I ate corn on the cob the other night. I had to shuck it before I could wrap it with butter in foil and throw it in the grill. I can't for the life of me shuck an ear of corn and get ALL the corn strings off. It's fucking impossible. If anyone has tips to rid the world of corn strings, I'm all ears. Because I felt like I had a mouth full of dental floss by the end of the meal. Perhaps I'm just lazy. Your letters:
Can black men be douchebags? A black friend of mine did something douchey the other day and I called him a douchebag. It just didn't feel right.
Black men CAN be douchebags. There may be lots of advantages to being black: not needing suntan lotion, jumping higher, looking good when bald, havin' a dig ol' bick… but immunity from douchebaggery is NOT one of the perks. In fact, I'd argue that Black Douchebags represent a rapidly growing American demographic (see: West, Kanye). LeBron is obviously a cocksucker (the cock in question would be his own), but yesterday's spiked ESPN story on him makes it clear he has plenty of douchebag qualities.
And what about Chris Bosh? The day news broke that Bosh signed with Miami, our man Gourmet Spud noticed that Bosh tweeted this. Spud's translation: "Tell me I'm pretty." Exactly. Hugely douchey tweet. "Hey guys, I'm going to pretend I don't know that Miami signed me, so that all of you can reply breathlessly with the news!" What a fucking douche. Chris Bosh can go sit on a railroad spike. Don't think for one second that black guys can't be douchebags. Any DC resident who's heard LaVar Arrington on the radio knows this to be untrue.
I teach 7th grade and I found this post-it note on the floor of my classroom last week.
Thought you might appreciate this twelve-year-old's attention to detail.
Oh God, that's about the greatest thing ever. I love that he not only needs condoms for his party, but an entire condom MACHINE, since a simple box of condoms won't be nearly enough to cover all the potential sex going on. And what are jukins? WHO is Jukins? Is Jukins one of the homies? Or is Jukins one of the fine bitches little Bobby plans on having in attendance? I bet Jukins is a VIP. I bet she gets to hang out in the VIP area, which is actually part of the den.
When I was roughly the same age, my folks went out of town for a weekend. My brother and sister were away at school at the time, so I was gonna have the whole house to myself. Any number of 80's movies taught me that, when your folks are away, you throw A RAGING FUCKING KEGGER, with beer kegs and stair diving and all that crazy shit.
So I made plans. I told everyone at school the party was going down. I checked my folks liquor cabinet to make sure it was unlocked. I bought chips and Nutty Bars at the local SuperValu. I bought a tube of Vidal Sassoon styling gel and put half of it in my hair, until it was stiff as an erection.
And I bought rubbers. Oh, did I buy rubbers. My whole mentality was THIS IS IT. My friend Tony told me the host of the party always gets laid. I WAS GOING TO GET LAID. I went to the store and openly perused the condom rack. I spent at least half an hour deliberating on what kind and how many to get. I thought lambskin rubbers were too exotic. Ribbed ones were too goofy. I opted for the extra thins. They said they gave you added sensitivity, and I really wanted to have extra sensitivity the first time I laid pipe. So I grabbed the biggest box of extra thins (What if the girl wants to bang a lot?), and brought it to the counter, proudly flaunting my ability to purchase condoms. I AM OLD ENOUGH TO HAVE SEX AND I WILL DO SO. Other people may have been ashamed to buy rubbers, but not me! I wanted everyone at that store to know I WAS FUCKING that night. I bought them and immediately put one in my wallet.
I took the box home and, knowing I had bought a large box, decided to practice. The inside of a Trojan box back then had instructions, along with a diagram that showed you how to roll the rubber onto your enraged dong. I found this hilarious, but at the same time studied the instructions intently. Memorized them. I decided to take one for a test drive by jacking off. I worked up a solid woody and slipped one on. And my first thought was HOLY CRAP. I'M WEARING A REAL RUBBER. I'M PRACTICALLY HAVING SEX! Then I banged my pillow.
So I was now ready for the inevitable avalanche of pussy waiting for me once this party started. Nigthtime arrived, and the party began. Two people showed up: my friends Rick and Tony. We ate all the food and played Mega Man 4. No pussy for us.
But that's the fun of being 12 years old. You're young and stupid enough to believe 100% that your wildest fantasy will come true. I had no doubt I was getting laid that night. NONE. It was a done deal in my head. Which is insane, because I was fat and repulsive and didn't even know any girls. Regardless, all those Budweiser ads told me there would be beer and pop and chips and swimming and dancing and ladies.
So I totally get where this kid was coming from with this note. I hope his party had everything he dreamed of, including Jukins.
UPDATE: Readers think the note says JUKING, which is "dancing with a girl's butt on a boy's crotch area; called bedroom dancing by some people." Yup. Makes sense.
I have a nearby coworker who frequently steps away from their office, but leaves their cellphone sitting on their desk. The cellphone in question has the world's most obnoxious ring tone, and will go off 3-4 times a day. Since my coworker is not around to answer it, the god awful music will play for some time before the caller gives up (or it goes to voice mail). My question is this: how long am I obligated to wait before I smash that phone into bits so small you would need an electron microscope to see them?
Not long. My old boss used to do this, and everyone gave him shit for it. I used to take it and put it in his desk, as far into the desk as I possibly could. Lowest drawer, in the fucking back. That's what you deserve for inflicting your piece of shit ringtone on the world. It's a fucking cell phone. It's designed so that you can be reached while you're out and about. So why the fuck would you leave it somewhere while you're out and about? Take it with you. That's what it's made for. People who leave cell phones unattended are imbeciles, or possibly black douchebags.
I think these people leave their cellphones there on purpose. It's not an accident, and it's certainly not because of whatever bullshit excuse they may have for leaving it there (they were on the shitter, etc.). No, I think people like that get off on two things: 1) Being unavailable, and therefore wanted and needed, and 2) Letting everyone else in the office know that many important calls are coming into their phone, thus justifying their existence.
I also fucking hate people who take more than three rings to answer the phone in any public setting. You know what I'm talking about. You're in a restaurant, and the lady two tables over has her phone set to maximum ringing volume, but has buried her phone in the caverns of her mega purse. Thus, it takes the bitch NINE FUCKING YEARS to dig that shit out and finally answer it. That is grating. If you own a cell phone, keep it on you, and keep it within easy answering distance. Why is it in the main compartment of your purse? There's a fucking whole pharmacy in there. Put it in the side pocket. It's a phone. It's going to ring. You're gonna have to reach that shit.
Two years ago, I was golfing with my buddies, and we were just getting off the green of a driveable par 4. I was about to get in my cart when I got hit in the head by a golf ball that the group behind us had hit.
It didn't quite take me down, but it hurt like hell nonetheless. Course marshals came over to check me out, but I was fine. I was wearing a cap, and the ball had hit me on the sweatband of my cap toward the rear of my head. A few inches up and toward my face and I'm taking that ball to the temple which would have been really bad. Since then, I've always wondered why I haven't seen more people at PGA events getting killed, a broken nose, or teeth getting punched out. Is there some strange phenomena that is protecting these golf fans?
I hit my dad in the head with a golf drive once. He was riding by in the cart, up and to the left of me. I don't know about you, but when I played golf (I can't anymore due to back problems), I assumed EVERY shot I took was going to miraculously go in the hole. Didn't matter if I was behind a tree, or in a bunker, or at the bottom of a storm drain. Before every shot, I always pictured the ball going straight and true off my club and going in the cup. Sure, I shot a 134 on the front nine. But surely I have miracle shot in me, AND THIS IS THE ONE, DAMMIT.
So my dad was driving ahead and I hit my ball anyway because, in my mind, the ball was totally gonna go straight and nowhere near my old man. Oh, but the ball didn't do that. Not at all. Instead, the ball flew right into my old man's skull, like a yo-yo coming back up to your hand. It was uncanny, really. My dad clutched his head and fell out of the rolling cart to the ground. In that moment, I thought I had killed him. OH SHIT, I KILLED MY OWN DAD! AND MISSED A GOOD PAR OPPORTUNITY! I'M A PATRICIDAL MANIAC!
I ran to my Dad and he staggered to his feet. Then he shook it right off. He was fine. Which is nuts, because a fucking golf ball drilled him right in the head. But thick skulls are a birthright in the Magary household, so he was just fine. But I still replay that moment over and over. I didn't kill him. But I could have. And what then? What if I had killed my own dad with a stupid golf ball? I never would have been able to live with myself. To this day, I still feel fucking horrible about it.
And Cheerygrouch is right. Someone like Tiger Woods will blast a ball into the gallery and somehow it never tags some rich fucker in the eye. This is annoying, because I'd LOVE for that to happen. Have you ever attended a golf tournament? The people there are ASSHOLES. They act like the swing coach for every player that walks by. God, I wish someone would fucking knock their teeth out with a Titleist. Those are the fuckers who leave their cell phones on their desks!
Notice how in all the Western movies (especially Clint Eastwood movies), they never drank beer, or bourbon and water cocktail or whatever. Everyone just took shots at the saloon. Two things come to mind: 1. How badass is that? and 2: You think you could actually do it for one night? I'm talking about being old dirty badass Clint Eastwood and drinking these shots for the only source of alcohol.
Not only that, but it's a shot, so you drink it all in one swoop. It doesn't last you, the way a beer does. I don't know about you, but I can't be at a bar and NOT have a drink in my hand. I feel like a complete moron without one. It's like leaving home and realizing you don't have your watch. You feel NAKED without a drink in your hand.
So you'd have to order shots at the saloon, and to keep a drink in your hand, you'd probably have to order a new on every, what, ten minutes? I'd be dead by dusk. I know there are plenty of real alcoholics out there who could tolerate that kind of intake, but I don't know many of them. I know I couldn't.
That's like when you watch a movie and someone decides to kill himself by swallowing thirty pills without taking a fucking DROP of water to help it go down. Who can do that? Even Vanessa Lane couldn't swallow that efficiently. I feel like the filmmaker cheated every time I see that.
Though, to be fair, I often take one or two pills with no water in front of the wife, specifically so I look like a badass who doesn't need water to get pills down. And it WORKS. She's always like, "You're gonna take those without water?" Oh, shit yeah I am. I'm a fucking MAN. I don't need no water. Then I put the two Advil in my mouth, wait for a good time to try and swallow them down (like waiting for a wave), swallow them and feel them get stuck in my throat, then feel like I'm having a heart attack, then finally get them all the way down and sneak a glass of water when the old lady isn't looking. I do this at least twice a month.
Is there any greater feeling then when you figure out the name of the hot new porn chick you've been wanking it to for the past week?? I swear to God, when I found out that "Hot blonde getting fucked and cummed on" was really Bree Olson, I felt like I won the lottery.
That's always your first instinct when you see ANY picture of any attractive woman anywhere. It's always, "HOLY SHIT! SHE'S HOT! I need her name so I can find all her pictures and masturbate to them THIS INSTANT!"
This is usually an easy task when you're online. But back in the day, when there was no Internet, this was a fucking impossible task. I went to camp one year and I brought a Coors Light wall poster with me. On the poster was this insanely hot chick wearing a white dress shirt that was tied at the front (I think there should be a Tumblr fetish site dedicated to women in dress shirts tied at the front) with her boobs hanging out all over. I loved this poster. I loved this woman. I kissed this poster when no one was around. I licked the cleavage on it. Literally. I would walk up to the back of the cabin door and lick the paper.
But did those Nazi abortion doctor shooters at Coors even THINK to put the girl's name on the poster? So I had a name to cry out while masturbating? So I could look in the library's enormous green Reader's Guide To Periodicals reference book for her name, to see if she maybe turned up on the cover of Hit Parader? Noooo. Did I ever find out the name of that one really smoking hot chick in the "Once Bitten, Twice Shy" video? Nooooo. No, Adam Curry never gave me that crucial bit of info. I'm telling you, life before the Internet was horrible.
My biggest food horror, hands down, is biting into scrambled eggs and getting a piece of shell. I eat eggs with reckless abandon, and they are the centerpiece of one of my top 5 meals in the world: A bacon, egg and cheese sandwich on a bagel with ketchup and an ice cold YooHoo.
However, if I bite into a shell while eating eggs, I will dead stop like I bit into petrified Nazi jizz and drop the ENTIRE meal like a bad habit. Not only does it ruin that meal, but I end up being put off by eggs for weeks, sometimes months at a time afterwards. I will undoubtedly go back to eating eggs, wonder why the hell I ever stopped, and then BAM MOTHER FUCKER - it happens again. Rinse, repeat cycle.
That's too bad, because anyone who watches Bear Grylls knows that eggshells are actually edible and make for FANTASTIC PROTEIN, AND IN THE WILD, EVERY BIT OF ENERGY COUNTS. I'm not as fussy about eggshells, but I am unable to crack and egg and fry it without a bit of shell falling in with the egg. Then I have to dig into the egg to get the shard, only there's this little force field of egg white surrounding the shard, that won't let my finger actually touch the shard. Then I try with a fork and the same thing happens. Digging out egg shell bits is a fucking BITCH.
I also get really fucking mad if I crack an egg to fry and the yolk breaks in the pan. I get livid. FUCKING COCKSUCKER FUCKING YOLK YOU ARE USELESS. I throw that shit out and try again, then I break the yolk again and want to commit suicide. A broken yolk is a complete waste. All I care about is having a yolk to break on the plate, on my own terms, with the goo getting all over the bacon and toast. Without that, the egg is NOTHING. Speaking of breakfast…
How could I not have thought of this before, and why is not taught in schools?
I… I don't know.
When someone asks me how old my daughter is, I respond with "a little over a year and a half." My wife gives me the eye roll and corrects, "she's twenty months." Any time someone gives me an age of their kid in months, I always calculate it into half years anyways. Why the fuck do moms do this with babies? When can you start giving their age in half years without all these other moms giving me weird looks? Besides, they're just asking to see if their child is on pace with mine. Too bad their child is shitting itself while they're asking this. THEY ARE BOTH UNDER TWO. THEY'RE VERY CLOSE IN DEVELOPMENT. Calm the fuck down. Moms are retarded.
I think the months thing can be done away with right after the kid turns 18 months. I have a hard enough time tallying up the months after the kid turns one. But after one and a half? No way. No, that kid is one and a half until his ass turns two. And if I ever meet a parent of a two-year-old who says the kid is twenty-six months old, I'll punch them in the face.
And I think you can drop the half thing after the kid turns three. No one cares if the kid is three and a half. The fucking kid is three. You don't need any further qualifiers.
I love to eat soft candy like Starburst, Chewy Jolly Ranchers and Laffy Taffy. 92% of the time the paper sticks to the candy when I try and take it off. Rather than spend time trying to get the rest off, I just dive into the fruity softness. I bet I've consumed 249 sheets of paper just from eating candy. Why do they have to make it so difficult?
Don't you see? They do it because they care. That paper gives you the small dose of fiber necessary to extrude a pink-colored Laffy Taffy out of your rectum. Otherwise, that stuff would cling to the inside of your colon for the next seventy years.
By the way, shouldn't there be an age limit on enjoyment of Jolly Ranchers? I feel like I've definitely reached the age where eating a Jolly Rancher isn't even close to being worth it. It gets sticky shit all over my hands. It takes eight years to dissolve in my mouth. It creates crevices that end up slicing my tongue open. It hurts my teeth. I can't power through a Jolly Rancher the way I used to.
Do you think that cavemen stopped walking to take a shit or do you think they just let it fly mid-step?
I think they likely squatted, the way a dog would. You may be a stupid caveman, but you still know enough to know your poop smells bad and will give you assrash if you just leaving a turtle hanging out while you're on the go.
Okay, two stories before we go. First, a GREAT MOMENT IN THRIFT:
I have this friend who called me and asked for a favor. As usually nothing good ever comes after this statement, he was a good friend and so I asked what he needed. Turned out his car had been towed and needed a ride to the impound lot to get it. He did need to go by the bank first for a cashiers check to get it out because that was the only payment the lot would accept. He offered lunch for my efforts. No big deal I thought - pick him up, go to the bank, get his car, and I get lunch.
Well as you could imagine, it got real interesting when I went to pick him up. He lived on the second floor of an apartment building and as he was coming down the stairs, he was pulling a rolling suitcase and having a hard time with it. When he got to the car, he asked for me to pop the trunk and help him lift it to get the suitcase in. This thing had to be 100 lbs and when it landed in the trunk (after scratching the shit out of my rear bumper) I thought the tires would blow out. I asked what was in it and he said "change". I asked what he needed the change for and he said that was how he was getting the cashiers check. I knew he had been down on his luck lately (the car was towed because of a judgment against him), but damn. I asked to see it and when he opened it, the suitcase was indeed full of rolled change - pennies, nickles, dimes, and quarters. He had stayed up all night rolling it and writing his bank account number on each roll.
We get to the bank and he goes in and comes out shortly with a security guard to escort him in with the suitcase of change. He asks if I was just going wait in the car, to which I responded FUCK NO, I got to see this. We go to the teller and he starts putting all this change on the counter. The teller then calls another teller over to help (more than likely just to watch this too), who along with their looks of shock and awe, tells him that he should not have written the account number on each roll and gives him a pen to cross it out on each roll. When it was all said and done, my friend had almost $1300 in change. Not $130, but thirteen hundred dollars in change. How in the hell does anyone accumulate that much change? To watch this episode was well worth the scratched bumper.
And finally, a truly GREAT MOMENT IN FART HISTORY. I call this one BIRDMAN OF FARTCATRAZ:
So last summer I was tailgating before a concert with a buddy of mine and we got busted by these two undercover cops for sparking up a spliff. Don't ask me how they spotted us, but these fuckers had us less than a minute after initial spark. Dressed in cargo shorts, t-shirts, baseball hats—and here's the kicker—carrying bottles of Bud Light. Total douchebags. The shittiest part about all this is that it was on federal property... so instead of it being just a state case I've got the United States of America versus Honor Student in College who Happened to Smoke Weed at a Concert. But I digress.
When I went to court a few weeks later, my lawyer told me I was going to be on probation for A YEAR. A YEAR FOR A LITTLE SPLIFF. Which means random drug tests. Which means bye-bye Mary Jane for 365 painful days.
So my mom took me out to a nice breakfast before the court date because she felt awful for me and no doubt toked it up in her college days. Hours later, when I get up to the probation office, I sit there waiting for my probation officer to call me in so I can do that first piss in the cup. My stomach starts to rumble and I can feel that bacon-egg-and-cheese bagel begging me to release a quick rip.
Now when you get tested for these kids of things, it's not like when you go piss for a job and they let you do your business in private. No-no. The probation officer stands in the bathroom with you while you piss and watches you pull your junk out and complete the wizz. As if this whole ordeal wasn't humiliating enough, right. I have to piss with some douchebag government employee watching my stream through a mirror right behind me.
So as I get into the bathroom with my probation officer, I really have to toot. And, I dont know about you, but when I'm pissing, it's really hard to stop yourself from ripping ass. So I decide, FUCK IT. If this guy has to stand in here with me while I piss, he is gonna have to face the consequences. So mid-stream I let loose a real winner. I'm talking vuvuzela loud, but with that bacon-egg-and-cheese bagel, god awful stench.
So I'm watching his face through the mirror and he just stands there dumbfounded. The dude couldnt believe I could be so rude as to fart while he was watching me piss. Then he starts sniffing the ghastly aroma. Game over. He's coughing and gagging and has to stuff his face in his shirt. I've got him cornered because, remember, he can't leave. Otherwise he might lose his job. Oh the irony.
I had such a sense accomplishment I'm floating down the hallway to his office when he simply mutters, "see ya next week, kid." So moral of the story... if the government is gonna screw you for smoking a little weed, screw them right back and let er rip!
Good on you, sir. Good on you.