We go right to your letters:
I lost my virginity at a pretty early age (15) to my 16 year-old girlfriend. At this time we took some pictures of us in action if you catch my drift. Now, hypothetically if I came across those pictures (no pun intended) a few days ago would I be allowed to enjoy them or do they have to be destroyed since they are technically kiddie porn? Thank you for your time.
A fair ethical question. First of all, it sounds like you had a solid time losing your v-card, in which case I hate your guts. I had a hard time just finding my way in. The idea that I'd also be able to operate a camera during any of it seems impossible. Anyway, kudos to you for that, you dick.
Now, to your question: I guess this is technically kiddie porn, but I think we should consider the spirit of the law here. That photo is a cherished memory of a girl sitting on your peepee for the first time. I can't imagine anyone saying that's the moral equivalent of uploading 7,000 photos of baby-fucking from 4Chan every day. That's ludicrous. I think, confined to that single memory and photo and event, you're in the clear. Whack away. Don't show them to anyone, of course. But use the picture privately as you see fit. But if looking at that photo acts as a gateway drug to you searching the web for nude Photoshops of that girl from KickAss, then you might have a problem. Which brings us to a similar issue…
Probably like a number of readers, I have some "fun" pics of ex-girlfriends. Some they sexted to me, some I took when we having some fun together. What is the statute of limitations of keeping these? Should they be deleted at the breakup? Once you've started dating someone else? Once they've started dating someone else? Once they're married maybe? Or can you keep these indefinitely, holding onto them as an investment should they ever reach political office or become famous? I imagine once I get married I'll get rid of them, but I've told myself I would delete them at each of the stages mentioned above, and haven't. So I can't be confident I'll get rid of them once I'm ringed up. Any suggestions?
First of all, you bastard. No girlfriend of mine ever sent me nude photos. I hate you all. Secondly, those photos are yours. They were sent to you legitimately, as with Abrahamburgers' photos in the previous letter. You can do whatever you want privately with them, so long as that means you don't post them online or deliberately cause the other person misery. I think it's a whole different thing if the girl ASKS you to delete the pictures. Then I think you ought to. But if she hasn't said anything, and you're still in possession of brilliant spank bank material (and I can't imagine how invaluable it is as spank bank material), it seems okay with me. Whether or not SHE got married or has a new boyfriend is irrelevant. You're not actively trying to ruin their relationship by sneaking a peek once in a while.
I think it becomes a much thornier thing for you once you get a new girlfriend or you get married. No wife is gonna say it's all right to keep naked photos of a chick you used to bang. That would be crazy. You'll have to get rid of them by then. I can only assume that would take incredible mental toughness to see through.
My buddy who is a Packers fan but supports Brett Favre just told me this Super Bowl trip doesn't mean as much because Favre isn't apart of the team. Can I legally be allowed to punch him?
You sure should be. Your friend is a horrible person and you should not be friends with him anymore. And if the Packers lose the Super Bowl and your friend is like, "See? They never should have gotten rid of Brett!", then you should be allowed to hit that friend in the mouth with a discus. Favretards just get worse and worse. There should be some sort of government-run Favre jersey trade in program, like the kind they have for illegal firearms. Just get rid of your Favre jersey and you'll get $3 off for a proper Aaron Rodgers jersey and that way we can get those Favretard jerseys off the street for good.
What do you do with your plunger after using it? I usually just flush a second time and give the plunger a good rinse in the fresh toilet water before putting it back, but this seems somewhat unsanitary. There's no way a toilet water rinse is sanitizing the remnants of poop that weren't reverse-Heimlich'd down the plumbing. Is there a better way or do I just go on living while knowing that the plunger is probably as bacteria-infested as I imagine it?
I do the exact same thing with a plunger, because what else can you do with it? You're not gonna wash it in the sink. That would ruin the sink. You're not gonna wipe it off, because then poop can go through the paper towel and give you the stinkfinger. And you're not gonna get a mop bucket and clean off the plunger with Spic and Span and fresh water, because that would make you a germaphobe lunatic. Rinsing it in the toilet seems like the only way to go. It's clean ENOUGH. It's also very easy, and that's important, because plunging a clogged toilet is very taxing. You have to pump, like, three times to get the poop down. Exhausting.
Ever deploy the plunger and it doesn't work? You keep waiting for the swirl to develop in the center of the bowl to let you know everything will finally go down and it never comes? That's an awful moment in life. You'll never feel more helpless.
At what age do you think a man stops worrying about what other people (men) think of him? Seems to me that most young men stay in some sort of weird insecure "alpha mode" through their teens and twenties, but then it wanes. I am 31 years old and most "macho" instincts have long since drained out of me and most of my male buddies, although I didn't have too many to begin with.
I'd say your 30's or so. Especially if you're married. If you're in your 30's and married, you already KNOW you're a housebound pussy who isn't gonna go out partying like a rock star every night. You've accepted your lot in life, you're somewhat comfortable with it, and so you're less likely to give a crap if someone calls you a pussy for flaking out on someone or something like that. Which is good, since I now flake out on people all the fucking time. NOT MY FAULT! THE KIDS ARE SICK!
You become very self-aware once you hit your 30's. You understand precisely why you acted the way you acted when you were in your teens and twenties, and you know precisely what you'd do differently if you were in that position again. And that's why being in your 30's BLOWS, because now I'm completely tortured by all the things I fucked up back then because I was a complete retard. I fucked up trying to talk to girls. I fucked up my back playing football when I never even should have bothered playing it. I fucked up job interviews. I fucked so many things up, and fucked them up so badly, that all I can think now is, "Gee, I really fucked that up!" It's horrible.
And the worst part is that there's no real way to impart that self-confidence on someone else. What's the first thing people say to guy going out on his first date? "Be yourself." That is the worst goddamn advice ever. You're sixteen. How the fuck can you be yourself when you have no clue who the fuck you are? If you're saying "be yourself" to a sixteen-year-old, you're basically saying, "Be a confused twat." Because that's what he is. It's the same as telling a kid he needs more confidence. You can't just get confidence. It's not on sale at Amway. You have to slog through 30 years of life before you become somewhat self-assured, and there's pretty much no other way to get it, unless you're some awesome happy smart jock guy who I fucking hate.
As the father of a small daughter, I occasionally pick her up from daycare and see some of her friends. Most kids are cute, but of course there's always the occasional little girl who you just know is going to grow up to be hot. My first reaction is, "Hey, where's her mom?" thinking that where there's smoke, there's fire.
Am I going to hell for this? In no way is there any attraction to the little kids or cartoon characters, but ... I'M A DUDE. If I can't be looking at hot women, I want to be hypothesizing about the future opportunity to do so. This is what we do, right?
Of course. If you're starving in the desert, and you see a dog, you're gonna envision that dog as a giant roast turkey. Doesn't make you a monster. MY LOGIC IS IRONCLAD.
I think the important thing if you're a guy is that you feel the moral dilemma at a moment like that. That's a reassuring thing. If you went through that process in front of the preschool and DIDN'T ask yourself if you were going to Hell for it, then you would probably go to Hell for it. But you have the self-awareness to know your libido has taken something sweet and innocent and twisted into something that would make every mother in the carpool lane want to vomit, and that's good! I say you should buy yourself a drink and write yourself a card.
I went bowling recently for the first time in about 10 years. (Bowling is underrated, by the way. Can't believe I only do it about once a decade.) And on my very first roll, I bowled a strike. I spent the next 5-8 minutes in an elaborate daydream where I bowled my first ever perfect game, complete with everyone in the entire bowling alley stopping what they were doing to follow my chase for history. Next, I daydreamed my run as the local town's media darling..."Phenom Bowls Perfect Game after 10-Year Layoff", followed by my realization that I should quit my day job and join the Pro Tour, where I immediately took the Tour by storm as a renegade rookie who does things his way, and eventually my daydream ended with me Tiger Woodsing the sport of bowling into a global phenomenon.
As I grabbed my ball for Frame #2, I think I had actually talked myself into believing that my daydream was possible. Unfortunately, the pressure got to me and I managed to knock down 4 pins in the second frame. I finished with a 112, which is just about on par with every other game I've bowled in my adult life. How sad is it that, even for just a moment, I bought into my daydream hook, line and sinker?
That's not pathetic. That just means you had a good time. It's the same feeling you get playing golf. You'll randomly hit a good golf shot, and you'll think to yourself, "Holy shit. I did it. I'VE SOLVED THE GAME. If I can hit it like that one time, I can hit it like that EVERY time!" And it's never too late to become a champion bowler or golfer. You can do it your whole goddamn life, so you can imagine yourself suddenly becoming a natural prodigy, joining the Tour, becoming a dominant force who is beloved by both the media and fans, earning millions of dollars, nailing tons of country club trim, and having an awesome life. Then you fuck up the next shot and it all goes back to reality. But you'll hit it good again sometime later, and the daydreams will start up again. It's the same reason poor people play Mega Millions all the time.
I took my kid to a birthday party a couple weeks back and the party was at a bowling alley. And on the way there I figured it would be a normal bowling alley, with horrible florescent lights and a grumpy bald dude at the shoe counter and a popcorn machine housing popcorn that's 53 days old. I forgot that bowling alleys like that don't really exist anymore. They've all been upgraded. So we walk into this newfangled alley and there's fucking kickass music playing and the waitresses are attractive and they have food and people are drinking cocktails at 11AM. And the balls were all glow in the dark and shit. It was AWESOME. I felt like I was 25 again. They should do this with all depressing American retail settings, like CVS and TJ Maxx. Just dim the lights, add a bar, hire a DJ, and suddenly things are infinitely more pleasant.
I dunno if I told this story before, so I apologize if I'm repeating myself. The first time I kissed a girl (I was nineteen, guhhh) was after I had taken a girl bowling on a first date. We went bowling and then we went back to my parents' house and hooked up and I felt fucking intergalactic afterwards. I HAD DONE IT. I had finally scored a hookup and bowling was the secret to it all. BOWLING. So I figured bowling would work on girls every time. So every time I met a girl after that, I was like, "I'll take you bowling!" And they'd look at me like I was a moron. I never duplicated that first bowling date's success. Again, 34-year-old me would have known something like this in advance.
This cafe is across the street from where I work and there logo is a giant penis and balls. I guess it is supposed to be a long chef's hat. Or it is a penis and balls with angel wings. You be the judge.
It's like a penis anchor. SEXY. Let's continue the sexting theme of this week, shall we?
So my wife lets me take nude/scantily clad pictures of her with my cell phone which is pretty cool. Now, I would never share those pictures with my buddies but sometimes I secretly wish that they would just pick up my phone and thumb through my pictures and be totally surprised. I always think that they would then be jealous (because all my friends are married) of me because my wife is cool like that. Is that wrong? Also on the flip side I like to take my buddies phones and look at their pictures and not once have I found anything cool.
The first part about kinda hoping your friends would be jealous about your wife being naked and down with naked photography is okay, I guess. But you shouldn't go rooting around THEIR phone albums. Referee Mills Lane will NOT allow it.
What is with you people? You have naked woman photos coming out of your ass. I feel like I'm ninety fucking years old this week. I KISSED A GIRL WHILE BOWLING AND IT WAS MAGIC!
As seen in Chicago, Illinois.
Oh very nice.
Remember when Bobby Knight told Connie Chung in their interview that "if rape is inevitable, just lay back and enjoy it"? Well you clearly have an obsessive phobia about being ass-raped, so I ask you: If ass-raping is inevitable, would you just lay there and "enjoy it", to the extent that you could, or would you resist/fight-back, thereby making the suffering all the more horrible?
I think I'd probably go into shock, which I assume is a fairly common response by anyone being assaulted, sexually or otherwise. Obviously, the more you fight and squirm, the more rectal tearing you'll subject yourself to, and rectal tearing can't be good. If I can make it through this life with an intact rectal wall, I'll consider myself a wild success. I'll tell you one thing though: If someone really did rape me, I'd be awesome at snitching to the police about it. You couldn't assemble my rape kit fast enough. Swab where you have to swab, boys.
I had a beer yesterday afternoon. This is what happened after a couple of sips.
A beer dong! WHAT DOES IT MEAN? I need an experienced reader of beer leaves.
My girlfriend and I went to a parade recently, which I decided was a good opportunity to exercise my (newly acquired) privilege to carry a concealed firearm. The parade was unremarkable, but with my little friend along all I could think about was the endless moving shooting gallery marching slowly past. It was a bloodbath waiting to happen as I imagined myself strafing the floats. The gf says I'm sick in the head, but I protest that the sick people are the ones that act on these impulses. Doesn't anyone who's ever played video games have these thoughts?
I don't own a firearm, and yet I don't think I could attend any parade without having similar daydreams. I assume having an actual gun on you only enhances the adrenaline rush. I couldn't ever own a gun because it would totally torture me. All I'd want to do all day is run around firing it at shit: cars, trees, dead deer on the road, etc. And I couldn't do any of that because it's illegal and irresponsible and horrible but FUCKING A IT WOULD BE FUN NO ONE DENIES THIS. The fact that shooting beer cans in your yard at midnight is illegal only makes the idea of it more of a turn-on. So life would become one giant struggle between me and my impulses. This is why I have no opinion on gun control. Sure, guns are dangerous and we probably shouldn't sell them to the mentally ill. Then again… BANG BANG BANG WOOOHOOOOOO! FUCKING YOUNG GUNS, BITCH! Guns are way fun.
I was brushing my teeth using my cheap electric toothbrush this morning (the non-rechargeable kind), and mid-way through the brush the batteries inside died out. Once I rinsed, I threw the brush in trash instinctively (the batteries were dead and I couldn't replace them, it's useless). As I turned around to walk out of the bathroom, I realized how retarded I actually was. Yeah, the batteries were dead, but the bristles were perfectly fine and my hands/arms were still functioning, so I totally could have kept using it despite it no longer being electric. I felt like I was living in Hedberg's bit about escalators never breaking, they just become stairs, only in toothbrush form.
The worst part is since it was in the trash buried touching nasty bathroom stuff, I couldn't dig it out and now I have to stop and buy a new damn toothbrush on my way home from work. I'm an idiot right?
Yeah, but it's okay. I would have done the same thing. "Hey, this is broken! Therefore, it is now useless!" You may have subconsciously been wanting to replace it anyway, so you couldn't wait for an excuse to chuck it. I know I feel that way anytime my spinny Woody Toy Story toothbrush goes limp.
In no order, off the top of my head, my list of celebrity encounters:
Brian Mitchell (fuck yeah Eagles carnival)
Sasha Baron Cohen
Also, I ran into the grandfather from this commercial on the street the other day:
I think so. Everyone should keep running tabs on their celebrity sightings. Mine looks like this:
Woody Allen and Soon Yi (Terrifying)
Michael J. Fox (pre-Parkinson's)
Michael Stipe and Billy Corgan (at a nearby restaurant table together with two chicks. Worst double date ever)
James Carville (at a Wizards game, which I'm not sure counts)
Randy Savage (on a flight. I nearly lost my shit)
Dan Ackroyd (yelling at a hotel clerk)
I think that's it. The weird thing is that I've spotted Conan O'Brien THREE times, and one of those times was the day I got engaged. And the third time it freaked me out because he looked straight at me and for a second I thought that he thought that I was tailing him. I mean, this was the third time he'd seen me. Maybe I was a crazed stalker hellbent on taking down Conan and his family. And I really didn't want Conan to think that, since I'd shit hot knives to work for him or something. And so I was almost like, "Just so you know, I'm not a stalker. Just a random guy. NOT A STALKER."
I saw Martha Stewart come out an elevator once. She's enormous. I'm shocked she didn't break out of prison by walking straight through the wall. I never stop being starstruck when I see famous people. HOLY SHIT! IT'S THAT PERSON! Even if it was someone I hated, like Matt Millen, I'd still be floored. Look! It's Matt Millen! I fucking hate him but there he is! What a moment!
Time for your email of the week. Joe, come and claim your prize.
I'm in Eastern Oregon at the Pendleton Roundup, a rodeo at the 100 year anniversary of the event. To give you a little credence to the story, the Pendleton Roundup Rodeo is a giant cowboy-cowgirl fuck festival where everyone gets as plowed as possible. Its complete with an Indian village with fake TP's and a tribe of braves drinking Ten High all night who want to beat on some white people. Stay out of there unless you want a beating and a taste of cheap firewater.
At my friend's house, we all meet and along comes this big dumb idiot named Wilson getting drunk on red beer and whiskey. I have never met Wilson before the night, but he is obnoxious, has an ox-sized skull and is annoying. After about 4 hours of drinking keg and whiskey, we head down to the concert/line dance. Everyone is having a good time. Wilson is consuming more and more beer and is going up and talking to every girl he can find, striking out every time. Nearing the end of the night, Wilson is drunk and horny. He meets an equally heinous, 40 year old cow woman. They begin to talking and start making out, pretty soon Wilson disappears.
The next morning he appears with his friend Lehigh, who produces a cell phone of Wilson and the girl in a horse stall, blowing Wilson on her knees. Apparently they left the dance, went to a nearby horse barn and did not have a condom to fornicate so she told him, "Don't worry, cowgirls swallow." I'm sure a drunken BJ in horse shit will be one he does not forget.
Cowgirls swallow. The more you know!