On the iPhone

Probably the best-selling iPhone app would just be something that announces to people "I'm not a hipster douche. Promise."

On the Yankees

Full disclosure: I am a nerd. As such, I do not care for any sporting event I do not have money riding on. The odds of me understanding said event are substantially lower.

Fuller disclosure: When I was a small child I chose to grudgingly support the Mets if the issue ever came up, because for some reason I thought I'd rather make my dad happy and my grandfather angry than the other way around.


So the Yankees.

Honestly? I'm not that impressed.

I mean yeah, I'm impressed at how awesome they are, but I mean I'm impressed in the same way I'm impressed at Millard Filmore for being a president. I don't give a crap, but dude must have done something right.

Why do I dislike the Yankees? Well, it's not a real dislike. I am not from Boston. I do not believe the Yankees held a preternatural curse over the Red Sox using a fat drunk's old uniform in some bizarre voodoo ritual that was miraculously lifted after like 80 attempts. Statistically speaking the Red Sox had to win a series eventually. Hell, even the Mets had two good ones.

I do not emotionally sanction the Yankees for utilizing their success to bankroll and extremely overpriced roster that buys the league's most talented players and puts them in a single lineup. That's laissez faire economics, bitches. Just common sense.

No, I feel absolutely nothing for the Yankees because I find them boring.

You heard me.

I find the Yankees boring.

Think. It's like rooting for the other team at the end of Rookie of the Year, and then Henry Rollengardner tears his tendons loose and that fat guy doesn't fall for the floater and he wails on that ball like it was a Fenway Frank.

That evil team with the fat guy? The team it seemed impossibly for the Cubs to beat because they had the best, most over-priced players in the league?

That was the Yankees.

In the movie. That was actually the Yankees. The Cubs needed the squirrelly kid who dumped Tara Reid in American Pie and Gary Busey to beat the Yankees. And a miracle. And Hollywood.


The fact of the matter is the Yankees have won something like 29 of the last 109 World Series. That's ridiculous. I mean if you watch a game, odds are the Yankees are going to win it.Every year, of all the teams on both sides of the MLB, the Yankees have like a 27% chance of beating everyone else.

And I mean dude, I was the type of kid who wouldn't watch "Keenan and Kel" because every episode was the same; fat one covets something, hatches a plan, skinny one objects, is subdued by indulging his addiction to orange soda, hijinks result in both getting grounded, learn nothing.

Congratulations Yankees. You have managed to make outlandish skill and success so commonplace I can't even take you seriously. I can't watch you or even give a rats ass. I kinda wish you'd go away. You're like LOST.

On Ninja Warrior

"Ninja Warrior" is probably the one show that makes me reconsider whether I could really do better than every other contestants.

When beefy Japanese men quit their jobs and train on homemade replicas for three years and then still fail to nail the jump hang, well, something just tells you that maybe you aren't more qualified to be a ninja after all.

On Perspective

It is difficult for a man to see the forest when he is being crushed beneath a series of of trees.

On Vampirism

Admittedly my positive feelings on vampires ends with the first copyright-questionable Underworld movie and the boob-riddled guilty pleasure that is True Blood. I respect J.K. Rowling for writing well and maturing her lame-ass little wizard characters.

However, as a professional writer, fully endowed with a creative writing degree from a once-respectable university and a wit so grand it seems to overcompensate for something else, I can honestly and expertly say that Stephanie Meyers is the worst thing to happen to goth kids since Hot Topic.

Now there is a conundrum, if you seem it.

1. One must read Twilight to criticize it effectively or more people will read it
2. If one reads Twilight more people have already read it

Worse still, if one reads these atrocious tomes she will suffer far worse through the purple prose because she is aware of what good writing is supposed to be.

So how does one manage to avoid the sparkly kids and still bitch like a know-it-all? Sacrifice.

I don't mean to say sacrifice yourself and take on the burden of horrible. I mean a legit throw-a-young-girl-into-the-volcano SACRIFICE.

Yes, I can attest to the expert opinion that Twilight sucks because a colleague made the sacrifice and I watched idly to get her reaction. Granted, she absolutely HAD to read the next three books to find out what happened, but we both agreed that this was like saying a a heroine addict needs another fix to find out what happens to the spoon and the needle. The short version is "Twilight sucks. Officially."

Well now that's not just a crass way of putting it.

I know you're all familiar with The Vamp from Tantus, fine maker of silicone adult novelty smile-items. If you are not familiar with this prosthetic penile attachment (and are absolutely terrified of clicking the link) I shall summarize:

The Vamp^® is a sparlky dildo. A sparkly dildo made of silicone, so it can retain either warmth or cold. They emphasize the cold aspect. Heavily. Also, did I mention it sparkles?

I now reaffirm my previous assertion: Twilight sucks.

Now literally! Behold! Count Cockula^TM for the succubus-loving man you unrealistically hope will levitate into your life. Yes, that is a fang-toting can of vaguely flesh-like material, featuring a deep tunnel lined with soft, fang-shaped nobs for doing unspeakable things to your coven member's member.

It's times like these I'm thankful for being a fan of zombies. All we ever get is some sprinting complaints and elective surgery jokes.

On Dolphin Shows

So as I mentioned previously, I went to 6 Flags in New Jersey this Sunday.

Pause for lamentations over New Jersey. Moving on.

Of the many adventures that were had this day, including genital destroying roller coasters, 100% awesome weather 99% of the time and an uncommon plethora of attractive underage girls wearing purple, the day was clearly won out by catchphrases.

My friends love catchphrases. To wit: at a rather raucous night in a young female party-goer actually asked, "What's with your friends and catchphrases?" which is now, obviously, a repeated-daily catchphrase among us.

All day long we were spouting quotes. Among the usual we added "4-5-6," a reference to the unbeatable highest roll when playing the dice game Cee-lo, a roll I might add that is entirely up to chance but still gambled upon. Seeing as the weather for Sunday was utterly attrocious and had been predicted as such, Jay, the planner of the group, gambled on the hope that the weather would not be too bad and we would have the park mostly to ourselves. This turned out to be almost entirely accurate. All day until about 7:30, in fact.

However it did mist and drizzle a bit, but walking miles back and forth across the park this was actually refreshing. It picked up only briefly, right as we attempted to grab an over-priced meal. Rain and appetites abates, we wandered into a strange alcove for a while to let our stomachs settle before tackling the toughest rides available.

As we entered the stone tunnel, lightly dusted with fake cobwebs for Halloween, we asked a park patron what exactly it was we were following so many aquaphobic people into. "A Halloween dolphin show," we were told.

A Halloween dolphin-show. Yes. Yes, we were excited.

We past a skeleton who was clearly more morose over her job prospects than being undead and wiped down a couple of bleachers about half-way up the outdoor arena, assuming that the first three rows may get murdered.

While we waited for the dolphins' masters – who had not in fact dressed their marine mammals in adorable orange-and-black jack-o-lantern costumes – to start something up, we encountered a young lady down towards the front who was for all intents and purposes a dumb bitch.

Now as an aside, I should mention that when I say "dumb bitch" I do not mean any derogation of women in general. Rather, I specify that this woman's actions and speech over the next several minutes proved her to be both tremendously dumb and a complete bitch, maybe a bitch-and-a-half.

This woman, only in her early twenties, entered with her boyfriend, a young man whose bright yellow t-shirt was unfortunate to have lost its sleeves I can only assume in some kind a freak accident with a sleeve-removing device. Upon entering, the first thing this girl demanded was, "Oh, let's not sit here, these seats are all wet. Let's sit somewhere else."

At this time the author would like to remind you that this is a giant fish tank outdoors on a rainy day.

Now as we waited this girl was discovered by a middle-aged voodoo zombie hobo who apparently knew her many years ago. Breaking character, the zobo squealed and hugged the girl tightly while her boyfriend looked only confused.

Now, being something of a dick myself, I started a studio audience Awww … that went up in pitch at the end, starting first with me, then Jay, then the rest of our small group and finally encompassing the entire show in attendance. Continuing her conversation with Chuckles the Decomposing, the girl rather politely flipped off everyone behind her back and continued her conversation for quite some time without introducing her boyfriend at all, resulting in several more angry spectators picking on her for the next few minutes. Even we thought those guys were kind of dicks, though.

So we have established that this girl was dumb, and a bit bitchy in how she reacts to hilarious but relatively clean, wholesome attention to her foibles. I have gone on far too long.

What this girl said, regardless of how you feel about my judgments to her capacity for wisdom or civility, proves what kind of person we were dealing with.

After maybe fifteen minutes of waiting for the show to start, people told where they were headed and snapping photos of the pleasant porpoises taking recreational laps around the pool, this person uttered in full Valley Girl lilt and with absolute, axiomatic certainty in much the same way a child would note that "Diapers don't go in theeere…," "This is not a dolphin show."

If there was any real doubt, it was at this moment that we left, not because we thought she was right and that this was in fact some elaborate hoax played upon us by the trainers and their dolphins, intelligent beasts from the sea more evolved than we could possibly imagine, but because we had already discussed at length what it would cost to run and jump into the pool, and suddenly we were all faced with the urge to submerge this woman under water until the bubbles stopped floating to the top.

On 6 Flags - Rolling the 4-5-6

Considering we got up before 9 a.m. on a Saturday and drove two hours to find discount Coke cans and go on some rides, possibly the greatest thing that happened at 6 Flags NJ today was hearing an already verified dumb woman exclaim "This is not a dolphin show," after being ushered into a small, marina populated by people in stands photographing two idly swimming dolphins before the start of what was specifically billed as a "Halloween Dolphin Show."

Yes, we thought it might have been related to a donkey show, too.

No, we did not stay long enough to find out.

On American Apparel

American Apparel is actually a very nice company run by, I'm sure, very nice people. It routinely uses provocative ads that do legitimately push conservative buttons, often featuring hypersexuality, urban subcultures and adult film actresses. For the record, their most controversial ads with soft porn star Sasha Grey only ran on a few adult blogs and were shot by female AA model/photographer Kyun Chung. Go, girl, go.



*This entry features links that will show you nipples on women. Attractive-ish women.*

If this offends you: Please, do not click these links and only read the amusing first half of this post.
If this seems totally hot and awesome but you don't want to read the whole post, just go ahead and skip down the links. You can read the rest an other time, which will actually give me more hits, so go you, I guess.

Thank you.



So there's something everyone should know about me. I'm surprisingly hip for an antisocial Jew.

It's just what happens. I'm like the iPhone of Israelites. Everything is sleek and simple but sophisticated. Only with more arm hair.

Given the opportunity, I can clean up into one of the most astounding things in the workplace: a young man who knows what he likes and is comfortable in expensive, dapper clothes; a man who can mix a cocktail or carve a turkey, quote Hamlet or Homer Simpson; a man who will order an underground local microbrew in a town he's never been to. Yes, a hipster douche.

Now, obviously this is not my standard operating procedure. This is something I break out at holidays, office parties, proms and that one unfortunate "Fashion Show Incident" back when my mom was on the PTA. But the point remains that the option is there, should the mood strike me.

If one were to look in my closet/car trunk, one would actually find several other "costumes," including Zombie Kurt Cobain, Mad Scientist, Che Guevara, Catholic Priest, Emo Moper, Hugh Hefner, and a few Hawaiian shirts. Basically, I have some sort of Character Development Asperger's.

So as it stands I'm usually on the lookout for new and interesting clothing and obscene sales. Having spent 1 as a full and 3 years as a seasonal employee of GAP Inc. (many stories of which must be told but this is none of the times for that), my wardrobe is currently about 70% GAP brand merchandise, partly because it fits my clean lines and colors aesthetic but mostly because I had a fairly massive employee discount.

I have now established that I like relatively hip clothing. I still think skinny jeans are annoying because unlike most Hipster men I apparently have a penis to get in the way of my inseam, but whatever.

Now add to this knowledge two simple facts

1. I like boobs
2. I tend to click links to Indie clothes stores

Welcome to American Apparel dot com!

Where does this link take me? Why to the only logical place for anyone who would actually shop at American Apparel: Women's Hosiery.

Yes.

Of course. Obvious. How get can you? Really now.

It would have been rude not to browse around, though.

In my travels I found one. Then an other. Then I said fuck it and searched obsessively to compile a complete list of visible female nipples on the American Apparel website. Partially visible labia have been removed for conciseness and clarity of intent.

Additional Image #2
#3, 6, 8, & 10
#2
#2 & 8
#9
#10
#10
and #10 (but it IS unisex so watch out for the other images if you're not down with the bulge)

I'm considering sending American Apparel some sort of email on the subject, something to the effect of:

Dear American Apparel,

It has come to my attention that nipples are clearly visible in many of your photos of female models wearing your products. This is highly inappropriate for a clothing company and I would really appreciate it if you would keep this up. In fact, add more. NIPPLES EVERYWHERE! YES! It's so encouraging to see a major clothing manufacturer taking the initiative to push enforcement of gender equality laws that have legalized female toplessness in public for almost a decade. Thank you. Thank you, American Apparel. Thank you for being so goddamn progressive.

Also, your LEGALIZE GAY clothing line is highly offensive as it undercuts the complexity of current social issues and supports the notion that sexuality is something to be regulated by any government.

Sincerely,

Dude Who Loves Nipples
(but apparently has some pretty strong ideas about person freedoms. Go figure.)



Yeah, I'd send that out, but I don't want to risk them pulling all the nipply pictures.

On Peanuts

Do you think if two adults from Charlie Brown ever talked to each other it would sound like jazz?

On Preparedness and the Priesthood

My mom was invited to a Halloween party. The rule was "where a costume made from only materials you have lying around the house."

She is going as a priest, utilizing black pants, a black jacket, black shoes and a black priest's shirt with roman collar. Oh, also a rosary.

Now to be fair, that wasn't just lying around the house. I pulled those last two out of the trunk of my car. I didn't think she'd need the holy water.

I don't think my Protestant-turned-New Age mother has ever been so happy that her Jew-turned-religious-antiestablishmentarian son is a legally registered minister with a penchant for collecting elaborate disguises.

On Priorities

So I hung out with my friend Dean tonight. He felt like getting out of the house and getting some food, and I felt like going along for the ride.

During the course of our excursion Dean asked what I did today, and I replied that my big accomplishment was moving my half-down Blu-Ray discs from my bookshelf to the DVD rack in the living room. I know, huge accomplishment.

The problem is like a minute later I mentioned spending my day blogging, comparing cellular phones and service plans, then later working out and having a tremendous sandwich for dinner.

Dean noticed it. I didn't.

Apparently, physical fitness and cost cutting my bills take a back seat in my life to alphabetizing movie collections and thinning out my iTunes.

Ah, the beauty of sad, twisted little brain.

Of Titty-Based Technology

HI DAVE ZUCKER HERE, EXCITED TO TELL YOU ALL ABOUT AN INCREDIBLE NEW PRODUCT THAT'S GOING TO REVOLUTIONIZE THE LIST OF THINGS YOU'RE LOUDLY TOLD TO PURCHASE BY PAY-FOR-PLAY SPOKESPERSONS!

I can assure you, none of you have ever seen a product the likes of this. This is simply an astounding new device that's gonna change the way people think about boobs.

It's the Kush^® device from some crazy person who thinks this is marketable.



Basically, it's some kind of solid-core silicone loofah that you women are supposed to place between your breasteses as you sleep at night. Apparently the idea is that when you sleep on your side one breast droops uncomfortably under it's own weight, effectively squishing the lower mammary simultaneously.

The Kush^©, however, is situated in the inter-boob region and divides a woman's boobage into two easily dealt with teardrops, preventing sagging of the upper boob and adding extra weight to further squish the lower coconut into complete submission. All the while, the device's super non-slip silicon padding firmly grips your trans-titty skin flaps, preventing your chestal areas from retaining that pesky natural ability to become elastic and move with your body as it moves. I know, real pain, right? I mean where do your cans get off? Pushing you around with their girth and sphereosity? The gall.

Anyway, it's made by the Germans, so you know it was tested on itinerant Gypsies, held captive in concentration camps and formally neglected by history as the result of a prominent Judeo-Christian academia eager to demonize Nazism without admitting to its own long-held biases routed in a Western Eurocentric self loathing for the old nomadic lifestyles.

Also, I'm told the Germans make good stuff.

Remember girls, guys love "more Kushin' for the pushin'!"^{© ® TM PLEASEDON'TSTEALTHISGUYSSERIOUSLYPLEASE?}

I have received no compensation from Kush for this blog entry and would really prefer to keep it that way. All comments are made in jest and under the assumption that whatever ad company promotes Kush has some kind of legal department that could hand me my own ass and make me pick up the check for it. I neither encourage nor discourage you from buying their product, regardless of how stupid it seems. Some of my favorite things in life were also horrible ideas, so if this seems like it would alleviate a serious boob-related medical issue for you, go right ahead and buy the shit out of this thing. Buy like five of them and leave them in any location you think you might fall asleep. Go for it. I totally wont be critical of you for it. No way. Not even in the slightest, you saggy-titted abomination of low I.Q. and even lower self esteem. Buy the fuck out of this legitimate sleep aid device.

A Follow-Up: The Firehouse

Go here and eat their fooooood.


Grandfather seen. More adamant now in purchasing a small handgun if I ever get Alzheimer's.

Up-side: Grandma took us out to a little place off Route 9 called The Firehouse Grille, which aside from your typical small town sports bar yahoos also features the most amazing food I've ever found. Ribs literally fell off their bones. I'm not misusing literally either. There were several legitimate moments where I took a bite and the tensile strength of the meat was greater than its bond to the bone, resulting in slow-smoked pig flesh dangling from my mouth like chutney BBQ zombie dinner theater.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to slip into a food coma so I can go through the worst of rib withdrawal whilst unconscious.

On Things to Come

I promise to post more after I go through all sorts of fun tomorrow morning, but for a taste here's an impression of me visiting my grandfather in the VA hospital tomorrow morning:

"Knock knock!"
"Who's there?"
"Highly sedated Alzheimer's patient!"
"'Highly sedated Alzheimer's patient' who?"
"LOL! I DUNNO!"


Yeah, that's far better than I expect it'll go. Times like this I'm almost willing to buy an iPhone so I don't have to feel the awkward. Maybe there'll be a cute candy striper or something. Do they still have candy stripers? Maybe they're just called volunteers now. In very nonsexual scrubs.

Screw that. I'm just gonna bring my lab coat and walk around like stealing medicine.

On Putting On The Ritz

I have to assume that the purpose of a bar's hand stamp is not to mark that they have judged you old enough to drink libations in their establishment. No, the real reason is obviously so you can look at your hand in the morning and feel the moment your hangover is exacerbated by just how bright the colors are so early in the mor-

Fuck. Is that the time? Okay. Late afternoon/early evening then.

Well the point still stands. I look down at this tiny little scarlet letter, an ex mind you, and I am conflicted with dreams of being a superpowered mutant, sitcoms in which I pose as a straightedge asshole. And then I just far back to the scarlet letter analogy and I feel like it's just a small, highly visible tramp stamp, explaining to everyone that I did very bad things last night and no, I was not up to showering the next morning before going out for a Denny's Drunkover Special.

On The Cash Cab

I think I'm going to try and sign up to be on Cash Cab, the only game show that takes place right [t]here in [Ben Bailey's] taxi.

I'll be completely honest. I think I'm smarter than most of their contestants. I won't even try to be modest about how much smarter I think I am. I am significantly more inundated with "general knowledge" and bizarre trivia than easily 70% of the people getting rides around NYC on national television. Additionally, I have much smarter friends on speed dial who have very different fields of interest and professions.

In short, I could rack up a small fortune driving around town. I have a plan of action.

Phase 1: Preliminary Work

• Sign up for show. I know that sounds simple, but the people on Cash Cab sign up to be possible contestants on unknown game shows and are informed approximately when they will participate. That's why very few people seem surprised to see those giant disco lights and a bald giant doing silly voices.

Phase 2: Go Into The City

• We have plenty of reasons to do this. Go at night to get double prize money.
  

Phase 3: Strategization, Bitchez!

• Ideally I would be bringing my friends Jay, Dean and Mike. With me this gives us a broad range of History, Science, Sports, Film, Music, and Pop Culture knowledge.
• Mobile shout-outs should be finalized on-site, but our default should be our friend Matt who is a borderline genius and now lives in Canada, making him extra cool and nice to everyone.
• Street shout-outs should be avoided, but if necessary passersby should be selected based on whether or not they look like they know the genre of the question. Consider this trivial profiling.
• Be careful of the earliest questions. Rack up $200 early and you stand a better shot of getting a Red Light Challenge and $200 extra.
• Similarly, being careful of early questions reduces the risk of multiple early strikes.
• Stretch inter-question banter with Ben if you have 2 strikes. Let him be the funny one while you approach your destination.
• Walk away with the money. As Jay's poker-loving father has always said, "Once it's in front of you it's money in your pocket." Take the money. Unless you have won almost no money (when divided amongst the number of your group), there is no sense in trying for the Video Bonus Question, because it's never as easy as you really want.
• Try not to look like a douche on camera.

That last part is tricky for me.

On Hot Dogs

Seriously, go check out Nathan's Famous Hot Dogs. I don't usually plug any particular product and I'm not making any money from this, I just love Nathan's Hot Dogs like a fat kid loves, well, Nathan's Ht Dogs.


I was always a fussy eater when I was a kid. I still am but I'm a lot better than I used to be, at least.

My grandmother used to cook hot dogs for me. Every day she'd either microwave me some fish sticks or boil up a hot dog and then cut it up into little pieces she'd let me eat with a tiny plastic saber cocktail toothpick. She'd put a little ketchup on the side and I'd dip my hot dog slices like some bizarre German form of dim sum.

But eventually even a three year old gets sick of the same food every single day. I avoided hot dogs pretty consistently after that, and to this day I've never eaten a fish product. [We will ignore the time my stepmother demanded I eat my fish over my objections of being nauseated by all aquatic smells, as I did consume two bites of fish but then sat alone at the table for an hour and a half but proceeded to vomit them back directly onto my plate since I wasn't allowed to leave the table. Point me.]

Anyway, the love affair was just over. Eventually I got back on the bandwagon, grudgingly. If there weren't and burgers sure, I'd have a dog. If I was desperately hungry at least.

Unfortunately, every person I grew up with was incapable of not charring a meat to a crisp, uniform lump of charcoal, so I understandably assumed all modern hot dogs sucked.

Then recently they opened a Nathan's restaurant within walking distance of my apartment and let my assure you that "walking distance" is the only thing standing between me and skyrocketing cholesterol.

Right in the middle of my "you know, your taste buds physically change over the years, why don't you give this really nasty lookin' shit a try?" phase, came Nathan's.

HO. MY. AGOD.

Hot dogs really were wonderful. I even tried a little mustard, a much-loathed condiment I never liked and SURPRISE AGAIN, IT'S EVEN MORE DELICIOUS.

My world was shaken. Now I'll get a couple dogs and slather them in ketchup and mustard and then load up enough sauerkraut to make a $4 frankfurter seem worth it.

Now, if I haven't offended every fiber of your American pride that doesn't involve me raping apple pie or your mother, I will still point out my dickery:

I refuse to zigzag my condiments over my hot dogs.

I know, I know, but guys listen. I lay down a river of red down one side of the dog and one yellow along the other. It keeps a uniform balance of flavor and fills in the gap between a round dog and a flat-cut Vienna-style roll, which forms a perfect platform for the 'kraut. It's perfect guys. It's even symmetrical the fat way!

That's what I'm talking about Google Image Search!

And if that didn't convince you, your mother also casually mentioned after rough sex that she likes my hot dogs best.

I know, weird thing to say, right?

Anyway, you're mother's a whore.

But hot dogs will forever be my special lady.

On Pancakes

So I had pancakes for today.

I know that's not some huge revelation but it really is sort of a massive undertaking. I was awake for three hours before I ate. I took my car into the shop. I watched like two hours of The Office.

Then I ate pancakes and that was the end for me.

I don't know what's in frozen blueberries that destroys the rest of the day but it's quite potent. All I know is after I added flapjacks and bacon to my digestive tract I slowly lost consciousness. And slept for a good three hours. And woke up tired.

Oh god! I had hoped for myself! My day! What good is a man now, knowing he can be felled alone by the very meal he would choose to nourish him? My most important meal has betrayed me! Woe! A pox on both of Bisquick's houses!

Man, that was really good though. Even the nap rocked.

Damn it, I could really go for some pancakes now. Weird.

On Insomniatic Nielsen Ratings

Based on my 24-hour T.V. watching schedule I've uncovered several facts of life that must go by and large unnoticed by the population.

• Poor white trash people watch "their stories" about fake people who can't act
  
• Middle class people watch "programs" about wealthy "reality" personae who also can't act
• Based on daytime talk and shows like Cheaters or Cops, middle class people also watch reality shows about poor people who can't act
• Rich people only watch shows they appear on
  
• White people love T.V. shows about white people making food from places we conquered
• Black people like anything with purple lights and bumping bass. Also, Smart Guy and Moesha
  
• Actually, everybody likes Smart Guy and Moesha
• But for some reason nobody likes The Steve Harvey Show
• Chinese and Korean kids hate Japanese cartoons
• Japanese kids laugh because they know they're going to write shows that are animated in Chinese/Korean forced labor art studios
• Law & Order will not end until Sam Waterson dies on camera
  
• Any line in Seinfeld can be read by any other character and still make sense
• Joss Whedon will never have another successful show
• Seth McFarlane can get away with anything unless he gets arrested on drug and assault charges in the near future
• The Simpsons ended in 2002 and if anyone disagrees you should plug your fingers in your ears and shout LALALALALALALALA as loud as you can.
• If you're in a place in your life where you routinely stay awake through multiple hours of PAID PROGRAMMING informercials, you've fallen into the demographic of people who just may purchase their products.
  
• Japanese game shows are the scariest physical trials you can imagine

On Manliness

Another great aspect of manliness is an undying love of Paul Rudd that pushes the conventions of society and brohood, hearkening back to the classical relationship of the homosocial bond seen in the works of Shakespeare.

Yeah, I have an English degree and I'm going to put it to use, damnit.


I sometimes worry that I am setting a bad example for other men.

I have, for example, a half-dozen pairs of shoes. This just seems unacceptable to me.

However I only wear one pair every day and those also happen to be my semi-waterproof snow and work boots.

Now typically a man should possess three pairs of shoes: his sneakers, his nice shoes, and his work boots, because every man engages in some behavior that would necessitate work boots at some point.

So I figure I'm actually pretty good so far. My boots are also my everyday shoes, and being black leather look rather nice in an informal setting. I've simplified manlihood for all mandom. I need only a single pair of shoes. Go me.

Of course I then also have real dress shoes in the closet, square and wing tips depending on setting. Less manly.

Then there's my actual Nikes which exclusively function as Ultimate Frisbee cleats. More and less manly simultaneously.

Two pair of black hi-top Converse are in the closet, which really just count as one pair since Chuck Taylor's have been a staple of misanthropic post-grads for the better part of a century with little to no variation. -2 for extraneous footwear, +3 for retro-chique.

I think I actually come out ahead in this, which is really good because I was starting to worry over the pantyhose and ballet slippers hidden under my bed.

On Cosmopolitan Magazine

According to the September 2007 issue of Cosmo magazine there is a lot a woman can learn about a man from his pubic hair.

For example, an unkempt man is shiftless and slovenly in his personal and professional lives, whereas manscaping reminiscent of the blazing Sahara points to a controlling personality, one which emulates alpha male characteristics as seen in many many many hours of porno.

Obviously, the magazine says, the preferred man is one who grooms himself but in a moderate manner, one with a bit of bush but not an ever expansive evergreen grove.

Guys.

They're telling women what to think of us based on something we usually are unaware of.

Now we really can't fight the logic because you can kind of see how it could sometimes be true and more importantly fighting this notion means we'll be having less sex overall.

So what can we do as super manly men of manliness?

Well, we could just follow the logic and painstakingly maintain proper pubic placement. Sure. But that way lies capitulation. If we kowtow to Cosmo today, what is next? Must we bow to Martha Sterwart Living next week? O Magazine after that? I think not. That is our ruin. Not only will we be subservient to magazine nonsense, we will validate that crap by obeying it.

No, instead we must that the twenty-something upper-middle class Caucasian Prime Directive; we must find ways to show our knowledge of the subject, Cosmo's opinion of it and then express how short-sited and Eurocentric it is while using big worlds like "myopic."

If we can do that than we as men at least stand some small chance of making it with a woman, albeit likely an Indie Hipster chick who herself shares a less topiary style of bodily grooming.

On the Decline of Western Civilization: Children's Toys

So I went out with my mother today to find a birthday present for my cousin's kid, who is turning 4 in a couple weeks. I got to play with some Nerf guns and got a steak dinner out of the deal, so go me.

And I saw this monstrosity:















Yes, go ahead and click on that to get the full resolution and full effect. I'll wait.




Alright, and now for the visually impaired who rely on text-to-speech I will try to describe what it is that you're looking at.

It is a children's ride-in Cadillac Hybrid Escalade. It is a tiny version of a giant car that guzzles gas but it's a hybrid but it's actually a toy that runs on a small car battery.

Seriously? Seriously, humanity? I mean really?

There was a little dune buggy. Totally cool with that.

A half-sized ATV? Sure.

The Barbie® Jeep®? Fine. Been around forever. Hell, I had a little fire engine when I was a kid. Even had a water gun, so fine. Take the boy/girl gender performance roles as far as you want. I'm down.

But a Hybrid Cadillac Escalade? Why is that even necessary? Did the regular ride-in children's Escalade just have a carbon footprint too damn big to make the market? Were the spoiled children of lotto winners and passe rappers suddenly stricken with guilt for the millions of dinosaurs that died to make the coal that powers the electric companies that allow their parents to recharge their riding vehicles?

Maybe the other ride-in vehicles just couldn't crush other toys beneath their cold, plastic wheels with the sense of satisfaction a young, budding vehicular manslaughterist dreams of.

On the up-side, I suppose we'll at least see a sharp increase in the number of 6 year-old assholes who die in Tonka Tough rollover accidents.

On Death and Being Too Poor To Pay Taxes

This is exactly how I want my death to go down; Batman and Sam Waterson solving the case, and Jerry Orbach to meat me in heaven and make a bad pun as we stare down through the clouds at my fetid corpse.



So I got some mail today.

My Phi Beta Kappa membership card and window cling arrived. They spent 90% of the material they sent trying to get me to donate to the organization. I assume most people in Phi Beta Kappa graduate and are only poor if you don't count the internship on Wall Street and the trust fund.

Also, my bank is apparently giving my $1,000 insurance in the event that I die or am horribly maimed somehow. Wonderful. THANK YOU, Bank. Thank you SO MUCH for that THOUGHTFUL thing you did.

Since the average funeral is in excess of $5,000, they're pretty much saying, "Yeah, sign this and we'll pay your way, but you could upgrade to higher coverage for only a few bucks a year!"

So I spent all night thinking about how I want my death to be handled and who needs the money. Right now I'm leaning towards paying the $2.25/fiscal quarter and get the $25,000 in coverage. That should cover medical bills and a funeral (green burial or cremation normally, regular burial in cheap, easily accessible coffin in the event my death is at all being investigated by the police.)

Or, if my mom doesn't think $10 a year for $25,000 in coverage is a good bargain, I'll just take the freebie $1,000 coverage and simply pay out to one random friend. I've got someone in mind, but I'll open the floor.

Anyone interested in the role of "Most Likely To Profit from Dave's Death" please apply here or buy him something really cool looking.

Of Health and Well Being, Part II

So I got my genitals fondled by an old man today. An old man who has fondled both my father and grandfather. Awkward.

So yeah, got my physical. If I'm not perfectly healthy, my blood pressure is a little high which is normal for my family. Of course I wanted to placate my doctor's fears so when he went to retake my BP at the end of the check-up I consciously lowered my heart rate to around 70 BPM and dropped my pressure a good 10 points for both systolic and diastolic.

Did I not mention I moonlight as an Indian yogi? I'm fairly certain I mentioned I moonlight as an Indian yogi.

Anyway, yes, my biggest decision today was whether it was more important to leave things be and get a positively certain check-up or masturbate and reduce the chance of autonomic response at the frenzied testicular examination of a sexagenarian geriatric specialist.

For the record, I closed my eyes and thought of England. Somehow that was an excellent erectile dysfunctor.

Of Health and Well Being, Part I

Today's post shall come in two parts, this one to sate your brains' lusty desires for my lofty prose, and then an other to see how things went.

Tomorrow I have what is ostensibly my last doctor's appointment with our family physician. I lose coverage under my mom's insurance as of the new year and have already been dropped from my father's, so it's now a mad scramble to get me all the medical treatment I'm legally entitled too while I'm still eligible. Tomorrow.

At noon.

Dear God, what is wrong with me that I have to go into the doctor and explain to him that noon is 3.5 hours earlier than I usually wake up? That I've vanquished all but the sociologically learned behaviors associated with being nocturnal? That I'm truly happier avoiding all news shows and daytime programming?

How can I explain the benefits of recently cutting out my vitamins or eating and sleeping now only when and any time that I'm actually hungry or tired? Will I have to explain my choice of turning down the N1H1 vaccine if he recommends it? Will that old bastard try to take my blood himself again? Buddha come down in your magic lotus car and save me now.

On the up-side, I was totally gonna ditch this guy anyway. Granted it's convenient that he has my entire family's medical history memorized, but that also means he's been practicing medicine for like 40 years already. Also, he's a geriatric specialist.

Call me crazy, but I'd prefer my doctor to be more familiar with new and interesting medical options which can be offered to patients who are not old enough to qualify for social security.

Now all I have to do is convince my mom that I simply don't need health insurance as I don't get sick or injured. I mean alright I've been to the emergency room but that was like one time and I got hit in the head with an entire 'nother Jew.


[If you were wondering, no, two Jews to not cancel out and annihilate each other when they collide. Only everyone else annihilates Jews. HEY OHHHHH.]

On Wagon Wheels

Today's post is brought to your be my 40 year old guitar in the hopes that this song will finally stop playing in the back of my head.

If you're looking for the joke, wait until the last instrumental refrain where the audio dips and the video cuts briefly. That would be where my mom decided to wander into the room and ask that I put the Halloween decorations back in the attic "when [I was] done rocking." Awesome.

On Where the Wild Things Are

Possible Locations of the Wild Things:

• Tone Loc's basement
• The Baxter Building
• Wherever the rest of The Troggs' discography disappeared to
• That box in the Adams Family's living room
• based on the film trailers, I'm thinking Soviet Russia just outside of Chernobyl
  

On Responsibility

One of the most hilarious things you can choose to do with your Saturday night is volunteer to D.D.

The designated driver basically gets to have the most wild adventures while remaining sober. He sees everyone at their best and worst throughout the night, which are usually fairly close together. He knows things about you now.

He does not have to pay for the few drinks he does consume. If he starts losing at beer pong, his partner will willfully consume all sunk cups. He gets to play all the Guitar Hero he wants. People buy him food for stopping at a drive-thru on the way home.

He is the designated driver. And he is leering unnervingly at your sister.

Inappropriate Porn Remakes

I made the mistake of Googling "Teenage Mutant Ninja Titties" instead of just drawing one holding Leo's katanas, so here's a handful of kittens which won't scar you, instead.

• "Bend Her Like Beckham"
• "Planet of the Gapes"
• "Screwed"
• "Watch Men"
• "Cheaters"
• "The 17-Year-and-364-Day-Old Virgin" (that's a really intense moment for a porn star I'd guess)
• "St. Elmo's Fire Crotch"
• "Victor/Victoria"
  
• "Angela's Asses"
• "Batman Finishes"
• "Doctors' Strange Love"
• "Sideways"
  
• "Good Will Cunting"
• "Bill and Ted's Sexcellent Adventure"
• "I Love You, Man"
  
• "Look Who's Cumming to Dinner"
• "King Dong"
• "Knocked Up"
• "Iron Man"
  
• "Ocean's Eleven" (featuring Terra Patrick as Danni Ocean)
• "Space Balls"
• "Old Yeller"
• "Robin's Hood: Men In Tights"
• "Sin City"
• "Barely Legal Frankenstein"
  
• "Zack and Miri Make A Porno" (They did, but can we do better?[No, probably not.])
  
• "Wet, Hot American Summer"
• "Teenage Mutant Ninja Titties"
• "X-Men II: X Men United" (think roman numerals "X")
  

On Late Night Surprises That Don't End Up In the Washing Machine the Next Morning

Tonight I got up to pee in the middle of the night and was confused when the cat didn't immediately trip and kill me.

After satisfying my basic natural urges I decided to lay down on the living room floor and taunt the cat with how appealing and flop-worthy I am as a human. Clearly, he would run immediately to my side and profess his unrelenting kitty love for me.

This was not the case.

Shocking.

And yet it was, because 1) this cat is very unfettered by the superiority that imbues all other cats with their mystic powers, and 2) he seemed really really interested in what was outside the sliding glass doors.

I assumed a bird or something. A squirrel maybe. Something we see every day that was just stupid enough to wake up in the middle of the night and stumble upon the knowledge that the birdseed and nuts littering the porch do not magically disappear when the bright glowy sky orb goes away forever or until morning.

After maybe a minute or two humoring him at the cat's side, watching him pace back and forth, staring out into the black, I gave up on being able to see what it was he was looking at. It might have been nothing. He stares at nothing sometimes. Quiet often in fact. For hours.

In my vastly superior mind I contrived a trick I would play on the cat. Working under the assumption that he was seeing either something familiar at a weird time or merely his reflection in the glass of the sliding door, I thought I would flick on the outside light, thus illuminating the small thing outside or changing the lighting conditions and erasing his reflection, utterly upheaving his world.

This was not the assumption I should have been working under.

For the record, the common suburban life form known for scrounging edibles out of anything and trespassing on human property in the bleak of the night is the North American raccoon. The raccoon, ladies and gentlemen.

And holy mother of Buddha was he fat. We're talking a good 25 lbs minimum here. It's getting cold. He was obviously eating ever last bit of food he could in preparation for being really fat and really lazy for the next few months. He had back fat. I did some basic Cro-Magnon math and decided I could feed myself and three friends and keep my head and hands warm if only I had a super-pointy stick nearby. (I have many, but as an evolved man I also love furry little squishy things like comfy sweatpants and the funner parts of the fairer sex.)

After maybe fifteen minutes of staring and determining this raccoon did not give the slightest crap about either my presence or the cat's I got bored and tried to take a photo with my phone, but without a decent light source I got nothing, which was disappointing because I was very eager to communicate the HUGE FREAKIN SIZE of this raccoon.

So then I got my Rubik's cube and waited a few more minutes and when I wasn't looking the big dude bolted from the deck, leaving me and the cat both rather idle and upset at his absence.

I have just this instant decided to name this raccoon Terry. Marvelous.

On Unemployment

Reasons Why I Love Being Unemployed:

• I go to sleep when I feel like it and wake up when I'm no longer tired. This morning I went to bed listening to high schoolers catch the morning bus and I woke up to the sound of an elementary school bus dropping off their little brothers.
• Since my last winter job was eBaying my old collectibles, I might not have to pay federal income tax this year.
• I haven't missed a television show I've wanted to see in four months.
  
• Having been published and having made ≥$0.01 doing so, I can technically call myself a professional writer, so, y'know, literature groupies.
• I calculate my monthly cost of living at about $100, so taking my cue from Seth Rogan's character in Knocked Up, I should be able to live like this at least until the year 2012.
• I retain an uncrushed soul while everyone I know is working like dogs to pay off their debt and weed habits.
• I'm actually putting my life together? I know. Weird.
• I have time to write such wonderful lists