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

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.

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.

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.

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.