I have a TV/Film peeve I'd like abolished from now on. I dunno if Ebert's film glossary has covered this yet, but I would like it added if it has not. I call it the Confession Cocktease.
This scenario happens on every TV show I've ever watched: 1) Character has done something wrong and wants to confess his sin, 2) Character goes to victimized party to confess, 3) Character is juuuuuuust on the verge of confessing when either A) He pussies out and says some stupid lie ("I just wanted to say… that you look lovely today!"), or B) Someone else enters the room and disrupts the moment with urgent news, causing the confession to be postponed. And the victim will always turn as they're walking out the door and say, "What was it you were going to tell me?" And the confessor is always like, "Oh, it was nothing."
This is fucking annoying. This never happens in real life as often as it happens on every show known to man. Stop fucking doing this, TV writing people. Or I'll slap you in the balls. Now, your letters:
While taking a shower the other day, I started to think about how my total body weight is dispersed throughout my different body parts. I'm 6'4'', 235 pounds, in fairly decent shape. This is what I came up with, I wanted to get your take: Head: 15 lbs (I have a big head); Arms/Hands 20 lbs (10 lbs each); Torso: 70 lbs; Legs (including ass and feet): 130 lbs (65 each).
I'm totally interested in this as well. Anytime I'm on the couch with my wife and I rest a leg on her lap, she winces as if a goddamn tree fell on her. So that causes me to wonder just how much, precisely, that stupid leg weighs. Also, I think knowing the weight proportionality of body parts would be important if you needed to dismember and dispose of a corpse. Can you carry that headless torso on your own? Or will you have to call someone to help? It matters.
Let's work with Chris' body here. Obviously, I have no medical degree, but people with medical degrees are fucking buzzkills anyway. Chris says he's 6'4" and 235. A 15-pound melon would represent around 6 percent of his total body weight. Is that enough? My head is the size of a World's Fair globe, so I'd lean toward maybe 8%. Next, the torso. If you weigh 235 pounds, a 75-pound torso would represent 32 percent of your total body weight. Is that enough? Fuck man, I don't know. Sounds fine to me. All this is prelude to HEY, WHAT'S MY COCK WEIGH?
So just now, I went upstairs to try and figure it out. I weighed myself (clothes on), then I weighed myself with my cock and balls resting on the towel rack (Note to wife: My towel rack, not yours). The results:
Cock On Rack: 216.4
A difference of 1.8 pounds. I was disappointed about this figure initially, but then I thought about packaged ground beef at the store. Ever seen a 2-pound pack of ground beef? Pretty sizable. I'm happy with my penis weight.
Still, this measurement was at full flaccidity. Very flaccid. What about with a boner? There's more blood in there that way. Blood weighs stuff. I tried to work one up and re-measure, but Mr. Softee wasn't having it.
I have more questions. My foot clearly outweighs my hand, but by how much? What's my liver weigh? What about my brain? Do I have a heavy, genius brain? I really wish I could be there for my own autopsy. That would be a blast.
Do you ever do that thing at restaurants where you look over the menu, totally decide on something and then when the waitress comes, you change your mind at the last second? I've gone from Osso buco to Pesto Linguine and from the Bacon Cheeseburger to the Fish & Chips like I've lost total control. What the hell is that? It's like stage fright or some strange possession by my sub-conscious. WTF?
It's terrible, and the worst part is that it's EXACTLY like making a last minute roster switch in fantasy football. The dish you switch to is always the wrong one, and you end up regretting it for weeks. I cannot tell you how much it distresses me when I order poorly. I see something good that I know I want, then the waiter takes too long to get to the table, which gives me time to linger over the menu and second guess myself. Well, that grouper DOES sound good! Maybe I should get that! Then I switch, then someone at the table gets what I would have ordered, and it tastes fucking DIVINE. Sometimes, I'll try and engineer a dish switch with someone else at the table. It's harder than getting your girlfriend's permission to bang her sister.
Or worse, I'll see the dish I originally intended to order go to another table, and it's clear it's the superior dish. It's covered in bacon and has cream sauce and is shooting fucking fireworks out of the top. Just kills me. I've also seen something awesome go to another table, assumed it was a certain menu item, ordered it, and then found out once it arrived that it was NOT the dish I saw. Horrifying.
I've been known to order, and then walk to the waiter to change my order right after I've ordered. That's how flaky I can get while ordering. Part of it is habitual. If there's a restaurant I always go to, and they have one thing I've ordered before and really enjoyed, I'm always stuck with the dilemma of getting what I know I like, or having the sack to try something new. And whichever way I choose is usually wrong. Either I'll stick to the old dish and the new dish will be stellar, or I'll try the new dish and it'll taste like ass.
The worst is when there are more than two dishes I'm trying to narrow it down from. Ever go to a restaurant where every goddamn thing on the menu sounds awesome and you're just like, "I have no idea what to do"? Happens to me all the time. That's right, I'm the putz who opens up the menu and says, "It all looks so good! I can't decide!" People like that are dipshits. And I'm one of them. At least I don't read the menu items aloud to others.
I also dislike it when the server doesn't tell me the price of the specials, thus forcing me to ask and appear like a cheap bastard. That T-bone sounds fucking good. How much is it? Oh, thirty-eight dollars? Oh. Well, clearly I am a man of wealth and can afford such things, but I think I'll go lighter.
I wish I could sample dishes before ordering, like at a deli counter. An amuse-bouche of each dish, presented for my approval. MAKE IT HAPPEN, CHEFBOY.
Is there a more empowering feeling than when you come to an intersection, hit the cross button, and it immediately sends the other light to red, and you are free to walk. Makes me feel like a god.
It's great when there are other people at the intersection as well, so you can take credit for enabling everyone else to walk freely across the boulevard. LOOK AT WHAT I DID! I MADE YOUR PROGRESS HAPPEN! If there's a group of people converging on an intersection simultaneously, I walk faster to ensure I am the one who gets to push the button first.
I get terribly antsy waiting to cross streets. If I've come to a crosswalk and the red hand is already blinking, and there are only 2 seconds left to cross, I am goddamn SPRINTING to the other side, even if I have to pick up my kid to do it. No way I'm waiting another light cycle. That's for pussies. Also, I know that once the clock goes down to zero, the red light holds for at least one extra beat anyway. That two seconds is really, like, two and a half! Plenty of time to cross an eight-lane highway.
One other hidden joy of crossing the street: Let's say the sign says DON'T WALK, but the street is deserted. I always cross anyway if I see no cars around (or if I see one coming I know I can beat). Sometimes, I will do this, and it will spur other people waiting for the light to go ahead and follow me. And god dammit, that feels fantastic. I feel like I'm leading a battle charge. JOIN ME! JOIN ME AND THE BARNES AND NOBLE SHALL BE OURS!
Is there anything worse than getting a pimple on the inside of your nose? I had one of those little fuckers last week, and the pain every time I blew/picked/wiped my nose was so bad I wanted to kill myself.
And they're always juuuust on the inside ridge of the nostril. So any time the nose twitches, or any time you flare, AGONY. Sometimes, when I get one, I just keep flaring my nostrils, even though it hurts. I keep testing the pain. Does it hurt now? GAHHHHHHH IT DOES! Let's do it again!
Pretty much anytime I'm driving on a highway lined with trees, I imagine that my car can shoot lasers out of the side mirrors and that I'm cutting all the trees down as I'm driving. Of course, when I drive under an overpass, I turn the lasers off so that I don't ruin the bridge.
I always imagine there's a button I can press on top of my gearshift that will cause rocket boosters to come out of the back and blast me to speeds of 300 mph and upwards. Our car also has some little overdrive button you can press. It does virtually nothing, but I always push it and yell out WE'RE GOING TO PLAID, DAMMIT when I'm alone.
In fact, I always picture my car having full Spy Hunter capabilities, especially the oil slick, the smoke screen, and the little rotating blades that stick out from the hubcaps. Oh, what I would pay. For real, if you had an oil slick option in your car, and you knew you wouldn't get caught if you used it, and that no one would be harmed if you did, how many times would you deploy it? A thousand times a day? I WILL FUCKING OIL THE SHIT OUT OF YOU.
I also fear other cars having those options. Those little hubcap blades are so fucking nasty. I fear I will one day chance upon a semi that really does have them, and will run my ass clear off the road.
New dress shirts suck. First you have to navigate through 15 million pins and two tons of cardboard and plastic. And then after all that unpacking the shirt is completely wrinkled and unwearable. You'll look like an idiot if you wear it to work.
I never get every last pin out. There's always one left to surprise me when I go to put it on. GAH! WHY DID THEY NEED TO PUT A PIN AT HEART LEVEL?!
In my life, I've never met a guy named Wes that I didn't want to punch in the teeth. My roommate has a similar track record with guys named Blake.
In your life, is there a name where all the guys/girls who have shared it have been awful?
Pretty sure EVERYONE has that problem with Blakes and Weses. My nemesis names are the timeless classics of Brad, Chad, and Todd. But only if it's a WHITE guy with that name. Chad on a black dude (Ochocinco) has a totally different effect than Chad on a white dude.
Keiths, Bretts, and Brents are also to be avoided if necessary. Some guy named Brett tried to date my sister. Fuck that guy.
How come the salt packets they give you at a drive-thru window, the kind that have two sealed tubes with the perforated line across them that you have to crack like a swat team glow stick to open, always have anywhere between 3 and 400 times more salt in them than you ever expect?
Because it's salt. It's plentiful. One of the rare things we have in abundance. So it behooves us to waste it. The sooner Morton Salt gets rid of their supply, the sooner they can start jacking up the price. DON'T YOU SEE THEIR INSIDIOUS SCHEME? Look at them toss some over their shoulders. Is it good luck, or is it callous commodity market manipulation?
All salt packets are, of course, booby trapped with too much salt. You know that full well going in. The question is always… will you give it just the right shake, so that the proper amount comes out? Because I always fuck that up. I'll get a little bit on, then another little bit, then I won't be satisfied and I'll tilt it ever so slightly and FUCK! SALT BLIZZARD!
You ever wear a hoodie underneath a jacket? There's no good way to do it. If you leave the hood tucked underneath the jacket, you look like a hunchback. If you pull the hood out and over the jacket, you look like some half-assed prizefighter. The problem is compounded if the jacket itself has its own hood. What's the right call here?
I pull the hood out. What's wrong with looking like a prizefighter? I wanna punch sides of beef when I have my hood out. And if your coat also has a hood, you get the killer DOUBLE HOOD, which makes me feel like The Thing. Or, you can simply wear the hood of your hoodie any time you have your coat on.
Personally, unless it's a downpour, I can't wear a hood for more than eight seconds. It's fun to wear a hood at first, but then I feel like I should either be starring in 8 Mile 2 or delivering a picnic basket to my grandmother. Neither situation gives me comfort. Any coat I have with a detachable hood gets the hood detached. I do not abide by hoods.
My newest weed guy is a chick. She's unbelievably reliable, and sells straight bags of great bud for less than the local going rate. I highly recommend finding a weed dealer that also has a vagina.
P.S. I also found out that she's married with 3 young kids. I immediately changed her name in my phone to Nancy Botwin.
I would make sure my weed dealer is a lady, but in my experiences buying weed, the dude I get on the phone is NEVER the dude who shows up at my door. Oh, Arkesh can't do his dirty work by himself, eh? HE HAS TO SEND HIS LITTLE ERRAND BOY! COWARD!
The other day, me and a bunch of friends go to get pizza. There are about 12 of us or so, and one guy insists that at least one of the pizzas is cheese because he doesn't eat pork and can't eat pepperoni or Canadian bacon. My response to this is what the fuck is your goddamn problem, don't you know that pizza can come with a million other toppings other than fucking pepperoni and Canadian bacon? How did you get to be fucking 22 years old and not know this!? Have you ever even heard of mushrooms, chicken, olives, peppers, not to mention about 10000 other toppings. People who are over 8 years old and order a plain cheese pizza deserve to be dragged out in the street and shot in full public.
Not to mention the fact that you can always pick off the pepperoni if you don't like it. Ordering pizza in large groups is impossible because you have to gauge the number of pizzas required, and you're always terrified there won't be enough. I always add an extra pizza to any group order, just for light snacking.
Because I have kids, I have to go to lots of birthday parties. Pizza is the default way of feeding all the parents at these things. And the person who orders those pizzas always does a horrible job. They'll get, like, two pepperoni pizzas and that's it. The rest are cheese, or veggie lover's, or some horrible shit like that. The pepperoni ALWAYS goes first, and if you're slow on the draw, then you end up with the shit pies. I went to one party once and there were two fucking olive pizzas left when I went to eat. Who the fuck orders olive pizza? Olives are worse than Satan. You go to Hell, you fucking olive freaks. Not all of us are from goddamn Athens, you know.
There are some worthwhile moments when you eat pizza in large groups. First of all, if I'm with my wife and we're eating in a large group, she's easily distracted and unable to keep count of my slices. Thus, I can easily get away with having six or seven slices, and she's none the wiser! BRILLIANT. Also, there's usually someone at the table who will join me in ordering an anchovy pizza. And those people… they are my soulmates.
A few months back, one of my very good friends had his housewarming party. At this party were some people he worked with. One of his bosses brought over his kid who was maybe 5 years old. They proceeded to treat the housewarming party like it was some sort of free daycare center and didn't watch this kid for one goddamn minute.
It's not like it was Thanksgiving at their parents' house, it was a housewarming party where they knew maybe 5 people there. This kid was a fucking terror too. He was grabbing desserts off the table and trying to feed it to my friend's dog. He tried doing it three or four times, and every time, his parents just shrugged and went back to their drinks and conversations while random observers at the party told him to knock it off. The kid later broke a toilet seat in the house. I wanted to spike the kid's drink.
I fucking hate parents like this and I do not practice such shenanigans. It happens a lot, too. I went to the mall the other day and my kid wanted to go on some little mechanical school bus ride. Sitting on the ride were three other kids between four and five. Their parents were fucking NOWHERE to be seen. They could have been in Paris, for all I know. So I'm left to entertain not only my child at this ride, but every other kid there. I'm the one forced to make sure they don't punch each other or stick their hands down their ass and smear shit on each other. And that is crap. I AM NOT RUNNING A FUCKING FOSTER HOME.
I get that many parents need a break from their kids, but what I cannot stand is when some other fuckhead neglects his kid to the point where I have to step in and do extra parenting. No parent on this Earth wants to do more parenting than they already have to do. I already have two fucking kids. Now I have to look after YOUR little piece of shit? Analrapist is right. If you have kids and you try and get away with having other people do your work for you, you should have to watch your kid killed in front of you. It's only fair.
I have a stomachache. Why am I completely unable to pace myself while eating? I feel like I'm up against the clock to devour it before I put my fork down. Why is that?
No clue. I think I do it because I don't want an eagle to swoop down and get it from me. Also, I'm so excited for what I'm eating next that I completely lose focus on what I'm eating right now. I've had to spend a lot of time lately retraining my brain to look back with satisfaction on what I just ate, instead of always anticipating what I'm eating next. It's not easy. I mean, I could really go for a Chocodile right now. I MUST HAVE ONE. WHERE IS ONE? I'LL KILL YOUR PARENTS FOR ONE.
Unlike you, I have to wear pants to work. I really don't mind the wearing of pants until the end of the day. That's when I have to take them off, align those fucking pantleg creases just right, then somehow get the pants onto the hanger without messing up the creases I've just taken 10 minutes to line up. It's bullshit. This is the worst part of my day. Have you ever wished for a butler to deal with this shit?
Yes. This is why pants need to be illegalized permanently across the United States. Pants only serve to come between us and the ones we love.
By the way, apropos of nothing, I caught a glimpse of the Sports Reporters last Sunday morning. And in between shots of Mike Lupica waving his hands and braying like a donkey being raped, Hannah Storm was also on the set. She had a skirt on and her legs were crossed. MESMERIZING.
I recently turned 35. I now know the definitive way to tell that you are old. It's getting hurt by doing nothing. I was going to get in the bed the other night and did a roll/fall combo into the bed from an approximate height of 16.3 inches. My back was sore for 3 days. Jesus. And what am I supposed to tell my younger co-workers?
Just tell them you play pro baseball. Pro baseball players suffer retarded injuries like that all the time, usually while running from a Dominican player who wants to fuck them in the ass.
Falling from your bed sounds like a legit injury to me. I've experienced searing pain simply from reaching for something incorrectly, or stepping an odd way. FUCK THAT HURT! Why did it hurt when I bent my foot like that? Let me try it again. OW! Shit! I think 90% of my bones have stress fractures. I cannot prove this.
Did you ever take a dump at work that smelt so bad you got nervous that if a boss knew it was you who did it you'd be fired? I'm in that situation right meow.
Quick! A match! Light a match!
When you urinate, do you sometimes take out your balls in addition to your penis? You know, let the fellow inmates enjoy some time in the yard, a break from the dark sweaty solitary? I feel like my testes thank me.
I always take out my balls and give them some air. More important, whipping out the full three-piece set allows for better stream flow. You can't get good flow with your balls stuffed down in there. Sometimes, it's kind of gratifying to feel the cool metal of my zipper against my sack. Feels like DANGER.
And now, we follow up on Tuesday's news that all Dominican baseball players dabble in the gay:
So I started an email chain with a few friends, one of which is Dominican. He claims to know nothing of the rampant homosexuality of Dominican players . However, the chain did make its way to a friend of a friend who is a minor league player. Here is his input after reading your post:
"This is a fuzzy area with the Dominican guys in pro ball. I have never heard of anything to the extent of this, BUT I have heard some pretty close rumors. I know in the Dominican culture, if a guy receives a blowjob from another guy he is not gay, but the guy GIVING the blowjob IS gay. I was trying to grasp this concept when I first heard about it, so I asked one of the Doms on our team. He said to me, (in a Latin accent, obvi) "If we yaki-yaki, me no gay. YOU gay! JAJAJAJAJA!"
I also know that Dominicans are not afraid or shy about beating off in the open. At the complex in the DR, the players stay in dorms and I know guys who have walked into a room and were met by a group of 4-6 Doms crowded around one computer screen ass naked all jerking at the same time. Also, one time my buddy brought a chick home to the hotel room when we were on the road. As he was bangin' her out, she looks up and sees his Dominican roommate standing next to the bed fully naked watching them and fappin' away. No shame.
My God. They're a bunch of Carlos Haleys down there! It's just like the diving board scene in Y Tu Mama Tambien, only real! I'd like to, if I may, repost that one quote:
If we yaki-yaki, me no gay. YOU gay! JAJAJAJAJA!
A million poets in a million years could not coin a phrase as wildly entertaining. I want that quote engraved on my tombstone. There is nowhere near enough yaki-yaki in this world, if you ask me. ME WANT MOAR YAKI-YAKI. Sounds like the worst sushi roll in history.
To some extent, I actually understand the open beating-off thing. Ready for an incredibly racist generalization? Let's do it. The Dominican Republic is a relatively poor nation (though not as poor as Haiti and the like). If you grow up in the DR, it's unlikely you have many private areas available to you. You may have to share a room with a sibling or perhaps more than one. So where do you go if you want to toss one out? A man has to do what a man has to do. So if you gotta beat off with eight other guys in the room, that's what you do. Don't like me beating off in front of you? Well then, don't look. THAT MAKES YOU A FAG! NO YAKI-YAKI FOR YOU!
Best thing to put an over-easy/sunny side up/poached egg on …. RICE.
Try it. When you bust the yolk all over the rice and then mix it in. It's fucking delicious.
I believe you. Also, I have the capacity to continue eating rice until there is no more rice left in the world. I can polish off entire cartons in seconds. No sauce required. It's horrifying. Why is rice so easy to gorge on? It scares me.
Worse discovery - ear hairs or gray pubic hairs?
Gray pubes, I think. But ever pluck an ear hair? ANGUISH.
And lastly, a GREAT MOMENT IN METAMUCIL POOPING HISTORY.
I trusted you, dammit. Fair enough that it's my own fault listening to health advice on this site. But that Metamucil tip was the opposite of the tits. It was a dick. My average daily shits have decreased, none of them have been fun ones. It's all hard work. I'm drinking 3 liters of water a day and even trying to help this thing by eating salads everyday. And my stomach feels like I have a lead weight in it. Am I a freak or are you not really a doctor? Frankly, I think for the pain you have caused me, I should have my commenting account automatically approved.
Igotmunsoned (three and a half hours later):
Please disregard the previous email. I just shat for almost 20 minutes. There was no wiping. Greatest day of my life.
You see? My shits are so satisfying now, they're practically erotic.
Before I go this week, one announcement: I'll be heading out to Glendale, Ariz., the weekend of April 10 on assignment for Penthouse magazine (I'm goin' to a NASCAR race! YEEEEEEEEHAWWWWWW!!!). If you live in Phoenix and have an interest in getting my ass high on shrooms in the desert, drop a line.