Bit of a shorter funbag today. I had back surgery yesterday. Fuck off and leave me alone. Your letters:
Would you have sex with a post-op tranny knowing it was a post-op tranny, but, I mean, a super hot post-op tranny? Like pick your celebrity crush and that's what they looked like?
Assuming I wasn't married and had kids blah blah blah? Yep. Sure would. Like if she looked like the post-op tranny from "It's Always Sunny"? Oh, yes. She's unreasonably attractive. I don't know if there are any post-op trannies who actually look like that. I assume most of them all still look like men in drag, in which case they aren't fooling anyone.
I remember, when I was a kid, I stole an issue of Playboy that had a pictorial of a woman who used to be a dude. Her name was Tula Cossey, and you can see her old pictures here. (NSFW) Playboy told you up front that she used to be a man. It was almost like they were DARING you to jack off to her. Well, I did. I remember thinking to myself, "Wait, am I gay?" while I was doing it. And I also remember my penis not really giving a shit either way.
If you happen upon a tranny who looks for all the world like a gorgeous woman and doesn't seem to have a trace of man left to her, I say hit it. So she used to have a penis. Big deal. She had that penis chopped off specifically so that she could be considered a woman. I say that's great hustle that deserves to be rewarded. Does it make you gay to have sex with a post-op, even though you're clearly attracted to her for her feminine qualities and not her masculine qualities? Who gives a shit? There comes a point in life where you stop being picky about such things. Gay, tranny, bi, whatever. If you're attracted to it, go for it. It doesn't fucking matter.
So I'm sitting in Dulles today while my flight to Orlando is delayed about 2 hours from the fucking thunderstorms and some old lady next to me says, "Oh well we need the rain." What? All it's done in DC this summer is fucking RAIN. I HATE it when old people say we need the rain, because they always say we need it, even when we don't. It could be flooding for forty days and forty nights and they'd still go by this annoying mantra. These are the old shitheads who watch the Weather Channel all day and are obsessed with the weather even though they never leave their homes. F that. I'm done with the fucking rain. And old idiots.
The only thing worse than old people telling you this is some fucking weatherman piping up and saying the same thing. As if it's 1931 and we all live the fucking Dust Bowl. OH THANK GOODNESS FOR THE RAIN! FINALLY, WE'LL HAVE FRESH YAMS COME SPRING! And plain-looking Lizzie Curry won't become an old maid after all! You are broadcasting from a fucking urban area. No one needs the rain. Ever. I could give two shits about some old person's tomato garden.
I fucking hate weathermen. Hate them with every fiber of my fucking being. It's the one thing Kornheiser and I agree on. Only Radio Shack employees make me more angry. We don't even need weathermen anymore. You can get a weather report online in three seconds, instead of tuning into your local news, hearing this shithead tease the weather for ten minutes at the top of the broadcast, tell you tomorrow's forecast is coming up at the end of the program, and then spending fifteen minutes at the end of the broadcast trying to impress upon you that they earned a degree in meteorology before finally telling you if you need a fucking jacket or not. DIE. Half the time, they drone on and on and on about some weather event going on six counties over. "Look at all that rain in Cumberland, Maryland!" NO ONE IN DC LIVES IN FUCKING CUMBERLAND, MARYLAND. YOU FUCKING IDIOT. YOU ARE A SHEEP READING A FUCKING PROMPTER. I DON'T NEED THIS SHIT EXPLAINED TO ME LIKE I'M IN FIRST GRADE. JUST GIVE ME THE SEVEN-DAY FORECAST AND DIE FOREVER.
Weathermen are the reason your children will become complete pussies when they grow up. No joke. They cancel schools these days if there's a goddamn inch of snow on the ground, and weathermen overhyping storms is part of the reason why. If a weatherman was shot tomorrow, I would not be sad. I would send the killer a hot post-op tranny to have sex with.
We are redecorating our bathroom (for the second time in three years) and my wife insists (again) on putting a decorative pump soap dispenser on the sink with lotion in it instead of soap. She says this is perfectly normal and that all bathrooms have or should have a lotion dispenser at or near the sink. The first year I hit that pump every single time I washed my hands and each time was equally shocked and dismayed that lotion came out instead of soap. While my rate is down to about 85% as we near the end of our second year of marriage, I still find myself yelling and cursing each time I hit that deceptive dispenser. Have you encountered this issue in your marriage or bathroom experiences?
Your wife is either insane or a sadist. A soap dispenser that sits near a bathroom sink should have soap in it, not lotion. That's just common sense. Would you put orange juice in a shampoo bottle and then put it in the shower? No. That would be retarded. Having the lotion there is idiotic, unless it is placed next to a soap dispenser and both bottles are clearly marked as such. If you keep hitting that dispenser every time you go thinking that it's soap, then clearly your bathroom has a design flaw. History has proven it to be true. This wouldn't be hard to fix. Get a soap dispenser that puts out actual soap, and then have the lotion in the medicine cabinet, or somewhere near the hand towels.
And if your wife is trying to make you feel dumb simply because you can't retrain your brain to remember that there's fucking St. Ives in that bottle, instead of making a simple fix to solve the problem, then have an affair.
This is my cab driver. Apparently he's an anal terrorist.
This is why we need US marshals stationed inside every man's rectum.
When I was on a plane the other week, I found myself making tough looking faces at the guys who I'd picked in my head to be the bad guys. That's acceptable, right?
Yes. I was on a plane a few weeks ago, and sitting behind my wife was a man in a turban. Now, I try to be a tolerant fellow and all that shit. But come on. It's a dude in a turban. Beneath my sheen of liberal white guilt, of course I'm going to assume he's there to kill us all. There comes a point where racial sensitivity takes a backseat to PROTECTING THIS FUCKING HOUSE. This poor guy was probably given a colonoscopy at the security checkpoint, BUT HOW DO I KNOW HE DIDN'T HAVE A COBRA BASKET PLACED SOMEWHERE NEAR THE JETWAY?
So I looked back at him a couple times, and I'm certain he knew I was looking at him because he was wearing a turban and because I clearly was assuming he was a terrorist when he was probably an accountant. I kinda felt bad about it. Then I figured he must be immune to it all by now. So I kept checking all flight long, keeping my hands free at all times should I need to spring into action and cut his jugular with the emergency landing instructions.
Is this L.T.'s new whip?
Oh, that's creepy.
I'm gonna lay it out there. I know Ferraris are awesome cars. But has there ever been a Ferrari on Earth that hasn't been driven by a complete fucking scumbag? If I were filthy rich, I'd never buy one of these cop magnets. If you're white and you drive a Ferrari, everyone will assume you have hair implants, wear $500 shoes without ever wearing socks, are divorced, and cruise pool halls for teenage runaway trim.
As a heterosexual male, when I make fun of my friends I call them gay and tell them to suck a dick. Do gay guys do the same thing? Do they call each other straight and tell each other to go eat pussy?
That is such a titlover question.
Grad school is looking more and more like a looming prison sentence. I'm Ed Norton in 25th hour. If I decide to get my PhD in Sociology, it guarantees I'll be a professor until I die, and the future fades to black. If I decide to skip grad school and drive off into the sunset with Brian Cox, who knows where I'll wind up. Maybe I'll grow a sweet mustache and get a couple cool pairs of light blue jeans. Growing up is weird.
I was working as an assistant account person at an ad agency about eleven years ago. This is a shitty job that isn't anywhere as cool as "Mad Men" makes it out to be, especially at the peon level. I hadn't put together a copywriting portfolio yet, and I was afraid I'd never be able to become an ad writer. So I started thinking about going to grad school, getting a Master's in English, and becoming an English professor. I thought this sounded like a really cool idea. I'd become the cool-as-shit professor everyone likes. I'd smoke pot between classes. I'd seduce any number of female students looking for an inflated grade. I'd live on a bucolic campus in some idyllic town and take entire semesters off to go write novels about poop. It would totally be just like Wonder Boys.
I was set to do this. I was all ready to quit my job and start fresh. Then I called my dad.
ME: I want to become an English professor.
ME: I think I'm gonna quit and get my Master's.
DAD: That's stupid.
ME: Why are you so close-minded, MAN?!
DAD: Listen to me. Every kid that went to college wants to become a professor because they all loved college so much. Which means you'll be competing with tons of other people for these tenure jobs that never open up. You'll have to wait decades for a good job. And even if you get one of those jobs, you're never gonna make a lot of money. You like money, don't you?
ME: Oh, hell yes.
DAD: Then stick with what you're doing.
And I did. This is why it often helps to have a father who is staunchly Republican and regards college faculties as the minions of Satan himself. K Wigglez, it can take up to six years to get a doctorate in sociology, and sociology is for retards. Plus you'd have tons of money in student loans to pay off down the road. I'd urge you to avoid grad school, if I hadn't gotten to your question late and you weren't already enrolled. BREAK OUT! DIG IF YOU MUST!
I just moved to LA about a year ago from the East Coast. Every time I drive anywhere, I can't help but take note of my location and judge how much it would suck ass if an earthquake hit at that particular moment. For instance, any time I'm parked in LA traffic and happen to be beneath an underpass, on one of those floating highway ramps, or on the PCH next to the bluffs, I'm pretty sure that I would die instantly if an earthquake were to occur right then. Especially cause you're even further trapped/screwed by the traffic.
Sometimes if I'm just on a regular street I also imagine that an earthquake would cause the road to crack open and swallow my car up all 2012-style. My boyfriend, who was born and raised in LA, never has these thoughts. What the fuck?
Yeah, I'd have the road-swallowing nightmare pretty much on a constant loop if I had to live out there. It's why I'd never live in LA. Well, that and the fact that everyone who lives in LA is a soulless vacuum of a human being who stares right through you during any conversation unless you happen to be talking about something that might help further their career.
The Devil And Daniel Murphy:
Recently I discovered a professional pornographic video starring a girl that I know. I was never attracted to the girl and the video is not a turn on, it's one of those gag the girl with your cock humiliation videos, but unfortunately it has affected how I view other random porn chicks who star in videos and perform acts I am turned on by. Now I can't cruise RedTube without thinking, "Oh that poor girl, I wonder why she needed the extra money for taking it up the ass," and such. Is having a porn conscience a good thing or a bad thing?
It's probably a good thing. It's what keeps you from being turned on by porn that is degrading and unpleasant, like whatever Cockeye Jones used to watch. In fact, you should find it reassuring that, while your patronage contributes to an industry that exploits vulnerable young women who may have serious mental health problems or chemical dependencies, at least you didn't like Two Girls One Cup. That would be wrong.
Does it make me weird if I pluck my ball pubes while taking a dump?
No, but it may make you a masochist. Plucking a ball pube is AGONY. So terribly painful. The worst part of it is seeing your ballbag stretch out to maximum tautness as the hair is ripped away. You can see how far the root went down into your scroat. Often, the follicle will remain protruded after you've plucked the hair, making it appear like a single goosebump on your marblepouch. It's a disturbing, horrible thing. I do it at least once a week.
My husband got branded by the molten lava hot seatbelt buckle in his car. His car had been sitting in 103 degree weather all day while he was at work. I was actually on the phone with him when it happened. He let out quite the yelp and went into full "bitch panic." This pic was taken 4 days later and it still looks brutal, particularly the part that blistered.
JESUS! Liz sent me this email a month and a half ago. This is what the brand looks like now.
DOUBLE JESUS! Imagine getting branded and you don't even get a cool scar out of it, like the Slayer logo, or the letters of a really cool black fraternity. I'd be so pissed.
A question tossed around with some friends, what's your favorite type of prepared potato? We decided anyone who says baked deserves to have mental images of Favre jerking off in crocs burned into their retinas.
My favorite type of prepared potato is Rosti potatoes, which are potatoes that have been shredded, mixed with bacon, formed into a cake, and then fried in bacon fat or butter. I worked at a restaurant that served these as a side dish. I was a runner, which meant I brought half-eaten plates of these potatoes back to the kitchen constantly. I cleaned the plate 99% of the time before handing it to the dishwasher. They were fucking MAGIC.
Other than that, it has to be French fries, right? I can't imagine any other choice. I know baked potatoes are good if you slather them with butter, bacon, and sour cream. But at that point, do you even need the potato? What fucking purpose does the thing serve at that point? Off the top of my head, here are the main ways to prepare a potato on its own:
-Chopped and roasted
I'm sure I forgot something, but fries own the shit out of anything else on that list.
A "friend" posted this Facebook update. I always wondered, as I'm sure you have too, the thought process behind some of the vanity plates out there. Well, here is a sampling released from it's dark, cavernous, meathead origin, for all to see, and it sure ain't pretty:
What about NYTMARE? It would go well with a second truck that has STRYPER plates. Oh, and I hope your Facebook friend crashes his truck in a gully and has his legs sheared off.
Someone in my neighborhood has a Ford Heavy Duty truck. It's a Harley Davidson Special Edition, so it has the Harley logo emblazoned on the frame and in the seat upholstery (because that's way badass and lets everyone know you don't fuck trannies). Anyway, I walked by the truck one day and the back was dirty. In the dirt, someone had taken their finger and written IMPORT KILLER. I assume the driver had done this himself. So, so gay.
Two more letters. First, an innovation:
You know how when you're having sex missionary-style, you occasionally have to stop and drag your partner backwards a foot so she don't bash her head into the headboard? Well, picture this: 1 bowling alley, ten couples, several gallons of Astroglide and you've got Sex Bowling. The man's knees can't leave the ground, penetration can't be interrupted, and the first couple to plow into the pins wins.
I think it's something the whole community could enjoy and gamble on. Plus, to get the most distance per thrust, you'd probably need people who are lightweight and in shape, so it wouldn't be completely dismal to watch. I need financial backers/bored bowling alley employees.
I'd be willing to contribute three cents to your cause.
Finally, a GREAT MOMENT IN LAW SCHOOL SHART HISTORY:
Suffocating future attorney:
I'm sitting in Bar Review class this week, and this guy in my class lets out a fiercely loud, but uber-wet fart. I mean, he totally cuts wind and scorches earth. Within 15 seconds, the entire surrounding area is infiltrated by an invisible plume of noxious ass-fumes. The first thing I'm thinking after I emerge from the daze of my classmate's unfortunate mishap is that there is no way in hell that he didn't shit his pants. I see that he subsequently put his head down and didn't move during a 10-minute break. He remained in his seat for each subsequent break, and had a distraught look on his face. Apparently, he also shit himself silly two years ago in a well-documented situation among my peers, so this guy is a repeat offender — a serial self pants shitter, if you will.
Still beats becoming a lawyer.