Manwhores, Gays, And Pantomimed Couch Lifting

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The Oscars are on Sunday, which means it's time for me to spend the week processing any number of scenarios in which I am involved in the ceremony. I watch the stupid Oscars every year, and they grow more insufferable on an annual basis. Yet that will never stop me from daydreaming of the day I get to A) win an Oscar and give a speech, B) host the Oscars and deliver a scathing monologue, C) present an Oscar (yep, I even dream of presenting the things, in which I add my own little flair to the announcement, and make a point of saying AND THE WINNER IS in an act of cool defiance), and D) attend any number of post-Oscar shindigs, in which other celebrities ask to touch my Oscar and indentured female servants feed me champagne and caviar while I do blow off in the VVVVVIP area.

I have an Oscar speech in my head that I adjust on a yearly basis. I will not print it here, because it is beyond retarded. I also have mental Oscar speeches prepared should I win multiple Oscars on the same night, and I always do ("Tonight, Drew Magary has become the first person ever to win an Oscar for Best Actor, Best Director, Best Screenplay, Best Picture, Best Editing, AND Costume Design for his work in Pussytubin' 6: Tubik's Pube."). I have also staged imaginary conversations with any number of Hollywood luminaries. It's all so very, very sad. I should be given an honorary cat.

Onto THE SPEED CHESS! your letters:


I had a girlfriend who cut my hair for a long time and now all of a sudden I have to go to a professional. This sucks mostly because I have to now pay for haircuts. But I'm also lost on barber or hairdresser.


My wife cuts my hair (and shaves my back! What a lady!). I only wear underwear when she cuts it, so the hair falls all over my body. I like to stand up when she's done and I'm all covered in my own clippings, and then I pound my chest and go MONKEY MONKEY MONKEY!!!!! The wife is not charmed.

I revel in the fact that I never have to pay for a haircut or tip a hairdresser again. Seriously, my wife will tip her hairdresser an obscene amount. WHY? It's not like the haircut was delivered.


One time, my wife got tired of cutting my hair and asked me to consider going to a salon or barbershop. I said no fucking way. Once you get free haircuts, going back is an impossibility. So I feel for you, brother. What if you just bought a pair of clippers and did it yourself? Jamie Oliver cuts his own hair, and he only looks mildly retarded. You tell me that's not worth saving yourself a trip to Jean Louis David.

Besides, there's no guarantee you'll get a good haircut if you go pro. There's not a guy out there who hasn't been completely FUCKED by a barber once or twice. I went to a barber once who had put that scratchy-as-hell collar around my neck and proceeded to make my hair look like it had just been attacked by a cougar.


I got a haircut once and went to show it to my insane ex-girlfriend, who got mad at me simply because she didn't like it. And it was just a normal haircut. Maybe a little short, but I didn't have the barber carve boobs in my hair or anything. She was in tears, she hated it so much. Women like that should be gassed.


My best friend swears that in over five years with his girlfriend he has not farted in her presence. Which lead me to two conclusions. 1) I can't believe they're still together, and 2) this has a make him a huge pussy, right?


Sure does. What's the point of having a girlfriend if you can't terrify her by dropping ass in the middle of some terrible movie she rented? On a deeper level, not farting around your girlfriend (or boyfriend, for that matter) suggests that you really aren't all that comfortable around her. I mean, really. Five years and you don't feel comfortable enough to let it rip with your old lady around? What, are you still trying to maintain the illusion of courtship? Ridiculous. You should WANT a girlfriend who you feel clear to nuke the couch around. That means you're yourself, instead of some dipshit guy putting on airs whenever his chick is around. I hate guys like that.

I got a lot of emails about "Hey, when is it okay to fart around your girlfriend?" And the answer to that is this: Just do it when you feel comfortable doing it around her, and you know she won't give a shit. If you never reach that point, congratulations. You need a new girlfriend.



If you're at someone else's house (parents or in-laws don't count) and the bomb doors open, do you spray the air freshener after you purge? I'm always torn on what to do. I mean, the aerosol is there for a reason, but I don't want the whole house knowing that I just dropped the big one on Nagasaki by spreading lilac scent all around.


Well look, a smell will radiate from that bathroom regardless of what you choose. You may as well spring for the air freshener. Everyone will know what you did anyway.

At my old work, there was a huge can of Oust in the shitter, and everyone sprayed it after dropping anchor. The only problem was that the can always blasted out freshener at 560 mph, so even the lightest squeeze would produce a giant mist cloud of lavender that you could literally taste in your mouth and feel permeating your nostrils as you walked out the door. I think I would have been happier just to let sleeping poops lie.



Why do people back into their parking spot? I get pissed at this.

Why? Backing into a spot ensures an easy pullout when you leave. Why wouldn't you back in if it's an easy move to pull off? If I'm at the grocery store and the parking lot is relatively empty, I always pull through the initial parking spot so that I'm "backed in" to the adjacent spot. Feels like winning the lottery, because it means I got through the parking lot without having to look backwards, which hurts my back and shit.


I get pissed at parking spots that warn you FRONT IN ONLY. Hey, parking Nazis, what the fuck do you care if I back in or not? The car is the same length regardless. Kiss my tailpipe.


I've recently started adding a fried egg to any sandwich prepared at home. I start the egg cooking in a non-stick pan, and by the time I have everything else unwrapped/sliced/ready to assemble, it's already time to flip. Then when the rest of the sandwich is ready, the egg goes on top, with the yolk still a little runny. There's something primal about eating these things, it's like I'm biting into the heart of a yellow-blooded buffalo.


Egg yolk improves everything. I watch Anthony Bourdain's show, and he'll always go to some crazy Burmese street market where they give him buffalo heart stew and they ALWAYS put a fried egg yolk in the center of it. Holy shit, I want to lick the screen when they show that yolk break. Sometimes, I think it's weird that I eat eggs, since they're chickenbortions. But one bite is pretty much all you need to alleviate your concerns.

On a deeper level, it's stunning that chicken eggs are the essential ingredient in so many different kinds of food. Breads. Pasta. Cakes. Cookies. Salad dressings. Eggs play a vital role in all of them. They're like MAGIC.



How long do you think it will be before we have an out and proud athlete in one of the four major American sports (MLB, NFL, NBA, NHL)? I'm not talking a superstar; the guy could be a third string goalie out of Saskatchewan for all I care. As a gay sports fan, I just think it's overdue, since we know there have been gay guys in the leagues in the past. Also, which of those sports do you think will have a gay athlete first?


It'll be forever. Whoever does it will be someone who came out at an early age and enters whichever league an already-known gay quantity. I doubt you'll ever see some guy who is already a pro suddenly pipe up, HEY! I'M GAY! There are a lot of reasons for this. First off, too many pro athletes are nutjob Evangelicals who fucking hate gays. How many white baseball players out there love to hunt and listen to country music? FUCKING ALL OF THEM. It's uncanny. 75% of Rascal Flatts' revenue comes from Major League Baseball players. Not the sort of guys who like themselves the gay. And I don't think many Latino players are all that pro-gay, either. Very macho culture, as Razor Ramon taught me.

Also, most pro athletes are extremely young guys, pumped up with testosterone and ungodly amounts of HGH. Most of them are aggressively heterosexual. BRAH! I FUCKED THIS CHICK LAST NIGHT! TWICE! BRAHHHHHHH!!! EW, DON'T TOUCH MY TOWEL! THAT WOULD MAKE ME A FAGGOT! There's that urge to be as hetero as possible. Drink the most, bang the most, blah blah blah.


I'll go ahead and freely admit now that, when I was in high school, I could easily be characterized as a homophobe. I used the word faggot all the time (even more than I do now!). I adored Dice Clay. I didn't think gays deserved rights or anything else other than ridicule. I didn't LIKE gays. At all. And not for any sort of bullshit moral reason. No, I was that way because I enjoyed it, and I suspect many other homophobes also hate gays simply because they like to hate them. I could blame youth or growing up in the '80s for how I felt, but that's a bullshit excuse. It's embarrassing and shameful and I wish I'd never felt that way.

It didn't take long for me to do a complete 180 on that old mentality and become extremely liberal in my attitudes towards gays and very supportive of gay rights. This is because I got older, settled down, and realized that inherently disliking gays (or any people outside of Duke fans) is pointless, stupid, and cruel. Some men need to grow up to reach that conclusion, and pro sports is an arena in which players are encouraged to NEVER grow up. Hence, HEY GUYS, GARY'S A FAG!!!!!


If there is ever an active gay athlete in pro sports, it'll never be in football (too many players, too many control freak coaches who don't want to deal with it), or baseball. It'll be in basketball. Because the teams are smaller, so there are less teammates to win over. And, if the gay player is crazy talented, the team will support him because there are only a finite number of superstar players. I'd expect that to happen sometime around the year 3498.

Somewhere along the way, a site like TMZ (or even this one) will out a player by posting a picture of him tonguing some other guy in a leather bar or something. But that's not exactly the same as having an out and proud athlete in the pros. I don't think it'll happen for at least another 20 years. Sad but true.


Also, Jimmy Clausen eats cock.


Are you ever a total dick to your friends for no reason? I often find myself making comments to my friends saying stuff like they have no future, no job, no money. Even worse I also make comments about me wanting to bang my friend's mom and sister. No particular reason, but the conversations going nowhere so I decide to spice it up by being a dick.


Yes, because there is a comfort level you reach with certain friends in which you are FREE to be a dick, and so you indulge because you can. You couldn't be a dick to strangers. That would be weird. Much better to be a cock to the best man at your wedding. DAVE, YOU FORGOT TO GET PEANUTS? GOD DAMMIT, YOU ARE A FUCKING FUCKUP. This is why guy friends hit each other for no reason.

ME: Hey, Jeremy.


ME: (punches Jeremy in gut) BOOSH!

It's just one of those guy things. Though I will tell you, when you get older, that dickishness fades, largely because your friends are never around for you to be a dick to.



When searching for porn (particularly of the amateur variety), do you ever keep hope in the back of your mind that you'll stumble across an old girlfriend or someone from high school? That'd be the best porn surprise ever. It'd be like a sci-fi movie where you can create real images from your spank bank.


As I mentioned earlier, I had a batshit insane ex-girlfriend, and sometimes I wonder if I'll ever stumble across her not doing porn, but in a news item in which she has been either arrested or killed. I'm not saying I WANT that to happen. I'm just saying I wouldn't be shocked at such things. Just waiting for that shoe to drop. I mean, she lied to me about where she went to school and where she worked. For, like, a fucking YEAR. She could totally be a drug mule now.


I spotted this one on a tour boat in Seattle a few years ago and I'll be damned if that is not a penis pattern staring back at me from inside the bowl.


And it's aiming AT you! What kind of game are they playing?


Ever try to squeeze a couple bagfuls of Caprisun into a normal glass? Fucking awful. There must be some kind of devil's magic in that tiny fucking thinner-than-Michael-Vick's-herpes-ravaged-urethra straw, because in any other vessel the juice just tastes like the nastiest watered down crap you could imagine.


Plus it only fills one-fourth of the glass. Certain foods are enhanced by either their vessel or the setting in which they are served. Like Capri Sun. Or giant pretzels at the ballpark. Some of those pretzels are real dogshit.


I was a massive manwhore in college simply because the opportunities always presented themselves. The thing I miss most about the whole being single thing is the Predator scenario I went through every night at the Frats; I felt like I was in that invisible mode with the heat seeker vision going. I'd just stealth through the blackness and find the weak one and BAM hookup glory. I always imagined this is how every guy went about it, but recently I was told I was an asshole.


Well, who told you that? A woman? If a man told you that, then he probably reads The Atlantic, or something like that. All I know is that, when I was single and drunk, I searched for any live body I could get my hands on. Why wouldn't you? You're only single once, you know. Or eight times if you're Jean-Claude Van Damme.

There were times when I was drunk, and I really did feel like an animal scouring the dance floor for available womenfolk. Hooking up was the only goal. Ever. I never went out one night and was like, "So long as I get ice cream, THIS WILL BE A FUN EVENING!" No, it was always poon or bust. I never wanted to go home without making sure I first exhausted every possible avenue to finding a lady for the evening. Any lady: big, small, retard, whatever. I guess that made me a creep. I don't think I really gave a shit at the time. If you're single? Have at it.



Ever email something to yourself at work and then, in the 30 seconds it takes to "deliver" the email, completely forget about it and freak out when you realize you have a new message? I do this nearly every day.

ME: Clicks send on email to self, leans back in chair, relaxes, thinks about possibility of leaving early

(/five seconds pass, New Message alert pops us)

ME: Fuck, now what? It's Friday afternoon. This better not be a ...

(/slowly realizes own idiocy)

Sometimes. What usually happens with me is that I'll email myself to remind myself to do something. Then I'll open the email the instant I send it because I have email OCD and can't stand the idea of unopened mail in my inbox, then immediately forget to do what I was reminding myself to do. Happens to me pretty much on a daily basis.


I forget everything now. The same shit, over and over again. I'm supposed to brush my kid's teeth every morning. I always forget. ALWAYS. The wife comes down…

WIFE: You brush her teeth?

ME: FUCK!!!!!! (hits self in head)

I get unreasonably angry at myself when I forget to do things. My wife will call me at the store to remind to pick something up, and the SECOND I hang up the phone, I will forget about it. Annoying.


When it comes to email, the thing I hate the most is when I'm eagerly awaiting an email reply from someone about something, then the INBOX (1) will appear, then I'll fall all over myself to open my inbox, and then it's a piece of fucking spam. Never fails to make me want to spear a group of schoolchildren to death.


Is it ok that I also blow my nose in the sink? Like once I've finished doing the dishes, sometimes I'll just keep the water running and blow my nose straight into my bare hands. The water is hot and immediately absolves me of all grossness. Amiright? My girlfriend looks at me like I'm a fucking abomination, but lets face it: I am the model of efficiency.


I do this, but I never do it with my wife around. THIS IS WHERE WE PUT OUR CHILDREN'S DISHES! Yes, but the kid's plates are loaded with their half-chewed food and drool, shit that is just as revolting as my loogies. I fail to see how I'm befouling something that houses so many dirty things to begin with. Plus, I can clean it! There's a dishbrush right there, lady!


I've lived in a city for fourteen years now and the thing I miss the most about the country is going to a house party, getting shithammered, and wandering out into the woods behind the house to take a piss. Even (arguably especially) in knee-deep winter snow. It feels like Freedom, like it was meant to be this way for men. When I visit my hometown I hit every tree before I leave.


That is a great feeling. I remember at college, it was never really all that fun to wade through 80 people in the crowd at a party just to find a tiny piece of real estate to stand there with a friend and shout shit to one another. Always nicer to go outside into the cold and have some fucking room. You appreciate the air more when you're blitzed out of your skull. And you can actually hear other people when you're talking to them.

I loved wandering out in the cold with a Solo cup full of shitty beer in hand and just standing out there in the night, either on a porch or in the woods. Something peaceful about it. Until I booted in the snow.



If you had to be shot where would you want to take it?

Upper left arm? Upper left arm. Provided no bones are broken by the bullet. Although, I had a football coach in college who was accidentally shot in the calf during Mardi Gras. No bones broke, he was too drunk to really remember the initial hit, and he was left with a nice little bullet wound that served as potential fodder for any number of great lies. Hard to find a more pleasant being-shot scenario than that.




Fuck banana strings. FUCK THEM.

There's always one clinger when I peel. Terrible.


Ever go to someone's house or a restroom (for whatever reason some faucets on the U of Minnesota campus are like this) and be surprised to find a sink that has separate faucets for hot and cold water? How in God's name am I supposed to have a decent handwashing experience? On the one hand (literally!) my palm is burnt to shit and the other is a fucking icicle. Am I supposed to move my hands back and forth really fast like I'm doing some fucking rave dance? Fuck you double faucets!


Most double faucets are that way because they're old, and whoever is in charge of the bathroom is too cheap to replace them. It's the cousin of the "push the button to start the faucet and watch the water peter out one-fourth of the way through your wash" faucet at various rest stops across our fair nation.

I avoid the hot water entirely in that scenario because you never know where someone has set their water heater. A water heater acts like a governor on hot water. It can only get as hot as you set it. Some people set the water heater in their home or building to 5 million degrees. Only you won't know that until you go to wash your hands, flip the faucet up to the right, and then get third-degree burns all over the goddamn place.


People who turn their water heaters up like this fail to understand the principles of operating a sink or shower. When I operate any sink, I first jam the faucet all the way to the left. This is because most of the time, the water starts out cold as balls. So my thinking (wrong) is that jamming the faucet all the way to the left will get the water hotter, faster. I also do this to gauge the maximum hotness of the water, and then adjust the faucet to the right accordingly. I am horrid at getting the temperature exactly right. I always overcorrect to the right, the water gets too cold, and then I have to slowly move the control back to the left.

Anyway, throwing it all the way to the left on a sink where A) the water heater is turned way fucking high, and B) the sink has an abnormally quick heating rate (only in deathly hot sinks and showers does this occur), leaves me yelping in pain from the burn. No pain causes me to violently jerk my body away like burning my hand or my finger. One touch, and I spasm like a bitch. SON OF A CUNT THAT IS HOT!!!



There is nothing lower or more humiliating then having to call the front desk and ask for a plunger at a hotel.


No? Not even calling the front desk and asking if the adult films are discreetly billed, which is precisely how I phrased my question to the concierge, who said yes, but wasn't being truthful?


Why do people refrigerate ketchup? Everything you put ketchup on is warm/hot. Putting cold ketchup on warm eggs or hash browns ruins it. Would you put cold gravy on mashed potatoes?


No, but there's a reason why. Ketchup is a necessary cooling agent. You get fries fresh out of the fryer, they will burn the fuck out of your hard palate if you just start going to town on them. But dip them in cool ketchup? BOOM. Hot stays hot. Cool stays cool.

And off you go. Whereas gravy makes for a critical warming agent. How long do mashed potatoes stay hot? Three minutes? But pour boiling hot gravy on them, they stay hot all the way through the meal. You see? THIS IS SCIENCE.


Also, putting ketchup on eggs is fucking gross.


Were you tired of watching SportsCenter and hearing fucking Mike Greenberg tell everyone that we always forget that the US had to go play another game after upsetting the Soviets?




Recently I spent a Saturday afternoon shopping with my girlfriend at the local mall. I was struck by how badly I wanted to beat up numerous 15 year-olds. And am I justified in my desire to maim these teenage deviants?


Yep. I mean Jesus, they look like fucking dipshits. I feel like an old person hating on teenagers, but really. Those fucking kids who are blocking my path to my car because they're skateboarding in the goddamn parking lot? BUY AN EMPTY SWIMMING POOL. And get a fucking haircut, you little shits.


Don't want your buttons broken? Unbutton your goddamned clothes! As someone who has worked at a dry cleaners, I can tell you that if the shirt goes into machines with buttons buttoned, it will pull on the shirt and rip the damn thing off. So I spent some nights at work until 3AM unbuttoning buttons. The only comfort was pot.


Ah. I did not know that. Um… sorry.

Poopy Buttrag:

Everyone knows that it sucks when a coworker decides to request your Facebook friendship. The other day, the girl-next-door but conservatively-dressed Asian who I sometimes make small talk with in the hallway decided to do just that. To my surprise, amongst the most boring pictures you'd ever want to see, were two pictures of her in a bikini at the beach last summer. She doesn't know, but she unwittingly caused the spilling of gallons of baby sauce over the months ahead. So thank you, my co-worker friend, my micro-tadpoles are going to see the world rather than just the inside of my testicles because of you. This is appropriate, right?


Referee Mills Lane?


"I'll allow it."

Look, she posted the pictures, and she was the one who friended you. Classic female naivete.


HER: "Oh, look at this picture! That was a fun beach trip! I bet everyone will agree with me that this picture shows I had fun!"

YOU: (drooling, licking chops, could give two shits about someone else's vacation) Grrrrr… fresh meat… want to touch…



Can we safely say that Home Alone is the most unrealistic movie of all time? The kid doesn't say a fucking word about what he did to anyone. You expect me to believe that kid, who successfully got to live out every man's fantasy, is just going to keep all of the awesome shit he did to himself?


Yeah, and all he wants is plain cheese pizza? No sausage? No pepperoni? I hate kids like that. SHOW SOME ADVENTUROUSNESS.

Ten-year-old kids like that would obviously brag about foiling burglars. They'll brag about anything, even shit they shouldn't be bragging about. I once bragged on my school bus about having a wet dream. THERE'S NOTHING COOL ABOUT HAVING A WET DREAM.



What's the deal with the "close door" buttons on elevators? I have never seen one that works when you push it. People seem to think that hitting it repeatedly, hitting it slowly, etc will be the trick to get the door closed faster. It won't.


I've seen CLOSE DOOR buttons that work. What's more, I have totally been guilty of pushing the button repeatedly. I know it doesn't do anything extra. It just feels good to jam the fuck out of it over and over. Pushing buttons is just a fun thing to do. My kids have toys with buttons you push, like plastic cash registers and shit. I push the buttons on them all the time. Just because.

Also, when in an elevator, I dread some fucker coming at the last minute and causing the doors to reopen, costing me valuable nanoseconds on my descent or ascent. I HAVE SHIT TO DO!



I just made an off-hand joke to my friends about how when I build a house, I'm gonna put a urinal in my bathroom, and they all laughed and shrugged me off. So I started getting adamant about it. Why not? One guy says it's not classy. What?! I walk into a dude's house and he's got a urinal in his master bath, I am fucking impressed, this guy has it all in excess. Another dude says if there's a woman in the house, it's useless. Uh, except for the total elimination of toilet seat fights for the rest of your life and/or relationship!

Tell me I'm not crazy. I'm going urinal shopping tonight.

I'd also put that goalie thing from the last mailbag in the pisser, just for that extra homey touch.


You, of course, DO have a urinal in your home. It's called the shower. Though I fully concede I only piss in the shower when inside it or about to step in. I've never peed in my own shower while clothed and not actually USING the shower. That would be weird.

I doubt any wife would allow a urinal in the bathroom. Too crass, they'd say. They'd suggest two full toilets instead. I'd accede to that, but insist on a urinal in the basement game room of my mansion. I think I could win that battle.



I went to Ohio State. My roommates and I lived in an older split-level home which the new owner converted into 1 house. We converted one of the living rooms into a pool room. We were down there playing and one of the wall panels suddenly fell over. We took a look inside and we find a BIG FUCKING SAFE HIDDEN IN THE WALL. There were only 2 of us in the room at the time, so we gathered all of our roommates around for the unveiling. Alas, completely empty. This was extremely depressing.

If you were to find a safe in an older home, what would you expect or want to find inside of it?


The following: A money belt containing $50,000 cash of every foreign currency. Numerous passports with various aliases and pictures of a man who, as luck would have it, bears a solid resemblance to myself. A secret list containing the names and addresses of various foreign double agents living abroad. A rifle. Two handguns. An open plane ticket to Paris. Security tapes of Tim Tebow punching a pregnant woman.


This is a debate I've had many times: Out of any TV show past or present, what fake home or set do you wish you could live on? I'm talking living your normal life; the actual cast from the show doesn't factor in. Here are mine, in no particular order:

1. The Cosby Show: Huge house in Brooklyn, they had a backyard where you could grill/shoot hoops, along with a home office. That's only affordable on a doctor/lawyer's marriage. This is about 500% larger than any normal person's home in NYC or the boroughs.

2. Silver Spoons: Everything had a remote control. Hey! Someone's at the door — let me GRAB THE FUCKING REMOTE and see who it is. They had a train that would take you around the house. They had a plethora of REAL video games in their game room.

3. The Brady Bunch

4. The Facts of Life: I want to live in a house that has a bakery connected to it. Hungry in the middle of the night? OPEN THE BAKERY.

5. The Sopranos: Huge kitchen/living room, with a bed that always looks extremely big and comfortable.


Wayne Manor. Wayne Manor all the fucking way. Batcave. Batmobile. Batpoles. Butler. I'll take all that, thank you.

Not to go all Simmons on you, but pretty much any Real World house. They're always huge. They always have all kinds of cool shit in them. They're always in a good location. Apart from fumigating the joint and cleaning all the douche out, it's hard to argue with the joint they had in London or Miami or any of those places. I watched that show when it started, and they'd always tour the joint, show you all the awesome stuff, then show you the ungrateful fucks who got to hang out in it. Always made me want to punch them in the fucking face.


Moviewise, I always had a real affection for Winthorpe's place in Philly in Trading Places. God damn, that looked like a nice place. Always wanted to live in a bigass city townhome like that. Mozart playing at all hours.


Are you ever disappointed when you are done eating because you have no food left? I'll go to a fast food joint and even though I spent enough money to buy a gourmet meal I am a little sad inside when I eat that last chicken nugget. After sadness comes shame for eating so much.


Happens pretty much every time I eat. I'm never emotionally prepared when the last bite arrives, especially now that I'm on a diet. Oh, that's it. No more after this. Well, that's… (has nervous breakdown)


If you could choose a song to play when entering a toilet stall, what would it be? And you can't say "Smell what The Rock is Cookin'." That is too easy.


"Sky Is Falling," by Queens of the Stone Age.


Like you, I am gay for Tim Gunn and crew. The reason I watch the show is to find my secret hip designer TV girlfriend to lust over for four months. This season I have it bad for Maya – those retro black bangs and lips make me want to throw her up against the Bluefly accessory wall. So, how to you strike the right balance of picking a favorite and rooting for her (or him, to each his own) without betraying the carnal reason below to your wife?


I swear to God, Maya spends every week staring at the camera looking like she's going to crawl through the set and do blow off your stomach. The fact that appears to be roughly 3 feet tall is little deterrent. She's got ScarJo's face and upper chestal area, and they ALWAYS stick her in the front row when they gather designers so she can primp for the camera. No way that girl doesn't spend every night in Manhattan out at clubs until 4 a.m. popping ecstasy pills like Tic Tics.

Anyway, just keep that shit to yourself. Root for the hilarious gay black dude, like I do. Black people NEVER win that fucking show.


Kristofferson Kriskristofferson:

My bottle of shampoo contains the following instructions: 1. Lather 2. Rinse 3. Repeat. My question to you is whether anyone actually repeats and, if so, why? Is this just a scam perpetrated by the shampoo industry to encourage needless consumption of its product?


I think you might repeat if you got poop in your hair or something. Something you REALLY wanted to make sure was completely evacuated from your hair. I think I lathered and rinsed twice once when I got boot in my hair. Tough to get all that boot out.


Me and three buddies helped a friend move into a 4th floor walkup last weekend. Anyway, towards the end of the day, we carried this guy's huge couch up four flights of steps. Given that there were four other people involved, I decided that it was ok for me to "fake lift" the couch up the steps. I put my hands under the couch just like everyone else, had a strained look on my face and make appropriate grunting noises. The other guys clearly were really lifting, and they had no idea what I was doing. Am I a bad guy for engaging in this fraud? Isn't everyone entitled to a "fake lift" every now and then?


Yes. Absolutely. I enjoy coming in late to the group heavy object lift and grabbing it in one of those magic spots where there is no weight being borne. If enough people lift one heavy object, there are always spots like that. It's one of the more pleasant surprises of a move.

When moving, I used to get off on moving very large and cumbersome (but light) objects on my won with no assistance. Makes you totally look strong. "Are you gonna move that whole plush chair yourself?" Oh, yes. BANK ON IT. Sometimes, if you're lucky, a woman will watch you move the whole object with a look of concern on her face the whole time. She thinks you're going to drop it. BUT YOU DON'T. FUCKING STRONG.



Occasionally I'll catch myself worrying what would happen if I suddenly forgot how to breathe. There would be that small moment in time when I almost swallow my tongue, followed by extreme panic as I can't figure out how to open my throat again. I usually just tell myself that if it hasn't happened yet, it probably won't but, like clockwork, at least once a month I am overtaken with anxiety about it (for at least 4 seconds).


I only get that same pang of anxiety whenever I take over voluntary breathing functions for something like stretching, or just breathing slowly to calm down. Once I become conscious of my breathing, I get a little worried that the involuntary function may never come back, and I'll have to spend the rest of my life remembering to inhale and shit.


I reply to IMs while masturbating. Chances are if you know me, and have IM'd me with any sort of frequency in the past 14 years, I've taken a moment out of my jerking to kindly reply to you.


That is wrong, and I don't condone it. You're going to slime your keyboard doing that.


If you're ever at one of those restaurants with a self-service soft serve machine and the "ice cream" is coming out a bit slowly, I highly suggest making groaning sounds as if the machine is in the midst of a difficult dump. Any eight-year-old boy in line behind you will find it quite entertaining.


What restaurant has that? Golden Corral? I'd abuse that thing like a robot lover.


True story: I purchased my first box of tampons last September (I'm a 25 year old dude) before going to Kabul, Afghanistan for the first time. I had heard they were good for plugging bullet holes in the event you found yourself perforated by an AK-47. I bought the heaviest flow I could find because I figured I'm a bleeder. I bought the generic CVS brand; should I have splurged for name-brand tampons?


I defer to Iraq vet Matt Ufford on this. Uff says:

I have yet to hear the theory that you should jam something inside a bullet wound — especially since first aid compresses already exist (also, those compresses are designed for combat use and easy to tear open, not wrapped in plastic like tampons).


That said, as with all other products, the higher price of name-brand products in drug stores is only for the slick packaging. I would guess that the CVS tampons stop blood flow just as well Tampax or whatever.

So there you go. You made both a wise purchase AND a stupid purchase. Give them to your mom.


Finally today, yet another GREAT MOMENT IN POOP HISTORY. And once again, we deal with the Vice Presidency.

Zach [NOTE: It's come to our attention that this story bears a striking resemblance to this one, from The Foggy Monocle]:

I headed to the bathroom before going back to work. I was finishing up my pee (definitely NOT masturbating) when two men in suits entered, each sporting dark sunglasses and a white telephone cord that reached from their left ear backwards into the collar of their jacket. Completely brushing past me and another gentleman at the sink, they proceeded to open every stall and inspect, flushing one of them as they continued to probe the lavatory. It reminded me of a cop looking for drugs at my house. As my curiosity neared its apex, I saw one of the men raise his hand to his face and speak furtively into his mic, "We're all clear."

Suddenly the bathroom door flew open as if drawn by a magnet, and then Vice President Cheney himself entered hastily with his hand clutching his gut. Ushered by another service agent, he gave my fellow witness and me the slightest head nod as he rifled for the appointed stall. While my powder room corroborator exited the bathroom immediately, I idled for a second, spurred by my hangover perhaps, and "feigned" vanity as I peered into the mirror. Soon it happens. A few noises emanated from that fated stall, sounding off like a bag of pudding rupturing violently from the inside, followed by a barely audible vocal contraction. Holy shit! So the second-in-command of our country is not immune to gastrointestinal volatility. Any pangs of disgust were immediately overruled by the goofy smile I was involuntarily forced to wear. This was obviously too much to take. Shooting for the door, I caught a stern glance from one of the Matrix dudes that conveyed the unspoken words, "You better not fucking tell anyone about this." I suppose the widespread dissemination of this story is just my cross to bear.


He greeted that toilet as a liberator.