Friday, December 17, 2010
I'm an asshole
I've been paying as much attention to Blerf as one of those girls on Teen Mom pays her child. I am a piece of shit for this - I promise some new content before the end of the year.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Busy
Sorry for the lack of cynicism to provide you all - I've been busy with a new apartment, work and Thanksgiving plans. Hopefully this Sunday I'll have some more content.
bleurf
Monday, November 15, 2010
Word Porn
Porn. Whether you like it or not it's out there. Guys love it. Girls find their skin crawling thinking about it.
In the world of dudes, porn serves a variety of purposes. Sometimes you just need to help yourself through a dry spell. Other times, porn can be a vessel for vicariously living out one's sexual fantasies - I mean come on, who hasn't thought of what it would be like if they took a different direction with Toy Story...
The name Woody takes on a whole new meaning. "To infinity and beyond my assless chaps", "There's a snake in more than just my boots" I could go on. (Side note: I'm truly sorry for permanently ruining the Toy Story trilogy for you all)
Now, like most guys, I consider myself a bit of a porn connoisseur. I can probably name more genres of skin flicks than I could elements on the periodic table. However, it's recently been brought to my attention that for over two decades of wielding a penis I have been completely oblivious to one of the highest-utility categories of porn ever created - "word porn".
To provide a brief description, word porn is any verbal commentary that makes a girl swoon and/or butter her loins. For examples of word porn, watch "The Notebook". Seriously, anything Ryan Gosling says is disgustingly effective.
Most of you are probably thinking, "You are sorely mistaken, sir. I cannot answer the bone-phone with this nonsense." And if your hypothesis is that porn has to be something you can do the five knuckle shuffle to then yeah maybe you're right. But I posit that porn is more of a means to an end whether it's solo or in masses and I find it hard to believe any of you would prefer to dance by yourself. It takes two to tango - coincidentally that's also how many it takes to have sex.
If any of you were as unaware of this as I was, don't feel too badly - I don't think we guys are supposed to have heard of it. The only reason I was exposed to the cult secret of women that is word porn is because for all intents and purposes I am a woman trapped in a man's body. No, not a transvestite or a transexual, but a guy with the emotional functionality of a little girl (see Unreasonably Sad Movies for tips on how to be a complete and utter wiener).
I highly suggest honing these skills, gentlemen. Watch chick flicks. Listen to Taylor Swift. Hell, read "Eat, Pray, Love" if you have to. You can use this like currency with girls...squishy, blush-inducing currency.
To provide a brief description, word porn is any verbal commentary that makes a girl swoon and/or butter her loins. For examples of word porn, watch "The Notebook". Seriously, anything Ryan Gosling says is disgustingly effective.
Most of you are probably thinking, "You are sorely mistaken, sir. I cannot answer the bone-phone with this nonsense." And if your hypothesis is that porn has to be something you can do the five knuckle shuffle to then yeah maybe you're right. But I posit that porn is more of a means to an end whether it's solo or in masses and I find it hard to believe any of you would prefer to dance by yourself. It takes two to tango - coincidentally that's also how many it takes to have sex.
If any of you were as unaware of this as I was, don't feel too badly - I don't think we guys are supposed to have heard of it. The only reason I was exposed to the cult secret of women that is word porn is because for all intents and purposes I am a woman trapped in a man's body. No, not a transvestite or a transexual, but a guy with the emotional functionality of a little girl (see Unreasonably Sad Movies for tips on how to be a complete and utter wiener).
I highly suggest honing these skills, gentlemen. Watch chick flicks. Listen to Taylor Swift. Hell, read "Eat, Pray, Love" if you have to. You can use this like currency with girls...squishy, blush-inducing currency.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
I know you know I know you know me
Despite my dry life commentary I like to think I'm a reasonably pleasant guy to talk to in person. I'll laugh at your mediocre jokes. I won't leave you hanging if you go for a high-five because you think StarCraft II is "totally awesome". However, there are certain social interactions that I will not tolerate which make me want to drop a cinder block on my tool. On the like/dislike scale I'm talking "I would rather put razor blades in my already lacerate-capable Captain Crunch than deal with this".
One scenario in particular that straight up infuriates me is the following:
Imagine that X years/months/weeks ago you met someone casually in passing. Maybe it was a friend of a friend or someone you share a class with. Hell it could even be that guy who always gets the same prostitute as you on those lonely Saturday nights when Call of Duty just doesn't make you feel like enough of a man. Your introduction to this person is brief but pleasant. Names likely aren't exchanged but pleasantries most certainly are: weather, the economy, favorite positions with said hooker etc. Anyway, the meet and greet goes down and everyone goes on their way.
Back to the present - you're out at a bar with your friends and you see the same person regaling somebody with a story about "that time he had a piece of broccoli stuck in his teeth for a whole week!" because everyone always seems to find that story so funny...
In spite of his veggie tales you decide, beyond all quantifiable logic, that you want to solidify your relationship with this person as your friend and/or Eskimo brother. Time to down that amaretto sour, He-Man, it's guy-flirting time.
"Hey man! I bet Raquelle was surprised when you pulled the Turkish Snowcone Maneuver AM I RIGHT?"
"What? Do I know you? Turkish who?"
Are you being serious right now, Semi-Anonymous Street Corner Patron? There is a 100% probability that he is the guy from before and you're 95% sure that you both share the same STD - you two have a bond and he fucking knows it. Remembering a face is about as difficult as getting morning wood.
I don't understand why people feel the need to pretend like they don't know you just because you aren't fully familiar. What is so awkward about saying hello to a vague acquaintance? You know what is awkward? Going up and blerfing out a phrase like "turkish snowcone maneuver" with the expectation that it will be met with a hearty "lol what's up" only to find this dickhead has decided to make you feel more out of place than a Tim Burton movie filmed in the full color spectrum.
What puzzles me most about this move is that I don't see what the other person gains from it. They don't look any more popular by not knowing me. They don't establish themselves as the alpha-friend by not knowing me. And they sure as hell don't get my pity laughs/high-fives for their stupid stories by pretending not to know me. Will somebody please enlighten me as to the benefits of feigning amnesia? And if there aren't any, which I suspect is the case, then fucking stop it.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Random Things I Think About...
If you could graphically represent an orgasm I'm pretty sure it would look exactly like the iTunes Visualizer. And by pretty sure I mean I'm positive you could scientifically prove this claim.
Update: I suppose short comments like this are the reason I should invest in a godforsaken twitter account.
Update: I suppose short comments like this are the reason I should invest in a godforsaken twitter account.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Cat Murder for Dummies - A How To for Feline Annihilation
In light of Halloween it's only appropriate that I tell you all a horror story. A little bloodshed. A little murder. And townies...crunchy, need-a-job townies. Mind you this is all true - I couldn't make this up if I tried.
My story begins as I'm driving a bunch of my teammates up to the weight room for practice. To set the mood - 5 manorexic bros are listening to the aural money shot that is Kelly Clarkson's "Since You've Been Gone". Little did I know I was about to become PETA's most wanted felon.
So we're cruising along, choking back the desire to belt out the lyrics that we all knew forwards and backwards, when out of nowhere some hellspawn of a cat jaunts in front of my car. Scratch that, moseys in front of my car - because that's what cats do...they walk around like its shit doesn't stink. NEWSFLASH - cat shit does stink...it's poop what did you expect? Even worse is that cat owners are crazy enough to think an indoor box full of gravel will eliminate odors and make it acceptable to stockpile feces in one's home.
Anyway, back to the feline terrorist. On went his bomb-vest as he positioned himself in front of my left tire and embraced his martyrdom (for the record I don't think cats qualify for the 72 virgins so I really couldn't tell you what was motivating this little bastard except maybe the fact that a cat's primary source of sustenance is human misery).
Double thump - I clip this guy twice with my car...yeah I felt bad but come on it's a cat. They get hit by cars sometimes. Life goes on (except for the cats obviously). For a split second I considered stopping but then, with the resounding support of my teammates, I decided to move on. What was I supposed to do? Hillary Duff was up next on the playlist and I couldn't kill the mood, right?
As I pull away I glance through my rear-view mirror to give the guy a farewell apology but to my horror the thing was dragging its head along the ground to the side of the road. That industrious little fucker had the nerve to get the last word in by showing me I'd broken his neck. Great, now I feel BAD about it (mind you by the end of this entire debacle I wished I could have hit him with all four wheels at once...)
So I pull away and decide to move on with my life. 30 seconds later some guy is honking his horn, practically rear-ending me and flashing his lights. Fuck, I totally just ran over this guy's cat...in front of him...and drove away. I pull over and wait for the impending shit storm. He pulls along side me and I roll down my window.
Distraught Ithacan: "What the hell are you doing?!?!"
Me: "I'm so sorry - was that your cat?"
Crazy Hippie: "No...BUT YOU DON'T JUST HIT A CAT AND DRIVE AWAY!!!"
At this point I'm wondering two things to myself:
1) I don't know if you noticed, Captain Planet, but that's PRECISELY what I did just now...
2) Who the hell made this asshole King of the Townies? If it's not your cat, feel bad like I did and fuck off.
By now the remorse over the cat's death has been replaced by my resentment for this guy who decided to take it upon himself to write down my license plate number and speed back to the "scene of the crime".
Onwards! We finally all get to practice and everyone disperses. At this point I'm actually kind of concerned what Corporal Carebear was going to do with my car's information so I asked my coach what I should do.
Coach: "Was it dead after you hit it?"
Me: "No"
Paul Bunyan (Coach): "First of all, you should have backed up and driven over it again to put it out of it's misery. Second, just call the cops to let them know you hit the cat I'm sure they'll take care of it."
Let's take a minute to appreciate how absurd the first comment was. But then again, coming from a guy who is rumored to have wrestled a deer to the ground with his bare hands...in his sleep...I guess I'm not THAT surprised.
So I call the police and let them know I have blood on my hands and I am met with the response that "I need to return to the scene of the crime immediately to give the officer on site my side of the story." (I wasn't joking when I called it a crime scene earlier...)
By the time I return to ground zero I swear it was something straight out of an episode of CSI: Kitty Killers. There's a crowd on either side of the street staring at me like I was birthed by Ann Coulter and Ted Bundy. The officer on the scene comes up and takes my side of the story. I explain that I couldn't swerve to dodge the cat OR slam on my brakes because there was a car behind me (driven by the aforementioned King of the Townies) and a car coming towards me on the other side of the road and that I valued the lives of my 5 HUMAN passengers over the life of Whiskers.
Out of nowhere the male owner of this cat comes up to me and starts tearing into me about how I'm a morally deprived and pathetic human being. Whatever, bro - the more you guys push my buttons the less badly I'm going to feel about steamrolling your kitty. Then this guy makes a fatal error - he asks me if I've ever lost a pet. Checkmate, clown. My dog died on Christmas Eve - have fun trying to compare the fact that you neglect your cat to my family having its holiday ruined by losing the greatest dog ever. The only thing he had left in his arsenal was "...well good, I just wanted to make sure you knew what it felt like". Burn.
At this point I'm beyond miffed at these people so I just get back in my car. Minutes later the female cat owner approached my car with a cardboard box containing a lump of fur. She might as well have dumped the thing on my hood she came so close with it. "Look at what you did, you murderer!". Someone call the Academy because this lady deserves an Oscar. I GET IT. I hit your cat - I was there when it happened, remember?
Long story short (except it's not short because this is my longest post to date) the cop tells me this could result in four points on my license, a license suspension and a court summons. Are. You. Serious. It's a cat. An animal so wretched that it parades around your home vomiting up clumps of hair as it refuses to play with you yet I'm practically being asked to pack my bags for Guantanamo.
New York is the only state I know of where hitting a cat and not notifying the police is a crime. Period. Let alone a crime that can strip you of your license!
Fuck cats.
P.S. I came out of this with nothing more than a $100 dollar fine after explaining to the judge what happened - suck on that, townies.
My story begins as I'm driving a bunch of my teammates up to the weight room for practice. To set the mood - 5 manorexic bros are listening to the aural money shot that is Kelly Clarkson's "Since You've Been Gone". Little did I know I was about to become PETA's most wanted felon.
So we're cruising along, choking back the desire to belt out the lyrics that we all knew forwards and backwards, when out of nowhere some hellspawn of a cat jaunts in front of my car. Scratch that, moseys in front of my car - because that's what cats do...they walk around like its shit doesn't stink. NEWSFLASH - cat shit does stink...it's poop what did you expect? Even worse is that cat owners are crazy enough to think an indoor box full of gravel will eliminate odors and make it acceptable to stockpile feces in one's home.
Anyway, back to the feline terrorist. On went his bomb-vest as he positioned himself in front of my left tire and embraced his martyrdom (for the record I don't think cats qualify for the 72 virgins so I really couldn't tell you what was motivating this little bastard except maybe the fact that a cat's primary source of sustenance is human misery).
Double thump - I clip this guy twice with my car...yeah I felt bad but come on it's a cat. They get hit by cars sometimes. Life goes on (except for the cats obviously). For a split second I considered stopping but then, with the resounding support of my teammates, I decided to move on. What was I supposed to do? Hillary Duff was up next on the playlist and I couldn't kill the mood, right?
As I pull away I glance through my rear-view mirror to give the guy a farewell apology but to my horror the thing was dragging its head along the ground to the side of the road. That industrious little fucker had the nerve to get the last word in by showing me I'd broken his neck. Great, now I feel BAD about it (mind you by the end of this entire debacle I wished I could have hit him with all four wheels at once...)
So I pull away and decide to move on with my life. 30 seconds later some guy is honking his horn, practically rear-ending me and flashing his lights. Fuck, I totally just ran over this guy's cat...in front of him...and drove away. I pull over and wait for the impending shit storm. He pulls along side me and I roll down my window.
Distraught Ithacan: "What the hell are you doing?!?!"
Me: "I'm so sorry - was that your cat?"
Crazy Hippie: "No...BUT YOU DON'T JUST HIT A CAT AND DRIVE AWAY!!!"
At this point I'm wondering two things to myself:
1) I don't know if you noticed, Captain Planet, but that's PRECISELY what I did just now...
2) Who the hell made this asshole King of the Townies? If it's not your cat, feel bad like I did and fuck off.
By now the remorse over the cat's death has been replaced by my resentment for this guy who decided to take it upon himself to write down my license plate number and speed back to the "scene of the crime".
Onwards! We finally all get to practice and everyone disperses. At this point I'm actually kind of concerned what Corporal Carebear was going to do with my car's information so I asked my coach what I should do.
Coach: "Was it dead after you hit it?"
Me: "No"
Paul Bunyan (Coach): "First of all, you should have backed up and driven over it again to put it out of it's misery. Second, just call the cops to let them know you hit the cat I'm sure they'll take care of it."
Let's take a minute to appreciate how absurd the first comment was. But then again, coming from a guy who is rumored to have wrestled a deer to the ground with his bare hands...in his sleep...I guess I'm not THAT surprised.
So I call the police and let them know I have blood on my hands and I am met with the response that "I need to return to the scene of the crime immediately to give the officer on site my side of the story." (I wasn't joking when I called it a crime scene earlier...)
By the time I return to ground zero I swear it was something straight out of an episode of CSI: Kitty Killers. There's a crowd on either side of the street staring at me like I was birthed by Ann Coulter and Ted Bundy. The officer on the scene comes up and takes my side of the story. I explain that I couldn't swerve to dodge the cat OR slam on my brakes because there was a car behind me (driven by the aforementioned King of the Townies) and a car coming towards me on the other side of the road and that I valued the lives of my 5 HUMAN passengers over the life of Whiskers.
Out of nowhere the male owner of this cat comes up to me and starts tearing into me about how I'm a morally deprived and pathetic human being. Whatever, bro - the more you guys push my buttons the less badly I'm going to feel about steamrolling your kitty. Then this guy makes a fatal error - he asks me if I've ever lost a pet. Checkmate, clown. My dog died on Christmas Eve - have fun trying to compare the fact that you neglect your cat to my family having its holiday ruined by losing the greatest dog ever. The only thing he had left in his arsenal was "...well good, I just wanted to make sure you knew what it felt like". Burn.
At this point I'm beyond miffed at these people so I just get back in my car. Minutes later the female cat owner approached my car with a cardboard box containing a lump of fur. She might as well have dumped the thing on my hood she came so close with it. "Look at what you did, you murderer!". Someone call the Academy because this lady deserves an Oscar. I GET IT. I hit your cat - I was there when it happened, remember?
Long story short (except it's not short because this is my longest post to date) the cop tells me this could result in four points on my license, a license suspension and a court summons. Are. You. Serious. It's a cat. An animal so wretched that it parades around your home vomiting up clumps of hair as it refuses to play with you yet I'm practically being asked to pack my bags for Guantanamo.
New York is the only state I know of where hitting a cat and not notifying the police is a crime. Period. Let alone a crime that can strip you of your license!
Fuck cats.
P.S. I came out of this with nothing more than a $100 dollar fine after explaining to the judge what happened - suck on that, townies.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Unreasonably Sad Movies
Fellas (and tough girls), have you ever had the urge to be utterly stripped of all dignity? Shit I know I have. I think everyone should be embarrassed in its purest form every once in a while - it keeps us all honest. But it's one thing to have a blush-worthy experience and another to be cripplingly humiliated by films they play on ABC family and the like. The following are a couple of movies whose writers decided they wanted to rape me of my man-cards one movie-induced tear at a time.
First up…is "Up". While all-in-all the movie has a happy ending and some hilarious characters and quotables, the first 10 minutes of this movie were clearly written by an emotionally bankrupt Nazi raised in Detroit. It is one of the most upsetting opening sequences of all time. A boy and girl are childhood sweethearts determined to live their life to the fullest as adventurers. They get married and through a series of unexpected life events, never quite have the money to go on any of these excursions. Then the wife dies in the most depressing montage ever. Cool - I'm now streaming tears in front of 200 ten-year-olds and their gorgeous babysitters (who apparently have more control over their emotions than I do). Thanks, Pixar - see if I go to the premier of "Toy Story 8 - Oh My God I Totally Used to Have That Toy - I Relate to This!".
The other item on this despondent roller coaster of shame is "Marley and Me". If you've ever owned a dog, or a soul for that matter, this movie at the very least marginally upset you. Of course that's the understatement of the century in my case. I was blubbering violently at the end of this movie. The most embarrassing part about it is we all knew the dog was going to die at the end of the movie the entire time (don't even try to tell me I ruined the movie for you right there...liar). Even with two full hours of Owen Wilson's train wreck of a nose preparing me for the inevitable I still couldn't hold it together. By the way, take a step back for a minute - what kind of asshole writes a movie about a dog dying? Think about it. Some guy, somewhere was eating breakfast and thought it would be worthwhile to write this movie. I bet he was eating GrapeNuts...that mother fucker.
Closing thoughts - I have the emotional restraint of a 13 year old girl on her period.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Dear Sunday, you're a dick.
The other day I failed miserably at an attempt to explain the 1-10 girl rating system that guys use. I realized today the reason my definition was so lacking was because it was entirely half-hearted. Lately, rating girls has been about as much fun as watching bread rise. I always find it degenerates into 10, 7, or “fuck no” *dry heave* - and where’s the fun in that (minus the dry-heave - that’s hysterical - but more on that at another time).
So instead of rating girls - I’ve decided to appraise something completely irrelevant and typically mundane: days of the week (in descending order).
1) Saturday - Saturday is a 10/10 - it’s a complete day off, you can rage before and during it, and it has a perfect ass. If you don’t like Saturday, fuck you.
2) Friday - Friday is like Saturday’s less attractive (but still cute) sibling who is desperate to please you. ”Sorry I made you go to school/work today…but to make up for it I’ll get blackout with you tonight”. No matter how bad your 9-5 is on a Friday it’s always going to give you that complimentary handy under the table to try to win you over.
Things got a little more challenging as I came to the middle rankings:
3/4) Wednesday/Thursday - The ordering of these two depends on your lifestyle. If you have a carefree job or are still in college, Thursday is clearly the superior choice. If you work in Satan’s banana hammock like I do, Wednesday edges out ahead every time. So obviously if you’re in the former category, Thursday is just Friday without makeup on. Same promise of a good time but with a much worse walk of shame the following morning. Instead of walking home where you can shower off the glitter and self-loathing you have to walk to class or the office instead. So why do I put Wednesday ahead? Boring/simple response: hump-day. Getting through half of the week feels like a combination of inventing sex, winning World War II by myself, and waking up to discover I’m the comical black dude from the Old Spice commercials. Every. Single. Week. But I still have to go to work for another 2 days so Wednesday is #3.
5) Monday - Ok, yeah “having a case of the Mondays” is totally legit, but Monday is like that subpar guy/girl you accidentally dated in high school. Monday is the one you broke up with using the line “it’s not you…it’s me”. Sure, nobody really liked them while you were dating, and yes, any time you think of them you kind of want to put a hot iron on your face, but did they ever promise to be something they weren’t? No. With Monday you always know what to expect. Yes you’re going to have that “2:30 feeling” all day BUT YOU’RE READY FOR IT. Reliability and candor count for something in this world - kudos to you, Monday.
6) Tuesday - It’s Monday without that “I just drank my weight in alcohol and slept for 50% of the past 48 hours” feeling. Tuesday is a pregnant Monday…or a Monday with herpes - take your pick. Either way nobody likes Tuesday very much.
7) Sunday - ”Oh my god why is Sunday dead last?” “Sunday is God’s day of rest!!” “I use too many exclamation points to argue my case!!!!!!” Hear me out - my beef with Sunday is that it’s the bastard child of deception and a kidney stone. When Sunday’s first coming at you from across the block you think “Damn! Who’s this bombshell walking my way”. As you get closer Sunday’s trimmed body moves from a 10 to a 7 - that’s ok. 7’s are still something to be proud of! And that’s when you notice the snaggletooth/crustache combo. What the fuck, Sunday? You tricked me! I thought you were going to be like a reverse Friday! No. You know what Sunday is? Sunday is hangovers, chores, and spending the entire day dreading going back to school/work. Sunday is an asshole.
blrf
So instead of rating girls - I’ve decided to appraise something completely irrelevant and typically mundane: days of the week (in descending order).
1) Saturday - Saturday is a 10/10 - it’s a complete day off, you can rage before and during it, and it has a perfect ass. If you don’t like Saturday, fuck you.
2) Friday - Friday is like Saturday’s less attractive (but still cute) sibling who is desperate to please you. ”Sorry I made you go to school/work today…but to make up for it I’ll get blackout with you tonight”. No matter how bad your 9-5 is on a Friday it’s always going to give you that complimentary handy under the table to try to win you over.
Things got a little more challenging as I came to the middle rankings:
3/4) Wednesday/Thursday - The ordering of these two depends on your lifestyle. If you have a carefree job or are still in college, Thursday is clearly the superior choice. If you work in Satan’s banana hammock like I do, Wednesday edges out ahead every time. So obviously if you’re in the former category, Thursday is just Friday without makeup on. Same promise of a good time but with a much worse walk of shame the following morning. Instead of walking home where you can shower off the glitter and self-loathing you have to walk to class or the office instead. So why do I put Wednesday ahead? Boring/simple response: hump-day. Getting through half of the week feels like a combination of inventing sex, winning World War II by myself, and waking up to discover I’m the comical black dude from the Old Spice commercials. Every. Single. Week. But I still have to go to work for another 2 days so Wednesday is #3.
5) Monday - Ok, yeah “having a case of the Mondays” is totally legit, but Monday is like that subpar guy/girl you accidentally dated in high school. Monday is the one you broke up with using the line “it’s not you…it’s me”. Sure, nobody really liked them while you were dating, and yes, any time you think of them you kind of want to put a hot iron on your face, but did they ever promise to be something they weren’t? No. With Monday you always know what to expect. Yes you’re going to have that “2:30 feeling” all day BUT YOU’RE READY FOR IT. Reliability and candor count for something in this world - kudos to you, Monday.
6) Tuesday - It’s Monday without that “I just drank my weight in alcohol and slept for 50% of the past 48 hours” feeling. Tuesday is a pregnant Monday…or a Monday with herpes - take your pick. Either way nobody likes Tuesday very much.
7) Sunday - ”Oh my god why is Sunday dead last?” “Sunday is God’s day of rest!!” “I use too many exclamation points to argue my case!!!!!!” Hear me out - my beef with Sunday is that it’s the bastard child of deception and a kidney stone. When Sunday’s first coming at you from across the block you think “Damn! Who’s this bombshell walking my way”. As you get closer Sunday’s trimmed body moves from a 10 to a 7 - that’s ok. 7’s are still something to be proud of! And that’s when you notice the snaggletooth/crustache combo. What the fuck, Sunday? You tricked me! I thought you were going to be like a reverse Friday! No. You know what Sunday is? Sunday is hangovers, chores, and spending the entire day dreading going back to school/work. Sunday is an asshole.
blrf
Balls
This afternoon an ovary-laden friend of mine asked me, “Why are boys ALWAYS scratching their balls?” Now normally this question-complaint hybrid is brushed aside with “just because” or “you wouldn’t understand - you don’t have testicles” but today I decided to brave the storm and field this inquiry. So ladies - listen up.
Obviously, to guys, there are countless feasible reasons for ball-scratching. In fact the “just because” answer isn’t that unreasonable in our minds. However, to be fair I’ve decided to break it down into three fundamental categories of why we grape-grapple.
1) Pubes - let’s get the gross(est) one out of the way. If a guy hasn’t manscaped in a while and all of a sudden decides to cut his field for the PGA tour he’s going to have something worth scratching. Girls - imagine shaving that unsightly mustache you’ve been rocking for the better part of this week. When you decide it’s time to shave for a weekend at the bars you might find yourself in a similar situation.
2) Stage Five Clingers - Humidity + Balls = Balls stuck on the inside of your leg. Pretend you’re 9 years old and at the dentist. You’ve just chomped on that Styrofoam fluoride nonsense for 5 minutes and it’s time to pick a toy. Stickers? Shit no - those are a one-and-done deal. Tooth related figurines? Don’t waste my time. There’s seemingly nothing worthwhile in this basket of crap…but just before you give up and decide nothing could make up for the fact that you can’t eat the chocolate in your mom’s car for an eternity (aka 30 minutes) you find the toy of all toys. One of those rubbery sticky jelly hands that you can slap around and stick to any and every surface. The kind of toy that can and will drive anyone over the age of 15 insane. Oh hell yes. Ridiculous anecdote aside. When your balls stick to your leg its as if you had 5 of those little sticky hands stuffed in your pants. Tell me you wouldn’t “adjust your situation” I dare you.
3) Just because - sorry, but I’ve decided this is fully acceptable. Most people like using their hands to play with things. Bending paperclips in and out of shape, doing that pencil-twirling trick that I CANNOT FIGURE OUT, scratching your balls. It’s not a conscious effort. We aren’t trying to be disgusting. It’s just something to do with your hands.
In summation:
Balls - stop asking why we scratch them and just accept the fact that we do - it will make your life a lot less complicated.
blerph
Obviously, to guys, there are countless feasible reasons for ball-scratching. In fact the “just because” answer isn’t that unreasonable in our minds. However, to be fair I’ve decided to break it down into three fundamental categories of why we grape-grapple.
1) Pubes - let’s get the gross(est) one out of the way. If a guy hasn’t manscaped in a while and all of a sudden decides to cut his field for the PGA tour he’s going to have something worth scratching. Girls - imagine shaving that unsightly mustache you’ve been rocking for the better part of this week. When you decide it’s time to shave for a weekend at the bars you might find yourself in a similar situation.
2) Stage Five Clingers - Humidity + Balls = Balls stuck on the inside of your leg. Pretend you’re 9 years old and at the dentist. You’ve just chomped on that Styrofoam fluoride nonsense for 5 minutes and it’s time to pick a toy. Stickers? Shit no - those are a one-and-done deal. Tooth related figurines? Don’t waste my time. There’s seemingly nothing worthwhile in this basket of crap…but just before you give up and decide nothing could make up for the fact that you can’t eat the chocolate in your mom’s car for an eternity (aka 30 minutes) you find the toy of all toys. One of those rubbery sticky jelly hands that you can slap around and stick to any and every surface. The kind of toy that can and will drive anyone over the age of 15 insane. Oh hell yes. Ridiculous anecdote aside. When your balls stick to your leg its as if you had 5 of those little sticky hands stuffed in your pants. Tell me you wouldn’t “adjust your situation” I dare you.
3) Just because - sorry, but I’ve decided this is fully acceptable. Most people like using their hands to play with things. Bending paperclips in and out of shape, doing that pencil-twirling trick that I CANNOT FIGURE OUT, scratching your balls. It’s not a conscious effort. We aren’t trying to be disgusting. It’s just something to do with your hands.
In summation:
Balls - stop asking why we scratch them and just accept the fact that we do - it will make your life a lot less complicated.
blerph
Titles. Hobolympics
It’s taken me all of 5 minutes to discover the hardest thing about blogging is coming up with a title for the blog itself. It’s not like naming a child where you just grab one of those name books, mash your finger onto a page and pick one to throw on the birth certificate - a blog is important. A blog is forever!
At first I wanted my title to incorporate Charlie Brown in some way because I’ve been told my personality resembles that of the prepubescent balding Peanut…awesome. Perhaps I should be thankful that I can identify with such a widespread childhood icon but I think I’d prefer to be associated with one of the X-Men…or Watterson’s Calvin. Back to the point at hand though - the bottom line is there’s no way to put Chuck’s name in the blog title withoutimmediately sounding like the suicide letter of a Death Cab groupie. For the time being I’m going with some good old fashioned onomatopoeia that sums up my capacity for titling - blerf.
Onto more pressing matters - Bums. I’ve lived in and around a few major cities in my life and I’ve seen my share of homeless members of society but I have to say I’ve never experienced bums with the same impetus as those that surround me these days in Boston. New York bums know the standard tricks - cardboard signs, cups of loose change, lack of soap. London bums - well, let’s face it, every Englishman wears a top hat and monocle so you’d be hard-pressed to tell the difference between a vagrant and a member of parliament (hint: there isn’t one). But these Boston bums run circles around the rest of the world’s transients. I’ve been followed, yelled at and had miscellaneous objects thrown at me (with impossible accuracy). Maybe I ooze that Charlie Brown aura and they think I’ll be a pushover for a few bucks but I’m inclined to think that these guys are simply in it to win it. They’ve committed their life to bumdom and if they’re gonna be homeless they’re going to be the best at it.
Being the philanthropist that I am (read: horrible person) I came up with a plan to help get some of these guys off the street: Hobolympics. I’m not talking your run on the mill “Bumfights” (what is this YouTube 2003?) I’m talking full-blown, torch-carrying, creepy-beijing-opening-ceremony Olympics. I’d love to flesh this idea out further but I’ve got nothing beyond a “Dumpster Diving” event and a grand prize of ironic tax exemption.
blerf
At first I wanted my title to incorporate Charlie Brown in some way because I’ve been told my personality resembles that of the prepubescent balding Peanut…awesome. Perhaps I should be thankful that I can identify with such a widespread childhood icon but I think I’d prefer to be associated with one of the X-Men…or Watterson’s Calvin. Back to the point at hand though - the bottom line is there’s no way to put Chuck’s name in the blog title withoutimmediately sounding like the suicide letter of a Death Cab groupie. For the time being I’m going with some good old fashioned onomatopoeia that sums up my capacity for titling - blerf.
Onto more pressing matters - Bums. I’ve lived in and around a few major cities in my life and I’ve seen my share of homeless members of society but I have to say I’ve never experienced bums with the same impetus as those that surround me these days in Boston. New York bums know the standard tricks - cardboard signs, cups of loose change, lack of soap. London bums - well, let’s face it, every Englishman wears a top hat and monocle so you’d be hard-pressed to tell the difference between a vagrant and a member of parliament (hint: there isn’t one). But these Boston bums run circles around the rest of the world’s transients. I’ve been followed, yelled at and had miscellaneous objects thrown at me (with impossible accuracy). Maybe I ooze that Charlie Brown aura and they think I’ll be a pushover for a few bucks but I’m inclined to think that these guys are simply in it to win it. They’ve committed their life to bumdom and if they’re gonna be homeless they’re going to be the best at it.
Being the philanthropist that I am (read: horrible person) I came up with a plan to help get some of these guys off the street: Hobolympics. I’m not talking your run on the mill “Bumfights” (what is this YouTube 2003?) I’m talking full-blown, torch-carrying, creepy-beijing-opening-ceremony Olympics. I’d love to flesh this idea out further but I’ve got nothing beyond a “Dumpster Diving” event and a grand prize of ironic tax exemption.
blerf
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