)

The Ancient Fighting Style of the Angry Black Woman

Alex Boonstra — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 18:45:49 -0400

Yo, my name's Tiquasha Jackson. If there's one thing I've learned from growing up on the rough streets of anywhere black people live, it's that anywhere black people live it's a rough street. Ever since White Flight, black people have been popping up in more and more rural areas, infecting the neighborhood with drugs and crime. And while the basic techniques of self-defense might work against purse-snatchers and trench-coat-flashers, black people have genetically evolved to a more dangerous level of attacker. Not only do we blend into any dark background, but our eyes have a clear eyelid membrane to protect us from mace and pepper-spray. Also, today's Air Jordans not only contain the proper ankle support needed to scale 10-foot fences, but also have thick rubber soles to protect us from Taser attacks.

When you find yourself enveloped in the fiery hell that is black culture, you need a way to defend yourself. As proven by Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcom X, simple reasoning and rationalization will only get your ass shot (may they rest in peace, brotha). No, the only way to survive in this harsh world is to throw all caution to the wind and fill yourself with hatred and chaos. While other fighting techniques require achieving a high level of physical and mental strength over the course of many years, the only way to defend yourself from the motherfuckas of the hood is to become bat-shit insane—and that only takes a day or two. That is why I am here to help you learn how to fight like an Angry Black Woman.

The Angry Black Woman fighting style has been as much of black culture as fried chicken and hating white people. In times of confrontation, all logic is pushed aside and two grimy bitches are forced to physically battle. Whether your baby's daddy be sleepin' with another hoe, or some bitch be dancin' too close to you in the club, the Angry Black Woman fighting style is a universally accepted approach to conflict resolution in black culture. And while black brothas carry guns and knives, their female counterparts carry a much more deadly weapon: bottled rage. If unleashed, this anger can be focused into a tantrum of thrashing manicures and high heels. I am here to teach you how to defend yourself against this lethal wrath, and how to develop your own style of Angry Black Woman.

Unlike skinny-ass white bitches who are all talk, black women are one of the deadliest forces in the world, second only to hurricanes and European soccer fans.The first step to survival is recognizing your surroundings. Is there loud, violent rap music playing? Are there people "walking it out" and "pop, locking, and dropping it"? These dance mating rituals are common amongst black people, and getting in the way of them could end fatally. If you find yourself surrounded by jiggling booties, drinks, and two-steps, you know to keep your guard up.

In time the atmosphere of blunts, crack rocks, and grape soda will bring everyone to a "crunk" level of aggression, and the angry black women in the crowd will begin to emerge. They can be spotted by their unprecedented ghetto haircuts and supreme level of confidence, a skill unknown to the skinny, whiny, white woman. Similar to peacock feathers, these ghetto black hairstyles are a way of flamboyantly exhibiting female individuality during these mating rituals. Other traits include an excessively disproportionate ass bouncing around, accompanied by a protruding belly and sagging tits.

While other fighting styles include silent attacks and devious schemes, Angry Black Woman is very blatant. This is good, because it allows others to pick up on the signs of an arising scuffle and prepare accordingly. The fights could break out for a number of reasons, ranging from someone stealin' someone else's man, to spilt Kool-Aid. Whatever the case, the Angry Black Woman fighting style fits a defined progression of anger before exploding into a rampage of chaos.

The first sign you will pick up on is the yelling. This incoherent screaming can be heard for miles, and is a warning to all other hoes that they had better back off, lest they want an altercation. But the shouting is nothing more than belligerent rambling, consisting of sentence fragments and the word "Fuck." Sayings like, "Oh, I'ma smack dat bitch!" and, "Oh no you didn'!" will be repeated over and over during the first stage of Angry Black Woman. It is during this time that you should take note of the nearest exits.

Unlike skinny-ass white bitches who are all talk, black women are one of the deadliest forces in the world, second only to hurricanes and European soccer fans. Eventually, the yelling will escalate to the next stage of combat, in which the black women will prepare for confrontation. In order to properly whip her opponent's ass, the woman must remove her jewelry, shoes, and heavy clothing, making her more aerodynamic and dexterous in the melee. If you plan on participating, remove your earrings, necklace, and bracelets, all while continually yelling threats. If you are wearing high heels, take them off and hand them to a friend. Similar to Roman gladiators and Spartan warriors, you are now ready for battle.

In contrast to other fights in which the two opponents circle one another in the arena, the Angry Black Woman style is all about power. And few things are scarier than a full-grown black woman charging at you with claws drawn. In a true clash of force, the two or more fighters will blitz towards each other, resulting in an explosion of brawn in the center of the fracas.

In this pandemonium of anarchy and hatred, there are many different moves black women use. If you can recognize the following types of attacks, you will stand a better chance of survival.

The Hair Grab

Without her shoes, a black woman's center of gravity is severely thrown off. Upon colliding into a fury of fists, women will grab onto anything they can for stability. This typically results in both women clutching each other's hair with one fist and wailing upon each other's heads with the other. Alternating blows will occur until one girl fails to remain balanced without her shoes and falls to the ground.

One thing that should be kept in mind is that many black women have hair extensions, weaves, or even wigs. Ripping out a women's hair is a surefire way to rack up points during a brawl, and the pain associated with ripping out a weave is enough to make a full-grown woman pass out.
The Spit

Using bodily fluids to defend oneself is a technique used by many animals of prey, and is no exception in the Angry Black Woman fighting style. When one woman finds her limbs entangled and is unable to physically hit the other, she will resort to spitting large wads of saliva into the other's face, not only humiliating them, but affecting their ability to see. If used correctly, the spit could render your opponent blind.
The Claw

This is the most aggressive of attacks, named after the claw-like appearance of a black woman's fingers. Outfitted with long nails, one swipe of this powerful hand could dig deep into the skin, drawing blood and ripping out more hair. Remember, the more hair you pull out of her head, the less of a ghetto haircut she will be able to display in the future.
The Arm Maul

If one does not have the proper fingers for the Claw and finds herself on the losing end of a Hair Grab, she can resort to psychotically flailing her arms toward her opponent, hitting whatever lies in her path. This charge is typically used upfront, as each woman is desperate to lay the first blow to her foe. It can also be used as a last resort, in an attempt to take out your rival before she knocks you the fuck out. The only downfall of the Arm Maul is that it leaves your head open to counterattacks.
The Shoe Smack

In the turbulence that is an Angry Black Woman fight, many bitches will be entering and exiting the maniacal mosh pit, either catching their breath or healing from a painful smack while others continue to fight. Occasionally, before jumping back into the vortex, some women will grab a shoe they took off and use it as a weapon. Sharp heels can be used to stab a challenger, and long straps can turn the average shoe into a medieval ball and chain.

So there you are, immersed in a massacre of weaves and fake nails. Eventually, the two of you will lose your footing and the duel will move to the ground. Normally, both fighters would be allowed to stand back up for the fight to resume, but this is hardly a normal fight. In Angry Black Woman, a fight on the turf turns into a ground-and-pound that would make UFC fighters flinch. The grappling involved in a ground skirmish shows the versatility of this fighting technique, and the level of intensity is increased with every dangerous second the fight remains on the ground.

You've come this far, and if you plan on knocking this skank-bitch out, there are a few things to keep in mind.

Show No Dignity

Perhaps the one thing that separates Angry Black Woman from other combat methods is the lack of dignity both fighters show. Just because this fight has moved to the ground doesn't mean you have to worry about getting dirty. In times of such ferocity, the one who pauses to fix her shirt is the one who gets knocked the fuck out.
Rip Off Her Clothing

While rolling around in the filth of a dance floor or neighborhood sidewalk, you are going to lose your firm grip on this bitch's hair. Not to worry, because once the fight has gone to the ground, a different objective arises: to rip every possible article of clothing off of your opponent. Loose tassels, long sleeves, and necklaces are fair game in this tug-o-war, all while maintaining a consistent barrage on the back of her head. Extra points if you manage to make one of her tits pop out.
Kick Her While She's Down

Perhaps the only benefit of keeping your shoes on is the ability to kick once the fight has gone to the ground. Sharpened heels can cripple a rival, and legs can typically reach further than flapping arms. That, and kicking an opponent while she's down ensures that you have suppressed enough character to win this fight.
Execute the Head Smash

Equivalent to the Fatality in Mortal Kombat games, the head smash is the ultimate finishing move to this fight. Once you have endured the entire battle and left your foe a crumbled ball of half-naked worthlessness, the head smash is the climactic finale. Simply grab what is left of your opponent's hair (if all the hair is gone, palm that bitch's head like a basketball) and use it to smash her face off the pavement. This conclusion to the fight shows everyone that you are the boss, and that you will inflict permanent brain damage to anyone stupid enough to challenge you.

Congratulations! You just won your first Angry Black Woman duel! You can now survive in the harsh crusade of black culture, keeping your reputation up and also working your way to Head Bitch In Charge. Just keep in mind that every fight will be a different battle and that in order to truly be the best you need to practice all the time. Maybe find a nappy-headed hoe who will let you smash her around a bit, or join a gym that allows you to spar in heels. Learning to battle under different conditions in different scenarios will ensure your strength.

Whatever the case, know that Angry Black Woman is a very serious technique and is not to be practiced negligibly. It is my hope that with this guide, Angry Black Woman will become a way for black culture to rise up from the ashes and show those other martial arts who's the head bitch in charge.

Yeah that's right bitch, I'm talkin' to you. Oh what did you just say?! Oh no you didn'! I'ma smack dat bitch!!