I went to park my car the other day and the spot I parked in had a parking meter that was out of order. It is ILLEGAL to park in a spot with a meter that's out of order. You'll get a ticket. I cannot tell you how angry this makes me. It's not my fucking fault the meter is out of order. And now we have to leave a perfectly nice parking spot empty just because the meter is broken. Bullshit. BULLSHIT.
For once, I'd like to see a local government have a goddamn sense of levity and say, "You know what? If a parking meter is out of order, the spot is free." Just one extremely small act of kindness is a goddamn sea of petty bullshit. Now I know the countering argument here: "But if they did that, then everyone would just stick gum in the coin slot of their meters so they didn't have to pay!" I see nothing wrong with such a strategy. Kudos to you if you have the ingenuity to break a parking meter to avoid feeding it 75 cents.
Two last things about parking meters. Ever have a meter not register the quarter you put in it? Ruins my fucking day. The flipside to that: parking in a spot and realizing there's still an hour or two left on the meter from when someone parked there last. God, that's a fantastic feeling. I feel like I just robbed a CoinStar machine when that happens. Anyway, your letters.
1. Why don't celebrities get AIDS anymore?
2) How is it possible that Magic Johnson is the only superstar athlete from the 80's to contract HIV? That seems implausible/impossible.
Well, I assume the answer to the first question is that some celebrities probably HAVE died from AIDS, but haven't publicly disclosed it. I mean, look at the dude Brittany Murphy was banging when she died. That guy looks like a seven-layer AIDS taco.
It does amaze me that the last major celebrity to die from AIDS, at least to my immediate recollection, was Eazy-E. That was 15 years ago. We're overdue for a splurge in celebrity AIDS deaths. Maybe Magic, Robbie Alomar and Tommy Morrison will all go in a single two-month stretch down the pike. I wonder if there's some kind of trifecta ticket you can purchase if you'd like to wager on such an occurrence. It's not like celebrities are any more responsible these days. They're celebrities. They're retards.
There's one other explanation for this: AIDS DOESN'T REALLY EXIST AND WAS INVENTED BY THE GAYS TO PUSH FORWARD THEIR HIDEOUS GAYGENDA, WHICH INVOLVES POISONING OUR WATER SUPPLIES AND INFECTING US WITH THE GAY. But that theory still needs testing.
I was in Ireland a few years ago, and at that time, McDonald's throughout the UK and Ireland were serving a seasonal Cadbury Creme Egg McFlurry. It was, obviously, amazing, but the idea hasn't caught on in the United States. If I were to walk into my local Dairy Queen and hand them a few creme eggs and maybe something for the kitchen, do you think I could get them to hook me up with a Cadbury Creme Egg blizzard?
I'm sorry Ben, but I just blacked out from visualizing such a McFlurry and then having a 10-minute orgasm. I've seen Crème Egg omelets and Crème Egg brownies, but a Crème Egg blizzard would deserve its own wing of the Smithsonian. I MUST HAVE IT. In fact, I have no clue why Dairy Queen (I'm going to shift over to Dairy Queen for the rest of this discussion, since Blizzards are inherently better than McFlurries) doesn't do a Crème Egg Blizzard OR a Reese's Peanut Butter Egg Blizzard. A peanut butter cup Blizzard may be close enough, but I'd like to see the unholy use of the full peanut butter egg. Also, consider this: a chocolate Blizzard with bits of marshmallow Peeps. I'd stick my dick in that.
One of my favorite things to do when I'm walking the dog in winter time is to look for brittle ice. It often accumulates at the edges of the sidewalk most commonly during the beginning and end of winter. Brain cues Blue Oyster Cult and the prehistoric metallic screech, I am Godzilla! The noises this stuff makes when you crush it are so totally satisfying. It sounds like breaking stained glass windows, ripping, crushing violence, BEHOLD MY STOMPING POWER.
I concur. Stomping the shit out of brittle ice is awesome. I see that thin white layer of ice and I practically break out running, so I can be the first one to dig my heel into it. I like to pretend I'm a World War II soldier putting his boot in a German's skull. THIS ONE IS FOR THE JEWS, YOU KRAUT FUCK.
I have kids now, which means I have to share whatever brittle ice I find with them. They get to have first crack at it. But they never do the job to my satisfaction. It's always, "Okay, kid. Game effort. Now let me show you how a REAL FUCKING MAN takes care of this shit." STOMP STOMP STOMP.
Whenever I'm at a gas station or fast food place that has the little TV where I can see myself on the security camera, I always stare at it. I try to stand all bowed up and manly, just in case somebody decides to rob the place. That way when I'm on SpikeTV on TruTV later for beating the guy's ass, I'll look awesome. The reality is that every time I look like the tall, gangly, unintimidating guy with bad posture that I am. It's disappointing.
It always captures me at a profile, so I always try and turn my head so I can see my whole face, while keeping my eyes fixed on the camera, so I end up looking at footage of myself with my pupils facing my right ear. I also try and extend my neck, so that my chin doesn't look so fat.
I also wave my hand whenever I see the monitor. This is so I can say hi to myself ("Hi, me!"), and so I can verify that it's me on the monitor. Hey, is that me on the TV? Let me wave my hand to see and… YES! It is! I'm on TV! Jesus, I look pale! Then I fix my hair. It's a human reaction. If I see that I'm on a TV somewhere, I can't not look. I don't have the capacity to do something like that. I have to know what I really look like. This is what I look like when I move. This is how people really see me when I'm in public. Oh God, I look like a fucking retard.
Even worse than the monitor is the giant round mirror they deploy in 7-11 to keep 13-year-olds from stealing issues of Club International. Those mirrors have fish eye distortion, so I always walk to the exact center spot of the mirror and then bob my head to either side, to create the illusion that I'm starring in an old Hype Williams video. NOW, WHO'S HOT, WHO'S NOT/TELL ME WHO ROCK, WHO SELL OUT IN THE STORES…
Attached is a picture of a urinal in the bathroom of my office. I work for a public accounting firm that has quite a few Jewish partners. Do you think there was some kind of subconscious anti-Semitism when the makers of the urinal created the Star of David drain design? The partners have to have noticed this, right?
Oh, that's terrible. Perhaps the partners intended to design the urinal this way, as a way of always having a chip on their shoulder. You're gonna lawyer a little harder every day if you know there are people out there happily pissing on your tribe. Also, perhaps on holidays, the partners like placing candles in the urinal holes, like a kind of makeshift Lite Brite.
Why is it every time I start an afternoon project (wash the car, trim the hedges, assemble another god damned toy I don't have room for anyway), I suddenly have to piss?
That's your body's way of delaying work. I also piss right before going into any kind of work assignment that doesn't require manual labor. Like taxes. I'm just gonna sit down here and do my taxes. I'm all set to go! Wait, wait. Better piss first, just to give myself three extra seconds before the endless drudgery of life begins in earnest.
I like to sit down to work, then piss, then sit back down, then get some thing to eat, then sit back down, then go get something to drink, then sit down, and then go piss again. If I play my cards right, I can repeat that cycle at least nine times before even opening Turbotax. And, by that point, the day is nearly over. I may as well wait another day. BOOSH!
All the time I used to come home from school, reach into my backpack, out of which I would pull a 3 1/2 inch floppy disk. Oh, but this disk did not contain some mundane homework assignment, paper, or even video game. On this disk was any number of one of the following: 1) A virus, meant to destroy the mainframe of computers of whatever organization or country I was infiltrating, 2) Some sort of top secret profile, either my personal Agent information or the man I have been sent to assassinate, or 3) Some sort of plans, architectural most likely, to any number of things. Most often it was similar to the scene from Star Wars where Darth Vader is demanding that Leia turn over the plans - except I have them, not R2D2! Quick, to the Apple IIGS!
The best part about this was the mechanical and tactile nature of the 3 1/2 inch floppy, something totally lost in CDs, and only poorly approximated in thumb drives. At best using a thumb drive just makes you feel like a low level hacker.
Agreed, though it's well worth losing that mild thrill in exchange for things like, I dunno, the Internet. I don't think I'd like to go back to that era.
I remember when I was a kid that we had a computer that took real floppy disks, the ones that were actually floppy. Then they came out with the next generation of floppy disks, the hard plastic ones, and that was like a fucking quantum leap. ZOMG! The disks are smaller! IT'S LIKE WE LIVE IN THE FUTURE! I used to take my Dad's hard floppy disks and play with the metal part that slid back and forth. It was on a spring, so you could slide it to the side to expose the disk, then release it and it would SNAP shut. I did that, like, 900 times in row. I ruined any number of disks doing it.
DAD: Have you been in here, messing with my computer stuff?
DAD: Yes, you have.
ME: GOD, WHY DO YOU ALWAYS ASSUME THE WORST ABOUT ME? HAVE YOU EVER HEARD OF DUE PROCESS, YOU FASCIST BASTARD?!
Yesterday, a new memory chip arrived for my piece of shit iMac. I installed it myself, and you better believe I treated that installation like I was the nerdy guy in a bank robbing crew who breaks into the mainframe and swaps out the main chip with one that tells the computer to let my crew and I bust into the vault any time we wish. The installment took roughly five minutes. I kinda wish it had been more involved. I AM A MASTER OF HARDWARE.
By the way, if I were an IT guy, I'd absolutely look through everyone's private crap to see if they look at donkey child porn. Because you never know who's gonna have it.
Is it possible to look away from roadkill?
Hell, no. And whenever I pass a dead deer, I always wonder if it's been freshly killed, and if some of the meat is salvageable. That could be free venison there for the taking. I've just never had the guts to pack a chef's knife in the trunk to find out for myself.
Kristofferson Kriskristofferson (cont'd):
Ever drive by an isolated wooded area and think that you may see a heinous crime being committed somewhere within? I may have seen "Miller's Crossing" one too many times?
Yep. Also, any time I look in a neighbor's window. If I go to piss late at night, and I can see through my window that there's still one room illuminated next door, I fully expect to witness a stabbing seven seconds later. Never happens though. It's impossible to look out at another window at night and not hope to see murder or fucking.
We live near a park, and I go walking in the park sometimes. It can get fairly wooded, and once I get into the heavily wooded area, I always assume anyone walking in front of or behind me is a bloodthirsty ex-con (or Gary Condit) brandishing an axe and waiting to rape in dismember me, in no particular order. I always pick up the pace a little when that happens.
Can we all band together as a nation and decide that "Prime Time" television programming on Sundays in the winter months should begin at 5:00? This gives you ample time to do Sunday things, and doesn't leave you checking the clock during the Oscars, seeing that its 11:30, and lamenting how much you don't fucking want to go to work in the morning? I think this is a reasonable request.
But wait. Are you also suggesting that prime time TV end at 8:00PM on Sunday evenings? Or are you suggesting an extended primetime block of programming, a six-hour stretch that begin at 5PM and goes until 11PM?
Obviously, this discussion is moot if you own a DVR, because then prime time is anytime you like. But I do think this: whenever there is not a major sporting event on during weekends, broadcast networks should refrain from airing tedious bullshit sports, like non-Olympic skiing and skating, regular season baseball, bowling, and whatever the fuck else. That shit is all filler and everyone knows it. Instead of that, they should always air one of the first two Godfather movies. Unedited.
How old do you have to be to start using a handkerchief?
How old is Frank DeFord? 96? 96. Take fifty years off that number if you are homosexual. Gay guys can pull off the hankie.
Anyone else ever try to flirt using your iPod? I'll be sitting on the subway when a hot hipster girl takes the seat next to me. Sweet! I'll start playing Merriweather Post Pavilion on my iPod in the vain hope that she'll try to take a look at my screen to judge my music taste. I'll keep my case open. I'll tilt my screen slightly toward her. I'll keep touching the scroll wheel so the backlight stays on, to aid her reading.
To my knowledge, I've never gotten any girl to acknowledge my awesome music taste. I'm not really sure what I expect to happen the day that she looks over. Hipster sex? A knowing half-smile and nod? The possibilities are endless. The thing is, these possibilities cause me to keep shit on my iPod that I NEVER listen to.
It really is amazing the lengths you'll go to showcase your musical tastes. The worst is when other people are in my car. I feel this urgent need to dazzle them with my DJ skillz. Let me regale you folks with a little band I like to call FAITH NO MORE! WOO! I really don't know why I do this. It's not like someone will be like, "Oh, shit! You like them too! I'M PUTTING YOU IN MY WILL!"
I remember junior year of college, I was in a friend's room. Well, kind of a friend. Okay, so it was a football teammate who didn't really like me all that much who I hung around anyway because I thought he was cool (again, junior year of college, when most kids are well past doing those sorts of things). So he and his friend are there and we're all playing Madden or some bullshit like that. I have a tape of Husker Du's "Flip Your Wig" in my pocket. I take it out, go to the stereo, and I'm like, "Dude, this is AWESOME." Within 10 seconds of the first song, both guys in the room were like, "What the fuck is this? This BLOWS. Drew, you're a fucking douche."
I was absolutely crushed. But that's precisely what I get for somehow assuming that liking a certain band somehow makes me a more inherently interesting person. It's using music as an accessory, like a fucking body piercing that cries for attention. So lame. In other news, HOW ABOUT THAT STROKES SONG IN THE HALFTIME SLOT? DIDN'T YOU THINK IT WAS KILLER?
Is there anything more annoying then when you are out with a group of friends, you all decide to head over to a new location, and someone says they are going to "follow you" to where you are headed? This becomes the most miserable drive for the person being followed. God forbid there is one car between you and the person following you.
I'm also the guy that will follow another car somewhere, and then get pissed when some other car cuts in and divides us. Like he knows I'm following my Dad to the restaurant. HOW DARE YOU COME BETWEEN US, YOU FUCK.
I dread the day that I run out of body wash in the shower. It's not like I don't HAVE another bottle in the cabinet, but once I'm in the shower, there is no turning back. Let's be serious, I'm not getting out mid-shower to retrieve the fresh bottle. I always forget, without fail, to put the new bottle in the shower. So I basically shower for a few days trying to salvage some sort of soapy water to wash myself with. Why can't I just remember to put the goddamn new bottle in the shower once I detect the slightest indication that the starter is running out of gas? I am the Dusty Baker of Irish Spring Body Wash.
That also goes for shampoo. It takes me a good week to remember there's no fucking shampoo in the shower, which means I end up using my wife's for long stretches. And this annoys her, because her shampoo is designed strictly for HER hair, what with its volumizing and highlight-retaining ingredients. I'm never the one to replace the shampoo. It's always my lady who replaces it for me, because I am a child and need things done for me. More than once, in college, I would run out of shampoo and then rub a bar of soap on my head. Do not shampoo with bar soap. It does not produce the sort of body one is looking for.
Chris is right about never getting out of the shower mid-shower. That is a horrible thing when you have to do it. You're wet, and cold, and dripping all over the fucking place. Ever shower and then realize there's no towel in the bathroom? That is one of the worst feelings in existence.
In this age of 500+ cable channels, internet, etc., what singular event would have to be broadcast on TV in America to get 80% of our populace to watch it? The first thing that came to mind was the execution of Osama bin Laden. My friends, on the other hand, think even this wouldn't get the job done, and that anything short of aliens landing in New York and holding a press conference would fail the test. Thoughts?
Well, do you mean on one channel? Because bin Laden's execution would be covered by many channels, of course. And even then, it's tough to get 300 million people all watching simultaneously. Obama's election netted 71 million viewers, which doesn't even come close. Nor did the last Super Bowl (actually on just one channel), which got 106.5 million.
Still, I think there could be events that would attract that kind of audience, most of them tragic. I can't find any stats for how many people "watched" 9/11, but I don't know anyone who wasn't watching it on television as it occurred. I remember that day that even the non-news channels like MTV switched to sister network news feeds to cover the attacks. Any television turned on was watching the attacks, because no alternate programming was on.
So if something like 9/11 happened again, like a fucking nuke going off in an American town, I think you could get 80 percent of Americans to watch it. Imagine the handful of assholes that wouldn't watch it. What dicks they must be. "What's that? Someone nuked Washington? Well, I don't give a shit. Where the fuck is Scooby Doo?"
The rest of the list for such an event would have to be as follows:
• First contact with aliens
• Second Coming
• Elvis actually alive, holds press conference/concert
• Tiger Woods climbs to top of Empire State Building, threatens to jump off, DOES jump off
• Presidential assassination
• President murders someone and it is caught on tape (I've always wanted that to happen, regardless of President)
• Verdict in the President's murder trail
• Execution of the President
• Steve Jobs finally introduces flying car
One of those things has to happen in my lifetime. FINGERS CROSSED.
Don't you love it when you get a burp so deep it feels like your lower intestine is possessed and you could totally front a black metal band?
That's when I always like to burp-talk. I AM THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS.
My wife has no sense of smell and so I fart around her constantly. It's fucking awesome.
Your wife is Will Leitch?
How the fuck do I clean a teapot?
It's a horrible job, and it's one I always get stuck with. This is why I've avoided tea in the past. If it were up to me, I'd never clean the teapot or tea kettle. Why do we have to clean a fucking tea kettle? It boils water. What germs is it harvesting? I don't boil fucking honey in it.
Even worse than cleaning the teapot is cleaning my wife's coffee filter. I don't drink coffee and I think it's fucking disgusting. Yet somehow it is always my duty to wash the reusable filter, which is jam-packed with spoonfuls of densely packed coffee grounds that smell like goddamn ass. I WILL GET YOU FOR THIS, WOMAN. ONE DAY THESE COFFEE GROUNDS ARE GOING IN YOUR SOCKS.
I work in a biomechanics lab and we routinely estimate the relative masses of different body segments. In the average male:
Upper arm: 2.7% Body weight
Hand: 0.6 %
I rounded a little bit, but you get the idea. Sadly, I don't know the relative contribution from cock and balls.
I am, however, aware of a study that analyzed the efficacy of sports bras. The analysis consisted of describing the oscillations of breasts. So basically the principal investigator spent his days staring at beautiful, athletic breasts as a bunch of women ran on treadmills. And they say science is boring.
I added up all of Rick's percentages (and then did it again because I forgot to double all the limb percentages) and got 92.9 percent, which means your head occupies roughly 7 percent of your total body weight. No word on what my vestigial wing nubs weigh.
Rick's stats also highlight something else important: the fact that scientists call your lower leg your "shank." That's getting a little close to butcher's terminology, IS IT NOT? I'm into saying all scientists would like to eat us, but I don't discount the idea.
I actually like the idea of calling my lower leg my shank. Much better than shins or calves. LOOK AT THAT FUCKING SHANK. LOOK AT THE MUSCLE TONE.
If you were having a threesome, would you prefer it to be with identical twins?
No. The whole point of a threesome is to introduce variety. Like surf and turf. You want a Brazilian girl AND a California girl. No point in redundancies.
If he doesn't have a 1NSTNK plate for his other car, I'll be sorely disappointed.
I'm on a flight to NY last weekend, and the flight attendants are giving the little safety demonstration. I started wondering... can you think of a more socially acceptable time to simply stare right fucking into someone's face as hard as possible than during this little fancy pre-flight show? Both of them obviously hate the jobs they have, and you can see they could give two shits about whether or not you know how to inflate your life preserver. As they stare forward during their performance, I'm locked right on them, almost daring them to make eye contact, but they don't, like some twisted game of stare chicken. It's even more obvious if you're seated close to them...it's a complete, no-holds barred license to stare the shit right out of someone.