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I had a weird pain in my side the other day, and I'm now at the age where I assume any odd pain in my body is a sure sign of aggressive and malignant cancer. What the fuck is that pain? Is there a lump? It kinda feels swollen, especially compared to my other side. And it hurts if I poke it really hard! THAT'S LYMPHOMA. Then I tell myself to calm down, and that it's totally not cancer, and then my brain is like BUT IT IS CANCER. Then I imagine being on my deathbed and telling my wife it's okay if she's marries again, even though it's totally NOT. You stay away from my main squeeze after cancer has its way with me, future suitor!

Stupid imaginary cancer. That is the WORST kind of cancer. Anyway, your letters:


In war movies, the worst possible injury has to be the one where the guy gets hit by some explosion or gunfire or the like, and he's laying on the ground and he sees that his stomach has been eviscerated and his guts are all spilling out all over the place in a messy, bloody pile.

He always does the same thing — he frantically gropes at them and tries to shove them back inside his body, while sort of moaning and going hysterical, but it never seems to work. I think that potential injury has single-handedly prevented me from ever joining the armed services, because the thought of having to deal with that almost makes me faint. I always wonder whether anyone has ever shoved his intestines and organs back inside his body like that and lived, and if so, what kinds of infections occur, and whether there is some guy out there whose spleen is on the wrong side of his body because he didn't know how to reassemble himself.


I've always referred to that injury as the Hamburger Hill Helper. That was the first movie where I saw it, and I will NEVER forget it. You just don't forget the first time you see a movie in which one of the characters is given an impromptu disembowelment. Then I saw Predator and had a flashback of watching Hamburger Hill all over again. Devastating. If a scene like the one from Hamburger Hill had been shown in movie theaters in 1936, we don't win World War II. Half the kids drafted would have driven straight to fucking Mexico.

Everyone says our generation is the Me Generation, and that we're never willing to sacrifice anything for anyone. Well dude, can you fucking BLAME us? Unlike Spanky and Alfalfa watching "Steamboat Itchy" back in the 1940's, we've seen REAL war movies. We've played Call of Duty. Thanks to precise reenactments in pop culture, we know precisely what we're getting into if we're signing up for war. And man, do I want no part of that. My bowels spilling out of my body? Enemy soldiers holding me hostage and forcing me to play Russian Roulette? No thanks.


Also, I'd like to take an opportunity to chastise our government for choosing to invade nations that have no liquor or thriving prostitution businesses. Who's gonna join the Army if there isn't a $10 sucky sucky waiting for you on your day off from combat? If you want more people signing up for duty, send our troops somewhere where they can at least get their rocks off once in a while. It's just the polite thing to do. I wish the USO could send pussygrams.


When heating something up in the microwave, and it says 3 1/2 minutes or 4 1/2 minutes, I always hit 3:33 or 4:44 because I refuse to move my index finger the 8 miles from the 3 button all the way down to the zero. Do you do this?


Oh yes. And who can blame you? That's precious index finger energy you have to conserve for more important things, like fingerblasting and pointing at your friend and laughing at him while he's vomiting. No point risking the finger's safety sliding over three buttons on the microwave. You could hyperextend it.


How badly do you want to write a letter with an ink quill, on thick parchment, in a dimly lit room; followed by you stuffing said letter into an envelope and then sealing that bad boy up by pressing your family insignia into a gob of hot wax on the back of the envelope?


So, so badly. But I wouldn't use an envelope. I'd roll the parchment up, seal it, and then tie a ribbon around it. Then I'd hand it to my trusty herald (already mounted upon his faithful steed), then send him out into the cold night with nothing but a bastard sword and his wiles to protect him on his journey.

One day, I hope to be filthy rich and have nothing to do. When that day comes, I WILL start writing letters on parchment with a seal and sending them out to friends, only the message inside won't be a declaration of war or anything. It'll be something completely fucking stupid. Imagine a man on a horse delivering you a letter on parchment. You'd shit your pants with excitement. It could be an invitation to a royal wedding, or a list of magical spells. Then you open it up and all it says is HEY GARY, YOU'RE A FAG. What a disappointment. I'd love to make that moment happen.



Getting on a Midwest flight from DC to Milwaukee earlier this week, I walk past the pilot...and she is a smoking hot blond. Is there a more random job for an attractive woman than commercial pilot? Most of the commercial pilots I've seen are middle-aged guys with thick tangles of forearm hair and Mr. Magoo glasses that make you think, "If that guy loses those mid-flight we are gonna end up smashed on the side of a mountain".

I spent the rest of the flight wondering if she was legitimately a good pilot, or if she was the worst student in flight school but her instructor floated her by with a C-minus and a raging boner in his pants.


Yeah. That is an unexpected spot for an attractive woman. Every pilot I've ever had looks like Ferris Bueller's dad. They all seem like very warm, relaxed middle-aged men. I bet they have a patio and play lots of golf. Pilots are fucking cool. I've always had a high opinion of pilots ever since I watched "Valerie"/"The Hogan Family" as a kid and the dad was a pilot. That guy had a really nice tan. Also, most pilots have military experience, yet only have to work a few days a month due to sweet labor deals (NOTE: may not be true at all). That mix of badass background and lazy work schedule is something I really admire in a man.

Anyway, pilot is NOT the most random occupation for an attractive woman. That title would probably belong to the job of lunchlady. No American child has ever had a lunchlady worth masturbating to, and no American child ever will.



If given the choice between a lightsaber and a speeder bike from Star Wars, which one would you take? I say the risk of killing yourself is about even on both. I'd take the speederbike....fuck traffic.


I think most geeks would take the light saber. But you'd need someone else to have a light saber for it to really be worthwhile. Also, you can't really go around killing people with a light saber, so it's kind of useless like that. Like Ryan, I'd go for the speederbike. Much more practical. And remember: it shoots lasers out of the front. So it's a kickass hoverbike AND it has weaponry. Win-win.


Is there an age where it becomes unreasonable to draw dicks on foggy windows and mirrors (that are not your own, obviously) and dirty cars?




Do you find certain foreign languages infuriating when you hear them? Right now I'm trapped on a bus with an Israeli couple that are having an argument and it sounds like they're challenging the reigning world champ in a horse diarrhea eating contest.


It's true. There's some sort of primal xenophobia that kicks in anytime I'm somewhere in public and someone next to me is having an extremely loud conversation in a foreign language. Especially if it's a language I can't identify. The loudness is annoying, but the foreign language element makes it even more aggravating, and for no good reason. Then I get mad at myself for being, like, intolerant of other cultures and shit. But that doesn't make the people talking any less annoying. If anything, it makes me mad that they're annoying me AND simultaneously making me confront my own ignorant provincialism.

There's a scene in "Saving Private Ryan," when the company comes across some German soldier who won't stop talking in German, and Barry Pepper goes up to him and says SHUT UP WITH THAT FILTHY PIG LATIN. And that's what I have half a mind to say sometimes. I never say it, because that would make me a dick. But man oh man, I hear someone talk French for three minutes, and SHUT UP WITH THAT FILTHY PIG LATIN becomes my thinking on a constant loop. I'm sure French people felt the same way about me when I waltzed into a Paris bakery in 1997 and spent an hour trying to order a ham sandwich.



Have you ever thought where you would go and what you would do if you were to flee a jail sentence similar to Ed Norton at the end of 25th Hour? Maybe a fisherman off the coast of New England/logger in Montana, or would you go big time and run a surf shop in Costa Rica?


Gotta be Pacific Northwest. Or Alaska. I have no evidence to support this, but it's a FACT: 78% of people living in Alaska or the rural Pacific Northwest are fugitives on the lam. Especially if they have facial hair. Dead giveaway. They definitely skipped out on a child support payment, or accidentally ran over their best friend while drunk.

I often wonder how long I'd last living as a fugitive in Alaska or some other remote location. How long would it take the authorities to get me? An hour? Five minutes? How long could I keep up living a lie? Three seconds? I'm a terrible liar. And I'm sloppy as hell. I'd probably give away my new location in this column. I'm not very smart about things like that.




Would you rather fuck a horse and have no one know about it, or not fuck a horse and have everyone think you did?


This is really more of a question for Mr. Bissinger.

Anyway, for me: the latter. Because at least I know I didn't fuck a horse, and that's good enough for me.



It is currently 6:53am and I am stranded in the shitter at MacArthur airport in long island. I dropped a nice one and just realized there is no tp or even the seat covers to wipe with. WTF! My next move is??


You gotta pack up shop and head to the next stall. This isn't such a bad thing if there's an open stall in your current bathroom. You just have to pull up your boxers and half-heartedly pull up your pants, then do the crab walk over to the next stall, keeping your legs wide to ensure shit doesn't get smacked and rubbed between your ass cheeks.

If there's only one stall in your current bathroom, that means you have to cinch your belt (guhhh) and walk to the next bathroom. I can't imagine how awful that would be, and I'm sorry to you for having to endure it.




Do you ever find yourself in a situation where you're confined and need to reach something (think: tight seatbelt, and you NEED a piece of gum, in the package over on the passenger side floor) and while you reach for it, you feel like Indiana Jones, tied into the chair in the castle with your dad, trying to reach for your lighter? This also happens when I'm lying on the couch, and the remote control is just far enough away on the coffee table that I can touch it, but not completely grasp it. I feel like I'm trapped under a rock or some shit, desperately reaching for a switch or something that will save me. I'm always relieved afterward when I accomplish my task, knowing that in my imaginary life-threatening scenario I would be able to free myself, thus leading to my freedom.


I think of trying to save someone who is in great danger of falling from a cliff, or being left behind somewhere deadly. For example, I go to reach for the remote. Only now I'm not in my living room. It's Saigon, 1975. I'm on the roof of the US embassy, boarding a helicopter just as Saigon is falling to the dirty Vietcong. But my new Vietnamese friend Han is also trying to get on the chopper just as it's lifting off the ground. And I reach out for him, and try to take his hand. BUT IT'S SLIPPING! NO! NO, HAN! I WON'T LEAVE YOU HERE IN THIS SHITHOLE! I hold on for dear life as the chopper goes thousands of feet in the air and poor Han is dangling. And then, it happens. I finally lose my grip, and Han goes plummeting to his death. No. NO. NOOOOOOOO!!!! HE WAS A GOOD MAN!!!

And then I get the remote and switch over to Bourdain. Fun stuff.

Whitey also noted reaching for something in your car when the seat belt is tight on you. In my personal history, I have found that my seat belt will always lock in place when I don't want it to lock in place, and unlock when I want it locked in place. For example, let's say there's candy on the passenger side floor mat. That candy looks good. So I reach for it. FUCK. The seat belt locked in place. Then I try taking the belt in so it will unlock, only now the seat belt locks in an even tighter spot. CRIMINY! All I wanted was a Goober. Now I'm about to be gut-choked to death by my fucking seat belt.


And then I take the seat belt off. And does the seat belt EVER retract back into place? No. No, it just stays loose, there to get caught in the door any time I get out of the fucking car. Seat belts are evil.

Ron Dayne:

Here is a list of malfunctioning inanimate objects, in order of most to least likely turn me into a serial killer:

• Wire clothes hangers that get caught on each other (If this happens in the morning, I will rip the offending hanger from the bar. I have pulled a bar off the hooks doing this before, making me 10^394873 times more angry)

• Toilet seats that fall down mid piss

• Doors that fail to latch when pushed closed and then slowly open after you walk away

• Paper clips which rip paper as they come off

• Ziploc bags that won't close

Well, let's not forget those pesky seat belts that won't lock properly. I also throw huge tantrums at the following:

• Vending machine-dispensed Coke bottles at rest stops that explode the second you open them, getting your hands all sticky and gross. The fucking Coke bottle vending machine now is designed specifically to make the bottle jizz all over you. LET'S HAVE THE BOTTLE SLIDE ACROSS THE MACHINE WINDOW AND THEN DROP A FOOT INTO THE SLOT. Assholes.


• Screen doors that catch on my clothing or skin. OW! FUCK! DIE!

• Refrigerator crisper drawers that come off their tracks at a mere jostling

• Rollerboard suitcase handles that don't extend out easily

• Any time the spinning wheel shows up on my Mac. I hate the spinning wheel and so does the rest of the free world.


• Bread that has fallen through the grate of my toaster oven, causing a plume of smoke that it makes it look like the BP oil spill was just set ablaze completely within the confines of my kitchen and my kitchen alone

• My garbage can, which is precisely one inch too deep to accommodate a normal sized Hefty garbage bag. You put the bag in, line it around the sides, go to drop a peach pit in the fucker, and the whole bag drops into the can. I FUCKING HATE YOU. HATE HATE HATE.



Do you ever have to decide between taking a dump and going to sleep? My body is on this weird schedule where I get the urge to shit just around the time I am crawling into bed. Once I am in bed, it is sometimes just too hard to get back out. What wins? Poop or sleep? I often will let sleep win, because I have never had an issue with just handling my business in the morning. Am I weird for doing this?


Not really. Pooping in the middle of the night is terrible, especially if you wake up to piss and realize you also have to shit. You aren't awake enough to really enjoy the poop, and you can't turn any lights on to read while you're pooping, because that will ruin your eyes forever. It's terrible to concede to the poop at 3AM. It's lonely and you have no clue if you wiped enough. I hate it. I sleep through the poop if I can.


Do they mean "Felch Me" or is it an abbreviation for "Felch, Michigan"?


I believe that's the title of a future "Glee" episode.

Isn't Mateen Cleaves from Felch, Michigan?


Why do so many companies think it's a good idea to have their CEO stand in front of the camera to sell shit (Sprint's weird black and white psuedo-noveau riche ads come to mind)? I'm a younger guy in his mid-20's, and the last thing I want to see is some balding, ugly-looking corporate robot on screen telling me his shit is awesome. What is the point?


Well, think about it. The CEO is the dude running the company. He's also the one that has final say over what the ad campaign will be. Most CEO's are egotistical pricks who love to hear themselves talk. So it's never a surprise when they say to an ad agency, "Say, why don't I just be in the ad?! That might be fun! That way, we won't have to pay an actor!" It's the same reason every local car dealer ad you see features the asshole who owns the dealership. They aren't ads for the company. They're ads for the CEO as a person. I AM HIGH PROFILE AND CAN SPEAK ON CAMERA.

Agencies are also complicit in this. They know that suggesting the CEO appear in the ad is a great way of sucking up to the client. What dipshit CEO would say no to being in his own ad? Not many. It's also why you see agency people ending up appearing in ads or doing voice-overs, like the UPS guy. "Well, we auditioned a few actors, but none of them seemed to nail it the way Tom did!" It's how Pixar writers end up scoring a role in one of their own movies, too. You get your rocks off being on camera, AND it's fun to do. I know I tried to do my own voice-overs every chance I got.



Have you ever had a car pull up right next to you when you are about to pull out of a parallel parking spot so they can park in the spot behind you? Being a privileged white male I don't anything else will come closer to the feeling one gets moments before they are killed in a drive-by shooting.


Only if that car has tinted windows. If the car next to you has tinted windows, you know IT IS ON.


When you see a mangled guardrail do you first feel a tinge sadness you missed the accident and then have to fight the urge to drive your car into the same spot to see if you can recreate the accident?




How do you pronounce the little neoprene holders for cold beer bottles or cans? I prefer cozy to koozie. And as well as any decent reference page backs me up. For crying out loud people, kooze is a slang term for a woman's bajingo!


CRIKEY! I also say "beer cozy". I think. I deeply regret that I am rarely in situations where a beer cozy is necessary. When do you need a beer cozy? Here's when: if you're out on a boat. I don't own a boat. I don't have access to a boat. My life is dreadfully landlocked. And that is so sad.

Every summer, we head to Annapolis for a day to eat lunch and walk around and shit. They have a huge harbor in Annapolis, with boats parked all over the place. And there are people just hanging out on the boats, drinking beer out of cans that have been lovingly placed into beer cozies. AND they have no tiny kids around to look after. Those kids are all grown up, or they've been lost overboard or something. Man, that looks like the life. I BET THOSE GUYS ARE PILOTS. One day, my friends. One day.


And when that day comes, I will be forced to decide which kind of cozy I want. Do I want the neoprene cozy with the zipper, or the old school redneck foam beer cozy? FUCK IT, WE'RE GOING FOAM.

Peg Pelvis Pete:

Ever worry about what might happen to you when you sleep? Do various creatures crawl all over me? Does a home intruder break in just to stealthily teabag me? Will I be walking around one day and suddenly baby roaches come pouring out of my left ear from an egg sac laid in there? Will the psychotic girl who I've made the horrible mistake of sleeping with rape me, get knocked up, and I'll have to support her and our bundle of joy the rest of my days?

My entire life, I've only been able to fall asleep if I have the sheet/blanket covering my entire body & head, in hopes of preventing these things from happening. Except my nose is uncovered so that I can breathe, of course, which can only mean that aliens are coming in at night and sticking tubes up my nostrils to suck my life force from me.


I don't get paranoid to the extent that my head needs to be covered by the blanket. But I do feel you on those roach eggs, brother. Sleep in a bad hotel and you just KNOW there will be roach eggs in your ear canal the next morning. It's not a pleasant thought at all. Same with sitting on a dirty toilet. ROACH EGGS, RIGHT UP IN THE RECTUM. Roach eggs are everywhere, brother.

Speaking of roach eggs, we end today with a GREAT MOMENT IN INSECT MURDER.


A moth was flying around my kitchen just now. Setting aside for a moment how much it infuriates me to see these winged hellspawn in my house, all that rage was finally satiated in the most awesome way possible. The little fucker flew onto the stove, right next to the burner.

I swear my adrenaline was pumping so hard time itself slowed down, I could see the opportunity awaiting me, things were so vividly clear for the first time in my life, I could each little flap of the little bastard's wings. Within seconds and not fumbling once, I reached for that knob and just TORCHED HIS FUCKING SHIT. It felt like I was shooting a flamethrower at someone, except much smaller and more annoying!

Oh God, I swear I climaxed upon seeing the flames ENGULF that little shit and send him straight to hell!!!! I'm still erect from this experience and now will be coaxing any and all bugs in the direction of the stove to meet their fiery doom.


I wish I could somehow buy a way of virtually experiencing that kill. Well done, Pussybone.

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