I broke a mirror yesterday. But it wasn't my fault, because the mirror was inside a frame and my wife neglected to tell me that she detached the mirror from the frame. So I picked up the mirror by the frame and it knocked the thing over and it shattered. I argue that whoever is in charge of handing out seven years of shitty luck should bequeath the ill fates to HER, and not to me. Intent should factor into whether or not you're cursed for breaking the thing. It's totally unfair otherwise, dammit! Time for your letters:
You know those maps that display the population concentration in US cities by putting little white dots where the lights are brightest? Well, what if there was something similar for every place you've ever beaten off, with more dots for the number of times you've jacked it in that spot? How awesome would it be to check back after you've established a new domain and see a previously unseen dot?
There's no reason there can't be an iPhone app for that. You could simply push a button after you're done beating, and your session is logged into the map for posterity. Obviously, your home address would have enough dots to fill the fucking nighttime sky. But those little dots in the surrounding states? Those I would always treasure. Pa's question got me thinking about how many states I've beaten off in. Of course, that question may as well be phrased as, "How many states have you been to?" because I've beaten off virtually anywhere I've gone. I went through the map, then I tried to rank them in order of most sessions to fewest.
1. Minnesota (puberty)
2. New Hampshire (prep school, lotta beating off)
3. Maine (college)
4. New York
15. North Carolina
18. New Jersey
The only state that I don't have a good handle on (hardy har har) is Rhode Island. I've passed through that state on numerous occasions. But did I stay long enough to actually run to a bathroom and masturbate? I'm not sure I did. A crucial missed opportunity.
I'm so sad when I look at that list. I haven't even beaten off in half of our fine states. Think of all the places I could visit, and beat off in. I could beat off in Montana! The Big Sky state! I hear they have magnificent views to beat off to! My life has been wasted beating off too close to home.
BUT WAIT! Air travel! Does that count? If I beat off in the middle of a six-hour flight across the country, do I get to add Nebraska to my list? Or do I have to be on the ground? I feel like I need to be on the ground. You really don't get a feel for beating off in a state if you're just doing it from 30,000 feet in the air.
Before I die, I will jack it in every American state. You can bank on it. Surely, some of you fine readers have to travel a lot for work and have had the chance to mark your territory in all 50 states. If you have, send an email my way. And if you haven't, THE GAUNTLET HAS BEEN THROWN DOWN.
Last Friday, I went to happy hour with some co-workers and the bar we went to had a beer list that was the size of a telephone book. They poured over the microbrews and seemed to have a pretty serious discussion before making their choices while I punked out and ordered a Yuengling, which I'm sure made me look like a caveman in their eyes. What do you think: am I a total pussy for going with an old standby that doesn't have a secret recipe or should I start raising my game and pay attention to the amount of hops in an IPA?
Nah, you're fine. I went to some bar the other week that was exactly like that. They had an extensive beer list, and every beer selection came with a full paragraph of descriptive copy, like you were reading an issue of Wine Spectator. "With subtle notes of hyacinth and jasmine!" And they did this even for regular beers, too. So you'd see long entries for Chimay and Ommegang and all these fancy beers, then it would come to Heineken and they still felt the need to describe it. Like I need a menu to tell that Heineken tastes like ass. I kept hoping I'd find Hiland Ice at the end of the list.
Anyway, I did what anyone else does in that situation: I looked at the ABV listing of each beer, then ordered the cheapest beer with the highest ABV. I have no interest in anything other than the ABV and price. Loogit that one! It's 8% ABV for only six bucks! THAT'S GREAT VALUE!
Have you ever sat down on a toilet seat with the lid up whilst wearing pants? I know doing it pretty much ensures that you'll have to burn the slacks you're wearing, but it really does create a unique feeling within your body. Your bowels prepare to release due to the lowered altitude, but the tightness of your underwear and pants provide counter-pressure. If you haven't done it, I'd recommend you try it at least once.
I've done it before, and it just feels wrong. I was sitting on the toilet while my kid was taking his bath. The lid was down, and the toilet lid tends to bulge up slightly. If you sit there long enough, your ass can get sore. So I thought it would be a novel idea to lift up the lid and sit on the toilet seat for a little bit. Just to mix things up. Besides, I thought to myself, I'm very comfortable sitting on the toilet while shitting. I should be comfortable sitting there with pants on, right? WRONG. I felt like I had just broken some sort of sacred covenant when my covered ass touched the seat. Like some Toilet God was looking at me from above with stern disapproval and was poised to send a thousand millipedes up through the bowl to teach me a lesson. I immediately stood up and never did it again. I was seconds away from shitting my pants.
If you could make one thing that's bad for you all the sudden good for you what would it be? For me it's soda and it's not even close. I'd have 15 cans of coke a day if it wouldn't give me diabetes.
Excessive alcohol intake. For certain. You can have the soda.
Besides, you can always switch to diet soda at some point. I made the switch it Coke Zero a while back, and it really hasn't been that bad. When you drink regular Coke, Diet Coke or Coke Zero taste like complete ass. I know I never wanted anything to do with it. I even thought drinking diet soda was for pussies, which is a whole new level of stupidity. DURRR YOU MUST BE GAY BECAUSE YOU'RE TRYING TO REDUCE YOU'RE SUGAR INTAKE AND PREVENT EARLY ONSET DIABETES DURRRRR FAG!!
But after a while, you get used to diet soda. When I was a kid, my mom had to wean us off of whole milk and get us down to skim. So she started with whole milk, then went to two percent, then one percent, then finally down to skim. Every time she changed milks, we all reacted in horror the first sip, bitched for a week, then got used to it. Same thing with diet soda. You can train yourself to get used to it. Now I drink shitloads of Coke Zero and I'll NEVER suffer any kind of ill effects because of it! NEVER!!!!
/fails to notice giant aspartame tumor growing in liver ducts
I was walking through a skybridge at school today, and I had this perfect fart welling up inside of me. So, to avoid releasing one of those pairs of popping loud ones you get when walking, I very carefully released it, and did it continuously. I don't know if it smelled, but it was leaving me, so to speak, for about 5 seconds. I'd say I released a 20 foot-long fart into that skybridge. And I'd never thought about it that way before.
That's great hustle. I too enjoy that slow release fart. It makes me feel like I'm fully in charge of my bowels, which is so often not the case. And the slow release does serve to make the fart feel more tangible, as if you're caulking bathroom tile. Again, the world needs FartVision glasses. I won't rest until it happens.
My grandparents live right near the runway to a large airport. They fly over a couple hundred feet above you. Still to this day I just want to experience a plane crash or explosion. I know I'm fucked in wanting to experience death. But after seeing thousands of movie explosions and loving those, why not add a little reality to it? Also I've always wanted to see a car flip over and over on the highway. All of this as long as I'm ok. I'll even go and try to help the survivors (if any) for just one shot. Am I alone?
Not a day goes by when I don't think about an Airbus jet crashing fifty yards from my house, giving me an opportunity to run sprinting to the scene to help pull survivors from the wreckage and call the authorities to tell them what happened, then go on the evening news with a big graphic that says WITNESS under my big fat head. That would be fucking awesome. Like Kevin, I also spend more time than is necessary on the highway imagining a tractor trailer flipping over thirty-seven times in front of me, allowing me to show off my deft driving skills by maneuvering our CRV around the truck, then stopping on the shoulder and pulling the driver (who is unconscious) from the wreck before the gas tank ignites and the truck bursts into a giant fireball. Man, what I'd give for that to happen. HOLD ON, SLIM! WE'LL GET YOU MEDIVAC'ED OUT OF THIS HELLHOLE, GOD DAMMIT!
This would make a great idea for a porn movie.
Would it ever.
Is there a worse segue or introduction for a song than the phrase "...and it goes, a little something, like this…"
Only one. "This is a new song of ours." Oh, so I don't know the lyrics and can't sing along? EAT SHIT.
I do appreciate any artist that tells you the name of the song before they start playing it, so that I don't have to spend the first sixty seconds of the song trying to figure out what they're playing. Sometimes, it's so loud, I can't make out the riff. I am terrible at rock concert song recognition. Just tell me you're playing "Battery" and let's get things off on the right foot.
Have you ever seen a crow outside and were absolutely sure that you were supposed to follow it and avenge various wrongdoings that have occurred in your life? Happened to me not 5 minutes ago...
No, because I'm too busy thinking a horde of zombies is coming up over the hillside.
/watched too many "Walking Dead" episodes back to back the other night
I get all fired up any time I see large or unusual animals in my backyard or in my neighborhood. If there's a large bird, I'll be like OMIGOD! THAT'S A FUCKING HUGE BIRD! IT MUST BE A FALCON! We have deer in the back all the time, and even though they eat plants and shit, everyone in the family still flips out when they see one. DUDE! THERE'S A FUCKING DEER IN THE BACK! LOOK AT IT! IT'S JUST SITTING THERE! GODDAMN!
I keep hoping to see a bear one morning. It's gonna happen. I'll wake up, pour a bowl of Cocoa Puffs, look outside, and see a fucking brown bear dry humping the sandbox. Then I'll have a heart attack and dial 911 and watch Animal Control come and sedate it with a fucking blowgun. I can't wait.
I love a currency sneak attack when buying a soda from a vending machine. Without paper currency, using only the coins scrounged up, it is the best feeling to first insert your puny nickels and dimes and then, when the machine tells you that after putting in what seems like a whole handful of change you still owe big, you get to slam home the big quarters! Take that! You doubted me!
I also like to hand a cashier a twenty, scream WAIT! at them, then dig around for exact change so I only get bills back in return. And when I do find exact change (I usually don't), I present to them triumphantly, as if to say to them, "I know you WANTED to fuck me by handing me a shitload of change. But I thwarted you!" Even though the cashier was clearly not thinking that, and was simply standing there while I made an ass of myself.
Everyone has the recurring fantasy of being a famous athlete. In my case, I am usually a baseball player; however, my fantasy goes one step further. I fantasize that some sick child, through Make-a-Wish, or whatever, will want to meet me, and I oblige big time. I take the kid on the field to play catch with him, take him to meet the guys in the locker room, get involved with his treatment by talking to his doctors and offering to pay for all it, etc. Then to go one step further, I have two endings to the fantasy: (1) the kid dies, and I dedicate the season to him and win the MVP. Of course in my fantasy I accompany the parents to the funeral (I even cry in real-life sometimes); or (2) the kid makes a miraculous recovery, and it is because of me, both that I have lifted his spirits to recover and have been able to afford care that the parents would otherwise would not have been able to pay for. Please tell me I am not the only person who has thought of this.
Of course you aren't. Babe Ruth made that a standard fantasy for every American male under the age of 10. When I was 8 or so, I often dreamed about it both ways. I prayed I'd get leukemia so that Kirby Puckett would come visit me and then hit a home run in my honor (He probably would have ended up groping me, but I digress). I was young and didn't understand that leukemia was, like, bad. I thought it was just something that got you out of school and got you meeting baseball players. Plus, you got to wear a hat all the time. Seemed like a great deal.
Then I'd flip the script and dream about curing AIDS babies with my kickass home runs and touchdown throws (I was a multisport dreamer). I'd cure so many AIDS babies that they would make films about my incredible curative powers. I would be chosen to play myself in the role, and I'd win an Oscar for it. All of this, when you are a kid, seems perfectly realistic. That's how stupid kids are. So you remember that the next time anyone tells you kids are shrewd.
By the way, apropos of nothing (shit, this whole column is apropos of nothing), any time I walk into an empty gym and start shooting free throws, I instantly imagine Michael Jordan or a similar NBA talent walking into that same gym and wanting to challenge me to a free throw contest, which I then win handily. I'll even hear myself mouthing a conversation to their imagined presence. Then some other fuckface will walk into the gym and ruin the fantasy. I love having a basketball court to myself.
I think you mentioned once that you have a son. Being a transplant in the DC area, do you feel obligated to pass on your sports heritage to him? In other words, are you going to force him to become a Vikings fan? I'm a Philly transplant living in Boston and - if I ever end up having a son - it will be a cold fucking day in hell before I ever allow him to become a fan of any of the Boston sports teams. Over my dead fucking body. He will be a fan of the Eagles, Flyers, and Phillies (but not the Sixers, because who gives a fuck about them?) and HE WILL LIKE IT. And if he doesn't, he can find another house to live in.
Yeah, but now you're fucked. He'll grow up loving the Red Sox specifically because you don't want him to. It's like trying to get him to not be gay or something. The harder you push, the more he'll resist.
I couldn't in good conscience encourage anyone to become a Vikings fan. It's not a terribly pleasant way to go through life. I'll just root for them and watch them and if my kid ends up liking them too, so be it. And if he become a Skins fan, then that's also fine by me. AS LONG AS HE SLEEPS UNDER THE FUCKING CAR BECAUSE SKINS FANS ARE FUCKING ASSHOLES AND I MAKE NO EXCEPTIONS NOT EVEN FOR MY OWN BLOOD.
Time for a military edition of GREAT MOMENTS IN POOP HISTORY, and war poop stories are always my favorite. Zeke, email the tips line to get your email of the week prize. I call this one MEMPHIS SMELLE.
My grandpa was a navigator on at B-17 and his crew was a lively gang. One fella who went by the name Huckaby particularly liked the sauce. They were out way too late one night and got called to fly a mission at 6 in the morning or so. They made their way to the plane, there was no sign of tail gunner Huckaby. They all are on the plane and getting ready to take off preparing their notes or whatever they did, and Huckaby shows up looking like death warmed over. Obviously feeling the effects of the prior nights drinks, he gets onboard and they begin taking off.
While they're going over the mission Huckaby informs the pilot he has to stop, that he has to use the shitter. Since they had already started taking off the pilot told him he was out of luck. He runs toward the back of the plane to take his tail gunner position and is not heard from again in the cockpit. They all return to their positions and the ball turret gunner goes to his place and yells "HUCKABY YOU SON OF A BITCH!" Dude shit into the ball turret gunners little cave. They made Huckaby clean it up, but the whole plane smelled like drunk shit for the entire mission. My grandfather died this February and stories like this make me smile and think of him.
They don't poop ‘em like they used to.