Have you ever considered how disgusting belts must get? Why are we putting our pants back on before we wash our hands? Surely some miniscule amount of poop bacteria must pass over or through the toilet paper to the hand. If any poop particles are being transmitted to the wiping hand, this hand then touches your zipper fly, pants button AND belt. How often does a belt get cleaned? Never? How often do you touch your belt? All the time? {head explodes}


The only solution would be to have a Purell dispenser there in the shitter for you to use, to kill off all fecal bacteria before you touch your belt. It would serve as a kid of pre-wash for your hands. But I dunno. I use Purell a lot since I have kids around, and using Purell is disgusting. You think it'll just run into your skin right away but it doesn't. It leaves a bit of sticky film. I feel like I just washed my hands in maple syrup. Much better to just pretend your belt is perfect the way it is and not worry about it. Mine has so much FUPA sweat embedded in it that I assume the old sweat bacteria will fight off the poop bacteria on the buckle.

I also own only one belt, and that belt has now warped to the shape of my belly. If I take it off, it actually bends because my stomach distended one side of the leather. It is ergonomically designed for my gross hairy tummy and no one else's. I would buy another belt to replace it, but have you seen how much belts cost? Twenty dollars for a fucking belt? I DON'T THINK SO, MISTER.


/puts poop belt back on


Have you ever sliced open a bell pepper and found the little embryonic pepper inside? When you do, do you immediately play Bell Pepper Abortionist?


I eat the fetus. Is that wrong? It looks like real pepper. How sacrilegious can it be?

Sometimes I leave garlic in the fridge too long and the cloves begin to sprout. And then I congratulate myself for nurturing life. That's probably not appropriate.



I received a text from a wrong number. It read, verbatim: "Is this Alan tell Snake I was tryin to meet him to drop off money bt he is nt answerin this is Shamikkah".

So got to ask, drug deal or ransom?

Drug deal or hooker deal. Ever get a text from a friend whose number isn't in your phone? There are few things that excite me more than texting back, "Who are you?" I feel like I'm a CIA mole who's just had his cover blown. "Who is this? How did you get this number? You can't possibly have known I was the one who saw Lukin get murdered."



What do you think is the most common word girls use to describe their own genitals? I think guys use "dick" the most.


I think "down there" probably tops the list. "I'm having some pain down there." "He won't touch me down there." "I hear girls from Down Under are wider down there." You won't find many women who walk around going, "Boy, my cunt sure feels greasy today." Other candidates include:

• "Thing"
• "Hoohoo"
• "Hoohaa"
• "Vee"
• "My ... you know ..."
• "Crotch"
• "Privates"
• "Cocksleeve"


Maybe not that last one.


Say you take what you know about offensive football now, and travel back in time to the NFL of the 30s & 40s, where you introduce whatever offense it is you decide to bring back to your teams. What would be harder, you trying to explain and implement your offense to your new team, or being an opposing DC trying to stop your offense?

Gotta be trying to stop it right?

I doubt it. Like a bunch of part-time mine workers from 1942 are gonna listen to some emo-banged shitheel from 2012 try to lecture them about newfangled offensive football concepts. Half the shit you'd want to do wouldn't even be legal in that era. All a defensive coordinator would have to do to stop it is point out to the ref that forward passes aren't allowed. Remember: Football coaches still ice kickers even though icing the kicker is statistically useless. The maturation process of football people is glacial, and nothing you do will be able to speed it up. And really, how much have you retained anyway? You don't really know any of the terminology. All you know is four wideout formations and shit. It would be impossible to get people to listen to you. Better to just go kill Hitler instead.



Let's say your average, played-sports-in-high-school male in his mid-to-late 20's got the opportunity to play running back on an NFL team for one game. He gets your standard 20-30 carries (one-back system) on a team with a great O-Line, good O-coordinator, in the flow of the offense... The best possible situation. Lastly, he gets to train for six months with the team to prepare for this one game and practice with the first team the week leading up to the game. How many yards do you think he gets? Does he finish the game? Would he get killed? How many attempts before his ACLs are obliterated?


He'd probably get injured in the practices leading up that game and then be unable to play. Even if he had the time to get in shape and prepare, he's still not in the fabled "game shape", which demands that you spend a week being thrashed with a sack full of candlesticks to adequately prepare your body for the RAW PHYSICALITY of football ZOMG SO PHYSICAL LOTS OF BODIES TOUCHING BODIES GUYS. The first hint of real contact would ruin our test subject's shit, both mentally and physically. That first jarring hit is disturbing, like being in a car accident. You feel personally violated. Also, it really hurts. If our little Papale got his hand stomped on or got a deep thigh bruise, it would begin to wear on him right away.

If the team has a great line and a great passing game, there may be wide running lanes for him to potentially exploit. But we're talking about NFL defense here. Those holes don't stay open for very long. The Average Joe could maybe get a couple of meager gains, and perhaps withstand the punishment for a little bit thanks to extensive padding and a dozen cortisone shots. Conceivably, he could finish the game a staggering wreck, not blatantly injured but clearly banged up everywhere. I can't possibly see him gaining more than a dozen total yards. In other words, he's Chris Johnson.



The plane we all know as Air Force One, a jet with the seal of the President and all that, came into existence during the Kennedy Administration. Since Air Force One has a compartment with a bed for the President, how many Presidents have joined the Mile High Club in Air Force One? Here's my list: Kennedy, Johnson, Clinton, George W. Bush, Obama


I agree with Kennedy, LBJ, and Clinton. Here's a fun tidbit about LBJ:

At parties, he would make obvious passes at girls right in front of his wife. One of the girls who stayed over at his place got awakened in the middle of the night by Johnson holding a flashlight and saying, "Move over. This is your president."


That's so hot. LBJ was basically what Jerry Jones would be like as president. YEEEEEEHAWWWWW!

I wouldn't add W. or Obama to the list. Dubya is a teetotaler now, and his wife doesn't exactly look like a party animal. And while I'm sure Obama would like to nail his wife in mid-air, he knows that keeping a president's sexual hijinks private isn't anywhere near as easy as it used to be. One thrust in and Bob Woodward would be there with a voice recorder, asking him about the compromise that led to him achieving full Mile High Status. Riveting stuff.



Whose hollowed-out skull could hold the most jellybeans: John Elway, Peyton Manning or Michael Kay?


Here's a side-by-side photo of Manning and Elway. As you can see, Elway's head is much wider, whereas Manning's head is taller, like a highball glass. I always labor under the delusion that taller glasses can hold more, even though that's not always true.

As for Kay, his receding hairline makes his forehead look much larger than it actually is. Still, that's a big fucking noggin, with plenty of room for inappropriate Holocaust metaphors. I guess I'll take his jelly bean skull over Elway's. But none of them can compare with THIS GUY:

Now that's a lotta candy!


Do you get uncontrollably pissed off at people who refer to themselves as "voracious readers?" Because I sure as fuck do.


Those are the type of people who still use typewriters. All those books don't make you learnier than me, jerkface. Even so, those people still aren't as bad as people who start off their Twitter profile with, "Husband. Father." or "Wife. Mother." Those are the people that we need to round up and dispose of.


What's more satisfying, hurriedly plugging in your about-to-die cell phone or about-to-die laptop?


The phone, but I only say that because my laptop always dies before it's supposed to be about-to-die. The power meter will read 30 percent and I'll think I'll have 20 or so minutes to dick around, and then BLACK. That 30 percent was a LIE. Fucking Dell.

Whereas a cell phone gives you a little bit more of a heads up. Once the battery goes all the way down, you get that urgent message telling you YOUR BATTERY IS ALMOST GONE AND NOW YOU WILL DIE FUCKO. It doesn't even let you have a proper conversation without beeping and reminding you GET OFF THE PHONE NOW. So it's satisfying to find your power cord in the nick of time and deny your phone the chance to shut down on you and fuck you over. Not this time, phone! I enjoy charging it for three minutes, seeing it go to four battery bars for no reason, and then quickly seeing the four bars disappear. I also enjoy turning on a dead cell phone hours after it has shut itself down. Somehow, it always finds the power to boot back up for just a few seconds. And then I try to send a text because I live for the danger.


Email of the week time:


I'm 41. I've never had great skin, but also was never acne-ridden.

I can remember the 25 or so most 'remarkable' skin blemishes of my life with savant precision. 'Remarkable' means one or more of the following: unusual location on body, size, hidden content, explosiveness, tenacity, otherwise noteworthy date in my life. Examples:

June 14, 1990: The day I entered the Army. At the inprocessing station at a urinal. Huge pimple in my pubes. Wasn't ripe. Never got to it due to ensuing madness.

March 12, 1988. Unremarkable date. Blackhead in eyebrow. Came out considerably longer than my index nail. No follicular damage.

March 26, 2004. Holiday Inn ATL, plane mechanics had cancelled connecting flight. Left side of back neck. Audible explosion; O-ren Ishii damage on bathroom mirror.

Ongoing: the invisible tiny whitehead in the crease between my left nostril & my face. That fucker has never gone rogue but has not stopped cranking out the funk for years.

I had never written any of these down until now, but I could go on like that for quite a while. I CAN'T DO THIS WITH ANY OTHER TOPIC. I can't even tell you what month contained the greatest day of sex or casino winnings of my life, and the latter was within the last year.

I'm hygenic and for Christ's sake no I do not do anything with what comes out except look at it for a second and then immediately dispose of it. I'M OTHERWISE UNREMARKABLE AND FUCKING NORMAL.


You sure are!