Time for letters!
I was waiting in line to use the head before going into Kinnick Stadium and I got to thinking about the long assemblage of port-o-pottys. I am certain that at some point some couple got shit-faced enough to thinking fucking in a crapatorium made sense and was as good as any place. Then I had an epiphany. Anyone who has fucked or will in a shitter should consider themselves a proud member of the "Piled High Club". Would you ever consider joining the piled high club? Not with me but in general?
That's a tall order. That's gotta be harder to pull off than fucking in an airplane bathroom, because the average stadium port-a-john is a terrifying repository of filth. Anyone willing to fuck inside one is certain to give you pause as to why you're fucking that particular person. Despite my tolerance for the grotesque, I can barely stay in a bad port-a-potty for longer than a few seconds, and I usually put my shirt over my mouth and nose to filter out all the fecal residue in the air. So to get drunk and then try and fuck inside one just seems completely beyond my capabilities. HOWEVER, I'm sure one of our readers has given it a go inside a biff. If you happen to be one of these people (or you read a phony story about it on Snopes), by all means write in.
When you were kid and you tagged along with your dad at the hardware store, did you ever dream of all the hardware as weapons? I used to pretend that the store, or some hilltop fortress to be located later, needed to be defended by vicious teens (this was when I was a pre-teen of course). I could spend an eternity walking around the shelves and deciding what tools would be set as booby traps and what tools could be used as blunt killing objects. Nail guns and pick axes were a favorite. I feel it was just a natural culmination of man's true nature. Tools and War.
I went to Home Depot the other day, and I'd like to say I went there because I needed to buy a circular saw to build a fallout shelter GRRR I STRONG MAN WHO BUILD THINGS WITH BIG PENIS GRRRR POWER, but I was going to pick up a toilet seat and a bottle of Cerama Brite, which is fucking weak. Anyway, whenever I go to Home Depot I invariably end up walking through the power tool aisle and experiencing the same daydreams that Matt has above. How can you not? Each 500 hp Black & Decker power hacksaw is bigger than the one next to it. It's like walking through the gearing up scene in Commando. And I see the nail guns and all I think about is Murtaugh taking out a bunch of fuckface South Africans in Lethal Weapon 2. Any time I walk by these tools I feel the sudden urge to grab them off the display and immediately loot the store. But do I ever act on that impulse? No? And you know why? Because I lack courage. A real man would grab that miter saw and do some real damage.
By the way, I hate people who can build things themselves. You always get some uppity asshole at a party who tells you about how he refurbished the basement of his house all by himself. Cookie for you, dickhead. Aren't you Mister Handy? Some of us have bad backs, you know. So don't go thinking you're better than me just because you know how to install drywall. You fucking overachiever.
Nice accidental use of Kohl's slogan. They're training bras.
That's more like it, Kohl's!
We argued how many people around our age it would take to beat up Mike Tyson. My friend said four. He is an idiot. I think it would take closer to ten people. How many people do you think it would take to beat up Mike Tyson?
This is the same as the argument people have over how many people it takes to kill some kind of very strong elephant or lion or what not. Theoretically, a group of ten men could almost certainly beat up Mike Tyson. But someone in that group has to be willing to throw the first punch, and that's where you have a real problem building up a Coalition of the Willing. For example, I'd happily be the twentieth guy to jump into a Tyson beatdown. By then, he's already been pinned down and pre-beaten. But would I ever want to be the first guy there? FUCK AND NO. The first guy into that melee would get fucking OBLITERATED. No one would ever want to be at the front of that particular battle, unless they were drunk and stupid. So you could beat up Mike Tyson with six to ten guys, but you need at least two drunken shitheads in your grouping to be willing to face the initial onslaught. If all you have at your disposal are sober, intelligent men, you'll never find a group big enough.
I finally have a real house with a garage after living in a townhouse for many years. The garage is equipped with a garage door opener. I can't help thinking about backing the Kizashi in at night so I can gun it and come roaring out of my garage in the morning like the BatMobile on the old Batman shows. Should I do this once and get it out of my system? By the way, I'm 48 years old.
You definitely should. Otherwise, what's the point of owning a garage? I do not have a garage, and my life is all the poorer for it. I have nowhere to do any kind of proper hoarding, and that sucks because I really want to start a hoarding habit. And I'll never stop being mesmerized by a garage door going up. I always expect aliens to be on the other side of the door, as if the garage door is actually the hatch of some kind of crude spaceship. THEY HAVE ARRIVED.
I was walking back from the bank today and saw a meter maid eying the hell out a car. You could tell he wanted so much to write a ticket, but for some reason was just kind of standing around by the car doing nothing. He finally moved along, sans release of writing the ticket. When I passed the meter I saw that it had six minutes left. The guy obviously saw that the time was about to expire, thought about it, and ultimately decided that six minutes was too long to wait. So, the question remains, how long will a meter maid wait out a meter in order to write a ticket?
I have to think it's probably at three minutes or below. They can also note the time left, circle around the rest of the lot, and then come back and see if the meter has finally expired or not. I have to think it's a lot like waiting in front of the microwave. For example, if I set something to cook in the microwave for 60 seconds, I'm standing by that microwave for 60 seconds. I'm not gonna go anywhere. But if something is in the microwave for 3:30? FUCK THAT. I'm not standing there and waiting that long. I have a life, you know? I'm gonna go take a shit, or watch Ricky Gervais' Globes monologue one more time, or masturbate. I'm gonna make full use of that precious time in my life. No way I'm standing there for three and half minutes. That would be agony. So I say the maid won't stand there in one place for longer than two minutes or so. There's nothing to do with yourself in that moment. What are you gonna do? Think? That's a waste of time. Unless that meter maid owns an iPhone. I'd squat on your car for forty minutes if I had an iPhone to fuck with.
When you are at an airport how scared do you get when you are beyond an arms length away from your bag? I just went to throw something away and left my bag at my table and I got so nervous I got that weird feeling when your anus clenches up.
It's bad when you have kids because kids will often go scampering through the terminal and you have little choice but to leave your bag unattended to go get them. I have two fears whenever this happens. The first is that someone will steal my shit. And no one should be wearing my Old Navy mesh pants but ME. The second fear, obviously, is that someone will see the bag unattended, then alert the Bomb Squad, and then I will be sent to Arab Poundtown in Cuba for leaving my bag unattended when they tell me all the time at the airport to NOT leave my bag unattended. But I had no choice! Unattended child trumps unattended bag every time!
Sometimes, I'll leave my bag somewhere and I'll feel like I really am some sort of malevolent bastard who stashed away something in that bag and I'm calmly fleeing the scene. Like Nitti walking out of the shop in The Untouchables right before it bursts into flames. I also get the same feeling anytime I walk anywhere with a gym bag that I'm gripping by the handles and do not have slung over my shoulder. When you carry a gym bag by the handles, you always feel like you're walking out of a bank with $200,000 in cash. Double that excitement if you're wearing gloves.
I was at the airport a few months back, and I was taking a redeye flight back home from Los Angeles. I was in the gate area waiting for the flight to board when the woman sitting directly across from me alerted a nearby cop about a bag that she saw unattended in the seat near her. It was a foldover bag. It didn't look threatening at all. OR DID IT? I sat there while the cop looked at the bag and radioed in to headquarters in cop lingo ("10-4 I have a potential 5150 Roger Mayday over"). Then he put on plastic gloves and started feeling the bag and I started to think to myself, "Should I be worried? Should I flee right now in case this bag blows us all sky high?" But it was midnight and I was really fucking tired, so I did nothing. And later on, I realized that I prized laying there and doing nothing over the potential of NOT exploding and dying. So that probably reflects poorly on me. Then again, it was just a foldover bag. The cop found nothing. Can't say my heart wasn't racing though. In my heart, I really did want him to find a glass tube of nitroglycerine.
How soon after a Playboy shoot (any nudie shoot for that matter) does the photographer rub one out? I cannot imagine longer than 10-15 minutes tops. Plus can you imagine the data bank the seasoned pros have after putting in years on the job. I bet those guys don't even need porn – they can do it all from memory.
I imagine the majority of photographers they employ are gay, since a gay photographer would likely make the model feel more comfortable, would have a better design aesthetic, and would be less prone to having their mind wander during the course of the shoot. You need professionalism when you're shooting Cheryl Bachman's cooch, and a gay photog provides that in spades. You're not gonna hire some shady Greek heterosexual to fashion your Penthouse shoot. That's just asking for trouble.
However, it should be noted that Sports Illustrated photographer Walter Iooss, who shoots most of the swimsuit issue covers and has a really bitchin' last name, is a married heterosexual, and his wife is a former model. So it's altogether possible that Iooss shot his wife for something, thought to himself, "Man, she's attractive. I'd have sex with her and marry her and stuff," and then he did! CHAMPIONSHIP HUSTLE. If I were Iooss, I'd go to spank off ten minutes into the shoot, just to get it out of my system right up front. Then I can go about being a calm professional and have models be attracted to me for being a calm professional who does not mix business with pleasure even though I secretly totally want to.
Is there any more worthwhile but totally ignored innovation than the side-urinal in nicer porta-potties? Every time I stare at it while pissing in the regular toilet, I think "oh look a side-urinal." And then I assume the porta-potty is questioning my accuracy, so I piss on the regular toilet to exact my revenge. And then some poor woman comes in, looks at the piss on the regular toilet, looks at the urinal designed to avoid that problem, and probably wants to murder somebody. Not my problem
More port a potty questions! NICE! Anyway, I have used that urinal before and I always regret it because the amount of splashback you experience with a port-a-potty urinal is roughly seven times worse than any other toilet in existence. It's horrifying. It all bounces right back onto your pants. And yet I've tried to use it more than once because it's away from the pile of waste in the toilet hole and therefore a little less nauseating, and because you can aim right for the tube at the base of the urinal. And hitting that tube square on is a pleasure akin to hitting a golf ball soundly. You really thread the needle when you hit the inside of that tube. But if you miss? DRENCHED.
What is the proper etiquette when you are on a first date and there is a zombie outbreak? To what extent do you worry about this girl with which you have no emotional ties (most likely a liability) over saving you're own skin? I'd say there's no right answer here.
You're wrong. The zombie outbreak would make it the greatest first date ever. You'd immediately get to show your date that you are a take-charge kind of guy who shows no hesitation when it comes to protecting those close to him, especially very pretty girls he would like to impress. You could hole up with your girl, kill off some of the zombies, tell her it's gonna be all right, and then an hour later you two will be having frantic unprotected sex in the restaurant walk-in. It's just like when Bullock and Reeves decide to start boning at the end of Speed. Extreme circumstances work in your penis' favor. I would have given anything to go on a first date that ended in a hostage situation or large scale riot of some sort. I often spent the majority of my first dates praying that would happen, if only so I wouldn't have to worry about what to say next.
I've been on bad first dates before, and every bad first date unfolds the same way, with you having no clue what to say. You rack your brain thinking of something to say, if only to fill the dead air, and the more you pressure yourself to come up with something, the worse the block gets. It's like taking an oral test and not remembering anything you studied. It's just a horrible, awful experience. You want to throw your hands up and end it right there because you know you're not gonna get laid, but your penis won't let you give up so easy, and so it just goes on and on and on. A zombie outbreak would completely erase that brain lock. Keep your fingers crossed the next time you take a gal out for dim sum.
Please take a look at the attached photo. I'm starting to see more and more of these racecar/shopping cart things. On the one hand, the racecar aspect of the cart might be effective in keeping kids from running around and screaming; a definite positive. On the other hand, the cart is even larger than typical shopping carts, sucking up even more precious grocery aisle real estate; a clear negative. I've seen some that are even longer or wider than the one pictured. Where do you land on these "quiet the children at the expense of other shopper's convenience" carts?
They're awful. Fucking horrible. Whoever invented them should be strapped to one and rolled down a mountain. Not only do they suck for regular shoppers, but they suck for the parents as well, because your piece of shit kid NEVER wants to stay in the novelty cart for the entire duration of your grocery trip, and so they bail out and you're stuck pushing around this fucking long-haul trailer while everyone at the store looks at you like you're a fucking asshole (and you are). You can't stop your cart anywhere, because then you block the whole side of the aisle for everyone else. Doing a u-turn in the aisle? Not happening. These things are the length of a goddamn football field, and the cart itself is actually much smaller than a regular cart, so nothing can fit in it. It's like the worst of all worlds.
Worst of all, these carts are never located somewhere convenient near the entrance of the store. They're always located in the fucking parking garage, a level down. Every try and maneuver one of these things into an elevator? DON'T. And they're all fucking filthy and diseased. Everyone else's little shit kids have already sat in that cart and wiped their snot all over the steering wheel. I hate them. I wish they had never been invented.
What's the appropriate amount of affection for a remarried widow to show for her first husband? If you were husband #2 would you be okay with there being a picture of her and her first husband on your fireplace? I think you'd have to be cool with it and act like he was the greatest guy ever, as he's not really a threat, but it's pretty shitty to have to believe that she probably liked him better and thinks of him during sex.
I think it depend on the length of the marriage. Let's say you're 80 years and old and you meet some smoking hot widow playing shuffle board at the assisted living facility. Let's say her husband died a while back and they were married for sixty years. I think, if you're that old, you totally let it go. Even if she screams out his name during intercourse, big deal. You're both old. You accept the parameters quickly before you die alone.
But, if you're 30 years old and the girl you married was only married to her hubby for a year before he died in a fiery car wreck, I think that's completely different. There's still time to construct an entire life out of your relationship, with kids and everything. She should be allowed to have a picture of him in the house and all that. But no fucking tats of his name. And no wearing some locket with a picture of him tucked inside. That's unfair. You can't compete with a dead guy. He's DEAD! He can't possibly fuck up now that's gone. You can't live up to that standard. You're gonna fart and forget to do the dishes and do all the things that dead people don't have to worry about. She's gotta have some respect for you on that front.
What's the highest grade you could go back to today, knowing what you know now, and ace every class/topic for that grade? We created a few qualifiers to consider, such as any history-based coursework would be omitted as it really boils down to simply recounting text from a book. We would only count the classwork that required calculations (math, science, economics), word processing or general computery, and English. We also omitted foreign languages. You would have access to textbooks (but not the internet), because who the fuck remembers Charles' Law?
I'd like to think that by merely engaging in this debate and forming these sentences that I've just tested out of elementary school completely. We all wrapped up last night thinking that we could get through grades 6-8 without an issue, with most of us confident we could get well into our junior or senior years of high school before we ran into trouble. Goddamn trigonometry would be my downfall. What say you?
So I'd be able to attend class and study and all that? I guess that would improve my chances. If we're talking about just taking a grade school test without any sort of actual preparation, I think I'd probably run into a road block in elementary school. When you have kids in preschool, it begins to dawn on you just how much shit you've forgotten. There's no way I could diagram a sentence in a 5th or 6th grade English class. No chance. I know the subject goes on the left and the predicate goes on the right, but after that? No fucking way. No one retains that information, because it's fucking useless.
And even if I could study and go through the class like everyone else, I'd still probably get lousy grades because I wouldn't want to study. I'd much rather watch TV or jerk off. I'd have absolutely no motivation. I was one of those students who got decent grades in subjects that interested me (woodshop) and horrible grades in anything that bored me (everything else). So even if I could get an A in 8th grade algebra (FOIL method!), I probably wouldn't work hard enough to earn it. Also, I never want to see the inside of a classroom ever again in my life. Ever. Even if it's a kama sutra class. My education, as far as I'm concerned, is fucking over.
Time for your email of the week. It's from an anonymous reader. Come get your prize, fella.
So, last night I had a pretty big evening of doing-stuff-while-asleep. Not a full blown sleep-driving-to-the-store adventure, but enough to freak me out. I had a dream that our cat had this giant slab of fish on the bed and was eating it, making a mess. In the dream, I picked the cat up and put him of the floor, pulled the sheets and comforter apart to get the fish out, and at one point, even got some toilet paper from the bathroom to clean up the bits of fish the cat didn't finish. I woke up this morning to a trashed bed, a pile of TP on the floor and a confused, annoyed girlfriend who was like "What on earth were you doing last night?" Apparently I was in and out of bed all night (like 4 or 5 times) shooing an imaginary cat (he was sleeping elsewhere) and screwing with the sheets, trying to pick stuff off the comforter, and yes, fiddling around with TP on the bed.
This is super annoying, and an unwelcome addition to my catalog of somnabulent activities, which usually consists of me jumping out of bed to avoid a baseball that is coming right at me (it's always a fucking baseball, which may also be the reason I watched that shitty Jags-Titans game, instead of the playoffs), or sitting up and yelling out "HELP!" because I think I've fallen through the floor of a barn, and am stuck in the basement. These two things I've done since I was in middle school, and I've basically learned to deal with them.
Apparently, because these activities correspond to what I'm dreaming about, and I remember them even after I've woken up, this isn't technically sleepwalking, but REM Behavior Disorder. Either way, it sucks, and the fact that I've graduated to doing weird, complex activities dismays me, and a small part of me is afraid that there's a tiny chance that I'll do something dangerous in one of these states - hopefully not like this poor bastard in England:
I think what I need to do is sleep in the garage. Either that or give my girlfriend a taser and directions to use it in case of sleep-assault.