Do you kiss immediately after oral sex with a woman? My lady and I don't but I know plenty of friends that have no problem with it.
I don't have much of a problem with it, though this is a common guy hangup. I'm over the whole, "Oh my God, I might be gay if I do this!" part of the process. It's not like the girl still has a mouthful of cum she's just aching to deliver to your mouth after she's finished with you. HERE, HERE! NOW YOU TRY IT! Chances are, she's either spit it out or swallowed it entirely, or dodged the cannon fire and let you skeet all over your belly. She's not just gonna let it slosh around in her mouth, like a fucking wad of tobacco. Your odds of an accidental snowballing aren't exactly high.
I find something humorous in sexual cleanup. Like, you have sex with another person, and then you both immediately retire to the bathroom to clean yourselves off. She's dabbing her privates with toilet paper and rinsing with mouthwash. You're trying to wipe the condom residue off your dick, or the drool you used on yourself for lubricant. It's just funny to stand there together and be like, "Well, that was fun. Now let's clean all this horrible shit up."
Do you ever purposely drink on an empty stomach? Every now and then I like to do it. I love food as much as you or the next fatass, but I may even skip lunch specifically so I can drink on an empty stomach later that night. Right after work on a Friday, when that first beer hits that barren, yearning gastric membrane, you immediately feel it soak up that alcohol like a goddamn sponge. Seemingly within seconds you have an incredible buzz going - granted this is a one way ticket to Blackout Town - but I'll be damned if it isn't worth the ride every now and then.
I agree. There's something great about getting off work, going to a bar, and having that first beer before you've ordered food or eaten anything. You can feel the stress come jetting straight out of your body. Your muscles go slack. You exhale deeply. You get that warm buzz inside. God, drinking is just the BEST. Then you have ten more beers and end up throwing up in the alley, and drinking is decidedly NOT the best. If only there were some way to prevent that from happening. If only there were a way to "moderate" one's drinking, so that you got all the good parts of drinking but none of the bad. Oh, who am I kidding? That's completely fucking unrealistic.
Do you think you're smarter than Socrates? Like if he time traveled to now and did an IQ test? (Presumably translated) I bet I would be. Socrates seems like a big picture guy, but I bet I would be better with rotating shapes.
Well, there's no historical bias in the standard IQ test. All of the questions asked are logical in nature, such as this one:
TRUE OR FALSE: A pie can be cut into more than seven pieces by making four diameter cuts.
I went to this site to take the entire test, then I finished and it demanded ten bucks for test results. I hope the creators of that site die in a fucking fire. Anyway, I didn't see any questions on the test that would trip up Socrates just because he grew up in ancient Greece. There was nothing like, "How many iPods would Jack have if he gave three iPods to Bobby and an Acela train left the station at…" That would make the old man's head explode.
I read some essay by Malcolm Gladwell that said that the entire population, on average, gets smarter with every generation. And I believe it, because I believe everything I read because I'm a fucking sheep. I also like the idea that I'm way fucking smart. So you could argue that Socrates may have been brilliant for his time, but that he was brilliant in a society filled with warring, child-boning Greek inbred shitheads. I also don't see anything that says Socrates went to college, or even an elite dipshit prep school, AND I TOTALLY DID. For all we know, the fucker couldn't even read. And look at how vulnerable he is to Kansas lyrics:
What a sucker. According to this website for kids (I get all my education from child texts):
When Socrates was in his forties or so, he began to feel an urge to think about the world around him, and try to answer some difficult questions. He asked, "What is wisdom?" and "What is beauty?" and "What is the right thing to do?" He knew that these questions were hard to answer, and he thought it would be better to have a lot of people discuss the answers together, so that they might come up with more ideas.
So he began to go around Athens asking people he met these questions, "What is wisdom?" , "What is piety?", and so forth. Then Socrates would try to teach them to think better by asking them more questions which showed them the problems in their logic. Often this made people angry. Sometimes they even tried to beat him up.
I can see why. He sounds annoying as shit, like a walking Book of Questions. And it doesn't sound like he bothered to answer any of his own annoying inquiries. I say we're all smarter than Socrates now. I guarantee it.
I have a friend who takes epic shits. His diet is the worst I've ever seen of another human being. Frankly, I'm surprised not only that he is still alive but that he isn't really overweight. Without fail, at least once a month this guy will clog my toilet. I've lived in this apartment for eight months and have never clogged it. My friend has clogged my toilet FOUR times.
So, one time he called me to say he was just about to leave his apartment and was probably going to be late for our card game. Without thinking I said, "Dude, please shit before you leave". The guy was dumbfounded. I swear, I almost made him cry. He said I violated some bro code, and I can't get a definitive answer either way. Care to shed light on the subject?
Well, if he actually used the term "bro code," feel free to discard him as a friend entirely. I think you were perfectly in the right to tell him to shit at home and not leave a pile of firewood in your toilet. If he can't take that, then he's a gash. The whole point of having male friends is so you can be horribly blunt with one another.
I once made homebrewed beer with my brother-in-law. I made two six packs, and I drank the first. I thought it was pretty good. So I took the other sixer up to my friend in New York. I was very proud. LOOK AT THE BEER I HAND CRAFTED FOR YOU! Anyway, I open it up and hand him a glass. He takes a swig and he's like, "Oof, this is awful." Then he takes another sip and he's like, "This really, truly awful. I hate this." He wouldn't stop talking about how much he disliked it. I was livid. I went to the effort of sharing this shit with him, and he wouldn't even finish the glass. And it wasn't THAT bad. I wasn't deluded by the fact that I made it myself (OR WAS I?!). And who turns down ANY free beer? I'd drink Mountain Brew Ice if offered to me for free. I was ripshit. LAST TIME I DO SOMETHING NICE FOR YOU, FUCKFACE!
Anyway, on the ride home, I naturally realized I was a complete dipshit for wanting my friend to fake his enjoyment of my beer just for my sake. That's stupid. You gotta have honest friends, otherwise you may as well be friends with women. I love women, but they spend 95% of every day lying through their teeth to each other.
If you were walking down a busy street, would you have an easier time spotting a twin of yourself or the twin of a friend (i.e. could you spot a twin of yourself better than you could spot a twin of your wife)?
Probably the twin of my wife, because I would just assume it was my regular wife. Because when you see a loved one in a crowd and they don't know you're there, it's always fun to do that thing where you sneak up to them and surprise them. LOOK! IT'S ME! YOU DID NOT EXPECT TO SEE ME HERE BUT I AM HERE! That's always fun. Everyone who spots a loved one in a crowd loves to sneak up on them. I can't not do it.
I wouldn't spot a twin of myself in a crowd as easily because I wouldn't be expecting to see a twin of myself. Because I don't have one. OR DO I?! If I saw a guy on the street who was my exact clone, I'd follow him for the rest of the night. Even if he ended up living in fucking Iowa. Then I'd murder him.
It is my dream that at my fitness center the water fountains are replaced with delicious, fresh cut watermelon stands. It would not only provide the needed nourishment, but also be infinitely more delicious; so much more so that I would not mind working out with the sticky hands.
Am I alone in this dream?
Certainly not. I go to a very basic gym which does not feature such amenities. I'd love to one day join one of those giant fucking mega sports clubs that has an indoor track and squash courts and a pool and all that shit. I'd never use any of that stuff, mind you. But I went to a club like this once in Minnesota and they had a frozen yogurt bar inside the club, so that you could work out and then, after you were done, eat your weight in frozen yogurt and Butterfinger topping. And you could sit and eat and look at all the attractive women walking around in their workout clothes. This was crazy awesome and I demand all gyms have a comparable snack and ogling bar.
My wife recently had 5 of her girlfriends over for a dinner party. As a good husband, I grilled out for them and kept the kids entertained for the duration of the evening. The women enjoyed 4-5 bottles of wine during the course of the evening, they were all feeling pretty good. All through the evening, I just knew that these women would be so impressed with me that a 5 on 1 would ensue. Imagine my surprise when this did NOT happen. I provided these women deliciously grilled salmon and kept the dining room child-free for 2-3 hours. Not only that, I was witty and charming (at least in my mind). Was I expecting too much?
You were. But there is a great deal of satisfaction to be had in dazzling your wife's friends with your cooking/parenting/husbanding skills. Because if you do it right, you will imagine them becoming violently jealous of your wife, and resentful of the lazy creep they have to go home to. Does THEIR husband make herbed scrambled eggs for brunch? No. No, he does not. You do. Your brilliant entertaining skills have engendered in your wife's friends a lifetime of regret at having married a lesser, shorter-penised man. And that's a great feeling.
After a smoking a blunt, I watched Reservoir Dogs and discovered a huge plot hole. We learn that there is an obvious set-up as Mr. Pink explains the cops had to be waiting outside as there would be no time for all of them to instantly show up at the jewelry store. This is all totally fine and believable.
However, after Mr. Blonde gets shot by Mr. Orange (undercover cop) while torturing the captured police officer (Marvin Nash), Mr. Orange reveals to Marvin he is indeed and undercover cop (which Marvin already knows) and assures him a massive police force is standing by outside the warehouse waiting for Joe Cabot (gangster who organized the heist) to arrive. This is the part that makes no sense. The police forces were sent to the jewelry store to catch the criminals in the act, but were all the while waiting to catch the big fish (Joe). Did they really think Joe was going to be a part of the heist? Why would they risk scaring off Joe by stopping the heist in the first place? Joe was going to find out that the heist got fucked up, realize it was a setup, and definitely not go to the warehouse, right?
There are tons of holes in that movie if you watch it enough times. For one thing, Roth would have passed out from all that bleeding. And I was always annoyed at the part where Chris Penn asks Tim Roth why he shot Michael Madsen, and this is the explanation Roth gives:
He was gonna kill the cop and me. And when you guys walked through the door, he was gonna blow you to hell and make off with the diamonds.
I always thought Roth went too far with the lie. He should have just said Mr. Blonde was gonna kill him. He didn't need to turn it into some clearly obvious lie. I'd also really like to watch a prequel to that movie that shows the actual heist scene. If only to watch Blonde shoot people at random.
MegaNerd will ruin your shit.
That's a big fucking Nerd.
You ever get those hard Wonka candies they used to sell with Nerds that had the little candy bananas in them? Those bananas were the worst candy ever.
I just started cooking bacon in the oven. It is fantastic. All you do is put the bacon on an oven tray with slits in it and then put that over a regular cooking sheet to catch the grease (bake at 350 for a little over ten minutes). Not only does the bacon come out perfectly straight and delightfully crispy but you can cook much more bacon at once. Multiple times I have cooked an entire pack of bacon in one sitting. It makes me feel really good about myself. I have low self esteem.
Is there a worse feeling than when your driving and you hear a siren? Any siren, or even one in a song. Even if I'm doing 5 under the speed limit I still think some cop is chasing me down. I immediately envision myself being arrested and thrown in jail for the rest of my life. This shit sucks, I can't relax for like half an hour after that happens.
I still get the stomach drop when I hear a siren. The second I hear that siren blaring, my insides immediately begin somersaulting. It's terrible. And it's REALLY awful when the cop car behind you is going 130 mph to track down some car that isn't you. When a cop car goes that fast, I always assume he's going to pull me over and pistol whip me to death. Because you never know, do you? You never know if they're tracking down some killer who is YOUR EXACT CLONE and today is the day they mistake you for him and put you in the box and rape you with a broomstick.
I also dislike hearing ambulance and fire truck sirens because I know damn well that it's going to come my way and slow down my commute. It's a fucking lock. I always think to myself, "Oh no, it's going the other way. It's not going to come across the intersection just as the light turns green and force me to sit through an extra red light." And then cold, hard reality sets in. Stupid ambulances. Why do you have to go so fast? THEY'RE GONNA DIE ANYWAY!
Have you ever been eating and come to the sudden realization that you are allergic to something? When I was in the Army and stationed in Georgia, the numerous dining facilities had salad / fruit bars with fresh salad fixings and fruits. I see a container of kiwis, and thinking they looked good, decided I would try one. I had never had a kiwi before, and thought it tasted pretty good. Fast forward about 15 mins as I'm walking back to the barracks. My throat starts tingling, then it feels like I have hair growing inside it. I am a bit alarmed, but figure it is just a little reaction to a new food. 5 more minutes pass and I realize that my throat is swelling and is making it a bit difficult to breathe. So, I end up hightailing it to the infirmary and have to get a shot because it turns out I'm very allergic to kiwis. Not good times. Fuck kiwis.
I am not allergic to anything and it's AWESOME. Not food. Not pollen. Not pets. Not medication. Nothing makes me break out into hives or anything like that. It makes me feel totally invincible. I could snort peanut dust while banging a cat and I'd still be sound as a pound. It's particularly fun on a spring day, when I take a walk outside and my wife is about to suffocate from the pollen and I'm like, "Hmm. So a little pollen ruins your shit, eh? NOT ME! WATCH ME INHALE ALL THE FLOWER SKEET I LIKE!"
I have two kids under the age of four. We recently visited my parents in upstate NY, and we were in the heart of the eight-hour plus drive back home to NH when the kids started to lose their shit. To be honest, they sounded like a couple of velociraptors in the back seat. Screaming, squawking, crying — it was horrible.
They finally both fell asleep with about an hour left to go, when all of a sudden a rabbit ran out in front of me, which I hit. I slowed down in hopes that it would realize it was about to be fucking crushed and then scamper away, but it didn't. It made a pretty sickening crunch, but the impact only managed to jostle the car about as much as a small-to-medium sized pothole. The kids slept right through it. I probably could have done more to avoid it (slam on the brakes, swerve, etc.), but there was no way in hell that I was going to risk waking up the kids. My wife and I were both in agreement that my actions were appropriate because, hey, it's just a rabbit. Are we heartless bastards?
No. Your were completely justified in your actions, and I would even approve had you NOT slowed down and taken careful aim to put a couple of Bridgestone tracks right on the little fucker's back. A child who has just fallen asleep, particularly in a car or on a plane, is terrifying. It's like a Faberge egg you must handle just so, lest it become disturbed. It takes so much work and heartache just to get the little fucker to sleep, that you will do ANYTHING just to ensure that it continues sleeping, and does not wake up more cranky than it already is.
The only thing more terrifying than a child who has just fallen asleep is a child who is happy. Because happy children never stay that way. Ever. It's only a matter of time before they bump their head or lose a toy and then they become incensed INSTANTLY. There's not gentle transition at all. Just BOOM. Immediate fucking anger and wailing. I'd drive over a field of orphans to keep my kid happy or sleeping.
Mr. Met's Morphine:
When I was in 8th grade I had an English teacher who refused to count anything out, ever. She would just grab a bunch of handouts or whatever and just pass them out to see if there was enough. Anyway, when she was exactly right, she would exclaim IT'S A GOOCHER.
A goocher, apparently, being when you have just the right number of something. I get inexplicably happy when my printer runs out of paper... but there are JUST ENOUGH sheets for my printing. It's fantastic. Am I wrong to get so much joy out of such a stupid, stupid occurrence?
Also, we all totally thought this teacher was cheating on her husband and sleeping around with another teacher. Years later we found out WE WERE RIGHT.
Teachers are whores.
I always thought a goocher was when everyone flips a coin and they all land on tails. "Four tails! Oh, Jesus, man, that's a goocher! No guys, seriously, a goocher! That's really bad! Remember when Clint Bracken and those guys got wiped out on Reed Hill in Durham? Billy told me they was flippin' for beers, and they came up with a goocher before they got into the car, and bang! They all got totaled! I don't like this, man, sincerely!"
Anyway, your joy at the printer having just the right amount of paper is the same joy anyone would derive from having the exact right amount of change at the register. Or having just enough toilet paper on the roll to wipe your ass. That way, you don't have to refill the toilet paper, or break a twenty, or do any of that horrible shit. It's always satisfying to come out even.
When I eat a meal, and I find that there isn't quite enough potatoes to eat in concert with my steak, or vice versa, I will announce to on one in particular that I'm getting a little more of the lacking dish "just to come out even." I stole this expression from my Dad, and it's a perfect way to disguise getting seconds. You're not getting seconds, so much as correcting the error of your first helping. And now, whenever I find that I have just the right amount of meat and potatoes together on a plate, I get crazy fucking excited. Coming out even is what it's all about.
Time for a GREAT MOMENT IN POOP HISTORY. This one with a little baseball theme. Reader Tom sends in this story I call CHATTANOOGA POO POO:
Game 5 of the World Series Rays v Phillies
I get down to the parking lot with my friend Tim around 5:30 and start drinking. We call up a friend who works security and says he can sneak us in through the handicapped entrance since I am on crutches.(I broke my ankle in the parking lot before game 2 of the NLDS). We get in as the rain really starts to come down and head over to Ashburn Alley getting beers from every vendor that walks by us. The game goes into rain delay and everyone pours into the concourses. We decide this is the perfect time to stop by Bull's Barbecue to get something to eat and another beer to wash it down. Now at the time I thought getting the giant kielbasa sandwich was a great idea, and my God would I live to regret that decision. The game finally gets called for rain and after drinking 4 different types of beer and a kielbasa sandwich we leave drenched and freezing.
I wake up the next morning mildly hungover but more pissed off that the weather didn't hold up long enough to finish out the game. I take an express train to work which goes a half hour without making a stop, and no bathrooms. I'm about 10 minutes in when it hits me, and it hits me hard. Now I will never go through labor and I will never say that I can adequately experience that torture but what I felt in my stomach that moment was horrifying. I start sweating and breathing heavily while rocking back and forth. I keep looking out of the window to try and distract myself knowing I could not keep this up for long. I had to accept the fact that I was going to shit myself and it was going to smell fucking horrible. Terror set in, this was going to happen now whether I liked it or not. I get up fumbling around on my crutches and furiously heading for the door.
I find a space in between two train cars where no one can see me and start shitting all over the wall while I let out a long groan. Feeling relieved, I walk back to my seat to grab the paper so I can make a half-assed attempt to clean up when it hits me again. I start stumbling forward and fall face first into the door. I quickly hop back up crutch back in between the cars and unload all over the wall for the second time. It was at this moment that what I had just done fully sunk in, I had just shit all over the fucking wall of a commuter train filled with about 300 people that was about to make it's first stop. I grabbed an orange from my lunch ripped it apart and started squeezing it all over the wall using the newspaper to wipe up as much shit as I could and tossed it in the plastic bag that was holding my lunch.
The train stopped at Temple University and the doors open up unleashing the abomination of what I can only describe as putting a pulled pork sandwich, baby shit and a glass orange juice in a blender and setting it on high. I crutch to the elevator praying nobody noticed the smell and take it down to the ground level where for the third time I'm hit with the shit storm in my stomach. There are no bathrooms for three blocks so I just take off doing my best to make it there in time, but I don't. After risking being caught by someone on the train I still ended up shitting myself next to a housing project in North Philly.