Baby Bear (Early Tuesday Post)

I don't recall exactly when it was first expressed around me, this odd colloquial phrasing to express perfection in balance, a childhood reference I never particularly enjoyed for the glaring plotholes and inconsistencies inherent in fairy tales. Yet now, now I see the beauty in it. The rapture. The sheer excellence and harmony in simplicity.

Baby Bear.


Hey, Bob, how was your day? Pretty hot out, wasn't it?
Naw, dude, everything was baby bear.

Hey, Ted, they screw up the margarita recipe again?
Nope. It's just baby bear.

Jesus Christ, Antonio! I heard your kid fell into the grisly pit at the zoo! Is she hurt??
No, she's all baby bear.

Baby Bear - adj. cls. Descriptor for a situation that is just right; perfect in every way; neither too hot nor too cold, too big nor too small, too hard nor too soft, but always and even ineffably perfect without over-achieving. It's all very Zen.

Ex: The right mattress; your favorite pair of gray sweatpants with the pockets and the drawstring and that little food stain you don't exactly remember the nature of; Mila Kunis.

Now go, children. Go to your FaceSpaces and your MyBooks and your Twattlers and make this happen. When the next person asks you how your day was, tell them it was baby bear. If nothing huge happened but you were completely content with what you did and are enjoying what life offers to you every day in the form of a sweet-smelling breeze and a few tumbling leaves, I bid you, tell them all your day was baby bear.

On Jason Segel

I often wonder if Jason Segel really enjoys the band Rush so much he tries to get it inserted into any project he's working on. "How I Met Your Mother," "Freaks and Geeks," I Love You, Man, Forgetting Sarah Marshal. Granted, I don't think his 3 lines in Say Anything gave him a lot of pull in the writer's room, but still it makes me wonder.

And then I wonder how weird that is and I'm not sure I'd really want to hang out with him.

On Man Law

My friends, and experience today has left me cold, the knowledge that our primal urges and behaviors have in fact not been tempered by the Man Law (or more recently "Bro Code," which we will discourage because it tacitly empowers those who identify as 'bros').

Despite what some hit shows entering their 5th season on ABC might have you believe, Man Law does not have a proper code of conduct established for every behavior, if only because as men we have the startling ability to continuously find new and horrible things to do to each other that remain utterly hilarious.

Case in point:

Earlier today I had an IM conversation with a friend of mine. This friend happens to posses ovaries whereas I, like her significant other, have testes. Note this, as I will make reference to it later on.

Now this conversation ended with the invitation to continue via text message if I so desired, to which I replied that I was pretty done, but would be open to such pleasantries. Now several hours later I had gone out to eat and gone food shopping and picked up a very useful text down at the book store, so I was in a fairly good mood and filled with a sense of accomplishment. Deciding to spread this joy, I texted this friend a photo I snapped a few weeks ago of my cat, sitting on my bed and absolutely mesmerized by Aqua Teen Hunger Force on my TV. Adorable.

Now shortly after this happened I ended up having a very long conversation with a person actually sitting next to me, so I understandably forgot about the message for a while. This ultimately led to my surprise when I received a message back. A picture message, no less.

Now if you recall, I mentioned that both I and my friend's sig-oth both are in possession of testes. I know this because the image I received (not reproduced here) depicted in a grainy, out-of-focus manner two hanging, shriveled gonads and what I assume to be an elastic waistband and probably part of a thumb.

The Dilemma

Now I'll be honest. I have seen so called "stag" films. I have taken biology class. I am the proud owner of two myself so, yes, I am familiar with what balls look like. Granted, the photo was very poorly taken but considering the job at hand I'm actually rather impressed with the lighting.

Irrespective, I find myself in a bit of a quandary. There is know real well-known procedure in Man Law to deal with a bro answering his girlfriend's phone and presumptively texting his junk to said girlfriend's friend.

Closest corollaries: A) A bro answers another bro's phone and performs said action to a third bro or a mutually detested anti-bro, or B) A bro wantonly texts his junk to his girlfriend's girl friend and a tryst and/or screaming match ensues.

So you see, it's just not expected to have a non-bro text you his happy sack from his brah's phone. It's a game-thrower. Your game is thrown. Off-like. Still, it has happened. How does one react?

Plan A: Return the Gauntlet - A challenge has been issued. The non-bro has asserted ownership over a specific vagina and is asserting Alpha status. One may meet this challenge head-on and instantly respond with a more graphic, better shot picture of one's own genitalia, preferably similar but more visually upsetting, in a "one upmanship" maneuver. Appropriate situational response would be all the loose skin from one's scrotum, collected outside a cuped fist and dangled like a fungal node similar to the Toadstool King in the live-action movie version of Super Mario Bros. starring John Leguizamo as young plumber Luigi Mario. This display shows the Alpha Bro that one is an equal to be respected, though not necessarily feared as a rival suitor for the vagoo. Camaraderie is reached through mutual disgusting jokes.

Plan B: Tattle on the Douche - Now this non-bro is clearly a douche, possibly of the bag variety but also possibly merely a douche with an niche-evolved sense of humor. He probably feels threatened by your relationship with his brah, a brohood in its own right that predates their mutual bro-ing out. Since he is obviously a douche, one may not feel very guilty in telling his girlfriend what has transpired. The two possible reasons for this are The blatant and the shady.

• Blatant: "You're boyfriend is a douche. I sent you a pic-msg last night and he answered your phone and shot back a picture of his balls. He doesn't respect me, or you, or the fact that you are capable of having friends outside of his group of people you have repeatedly referred to as "completely retarded assholes' and, oh yeah, he's an admitted Nazi."
• Shady: "Yo, so funny story? I sent you a pic last night on your phone last night, just my cat being adorable? And then I started talking to my mom and I get a text back from you and it takes me a minute to realize that I'm looking at a picture of balls. Yeah, I know, funny right? Anyway I ended up having a conversation with [REDACTED BRO NAME] about how I was familiar with the sight and he thought I wasn't enough and yeah, so, funny right?"

Now the first option is pretty out of proportion. It is not in one's duty to dictate the lives of others, especially bros because if we help bros then they will never die out via natural selection and we'll have to keep giving the Darwin Awards out every year.

However, option two is now better. Yes, if you can detach from the situation a bit you will find that it is in fact truly hilarious as a moment. You just have to get past every social dictum that's violated by impromptu testicular exposure. Funny. Ha. Yes. This is a move of the defined Anti-Bro

Yet even this option is actually a veiled version of option one. It's a round-about way of saying "You're boyfriend is an ass who treats you like an empty bag of corn chips," but denying one's own belief in this absolute fact, relying on She Who Sleeps With The Accused to come to this same conclusion despite how okay with it one seems to be. This is the move of the Shady Bro.


So which of these plans of attack have I subscribed to? Well, I completely didn't even think of one-upping the bastard until hours later because despite his suspicions I really don't have aims towards his vagina. I know, I realized how good it was then, too. However after much debate I was approached by another Male, whom I trust is a brilliant fellow and just inebriated enough to give perfect uninhibited advice, and we had a quorum. We agreed that the best course of action was simply to file this tidbit of information away in the ol' noggin and let my brah handle it because it's her problem, and eventually she will learn of her bro's habits. Unfortunately, I actually can detach from the situation and I really find it very funny, and I know she would too so it's ind of killing me like the best joke I could tell but OOPS NO IT MIGHT VIOLATE SOME KIND OF TRUST IN GIRL WORLD and of course that leads to yelling in the real world which leads to little Adolf going all blitzkrieg on my ass and attacking Broland after the invasion of Czechbroslovakia.

So I might be able to hold this information for a while yet. Still publishing it on the internet and telling all my friends, but I think I can go without tattling on the prick. Besides, dude's packin' an overnight bag instead of suitcase, if you know what I mean.




















(Please note: this is an entirely different variety of douchebag than previously delt with, a Brous Maximus, but is still hilarious.)

When It Happens to Other People, Sure

Tonight I had dinner with my father, my stepmother, and my too younger half-brothers. It was the littler one's 14th birthday. We ate at a fancy Italian restaurant and I finally got to have real veal and I even tried a bite of ostrich, which was awesome because I imagine you slaughter ostriches by burying some bear traps in sand and then chasing them around the yard with a stick, yelling and screaming all the way.

Anyway, the birthday boy complained that he hardly ever can contact me because he had to switch AIM accounts and he stopped receiving updates from me on Facebook. I kindly informed him that this was because I defriended his punk ass because I didn't want my family reading and commenting on all the crass and hateful shit I post (usually about them).

Our father found this very amusing, I mean laugh heartily with a full belly hilarious.

That was of course until I said, "Oh yeah and you," and his grin dropped like acid at a Phish concert. Shocked, wounded, limping, he asked how I could do such a thing and I again replied that I defriended all but a few family members and that it is highly inappropriate for a parent to Facebook friend their children anyway, though he did not enjoy this. I must, however, point out that my stepmother, who usually hates me and everything about me with a gusto exclusively reserved for racist Southern folk in social progress nominees for Best Picture of the Year, thought this was the funniest thing to happen all night, and keep in mind she had already (jokingly) threatened to "fucking kill" me if I corrupted her little boy with cheerleaders like the birthday card I gave him suggested. [Side note: the cheerleaders were male, in leather and that was not just "kill" but "fucking kill" which we all know hurts way more.]

Yes, you know you slayed the audience when the person who hates you is laughing her ass off and the last thing your father says to you as you drive off in the dark and rain is "Yeah, fuck you, buddy."

Awesome.

On Basketball

Since my dear friend Bryan Haas has taken tonight as an opportunity to break away from his usual sports blogging to talk about something serious, like baseball.

Well not to be upstaged, tonight I shall be sharing with you my revolutionary theories on the third most-American sport, basketball.


Now to begin, I would like to point out that I may appear biased in this tirade. Yes, dear readers, I was by birth technically a Jewish child and thus I am incapable of playing basketball, dancing without lifting chairs over my head and paying full retail price for anything. Yes, the only way you'll catch me at a Lakers game is if A) I was invited and couldn't get out of it, B) was given tickets I could not scalp or C) I have recently purchased the team straight-up cash.

But I am not the petty man I may seem. No, I have caused my share of upsets in high school's Knock-Out games. (Possibly the lowest time in gym class history: when children actually WANTED to play dodgeball.) More importantly, I have in fact drawn all attention into a chaotic room to myself before demanding respect and calling a perfectly executed lob toss in Beer Pong while yelling the requisite baritone "KOBE!" Clearly, I am no provincial man.


So yes, basketball. These are my beliefs on basketball:

1. It really does go on too long
2. The scoring is ridiculous
3. Improvement in the caliber of the average player has made the game too easy

Now all of these points actually stand together. The foremost and the latter inevitably lead to the middle issue. Think about it. When a game scored by ones, twos and the occasional three routinely ends with both teams reaching triple-digit tallies something has gone horribly wrong.

I will not argue this. I will also not claim that "only the last 15 minutes are important." That's far too arbitrary. I would just as soon suggest subtracting all points scored within randomly generated spans of time roughly equal to three-fourths of the game. Every moment is important. Do I merely suggest fewer moments. No, because frankly I would not want to watch less than 60 minutes of a game anyway.

So how do we fix this? The players can easily score 100 points in 60 minutes, but we cannot reduce the length of a game. The obvious solution?


Making It Harder to Score

Sheer brilliance!

Stage 1: Raising the Hoop - At least 25%. This is just common sense. Basketball players used to be 5'9". They also used to not allow "coloured folk" in the gyms, but as was the case then, sometimes change is needed. Taller, more athletic players means the game needs to be retooled for a more competitive show. "But, Dave," you ask, "isn't that too unfair? I mean the hoop isn't much bigger than the ball! Shooting higher isn't realistic!" Well, I'm right there with you. We need to compensate the compensation.

Stage 2: Biggering the Hoop - Yeah, obviously the target has to be bigger if we're moving it farther a way and throwing the same sized projectile at it by hand. I'm not a monster. Think something around the scale of a smallish hula hoop. Something very young children might have.
"But, Dave!" I hear you cry again, and frankly it's getting fucking annoying, "Have you not stolen all the fun from the sport? Is scoring now not harder and less frequent?" And again I say I am thirty-seven steps ahead of you.

Stage 3: Slamball Wasn't All Bad - Remember when they tried to legitimize those crazy engineering frat boys who built a basketball court with trampolines and beat the hell out of each other flying through the air? Yeah, I didn't know what it was really called either. Thank you, Google. Anyway, in spicing up the old sport they actually had the right idea. What we need to do is make basketball harder, but more exciting. I propose not going the way of the Natty Ice drinkers, but the route of the ancient Mesoamericans who basically invented the game that became both basketball and lacrosse. And kinda soccer. They were kind of awesome.

No, we shall not kill the losing team (or their captain, not even on special holidays, Like the Final Four). What we will do is reintroduce a primal and dangerous quality to the game. WE SHALL SET THE HOOPS ABLAZE. WITH FIRE. I'm serious. Increase hoop diameter 30%, raise hoop height 25%, then set the sucker on fire. HOW IS THIS NOT AWESOME. You can't tell me. Because it is. WHAT. NOW.

The trampolines in the floors I've given up on.


For those interested, my new project is tackling exactly the opposite problems of low scores and desensitizingly copious amounts of violence, that last haven of white sportsmanship since Tiger Woods broke the color barrier associated with actually caring about golf: hockey.

A Toast to Ted Kennedy

Here's to Ted Kennedy!

Raise your glasses, everyone. I didn't know the man, and what few positions of his I was aware of I disagreed with, and to be frank I really could not care less about his death one way or the other, one less old rich white man disagreeing with the guys I agree with, I guess.

BUT ANY REASON TO DRINK, AM I RIGHT, TED!?

On Caddyshack: A Running Commentary by Dave Zucker and the indomitable Bryan Haas

Bryan Haas is the Brosef Goebbels to my Martin Broman. His blogs can be found at TotalHaastility and the Bleacher Report. Nerd.

Dave: Alright, that woman's vagina has to look like a Japanese subway station by now.

Bryan: Imagine if they were all the same age? Her placenta would have looked like the back of an entertainment center.

B: Do you ever think that Chevy Chase would like to build a time machine, and go back to this time period so that he could kill himself because it was never going to get any better for him? That's of course contingent upon Chevy Chase having enough money to build a time machine.

D: He and Steve Martin would pool their resources. With a loan from Eddie Murphy.

B: Maybe a little Dan Aykroyd too?

D: I was gonna say that.

B: Where the hell is he now? He might work at the new Sonic in Binghamton.

D: Writing the next Ghostbusters movie

B: Ah, I like that more.

D: It's CGI with the entire original cast voicing. Brooklyn goes to hell. Literally.

B: I like it.

D: You are a fool.

B: Clearly. I'm going to be like Bill Murray and just carry around a pitchfork.

D: But would you wear a little red jumpsuit and hooded cape?

B: Do I have the abs for that?

D: No. DAMNIT MRS. HAVERCAMP!

B: What a scrumptious piece she is, huh?

D: Dude, expensive though. I could buy like 4 or 5 Cokes for her price.

B: I'm more of a Pepsi man myself … Judge Smales. Tremendous slouch.

D: That reminds me, I still have ticket's to Dangerfield's in the city. Gotta get on that … I feel like no one ever says "That'll never happen" and immediately cause it. We're too well trained now.

B: I want a golf bag with a radio. But it can only play Journey.

D: Why would it need to play anything else?

B: A little Men at Work would be acceptable.

D: Hey, Maggie, clearly wants to do Danny in the freezer at work tonight.

B: Sperm is more potent at lower temperatures. Maybe that's why she thinks she's knocked up later in the film.

D: Oh, I always thought it was because they were dumb promiscuous potato peelers. [Note: this is a JOKE. I am Irish and I absolutely adore my retarded Mick brethren.]

B: She is an Irish Whore.

D: A HOOR YOU SAY!?

B: I'm going to start dressing like Rodney Dangerfield in this movie. I could pull that off.

D: If I follow you around as your Asian investor Wong … OH! Little-known fact: the only good varmint pootang is actually sheep poontang. Pig is also acceptable.

B: Compelling stuff … Let's go to bullfights on acid.

D: It's very urban Hemmingway. Very appealing.

B: My guinea pig's name is Hemingway.

D: I've been meaning to get an all-gray smoosh-faced cat and name him Melville … I have never seen a man act so cool in a speedo and actually succeed.

B: It was the 80's.

D: You know that actor was a violent anti-smoker and was up to a pack-a-day by the end of filming?

B: Really? What a random fact.

D: Hey, this is a commentary. Gotta have SOME stupid trivia.

B: I'm sincerely upset by the fact that Chevy Chase has more hair than I do. And that ain't saying much.

D: Does he still? I'm fairly certain he transformed into Kevin Nealon in the mid-80s.

B: Wow, that is spot-on. And correct

D: It's like the Last Supper of Comedy. He thought we wouldn't notice. And no one did.

B: Well, until you Dave. Which really doesn't shock me.

D: I stopped watching Weeds 2 eps into season 3 because of it.

B: See, I enjoy that show. But it's just the prospect of seeing Mary Louise Parker naked that keeps me coming back for more. Or maybe it's not wanting to see Elizabeth Perkins naked. Either way.

D: I just got too busy and stopped caring. I can see her naked on the internet. You can see everyone naked on the internet.

B: Even [REDACTED (male coworker)]. Yes, I've looked. Ok, not really.

D: Aaaahh… now I just pictured them doing it and it was more awkward than my parents.


[A portion here has been redacted because it involves very harsh criticisms of the love-making style of certain former coworkers who utterly failed to keep their awful relationship secret. Also Bryan Haas said he wanted to break off a piece of Judge Smales.]


B: Strange thing about this movie, I had never seen it in it's entirety until last Fall. Criminal, I know.

D: …and they let you do a commentary on it.


[We herein devolved into a discussion of Wiffleball. Watch this instead: Caddyshack in 30 Seconds: With Bunnies. Good night, sex weasels of the internet.]

On Continuity

My friends are planning a wiffleball league for those of use who have graduated/live in town full time this coming Fall.

We will be playing at least most of the time on the same court we played a decade ago.

I envision significantly more aches and pains, though. Hopefully no osteoporosis yet.

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On Growing Up 2: The Growening

There are some days when you realize just how old you've become. Other days you laugh and laugh and laugh.

Tonight I have completely and perfectly by accident stumbled upon a photo of my friends from high school, in our high school gym mind you, posted to 4chan's "Hardcore" discussion board in a "jailbait" thread.

Now let me stress, this is hilarious. These are people I have broken bread with. Quite literally in some instances. And I can attest that when this image was taken, these girls were indeed what is referred to as "jailbait," so yes, you should feel a little bad about yourself.

When we were in school together we debated who would be most likely be in a porno. We then decided that the vertical girl at center was most likely to accidentally appear on a porn site. Incredibly enough this is the second time this picture has popped up on the porn radar, just the first time I found out about it first. I was not lucky enough to catch who posted it but that's the whole point of anonymity I guess. Still, the fact that someone pulled this off and I happened to be wondering through is hilarious. I mean the odds are just staggeringly stacked against it. Wow.
Yes, my friends, we truly live in the best and worst of times.

On The Japanese

The Japanese - pl n. People native to the islands of Japan; Creators of giant robots; The Universe's living generator or Rule 34 in real life.

On Friendship

Friendship, true friendship, is being called at 1 a.m. on a relatively idle Friday after waking up at 2:30 p.m. and not showering or really doing anything all day, and then being told to come to a crazy party.

Friendship is then arriving and being told to look like you're leaving and then park in the shadows and waiting to have someone sent out for you, being greeted by two friends, one urinating and one excitedly telling you that their is some random girl inside who got incredibly excited when she realized she knew you and quote: "Wants to stick her finger in your ass."

Yes, dear readers, real friendship is hanging out and playing beer pong for an hour without anyone winning, calling the game quits and then ragging on your INCREDIBLY OBVIOUSLY INDUBITABLY GAY COUSIN all night long, and convincing your hot former coworker and her hot friend that, yes, because of that gay cousin you are now her hot friend's ex-step-second-cousin-in-law, while performing the mental balancing act of who you really wanna sleep with more. Also, it's watching the end of Death to Smoochy on cable when everyone leaves the party proper.

Indeed, friendship is a wonderful thing. At least it was tonight. Tomorrow, friendship will likely be a the bottom of Jergins and a box of tissues. Or a puppy. Either/or.

On Poker

When I play poker I don't consider it losing money so much as I consider it paying for the privilege of playing against incredibly lucky stupid fucking assholes who don't know shit about cards and have whores for mothers.

Also, we have some pretty funny conversations. But mostly the first thing.

On Moderation

There's a legitimate theory that all civilization might have developed from nomadic hunter-gatherers forcing themselves to settle down in one place for a while in order to purposefully ferment local grains into proto-beer.

$10 says whoever thought this up was high at the time.

On Maturity

I am a graduated college Magna Cum Laude with a BA in English, Creative Writing, hnors and a Phi Beta Kappa induction.

And still I wish just one of these papers was my certification as a "Cunning Linguist."

On Life Goals

I've recently decided that my personal professional success should ideally come before my first major inheritance. I mean in theory it'd really be best if I could prove myself before I land any windfall that will discourage me from a stable job or, y'know, trying.

That said, I've decided to shoot for a relatively local house in one of the few remaining ungentrified shitholes that fest in this, the highest taxed county in the country. Interestingly, this would likely put me in the neighborhood my parents lived in when I was born.

In my mind, I will be inhabiting that very house, the one they owned for a year or so before my birth and for a few years after, though I moved out with my mother soon after by second birthday. Still, because this house was built exactly like 30-40% of all the houses in our area, I have since been in many houses of friends and family whose architects utilized the same floor plans. In short: I still have a fairly good mental picture of this house, as it was twenty-some-odd years ago.

That being said, it is my desire to own that very house, with it's blueberry bush laden backyard frequented by dear and the occasional UFO wafting through the trees. Chiefly, I am interested in how I will furnish this home.

Several years ago I convinced my mother to get black leather furniture, something more many than her previous grey/tan/brown tweed that left seem marks on you face after falling asleep on it. Soon after I was promised/threatened with their official ownership once I had my own place because my mom frankly didn't want such bleak, industrial furniture. SCORE FOR ME!!

Now I have a good number of storage units and boxes and shelves and such, so that's pretty set, but my eventual dream is to occupy an entire bedroom with a queen size bed and furniture and art actually remnisciant of an adult. There will not be toys in my bedroom.

Those will all go on one side of my home office, that way if I get really stuck I can just spin around in my chair and be all WAKATCHAAAAA!!!! with my Nerf guns. Shit yeah.

On Low Fat Yogurt

Okay, disregarding for the moment that I've yet to see any yogurt that actually has lots of fat, this healthy yogurt trend is starting to piss me off. I mean first of all that's like the tiniest container of yogurt I've ever seen. I buy my yogurt by the tub, by the liter if I have to. Even the old little fruit-on-the-bottom cups are like twice the size.

Now I'm a firm believer in a true, eaten serving being about 1.5 times the suggested serving, so just plan accordingly but with how small these new containers are even worse, they're skinnier at the top than at the bottom and there's even a little lip on top so you can't scoop out what's left at the end. I'm not surprised people lose weight eating them; they're physically starving to death trying to scoop out the last dregs of Silky Joy Orgasm Brand faux-imitation soy-based low acid non-lactose low fat processed digestive preventative vitamin -gurt.

Me? I empty about a half quart of vanilla yogurt into a bowl and toss chunks of fruit in it until I grow bored of watching the waves and craters I make pretending to be God hucking meteors at yogurt-based dinosaur life. Then I add fruity granola mixes and/or a crumbled granola bar that expired two months back and maybe some chocolate.

Then I eat that and cry for the next few hours as it dawns on me that I'm slowly losing the ability to digest dairy with age.

Bonus Thought: On Growing Older 2

Since I'm continuously surprised by how young many of my friends and relatives are, I can TOTALLY see how adults used to look at me and be like, "You're old enough to drink now right? No? Oh, well. How embarrassing. Guess I'll hav...e to drink this extra beer now."

Hmmm, actually, this might be a good excuse to drink more myself. This could explain a lot, really.

On Getting A Mental Image

I was eating a mandarin orange fruit cup when I remembered that sometimes while eating an orange it'll occur to me how much orange slices, broken open and with their fibrous meat exposed, resembles a writhing, dying larva of some sort. It disgusts me. Frankly, more than one orange has gone in the trash for being too fibery, too undelicious to continue forward. I've never had this problem with mandarin oranges, mind you, for they are simply too scrumptious not to devour.

However this got me thinking about mental pictures and how strongly they can affect us. Case in point: imagine a good solid picture of your parents doing it. Yeah. Yeah, that's good. Just your dad all up in your mom from behind, her on all fours and him with one knee up to give that little extra leverage in porkin' his wife good and deep. Oh, and this isn't in their younger days, no. This is right now. They're all old and fat and saggy and they're still goin' at it like rabid weasels humping long into the night covered in sweat and matted fur. Hair and teeth are falling out they're doing it so hard. Yeah, bet you're real upset by that.

Most people hate that image, partly because it's grose to think about but predominantly because we know it's true. Some time in the past, all our parents were in love, or at least far enough in lust to mimic the kinds of creepy, extra-fluidy sex that two people in love will have. It's a disturbing fact, otherwise we wouldn't be here.

Yet I've managed to avoid this horror. How, you ask? It's quite simple. My parents hated each other. Pretty much for their whole marriage. Yes, I was planned and that meant they had to have sex, but luckily my mother's family is INSANELY fertile. I mean with a capital INSANELY. My cousin got knocked up through a condom and the pill. Thank god she started taking prenatals in anticipation of trying to get pregnant later that year, but you see what I mean. My mom's cousin had two kids in three years on one-half of one ovary. We are a resilient gene pool. We will reproduce by mitosis if we have to.

So yes, I was born through a simple osmosis of hate that congealed in a vagina. Luckily for me I happen to know that my mom started sleeping on the pull-out couch before my first birthday and moved out with me just around my second, so it is highly unlikely that there was very much sexification happening during those months. Moreover, I can guarantee that my parents have not had sex in the entire remainder of my life. HUZZAH!!

Of course some people like to point out, "Didn't your dad get remarried?" to which I say "Yeah, but she's a soul-crushing dumb fat whorebitch and they completely deserve each other." Still other people ask, "Wait, hasn't your mom had a boyfriend who's significantly older and heavier-set than your father for nearly two decades now and don't they likely have sex?"

Of course to these people I say "EWW! EWW! FUCKFUCK SHIT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT OF MY HEAD FUCK YOU DIE IN A FIRE LALALALALAA NOT THINKING ABOUT THIS EWW EWW HAPPY THOUGHTS PUPPIES KITTENS MOTHERFUCKING BUNNY RABBITS FOR CHRIST'S SAKE BUNNY RABBITS."

Of Poor Choices 2

There's this little time around 3 a.m. where a little voice in your head tells you, "Dude, go for it. A pouch of Fun Dip is the perfect snack right now. You'll sleep fine."


I say go ahead and listen to that little voice. At the very least it'll give me someone to talk to around 4.

Further Thoughts on Taxi Cab Confessions

TCC: Las Vegas 2003 was like a softcore porn of hilarity. I established this.

Tonight's presentation of TCC: NYC is more along the lines of a crippled orphan being forced to choose between starving to death and eating his disabled puppy that is filled with nougaty cancer. Also, he doesn't know that he is allergic to puppies.

God-DAMN The City was depressing back in the '90s. Maybe it was just the clothes and the impending sence of doom that accompanied Rudy Giuliani when he mentioned Time Square.

On Family

Family is the one group of people where you willingly put yourself in the type of situations that make you start thinking of household objects as viable deadly weapons.

Oh, a gardening trowel? I could stab it right through her head. No. Too hard. One hit. Kitchen shears could take out a couple. Lawnmower. Better! Too unwieldy though?

That's when dad busts in on his midlife crisis Kawasaki. "Hey kids, who wants to bash some watermelons with this cool old scimitar I found!?"

Success.


Image courtesy of AwkwardFamilyPhotos.com.

On MILFs

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On Formula Writing

I imagine the basic plot of a Fresh Prince of Bel-Air episode began with pulling a random family issue out of someone's junior high-era diary and then having Will Smith riff puns for 40 minutes and yanking all the swear words as they typed it out.

Then it's just a matter of sowing random swaths of colored cloth into his shirts for the episode.

On Growing Up

A friend of mine recently landed a job as a bartender in a bar that does not serve alcohol.

This requires some explanation. You see, his grandma recently died.

Right, because that clears things up. No, his grandma died so they had an estate sale. Helping a woman carry some chairs out to her car she thanked him profusely and offered up the irrevocable "Well, if there's anything I can ever do for you…."

This of course led to a job inquiry, which inevitably led to some bonehead calling out one night requiring my friend to come in and BAM! Job.

Now the complicated part.

This woman, Bridgit, who is incredibly awesome, is also the new owner of this bar which she is reopening. Part of this reopening requires her to reapply for health and liquor licenses, as she does not currently have them. This explains why her bar has no alcohol.

Now yes, it's a pub, so it has deep frier and can serve snacks and sodas, but for the most part it is a bar open 7 days a week without the draw of liquor.

So needless to say the place is dead all night.

A bunch of us drive up tonight and our friend is napping on the pool table. The four of us basically sat around watching Cartoon Network's Adult Swim, playing pool, and mooching fried animal products for a couple hours. When it was time to close up the bar had seen no one but two take-out orders all night and I helped count out the register by affirming that there was $8 in quarters.

My friend is in his early twenties and is now paid to basically babysit a clubhouse with free food and occasional nap and smoke breaks.

Honestly, I kind of hope they never get their liquor license.

On Taxi Cab Confessions

So I was flipping channels the other day and came across some sequel to the "Taxi Cab Confessions" series and I have to admit I was shocked by how much they can get away with showing on basic cable.

Now I was pretty sure I'd been desensitized to all this shit after 3 years of college HBO, uncensored late-night cable and, oh, gee, the entire internet since I was twelve. [Side note: Yes, there was an internet when I was twelve, but just barely so don't bail on me now, you crazy fickle demographics.]

But yes, I'm pretty impressed with how dirty this stuff is. I mean obviously these were the most appalling fares Las Vegas has to offer, a feat indeed, but more interestingly I'm impressed by how filthy these people all are without the use of PG-13 language. HOW DO YOU DO THAT!?

I mean I just watched three bisexual 30-somethings explain to their driver how much anal play they like to inflict upon their respective men and the only thing to get blanked out was about half a syllable of "handjob." Naturally this seems like a pretty good deal for a young man awake in the wee hours, but it's at this point that I encounter a problem you don't find on HBO, uncensored cable or the internet:

The Softcore Effect.

Yes, most men will understand what I am about to say, or at least recognize the problem. In porn, "hardcore" of course refers to everything from the definitively illegal down to a single golden rule: Penetration. "Softcore," in opposition, tends more towards the erotic than the pornographic. Typically artsier, softcore porn is rather tame and may only be classified as "porn" at all due to not having a plot beyond love making. Dan Akroyd and one Rosie O'Donnell starred in Exit to Eden as police officers who go undercover at a fetishist's island resort to investigate something I didn't pay any attention to. Take note, this is a real movie.

Taxi Cab Confessions falls into this category of softcore entertainment in that no matter how long you watch you never actually get to the part you really want to see. "Oh, hey, these chicks just said they've had sex. Awesome! Wait, that one's not the hot. What about her friend? Is that Kathy Griffin? Crap. Well maybe they'll make out or something. No? No. It's over. Great."

The real point is after watching Taxi Cab Confessions one feels a strong desire to go out, get hammered, "tackle drunk bitches" and say the word "fuck" often enough to verify that you're really alive and not just watching Bravo in your mom's basement.



*Footnote: "Tackle drunk bitches" is an unregistered trademark of Lima-1 Guy, a bizarre RA-style adviser to freshman at the University of St. Rose in Albany, N.Y. circa 2005 who dispensed this catchphrase in the general direction of my dear friend Jay as the only advice needed by a young man out on the town.

On Future Prospects

It seems I graduated from the same college as Progressive Insurance's illustrious spokeswoman "Flo."

Yes, my future i looking bright indeed.

Of Hopes and Dreams (Early Friday Post)

This article professes that we could very soon have an injectable gene therapy treatment to make human beings immune to HIV. Done. Over with. Gone the way of polio. Bye-bye birdie.

What does this mean for us as a people?

Well, for one thing, Africa is gonna be a lot more interesting what with the population being healthy enough to fight over what little food and resources exist there. Also, gonna be a killer vacation spot.

More importantly, all the AIDS jokes are going to stop making sense in only a few short years. Thus, I propose we as funny persons of comedic intent select a new disease to be the ultimate butt of jokes, a consequence of stupidity or even horrendous luck as terrible as AIDS is at the moment.

Cancer can hold up for the time being. After that I suggest the herpes.

On Puberty

Puberty - n. Time in a young man's life when he grows hair, height and an uncanny knowledge of just how full of shit his parents really are.

On Transitions

I'm at a pretty weird time in my life. Half my room is furnished with wooden shelves and black fixtures, classic and popular literature and impressive electronics. The other half is stacked with modified Nerf guns and rare Star Wars action figures.

I can't live with my mom anymore. We gotta find her her own place.

On A Good Night's Sleep

NEW PROVEN SNORE PREVENTATIVE

ACT NOW DON'T HESITATE

HOW CAN WE GUARANTEE SUCH PERFECT RESULTS??


Just punch your significant other repeatedly in the face until he/she wakes up.

Sleep soundly.

Page Elements

On Missed Opportunities

It occurs to me that had we moved into any other apartment in our development years ago my door, which slides into the wall rather than swing outwards or inwards, would have been a large mirror instead of solid wood.

The result of this would have meant I could be doing it doggy style on my bed and look to the side, catch my own eye in the reflection and then flex my biceps, pointing and affirming to myself just how awesome I am to be able to recreate a seen from American Psycho without purchasing two hookers, a chainsaw and a drop cloth.

Oh, who am I kidding? There would have to be hookers and the drop cloth is just smart planning.

Dear Nielsen & Co.

I started watching The Practice years ago. M*A*S*H had prepared me for bad and adult things on television. I moved to Law & Order because Jerry Orbach was the best thing ever.

Eventually, though, I watched every episode of Law & Order in existence. Even the really old ones from the late '80s with the angry D.A. and his black A.D.A. with the flat-top, and the old fat white detective.

After Hitting every CSI rerun and determining that Miami and NY were shitty, I focused on Law & Order: SVU. (Jerry Orbach's death put a premature end to the short-lived Law & Order: Trial By Jury and Criminal Intent had yet to make its shittastic debut.)

HOLY SHIT SVU WAS AMAZING. Hot ass-kicking chick, big scary white guy, cool black dude/former rapper, WISE-CRACKING CONSPIRACY JEW, what's not to like?

Well, the title, really. Don't get me wrong, but a few years ago I saw the red and blue logo pop up and waited for the ominous baritone to tell me if I was watching an original rerun, new shit, or an unwatched gem from my new favorite version. I found myself chanting, "Come ooooon raping babies. Come oooooooooon raping babies… YES RAPING BABIES!!" And that's when my roommate look at me strangely.

Really, they just need to rename the show so more people will understand what it's about. I'd propose "Law & Order: Everybody Gets Raped Eventually. Everybody."

On Staying Regular

You know your sleep patterns are off when you're getting the same good number of hours of sleep every night, starting at the same time every night, but you've begun noticing reruns of "Unwrapped" with Mark Summers on the Food Network at 4 a.m.