<p><strong>1) The prostitutes are REAL. PEOPLE.</strong></p> <p>And real <em>women</em>, to boot! I think. Now that I'm looking back on it, I can't be sure. I went to a club called Church this Sunday in London and bore witness to what I'm convinced was a post-opp tranny stripper. I'm not hating. I'm just realizing now that I have no evidence to prove that any of the Red Light District strippers a la Amsterdam were actual ladies. OR actual people! How can I be sure they're not robotic, bikini-clad orifices regulated by one big control room in the Dutch capital building!!? </p>
<p>Today I’m prefacing my lecture with a little story about my friend Tim, your standard “nice guy”. One day, Tim was walking into a building, and being the nice guy he is, he held the door for a person walking in closely behind him. Shortly after, another person came along, and Tim held the door for this person, too.
<p>I knew this girl once. She used to write blogs on a college humor website. She liked doing it a lot, but then she got really, really lazy. She stopped writing. She quit shaving her legs. And then she got eaten by a shark.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I need to air a grievance. It’s not that I don’t like Ashlee Simpson; her music is kind of catchy albeit mediocre and she looks rather cute after that rhinoplasty. And I’m not completely averted to Pete Wentz even though Fallout Boy kind of totally sucks. You know what? I actually don’t like Ashlee Simpson or Pete Wentz at all. </p>
<p>Here is a mantra by which I like to live my life: There is a difference between disorganized and disgusting; piles and loose papers are messy but at least they're germ-free, old food and bodily fluids are fucking nasty, I don't care how nicely your bed is made, you better clean that shit up. (OK, it's not that refined of a mantra.
<p>It's another Photo of the Week, the feature where I try to compensate for shitty photos that didn't make Facebook by explaining them. Have I lost you already? </p><p>So Halloween is over, and now I'm reflecting on the costume decisions of myself and others. In this meditation, I've come to three conclusions that are crucial in choosing your costume next year. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Let me just preface this by saying that even though I’m about to ask you a series of questions to which I’d appreciate responses peppered with humor, this is NOT the same thing as Casey’s weekly questions. Capiche?
<p>It’s the Bold Statement of the Week, almost guarunteed not to give you rabies. This week’s bold statement: advertising your product with little animals voiced by A-list celebrities. </p>
<p>Hi, everyone. Sorry for the blatant lapse in posting as of late. I've been <a href="http://www.thefreemansjournal.com/images/graphics/img5148.jpg">feeling a little hoarse</a>, the cause of which can be traced back to a few weeks ago when I attended a prom themed party and danced with a Gay named Milton. Sounds like a good story, huh?
<p>It's another Photo of the Week, the visual accident I'll post from time to time at which you'll glance briefly, turn away with disinterest, and wonder why you even looked in the first place. This week's photo is entitled, "Close Your Mouth, Dana."</p>
<p>This is a poem I wrote based on an anecdote told by a very, very open professor. So it's not a result of my personal experience. But you know, I can't say I necessarily disagree with her.</p><p>Oh, how I loathe my thong<br />A'nestled deep within my bum,<br />I can't retrieve it out of there,<br />It chafes me when I run!</p>
<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s so great to be back in the Bronx. I’ve moved into my apartment with five other girls, and everything is just ducky. But as you might expect, with so many females in one space, there needs to be some type of basic structure to prevent the estrogen from causing an urban sonic boom.