Recent Popular Content

Black Monday: The Day After the Super Bowl

Andrei Trostel — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 07:06:06 -0500

Column by Andrei Trostel

Well it's officially The Day After. No, I'm not talking about that post-apocalyptic nuclear war movie with Steve Guttenberg and John Lithgow, although in many ways, venturing out into that society is more appealing to me than leaving my house the day after the Super Bowl. I mean at least in a post-apocalyptic nuclear war society you can shoot people in the face with a shotgun just for being stupid, with very little consequence.

The end of the familiar...

Look, I get it, the Super Bowl was last night and this is the first time you've been able to discuss it with anyone outside your immediate circle of friends—or, put another way, anyone with more than half a brain cell. However, just because I have a penis and happen to cross your path today doesn't mean I give two shits how you watched sweaty men chase other sweaty men around all last night while your girlfriend/wife cried tears of bitter regret wondering where she went wrong letting you into her life... let alone other places.

It's amazing; men I have never spoken to in my entire life randomly come up to me and start interrogating me like it's the freakin' Spanish Inquisition...

Did you see the game?!
No.

What did you think?!
I think you should have listened to the answer to your first question.

You didn't see it?!
Caught that, did you?

Oh man, what were you thinking?!
Ironically, it was my thinking ability that made me not give a shit about it.

Wasn't it an amazing game?!
So, you're just going to pretend I watched it now?

You must have caught the highlights though, right?!
Would that make you feel like less of an idiot in this conversation?

Oh come on, didn't you at least see the commercials?!
Yeah sure, when I don't watch things I definitely make sure I catch the commercials.

What about the halftime show?!
I also frequent plays, but only the intermissions.

Did you see that one play?
No, I meant a different kind of...nevermind.

Aren't you hating life for missing it?
Yes... yes, I'm hating life right now.

What's your team?
Straight.

No, I meant your football team.
Oh sorry, it was your spandex crop pants that confused me.

You like my gear?
You do know it's February and your "shirt" has lots of tiny holes in it, right?

Jersey!
No, Washington State.

Home of the Seahawks!
And serial killers.

High five, bro!
Touch me and I'll gut you like a fucking pig.

Pigskin!
No, human, which will be shaved off of your screaming body by the inch until you shut the fuck up about football.

You're a fag!
Says the man in spandex crop pants who spent all day yesterday watching other men in spandex crop pants grab each other for hours on end.

Well what did you do yesterday that was so much better?!
I had sex...all day, because I WASN'T watching the Super Bowl...now piss off.

You would think safeties would make you feel safe, but apparently not.

(There are 8 comments available on the full site version of this column entry)

Tough Life Lessons from My Father

Ashley Garmany — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 22:03:26 -0500

Column by Ashley Garmany

Growing up, I spent most of my formative years in a single-parent setting. Being raised by my father, I learned to be tough and strong (mostly because he didn't believe in going to the doctor). He followed the old school methods of parenting, such as the "Walk It Off" Method or the "You Want Something To Cry About? I'll Give You Something To Cry About" Method. Most injuries I sustained as a kid were preceded by the following conversations:

Me: Dad, I think my leg is broken.
Dad: Eh, you're fine.
Me: But it's bent at an awkward angle and there's bone protruding through the skin.
Dad: Walk it off, you'll live.

Me: (crying) Dad, I stepped on a rusty nail.
Dad: And?
Me: (crying harder) It really hurts dad, I think I might have tetanus!
Dad: (silence)
Me: (still crying)
Dad: When I was growing up, I stepped on nails all the time and I'm still alive. Now, you want something to cry about, I'll give you something to cry about.

It's not the speed at which ANY liquid travels, it's the beer that makes you impressive.And he was right, I did live. Sure, now I walk with a permanent limp and my mouth sometimes tastes like pennies, but the point is: I'm alive.

My father was a Southerner, born and raised in the (questionably) great state of Kentucky, where, contrary to what you might think, we are all related (I'm related to every Garmany in the state of Kentucky) and we do marry our cousins (my first husband was also my second cousin). He also had a bit of an accent and frequently used Southern slang. He once told me to "go yonder." Yonder, as it turns out, is not an actual place like I thought it was for most of my childhood. He also would add unnecessary R's into words, such as "worsh" (wash) and "florer" (flower). Up until the age of sixteen, I thought it was pronounced "torlet" (toilet).

"Don't use drugs. But when you do use drugs, try to make sure it's not something someone cooked in the back of their trailer."Since I never plan on having children of my own, I've recently begun wondering who I'm going to pass on the pearls of wisdom that my father passed onto me. And then I thought of you, my dear readers, all of you. Well, the 27 total female readers that Points in Case gets every month and the random male reader who happens upon my column on the off chance that there might be naked pictures in here.

So I want all of you ladies to read these gems that my father spoke to me over the years of childhood and adolescence, and I hope you take away from them the same thing I did: an inflated sense of self-worth, an unabashed delight in exhibiting bodily function noises, and a love of food that goes beyond what is typically considered healthy behavior.

Paul Garmany, on men:

"All men are idiots. Never forget that. You will never meet a guy that is good enough for you."

On the benefits of being a woman:

"There's nothing in this world you can't do. Not because you're smart or driven, but because you have boobs. And with those, you can pretty much get anything you want."

On sports:

"Get out of the way, you're blocking the TV."

On reading books:

"Why read the book when you could just listen to a recording of someone else reading the book for you?"

On going after my dreams:

"Listen, I don't really care what you do: doctor, lawyer, janitor, writer. As long as you realize you're going to have to make enough money to take care of me when I'm old."

On manners:

"Pull my finger."

On college:

"Don't worry Ashley. A lot of people go to school for six years. They're called doctors."

On the "glass ceiling":

"Men will always try to keep you down because they want to have power over you and keep you in a subservient role. Never forget how capable you are and what you can accomplish. Women, although men will always deny this, will always be the superior and smarter gender. Now go make me a sandwich."

On periods:

"Hey, I'm at the store picking up some milk and beer. You need any tampons?"

On food:

"There are three things in this world you can always count on: death, taxes, and mayonnaise."

On drinking and driving:

"Don't drink and drive. But when you do drink and drive, carry around an empty pizza box in your backseat. That way, if a cop gets behind you, you just pull off into the first driveway you come to and pretend you're delivering pizza."

On belching:

"Don't be afraid to burp in public. It's beautiful and it's natural."

On underage sex:

"I don't care if you're gay, straight, bi or tri—if you come home pregnant, I'm gonna kick your ass."

On drugs:

"Don't use drugs. But when you do use drugs, try to make sure it's not something someone cooked in their basement or in the back of their trailer, because trust me, that shit will fuck you up."

As you read these, I want you to remember: you are a strong, beautiful, capable, independent woman who can achieve anything she sets her mind to. Now, go make me a sandwich.

(There are 2 comments available on the full site version of this column entry)

The Kardashian Rise to the Bottom

Stephanie Marie — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 03:22:49 -0500

Article by Stephanie Marie

Back in early 2007 America was a more peaceful place, untouched by the 2008 recession or the Kardashian plague. Ahhh, the simpler days when our only competitors were the whitebread picket-fencers known as the Joneses. Now, as I sit on my couch watching an Armenian family dressed in cheetah print argue amongst themselves, I think to myself, "What does it take to keep up with the Kardashians?"

1. Expose yourself for a profit.

Make a sex tape with a one-hit wonder rapper, pose naked for Playboy, or wear a see-through blouse on The Today Show. After successfully placing your family on the map, your mother will become your cheerleader pimp, supporting all of your sexual endeavors. (Bonus points if you claim you're too "shy" to dance on stage at a Prince concert, yet have no problem engaging in fellatio on camera.)

2. Forget how to spell.

"Don't hate us for who we are, hate us for who we never were." Completely disregard the letter "C" in favor of the more prestigious "K." "Collection" becomes "kollection." "Color" becomes "kolor." And "class," well you don't have to worry about that one because it's not in the Kardashian vocabulary. I guess it's only fitting seeing as though half of the klan didn't attend kollege. What's that, Baby Mason? Elmo told you that today's letter is "C"? Fuck off, Elmo.

3. Marry some B-list professional athlete.

Kris Humphries is no Kobe Bryant and Lamar Odom isn't exactly the Michael Jordan of his era, but marrying one of them means you get to find true love get paid $15 million to showcase your train-wreck wedding on TV. Purchase not one, not two, but three elaborate dresses in none other than the ironically pure shade of white. Walk down the aisle in front of an audience that smiles and applauds, secretly remembering the time they watched Ray J pee on you.

(Make sure to quickly divorce, but only after honeymooning in Italy and using all of the expensive wedding gifts. Most importantly, keep the $2 million rock as a souvenir from your 72-day publicity stunt.)

4. Conquer every region of the USA.

Inhabit Southern California. Take New York. Take Miami. Take America's dignity. Pretty much mimic the movie Contagion, infecting everyone in your path with your high-pitched voices and obnoxious endorsement deals.

5. Make a fool out of yourself on Dancing with the Stars.

When all else fails, shake what your gold-digging mother gave you on live TV with the rest of the talentless "stars." Just make sure to bombard your clueless Twitter followers with pleas to vote for you.

6. Whore out your lineage.

When even Botox and facelifts can't hide the worry from the fact that your empire will soon be yesterday's news, just think about the reason you decided to reproduce in the first place: to make a profit. Do whatever you can to stay on the front page of the tabloids. Sell out your teenage daughters, unborn grandchildren, dogs, fish, hamsters. Just remember, nobody puts Kardashian in the korner.

(There are 0 comments available on the full site version of this article)

The Birds and the Bees

Mike Lamb — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 14:45:50 -0500

Column by Mike Lamb

FATHER: Junior, I think it's about time we had a little father-son talk.

SON: Okay Dad.

FATHER: Whiskey?

SON: No thank you.

FATHER: Son, what I wanted to talk to you about was...man, this is harder than I thought. Say, how old are you now, boy? Seven? Twelve? Nine? Fifteen? Feel free to jump in anytime here.

SON: Eleven.

FATHER: Speak up, boy, I can't hear you.

SON: Eleven, sir.

"Listen kid, sometimes your mom has other birds over to bake cakes too. That makes less sense now that I say it out loud..."FATHER: Eleven years old. How about that. Well, might as well get this out of the way while you're young. Cigarette?

SON: I don't smoke.

FATHER: Good for you. I started when I was about your age. You sure you don't want some whiskey? I'm gonna have some.

SON: No thank you, sir.

FATHER: Son, what do you know about sex?

SON: Sex?

FATHER: You know, pussy. I mean—uh...bees.

SON: Um...I don't know.

FATHER: Because I know you're getting at that age where're you're starting to...I mean, you know...urges, and uh...

SON: Urges?

FATHER: Wacking off. Goddamn it, boy, quit trying to make me look like a jackass.

SON: Sorry sir.

FATHER: What about pubes, you got pubes yet?

SON: Pubes?

FATHER: Oh for Christ's sake, how stupid are you? Don't you even know what—oh great, now you're crying. Okay, look, I'm sorry I yelled at you and called you stupid. Let's just get this over with.

SON: Yes sir.

FATHER: Have you ever...I mean...do you, uh...ah, hell, this is awkward. How can I put this...you know how sometimes your mother likes to be tied up and covered in cake batter?

SON: What?

FATHER: Oh. I guess that was your sister that walked in on us that one time. But hell, you must've wondered why your mom is always mixing cake batter and we never have any damn cake.

SON: Mom?

FATHER: Shit. Forget I said that. Like...for the next thirty years. And would you quit being such a faggot and have a drink with your old man? Jesus, kid, you're making me uncomfortable. Oh god, why are you crying again?

SON: I'm sorry.

FATHER: Alright fine, you're not a faggot. Just drink your—don't spit it up, that's Glenfiddich Single Malt!

SON: It burns!

FATHER: Okay fuck it, let's wrap this shit up. Girls have these special flowers between their legs. They're called vaginas. And they're made of meat. Full of bees. With AIDS. So keep your dick in your pants. Now go do your homework so you can grow up to be a fucking astronaut or some shit.

(There are 0 comments available on the full site version of this column entry)

Revenge of the Ex

Tom Eydmann — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 22:21:47 -0500

Article by Tom Eydmann

There are moments in life that go beyond awkward and embarrassing and reach the point that you have to go home and either bury your head in your pillow or laugh like a madman while abusing yourself in whatever way you see fit. Some of these things only happen to women, such as having your skirt stuffed into the back of your underwear while out shopping, or going to a bar with your mom and watching her getting more male attention than you. Some of them only happen to men, such as not noticing a urine stain on the front of your trousers, or pretending to know about soccer before realizing you've been calling them "Arsenal United" for 45 minutes.

Bumping into an ex you haven't seen or spoken to for ages, however, is one of those embarrassing moments that happens to both sexes. Unless your ex is one of the few you're (sort of) friends with, at best it will lead to a slightly stifled conversation, and at worse it will cement the fact that you will never ever be friends again. And it's always worse if the ex is with their new partner. Earlier today I was wandering through my hometown when I walked through a door and accidentally came face to face with an ex I hadn't seen in over a year and her new boyfriend.

As soon as this happens you have three options:

Completely ignore them and press on with your journey.
Say a brief hi and nod/false smile but don't stop walking.
Stop and chat.

If my ex found out what I was carrying, within minutes there would be rumors flying around that I dress up like a woman. As a mature, reasonable, and generally-keen-to-meet-new-people kind of man, I naturally went for the first option and tried to make my way past the happy couple and get into the nearest shop. Unfortunately, the nearest one happened to be one a key cutting shop. Nevertheless, I suddenly became the most avid fan of keys and those little house name signs that they sell... until I heard something that shook me to the core.

"Tom!"

Now I know this girl, and the only reason she wouldn't have done the exact same head-down-walk-quickly evasive move that I did was if she had something or someone she wanted to show off to me. So knowing I was about to turn around and be introduced to Brad Pitt, I quickly did a once over of myself in my mind. All things considered I thought I looked pretty good. But there were three major problems that were about to make me look like a complete tool.

1. My Face

Not just my general face—she had already put up with that for plenty of time in the past so she could hardly begin to complain now—no, the problem with my face on that day was that I had finally gotten an electric shaver for Christmas, one of the ones with 56 different blades with names that sound like a state of the art car or dildo. However, I hadn't quite gotten the hang of my space age razor, and I had what could only be described as a gash above my upper lip, making me look like a sort of bloody Hitler. I had also been in a rush and not shaved much over Christmas, what with not having any work. This, coupled with my inexperience with the blade, had led to small clumps of stubble (or fluff, to be more accurate) all around my chin. I looked like a Yeti who was late to start developing.

2. My T-Shirt

Nothing was actually wrong with my t-shirt; in fact it was one of my favorite ones. However, I was very aware that it was a t-shirt she had bought me for my birthday. This will only apply to men, but you know when you start going out with a girl and she buys you lots of clothes (with your money) and says things like, "This will look really good on you" and, "This would go great with those jeans we bought last week"? Essentially what they're doing is trying to change you. It doesn't really make sense, because if they didn't like the way you dressed then why the fuck did they go out with you in the first place? For the record, the reason I say this only applies to men is not because I'm sexist, it's because the only clothes men buy their girlfriends are underwear, and I doubt you ladies would start panicking if you bumped into your ex-boyfriend and realized you were wearing the thong he bought you for Valentine's Day 2009.

3. My Shopping Bags

The contents of my carrier bags were four frozen mice for my pet snake, some coleslaw (which I have recently become addicted to), a copy of Loaded magazine (my hobby during January while I attempt to quit smoking is to buy as many non-porn magazines with naked women as possible), and an item of undisclosed women's clothing (an unwanted Christmas present I was returning to a store for my mom). All innocent items, but in my head I figured if my ex found out what I was carrying, within minutes there would be rumors flying around that I dress up like a woman to masturbate while tucking in to a nice mouse salad.

Suddenly I realized about 15 seconds had past and I still hadn't turned around. She had also said my name again. I wondered if I could get away with pretending I was my brother. Or a Mexican. Or Prince. Then I felt someone grab my elbow and spin me around before I had had time to compose a "cool" face, so I actually had my mouth hanging open. Great start.

"Hi Tom."

"Hi Rachel."

"How are things?"

"Really great. You? Did you have a good Christmas?"

"Yeah it was good. What are you doing in town?"

"Uhh, just hitting the sales." (I am an extraordinary good liar.)

"Us too. Oh Tom, this is Doug."

"Hi, how you doing?"

What followed was the strongest handshake ever performed as we both tried to out masculine each other. Clearly, all he was thinking about was the fact that I used to dip my wick in his girlfriend, so he had to look better than me at all costs. All I was thinking was, "Please don't notice the t-shirt," and, "I really need to get home before these mice defrost."

Anyway, after the handshake I said I really had to be going and sped off, thinking I had gotten away with the aforementioned three things before realizing I now looked like the sort of guy who just likes browsing key shops without buying anything. Because if I ever do lose my keys I really want to be sure what model I would get. Maybe a nice silver one with a rounded hilt.

Once I got home that night I had an email from my ex (we blocked each other on Facebook to help the breakup). It went as follows:

Hellooo You,

Was great to bump into you today. Sorry if things were a bit awkward between you and Doug. Just thought it would be worse not saying anything as he has seen pics of you and stuff so knows who you are.

Cannooott believe you still wear that t-shirt I bought you. So many memories from back then. Do you still think of me when you wear it? We should really meet up for dinner soon! Notice you still haven't learned to shave properly lolz!!!!!

Also I never knew you liked coleslaw. Sorry for being nosy I just could see it through your shopping bag.

Anyways I gotta go. Doug is cooking me dinner, then we're going to watch a show in the city. Give my love to all your little friends.

Ciao for now!

Rachel
Xx

I simply emailed back the following:

I can't believe I ever went out with someone who spells hello with three O's.

I would love to go out for dinner with you but unfortunately I'm currently on a diet consisting solely of baby mice and coleslaw to help me overcome my porn and transvestite addiction.

Ciao for now!
Tooom

(There are 3 comments available on the full site version of this article)

The Ugly Truth: Childhood Films Through Adult Eyes

Matthew Chard — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 16:33:11 -0500

Article by Matthew Chard

When I kissed a girl for the first time it seemed like the most magically passionate moment anyone could possibly experience. Looking back on it, though, I realize that dancing around a school disco in an emptied gymnasium while Boyz II Men played in the background isn't exactly the pinnacle of romance.

Yes, hindsight can be a cruel mistress at times, and unfortunately, this phenomenon extends beyond slow-dancing with a boner, and into the world of movies. Films that seemed great when we were kids, chowing down Fruit Loops or trying to masturbate in privacy, can seem less than stellar when watched through cruel adult eyes. To illustrate this point, I decided recently to re-watch a random collection of much-loved movies from my childhood and teenage years, and compare my current opinions to my thoughts upon original viewing.

Now that I have finished watching my childhood being repeatedly jizzed on by the modern world, here are the results.

Batman

Child: Batman is awesome, even if he doesn't have Robin helping him like on TV.

Adult: Michael Keaton plays Bruce Wayne as if he's Ross from Friends. I also find it hard to ignore that Batman is hooking up with Eminem's mom from 8 Mile.

Milo and Otis

Child: An amazing story of friendship and survival.

Adult: I am confident that at least 48 small and adorable animals must have died while making this film.

The Wizard of Oz

Child: Midgets + flying monkeys + cyborg woodsman with an axe = epic win.

Adult: A cinematic classic, even if after reading Alan Moore's Lost Girls I find I can't watch it without picturing Dorothy getting bummed by the Tinman while jerking off a horse.

The Dark Crystal

Child: A fantastic fantasy film as exciting as it is scary.

Adult: I can clearly see the puppet's strings, yet this movie still scares the crap out of me. I'm positive that the Skeksis are somehow responsible for plotting Jim Henson's death.

Superman 4

Child: Yay, another Superman movie!

Adult: Superman's primary villain is an orange-skinned man in a black leotard, whose main form of attack is scratching. On the upside, at least Supes doesn't have a kid.

Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade

Child: Archaeology kicks ass.

Adult: A fun movie, but signs of the crapulence to come in Indy 4 do raise their heads from time to time. Whilst it is not up there with nuking the fridge, taking down Nazi fighter planes with an umbrella and a flock of seagulls isn't exactly cinematic gold either.

Labyrinth

Child: A great film, but goblins scare the hell out of me.

Adult: A great film, but David Bowie's codpiece scares the hell out of me.

Batman Returns

Child: Penguin is creepy. Catwoman is sexy. Batman is back!

Adult: It is ironic that the film is called Batman Returns when Batman appears in it for about three minutes and fifteen seconds. I will admit to rubbing one out over Michelle Pfeiffer, though.

Home Alone

Child: Being left at home by myself would be the best thing ever.

Adult: In fairness, I probably would have left McCauley Culkin behind, too (then given Michael Jackson his address and a six-pack of Hard Lemonade).

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Child: One of my favorite cartoons is now a live-action movie! Cowabunga!

Adult: Fuck you, Vanilla Ice.

Ghostbusters

Child: Who you gonna call? Ghostbusters!

Adult: The effects may have dated, as has Sigourney Weaver's perm, but Ghostbusters remains a brilliant film. I currently await Dan Ackroyd making a third film in the franchise without Bill Murray, and sodomizing my precious memories in the process.

E.T.

Child: "Penis Breath" is the best insult of all time.

Adult: A great family film with some real heart-warming moments. Just don't talk to me about the Atari game (worst. Birthday present. Ever).

Watership Down

Child: Look at all the cute fluffy AAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!

Adult: AAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

Willow

Child: I love midgets.

Adult: If Ron Howard made another Willow film then the world might be spared another crappy Dan Brown adaption. Two birds with one stone, really.

Batman Forever

Child: Batman and Jim Carrey in the same movie; what could possibly go wrong?

Adult: Quite a lot, actually.

Jurassic Park

Child: Dinosaurs go crazy and kill a bunch of people, including one who is sitting on a toilet. This movie needs a sequel.

Adult: May have been very wrong with my calls for a sequel. Making Newman one of your main characters in an action movie was probably something of a misstep, too (seriously, did anyone else get a Nedry action-figure for Christmas that year?).

Jumanji

Child: Best board game ever.

Adult: You know you've done something wrong when you make a Robin Williams movie and he isn't the hairiest character in it.

The Nutty Professor

Child: Eddie Murphy plays a bunch of fat people and farts a lot. Comedy gold.

Adult: I miss Dave Chappelle. For that matter, what the hell happened to Eddie Murphy? I personally blame the Spice Girls.

Independence Day

Child: Aliens come to Earth and Will Smith totally kicks their pesky asses.

Adult: Actually, Jeff Goldblum kicks their pesky asses. With a Mac. That's somehow compatible with their alien spaceships. Steve Jobs really was ahead of the game.

Street Fighter

Child: My favorite video game becomes a feature film, with all the best characters being represented. You're going down, Bison!

Adult: Quick, change ze channel!

Demolition Man

Child: Stallone versus Snipes in a futuristic battle royale. Bring it on.

Adult: Whenever I watch this film I imagine a Hollywood producer flicking through a copy of Brave New World. "Hey, this book has some cool ideas, but you know what would make the story really good..."

Mortal Kombat

Child: Wow, this is even better than Street Fighter.

Adult: Turns out a lot of things are better than Street Fighter (e.g. terminal syphilis).

Armageddon

Child: If an asteroid does ever head for Earth then I hope a group of badasses like Bruce Willis and his gang can be found in time.

Adult: In this film Ben Affleck puts an animal cracker down Steve Tyler's daughter's underwear. After that, it is hard to really care about anything anymore.

Star Wars Episode 1: The Phantom Menace

Child: Star Wars is back! And it's...well it's, um...

Adult: Dear God no.

The Sixth Sense

Child: Oh my God, Bruce Willis is a ghost!

Adult: Oh my God, this was directed by the guy who made The Last Airbender!

The Matrix

Child: A stunningly original film that makes one question his own reality.

Adult: A film ripped off from Japanese anime and underground comic books that makes me question how the douches fucked it up so hard in the sequels.

Batman and Robin

Child: Wow, another Batman film. This time with Arnie in it. I guess this should be pretty sweet....

Adult: *Brain explodes*

(There are 3 comments available on the full site version of this article)

The Shallow Decline of Today's Woman

James Boulstridge — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 05:07:58 -0500

Article by James Boulstridge

Human women are the most emotionally, mentally, and physically weak species on the planet. To overcompensate for past suppressions, they've been given the freedom to do anything and get away with it. Basically put, we have a shitstorm on our hands. I'm just saying, if you gave superpowers to an 80-pound college kid aiming to go pro, he wouldn't use them to excel within the ranks of NBA stardom.

And then there was rape. So much rape.

You see, women hate other people. Their thought processes are too convoluted with all the things wrong with who they are, and this competitive psychology effectively renders any equality between them and anyone else obsolete. Women hate men for paternal issues and the drive to feel relevant by fighting a battle long since concluded. Women hate other women because today's ideal of what a woman should be is a suffocating mess that propels such rivalry.

It's the insecurity and desire for everything not anchored to the floor that makes women generally restless, unhappy, and likely to fuck up your shit.Our civilized ways tell them that they need to be preening all the time, and their basic animal nature greenlights the idea because the world is governed by the hot pieces of snatch out there. The shallow principles of men have guided us to this point (yup, we'll take that one on the chin), but do today's women not have enough self-respect to abstain from destroying everything in their wake simply because they've been denied something they want at one particular moment in their lives?

If women wanted equality, they would give more blowjobs and help rid the world of war, famine, financial instability, and our own sense of doom over an impending mortality. But we're denied any of those outcomes for the perception of them being whores. Or, more accurately, for all the material possessions they could have were men to reach the point of tearing our hair out for sweet friction against the glans.

Dave for president.A friend of mine who you would call an old-age pensioner (if you wanted to find yourself picking teeth off the floor) has lived the life when it comes to women. When you're on a military salary, and bed well over a hundred women in your lifetime, you know a thing or two. One thing he has stood by to this day when talking about how he doesn't understand women (he's 73 now and dating a 30-year-old—I'm not making this shit up) is that back in the 60's and 70's, you could go out and be guaranteed to get laid. Women were more principled back then, more genuine, and they realized that if they started to rebel after we'd just given them their freedom, well then it'd be "back to the dungeons with you."

These days women feel justified in being dishonest and manipulative for the sake of squeezing the most out of the men fawning over them. It's a case of scrutinous selection processes and as much hoarding as possible before they get too old for someone to want to fuck them. Whatever happened to us being caring, considerate, funny, good with our hands, and creative, like having mad Photoshop skillz? Instead, once the knot is tied, they set to work changing who we are. It's the thought that "if you loved me...", "if you wanted me to be happy...", "you never grow up...", "you're thinking about your mother when we're having sex again, aren't you..." all equates to: "Gimme loadsa shit!"

This guy set the bar, the bastard.

In an age where beauty is increasingly seen as the peak of our genetic fitness instead of, erm, intelligence and stuff, women are feeling uglier as the demands thrust upon them become ever more unrealistic. Men have to become progressively more "appropriate" when statistically so many women are unsatisfied with their physique, not least of all the various traits of their genitalia we find so alluring.

Nothing wrong here.

The one thing that'd make us infinitely happier in life is denied to us so that we cough up what makes women reach the same euphoria. Pussy is consequently becoming the new gold currency, a means for control in a world where men are being devalued so that women can feel more attractive. The two compartments to a woman's brain, "the attention I'm getting" and "the attention I want," are always at war to form a clusterfuck wrecking ball of demon nightmares that drains everything out of a man willing to endure.

It's the insecurity and desire for everything not anchored to the floor that makes women generally restless, unhappy, and likely to fuck up your shit. Men let them get away with it because suggesting to women that they're not the most equilibrated of individuals is to not fuck them.

That's why I urge you to fight fire with fire. Combat their vaginally-driven verbal outbursts by slapping them in the face with your dick. Not hard. That would be abusive. Just a gentle-to-moderate "BOOF!" across the mouth.

Boof aftermath.

Unfortunately, women are so incapable of standing up for what they believe in to the point of no longer being admired. Their contingency plan to having someone stand up to them will involve limiting conversations to those from whom they're guaranteed a backing. So it's all phony smiles and fake hellos until you're out of the room, out of earshot, out of state, and on a plane to an international destination, then...

Let the games begin.

Being entitled to everything has taught them to be fickle with anything. What do women want? Let's implement the train of thought that nobody cares until they're certain themselves. Women can say whatever they want and alter it to coincide with whatever radically fluctuating emotional state they're experiencing at any given time.

Once a month they near reproductive fitness and begin to conspire towards mankind's downfall with thoughts of all those baby shower gifts, and as men we're being taught to bend to it. Women this dependent on reassurance and security run rampant due to their lack of understanding of what makes them tick.

What do you mean not any more? OH HOW CON-VENIENT!

We should encourage them to mean what they say and do, or at least accommodate our misunderstanding of their behavior, without making us feel we're walking a psychological minefield. Today, there is an uncertain cross between rejecting the pussy and fiercely worshipping it, tailored to a pinball emotional spectrum. Any wrongfooting scores your brother's cock in her mouth and your victory prize a half-hearted handjob without spittle for lube.

Ladies, we think linearly: nothing's going to change, least of all spitting vinegar into our eyeballs then crying tears when we misunderstand a zigzag approach to a goal we could reach in half the time and none of the thought. Our linear misdemeanors can be broken down into that one moment of pure ecstasy we're endlessly trying to achieve. Here's a hint, it's not Sunday's game...

Yes, men think with their dicks, but when we're aroused, we think of nothing but where we'd like it to go. Women think just as much with their vaginas. Who is worthy enough to plough the field and who can stay awake long enough after ejaculation to hear about all the bills that haven't been paid. Women know that what lies in their panties is a psychological weapon more potent than Sarin gas.

The effects are much the same.

Is a vagina really worth all the hassle? Allow me to provide the alternative: a shortcut to fucking every single woman in the room without having to commit. We already have a fairly good idea of what it looks like by her facial structure. I think the ears and cheeks represent the labia majora and minora, respectively, the nose the clitoral hood, the tip of the nose the clitoris (obviously), and the mouth the fleshpot (the bit we're interested in).

Want to know the trim job? Just take a look at the nape of her neck and say you're looking for a diamond necklace to accentuate the back of her ear lobes. Alternatively, you could say, "Diamond necklace! I want to see how your flesh pouch's fur lining will insulate my testicles." Any words after "diamond necklace" will become a jumble within the recesses of her braingasm.

Come on fella, you're going to lose all of your friends over what's essentially olive oil, warmed rice, a sock, some sticky-googly eyes, a plastic bag, an elastic band and an inability to look yourself in the mirror for a couple of days. And before you ask...

This much love.

Love, respect, kindness, devotion, honesty—all earned. Encourage women to represent their gender appropriately as the thoughtful human beings they're supposed to be instead of the loud-mouthed idiots they've become. Their sex does not a good woman make. Yeah they're beautiful, but seems to me we're allowing them to vent hot air out of the pussy for flying higher and mightier than the rest of the world.

(There are 3 comments available on the full site version of this article)