Have you seen that Coke Zero commercial where the guy has been cloned and so can play video games and be there to listen to his girlfriend's problems at the same time? This got me to thinking what I do if I had a clone (let's say just one). Would I send him out to stuff I didn't want to do, or mostly keep him around so I'd always have someone awesome to hang out with? What would you have your clone do?
I think I'd bang him. I think. It's kind of a dilemma I don't want to confront. I shouldn't want to bang my clone, but it's not like I can keep my hands off my OWN body. If no one ever knew… I'd be tempted. If only for this possible exchange while driving later on:
"Hey buddy, go fuck yourself!"
"I just did! AND I WAS FANTASTIC."
Anyway, barring that, I would not keep my clone around. I'd probably murder him, or send him far away. I don't like the idea of another me out there. Creeps me out.
Roommate's friend left Smirnoff Ice in our fridge. I had no plans other than the baseball game tonight, and liquor stores are closed, so I decided to have one.
I felt a little gay.
Well look, you gotta do what you gotta do. I'll go ahead and confess right now that I too have had Smirnoff Ice. I've had Zima. I've had Zima Gold. In college, I went through a phase where I drank lots of hard cider and One Eyed Jack. One Eyed Jack was basically Mike's Hard Lemonade, only it had a better name and an angry bee on the label. I drank all of those things and even went so far as to purchase them for myself.
There's no getting around the fact that these are all douchebag beverages. You may as well wear a visor and twirl a lacrosse stick while you're drinking one. But, and God I hate saying this, they don't taste bad. Well, Zima did. Zima tasted horrible. But Mike's Hard Lemonade tastes like lemonade. And lemonade is delicious, particularly if it's hot outside. The fact that someone threw booze in lemonade makes perfect sense. Does it taste better than a can of Yuengling? No. But it tastes just fine.
And yet… douchebag drink. I don't know how to reconcile this paradox. It tastes perfectly acceptable, but it's fucking with my image as a man to partake. But then, if I'm so concerned with looking cool by NOT drinking it, am I just being a fucking poser? Shouldn't I drink what I feel like drinking? Isn't that the badass thing to do?
/looks at sixer of Mike's
Nope. Nope. Can't do it. KING COBRA FOR ME. I'M BURLY AND CAN MOVE VERY LARGE PILES OF WOOD.
Do you know the Enterprise car commercial with the black guy and his mother that has been running for like five years? The guy has three lines, and they are all whiny: "It's not expensive, Mom," "It's not expensive, Mom," and "Mom!" He is such a wuss. Now, you worked in advertising. Am I right in guessing that a decision was made that they needed a commercial with black people in it to appeal to that market, but they made a concerted effort to choose the least threatening black guy alive because they didn't want to "frighten" white people? Do meetings take place about stuff like that?
They do. Often. We once were casting an ad for a client, and we brought in an audition tape of a dude who had a goatee. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a dude with a goatee. We put on the tape and played it. The client bit his lower lip and started shaking his head. My boss turned to him.
Boss: You don't like him?
Client: He looks like a fucking TERRORIST.
Keep in mind, this was a white guy we were showing. But the goatee made him appear so close to being threatening and/or ethnic (at least in the client's eyes) that we couldn't hire him. Had to be a clean-shaven white guy. Nothing too WEIRD. Think about how fucked up that is. Even white dudes who don't look anything like Arabs got turned down because they apparently looked too much like Arabs.
There's a flipside to it, too. Numerous times, we'd propose hiring a black dude for a role, but clients didn't want to hire a black guy for a role that made black people look bad, like if the character was the butt of a joke or took a pitfall. That would be, like, bad. And nothing sexual. Too insulting to blacks. Too threatening to whites (Sexualized black women = voodoo headhunter priestess whores or something). That's why you rarely see mixed race couples in ads. Even in 2010. So often clients, while trying to take care great care in not offending black people, will just forgo casting black people altogether. Makes total sense.
When I'm next to someone at the urinal I feel like I failed if I can't make myself piss louder than he does. Gotta flaunt your virility and kegel dominance.
That's why I give my dick the pinch before letting fly. Really hit that bowl with fervor. The problem is, my stream will fade, and then some other guy will come next to me and have a fresh stream ready to outpower mine. Makes me feel inadequate.
We've talked here before about competitive piss times, i.e. who can piss the longest. But one thing we haven't addressed is piss volume. The average man excretes 1 to 2 liters of piss a day. Now, I piss roughly a dozen times a day, if not more, because I have issues. Surely, there is a man out there with a fucking oil tanker for a bladder who can release one to two liters of piss at a time. This is bar contest waiting to happen. I wonder what the world record piss volume is. Think one man has ever hit the gallon mark? That would be incredible. I'd pay ten bucks to watch it. No lie.
Here's a scenario. You're enjoying a meal; breakfast, lunch, dinner, it doesn't really matter. Just as you're about to take another bite, you see a hair in your food. Do you keep eating or throw it away?
I keep eating. Doesn't matter where I am. Doesn't matter whose hair it is. Doesn't matter if the hair is black and wiry and is clearly a pubic hair. I'll keep eating. And the reason why is that I enjoy my food too much to STOP eating it to send it back. Can't break momentum. It's like going to the bathroom in the middle of eating a course. I can't do that. I can go before or after the food comes, but not during. Ruins the meal. So I toss the hair aside and pretend it never happened. I am like a WASP mom with a gay son when it comes to hair in my food. It never happened. Other people may have the strength to send the dish back and wait 15 minutes for a new one. Not me.
Say you're sitting at a red light with one car in front you and the light finally changes to green yet the car in front of you doesn't move. What is the appropriate amount of time to wait before honking at the person in front you? And what is the appropriate amount of honking (e.g., a little beep or a HUGE honk). I personally count to 3 mississippis and then fucking LAY on my horn especially if it's an old person or some stupid mom in her Denali on her cell phone fiddling with all the business papers she doesn't have in the passenger seat.
The appropriate amount of time is whatever time it takes for me to see the green light and my brain to go, "Hey, that fuckhead isn't moving." I have poor reflexes, so this can take anywhere between ten seconds and eight days.
I actually like these moments, because it allows me the rare opportunity to deploy the courtesy honk. I don't lay on the wheel. I just do that gay double tap. BEEP BEEP! This lets the driver know I'm helping to inform them that the light is now green, and that we can all proceed. I'm not a dick! I'm honking because I care! GO DOGS GO IT'S GREEN AHEAD!
You ever worry when cutting the grass that the lawn mower blades are going to come loose, shoot out from under the mower and chop both your feet off? I do.
I was at some kiddie birthday party over the weekend, and the dad was giving all the kids rides around the yard on a John Deere tractor. There were kids chasing the tractor around, running right beside it. The blades were raised, but I instantly flashed back to the John Deere episode of "Mad Men" and nearly lost my shit.
I can't mow my lawn because my back is all fucked (one of the pluses of having a shitty back is that you get a lifetime pass out of yardwork and helping people move). But I used to. I had some piece of shit mower that would get gummed up with clippings all the time. And you know what I used to do? Whenever the mower would get stopped up, I'd flip it over and dislodge the clippings from the blades by hand. The motor was off, and yet I can't think of a dumber thing to do. I still think back about it, then look at my hands and think to myself, I SHOULDN'T HAVE HANDS RIGHT NOW. I deserved to have my hands chopped off for being that dumb.
I used to work with a guy that had no hands. He lost them when he was a child after making (no lie) a homemade bomb in his basement. He wasn't a junior terrorist. He just like the idea of blowing shit up. So he built this bomb, and it blew his hands off.
Now, Barry No Hands (that was his nickname) had a great attitude about the whole thing. He always made jokes about not having hands. He threatened to stump anyone who pissed him off. One time, a coworker went to this on girl's computer, logged onto her email, and sent Barry an email that read FUCK YOU, YOU HANDLESS HACK. She found the email in her SENT folder and nearly fucking died, she was so mortified. Barry laughed for days.
But there was a limit. I got loaded with him once, and he was talking about the night he blew his hands off, and I had to pipe up.
ME: How do you jerk off with those things? Gotta be like masturbating with chop sticks.
HIM: Ha ha ha GO FUCK YOUR MOTHER.
I didn't joke about the dude's stumps after that.
Are wedding toasts by maids of honor even necessary? We all know how it will go. If the maid of honor is the bride's sister, the MOH always says that the bride is her best friend. And if the MOH is the bride's best friend, she always says that the bride is like her sister. And then they cry and are unable to continue and we sit there somewhat awkwardly for a beat or two.
Toasts by best men are rarely great shakes, but there is more variety in how they crash and burn.
I concur, but that's how it goes. My wife's MOH gave an excellent speech, but the majority of maid of honor toasts feel like I'm stuck listening to a valedictorian's grad speech. "Seems like only yesterday that Tina and I were awkward freshmen, just trying to find our way!" Don't care don't care don't care. Bring on the best man to make a complete ass of himself, so I can spend the dessert round talking about what a pathetic loser he is.
However, I do like any rehearsal toast given by a token hot bridesmaid who is also clearly a failed actress and treating this opportunity as a Broadway audition. They're so drunk and SAUCY! And sometimes, two hot bridesmaids will often team up to sing a song or recite a limerick. ADORABLE.
By the way, I have a beef with weddings I'd like addressed. I've gone to weddings where dinner has been made beside the point. Everyone hates weddings where you sit down to eat at some horrible hour like 10PM or something. But I'm talking about weddings where they stick a fucking hour of dancing in between each course. Look, I know the bride and groom wanna dance with their parents and do all that gay shit, but some of us came to this thing for a decent meal. Don't fucking stagger the courses out over 6 hours. I get tired of dancing after three minutes. After that, I wanna drink and eat. I don't want to spend 90 minutes doing the electric slide in between the salad and the steak. Just lemme eat so I can get out of there and take my shoes off and go to sleep.
At what age is it no longer cool to openly brag about your sexual conquests to your friends? In the last two weeks, I've heard about blowies, road hand jobs, masturbating girlfriends, and been forwarded sexts. Hearing in graphic detail about their sex lives makes me want to hurl myself into a wood chipper. I just don't fucking need to know this shit. Am I violating some friendship code by not being happy that they found someone with low enough standards to actually touch their hang down? 25 is too old for these shenanigans, is it not?
Probably. I have NO interest in hearing about my friend nailing some chick. First of all, I didn't get to do it myself, and that sucks. I don't need to hear about your rocking sex life when I have two kids I have to keep from murdering one another. Secondly, I don't want to picture your hairy ass banging some chick. I can't work with that. Ever. Thirdly, there comes an age where sitting around and talking about that kind of shit means you're one of the cunts from Sex & The City. Act like you've been there before, fella. I'm only interested in hearing about it if you fucking failed. That's what makes me happy.
(NOTE: There are always a handful of exceptions to this. I have two friends who will remain nameless who still bang skanks and do drugs with impunity, and they have a lifetime pass to tell me any story they wish because their stories are so utterly depraved that I have no use for their tales as spank bank material. Both men will be dead by 40.)
I have a side question to this: Did any of you guys talk about sex conquests (at any age) with your brother if you had one? I have an older brother, and we NEVER talked about that shit. The few times we did made me wildly uncomfortable. Yet pop culture suggests my aversion to talking with my brother about sexcapades is uncommon. Just curious if other sets of brothers behaved similarly. NOTE: Twins don't count. I know damn well twins reenact sex stories with one another.
Are you afraid you'll swing open the door at a public stall and find some old guy croaked on the shitter? Or worse yet somebody autoerotic asphyxiated themselves in there? Sometimes I just have a bad vibe when swinging open the door. Luckily it hasn't happened......yet.
I always assume I'll walk in on a heroin addict in a public toilet stall. Everyone has had that public bathroom moment where it's CLEAR there's a homeless dude in the stall preparing to inject himself with powdered Mr. Clean. And that's a terrible piss. You can hear the guy making all those homeless guy sounds. The grunts and mumbles and lip smacking. I always think he's gonna come out and spread AIDS on me. I can never get a full stream going with that going on in the background.
Think you could take on a small bear? How about with its nails filed down and it being muzzled? I think I could outsmart the damn thing and knock it over a few times. However, a small gorilla with a muzzle and filed down nails would probably snap me in half.
What about the teeth? If it has teeth, I'm fucked. If the bear had no teeth, no claws, and was small enough to have diminished strength, I don't think I'd fight. I think I'd just want to hug it all day long. Bears look so fucking huggable. I'd love a declawed pet midget bear to call my own. He'd be like Teddy Ruxpin, only real, and he'd be my best friend. I would name him Otis.
Finally, a GREAT MOMENT IN POOP HISTORY. Reader Ben sends in story I call POOPALAYA:
When I was in sixth grade, my best friend invited me to go to the annual town fair and then spend the night with him at the new house they had just moved into that day. I was a fat kid and the only reason for me attending the fair was to eat. There was a guy there from Louisiana selling some original Cajun Jumbalaya. I'm talking mouth-watering rice with shrimp, pork, and sausage that makes Zatarain's taste like bits of dog turds. It was really unbelievable.
So I ordered a plate of it and scarfed down. But that wasn't enough so I bought another one and scarfed it down too. We leave the fair and go back to my friend's house around ten to play some video games. Well as soon as we sit down to play, my stomach knotted up unlike anything I've ever felt before. I sprint to the bathroom and let out maybe the most foul smelling dump in the history of dumps. Its consistency was that of a thick gravy. The smell honestly burned my insides when I breathed. Not only that, the color was solid black. I was on the toilet for over an hour.
After wiping, I went back to the game room. As soon as I walked through the door, I did an about face and sprinted back to the toilet.
Pause right here. Just would like to note that I hate it when that happens. We return to the riveting conclusion:
I was on the toilet from about 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. By two o clock, I was worn out. My butthole was burning like a grade four sunburn and I just wanted to sleep. I finally made it to the bed but as soon as I laid down, the pain started up again. Tired and sore, I refused to get out of bed so I farted and fell asleep. At 3, I was awoken by more pain and immediately jumped up to hit the toilet. As I jumped up, I noticed a streak on my best friend's sheets. Apparently, when I farted, some juice got loose. I was on the toilet the next morning when my best friend got up and had to confess about the doodoo streak I had left in his brand new bed. And I had to ask him to go see if I could borrow some of his dad's underwear cause I had ruined the three pair I had with me.
Now that I think about it, I don't know what is more sad, a) I had brought three extra pair of underwear for a one night stay (as if I knew something like this could occur, b) that I was over ten years old and still crapping myself, or c) I'm in 6th grade and could only fit in grown man's underwear.