Friday, September 30, 2011

the nervous colon

After the success of my awesome new red boxers story on Monday, I thought it appropriate to cap this week off with another work-related story. Though this story features the rear side of that nether region of my body.

Many of you know that I worked at Dairy Queen during part of High School and a couple years into college. I started out just a normal dude workin' the counter, lovin' life, lovin' work. Wasn't long before I was promoted to "Team Leader", where I got a raise and was able to be in charge during shifts and open and close the store.

It was awesome. Seriously the best job ever.

I remember one particularly rough night partying, knowing full well that I had to be in to the Q early, around 8am-ish, to open the store.

Didn't stop me. Didn't stop my friend from ignoring my mild protests and feeding me more shots of that shitty rum and cans of Red Dog. Whatever, he was driving.

Like a goddamn runaway freight train barreling into a small congregation of baby-filled strollers and their MILFY mothers, 8am came hard and it came fast.

That goddamn alarm was screaming in my hear, my head was pounding, and working was the last thing I wanted to do. Even worse, because I was opening, it was gonna be a couple hours before the ice cream was even gonna be ready. "Eh, it's Saturday, the owner's probably not even going to be in," I assured myself.

As I arrived, yep, there was the maroon Chevy Suburban.

Crawled outta my whip, tried a few times to punch in the code of the always-locked back door that protects us from the weirdos outside before the owner greeted me with that constant smile of his from the other side of the door's window, let me in, and gave me a warm greeting.

Did a pretty good job of initially hiding my poor condition, choked out good morning, and jumped right into my opening duties.

The thing about opening and closing the store that made it great, were the lists. You had a checklist that you could literally go down, and make sure each duty was done sufficiently. Easy enough, right? Nah, not when you're rushing to get things done, and somebody inevitably fucks up their duties, leaving you with a choice - it's good enough (you leave it); it needs a little work (half-assed effort to fix it); or it needs to be redone (you sonofabitch).

And just like that, as I was crossing things off my list, for some reason when I started brewing the coffee, the smell got to me and my innards started brewing something of their own. Long story short, I made a mad dash for the men's room and moaned, groaned and blasted that poor terlet for what seemed like an eternity. Sweating, bleeding, probably a little bit of dying: it was a violent affair.

Twenty minutes later, as I'm stumbling back to my duties, I hear the owner beckon for me from his office.

"Oh, you don't look so good today."

"Yeah, I've felt better, maybe the flu."

"Yeah, sounds like it. Listen, it sounds like you might have a nervous colon. I have the same problem. Sometimes when I get up early, all the time, I have to go to the bathroom. Usually I just try to account for that and get up a little earlier."

"Huh, I'll try that next time."

And the worst part, on the weekends, they have a couple 14 year olds come in and dip the Dilly Bars for a couple hours. Oddly, one of their duties was to do a bathroom check, and any bathroom cleaning.


Wednesday, September 28, 2011

this is shit, volume 1

We're gonna try something a little different here, this HUMP DAY. Truth is, I'm unemployed, a failure, and really have no direction. My wife is a beautiful, very intelligent scientist, married to a complete shithead on a downward spiral.

I even totally forgot about her birthday on Sunday. Haha just kidding, of course I didn't!

With that said, instead of trying to find that extra HUMP to PUMP us up through the rest of the week, let's wallow in my shittiness. Let's see if I can bring you down with me. Cause I don't really have a "rest of the week" that needs PUMPING through. My weekends blur into Monday, and then Tuesday, and then Wednesday, and all of a sudden it's Friday.

Though being unemployed is kind of a PUMP in and of itself, and the unexpected vacation is very much welcome, there's still that shadow of failure hanging over my head.

So I present to you the anti-PUMP: this is shit, volume 1

Our first example of shit - pure, complete and utter - comes from a one John Coltrane. Have I ever heard anything more from Mr. Coltrane past the ten minutes of overly rambunctious jazzshit heard below?

No. And I can live with that.

The rest of his catalog could be faithful Maroon 5 covers of the best songs they've done and I'd still think it was shit. Fact is, I just don't like jazz. And I don't think anybody really does. Yeah, people say they do, but that's out of some intrinsic need to impress people, not to convey genuine appreciation of an unspeakably stale genre of music.

What makes this so completely, utterly, and purely shit?

A lot of things actually. About 17, to be exact.

Take 17 different brassholes, tell them to play that horrible new solo they've been working on, and record it for ten minutes. Then somewhere around 3:15, they actually recorded Canadian geese honking just out of time with some dickhead's warbling trumpet. I hate nature so much.

Off the top of my head, I don't think I could name anybody that I personally know that is a John Coltrane fan, not that their status or level of Coltrane-fandom is something I often discuss with friends and family or anything.

But luckily a quick Google search of "fans of John Coltrane" did yield a telling glimpse of an average Coltrane fan.

Compelling evidence for a check mark on the side of shit indeed.

And the final reason why this is shit is...while writing this up, I played the entire ten minute clip and actually started to not mind it at the end.

utter shit

Monday, September 26, 2011

new red boxers

Hope everybody had a great weekend. We celebrated Heckyeahwoman's birthday Saturday night and all day on Sunday. She got some great gifts, excluding mine, cause it sucked, or, in her words: "it's the gayest gift ever."

Nevertheless, we had a nice little Sunday with a Bloody Mary or two, a couple leprechaun bombs, awesome brunch at the local gay bar, beautiful weather and our favorite pizza. Let's talk about "new red boxers":

Long before I threw my support behind banana hammocks, I was rocking boxer briefs. This is a short tale of one of my experiences with new boxer briefs.

I don't know, I think I was at Target or something, threw a 3-pack of boxer briefs into the cart, not really thinking much of it. It was time for a couple new pairs of undies, so yeah, there we were.

Don't know about you, but I usually try to wash undergarments immediately after purchase. You know, people are gross and return policies can be so lax sometimes. It was late Sunday evening and laundry was the last thing I felt like doing. Besides, the package was untampered with. Wore a new pair Monday morning, and it was everything I thought it would be.

Got to the office around 7:30ish - in the morning. Yeah, that was rough. Those were some long ass days, early mornings till around 6 or 6:30 at night. That's beside the point. I was about to experience some of the most intense, short-lived stress that I've ever felt.

So it's probably around 9:00am and the coffee is surging through me like a blitzing linebacker, gotta pee bro. Surprised I even made it that long. Just standing there in the one-person bathroom, doing my business when I glance down admiringly at my wang, and see red splotches on it.


This can't be right.

I looked closely, while handling it delicately. My heart was beating furiously.

I tried to wipe it off, nothing. Very nervous now.

It was like all my energy had been drained, like someone stuck a spigot in my neck and opened the floodgates. I just wanted to sink into the ground. Can totally still feel that exact same feeling of overwhelming despair when I think back about it.

Very nervously heading back to my cube, I sat down, but needed another look. First I did a little stealth search on the internet, but came up with nothing that made me feel better. Yeah, gonna have to look again.

Back to the bathroom.

By this point I was sweating, and my mind was wandering. No way was I going to be able to work until my wein regained it's status as a shining beacon of awesome.

Back to the bathroom, for real this time.

Obviously I didn't have to pee, but I whipped it out, and peered at it furiously. Yep, red splotches were still there. Almost naturally I grabbed a handful of toilet paper, ran it under the sink for a second, and wiped on my dong.

Gone. The dong was clean.

That was too easy, this can't be.

After inspecting the business end of the wad of wet toilet paper, I was hugely relieved to see the culprit: red lint from my new red boxers.

It was just the goddamn lint. Had I washed them the night before, surely that would have taken care of the lint.

Ungoddamn believable.

That feeling of relief, of weight being lifted off my shoulders is what I go back to in my mind as my happy place. I suggest you all do the same.

Friday, September 23, 2011

i read book

Yeah so I read a book one time last week. I highly enjoyed it, and thought I would write a little piece about a piece of writing. If that interests you, read on. If not, read on.

Present at the Creation by Amir D. Aczel

Dr. Aczel, having written multiple books on similar subjects, presents the story of CERN and the Large Hadron Collider in a fast paced, very story-like fashion. His understanding of particle physics and quantum mechanics informs his explanations of complex and obscure principles, which are done in such a lucid style that they will fascinate even the most physics-uninclined shithead.

The absence of equations, combined with a sprinkling of humor, really transforms it into a compelling story, as opposed to just a textbook regurgitation of complex theories and equations meant merely to show readers how intelligent the author is. And really going beyond particle physics, he tells a little bit about each of the dozens of scientists that contributed to the field, to get to where we are today - from personal anecdotes, to humorous accounts of conversations between scientists, to lightly touching on a couple rivalries between scientists.

In the past year or so, there have been multiple books written about the same subject - the pending and possible discovery of the Higgs Boson (more on that later). In fact, I'm currently reading one now, and Present at the Creation, I find to be overall a better read, with no small credit due to the author.

That after reading the book in question, I was enthralled enough to read another on the same topic, should tell you all you need to know. If you've ever had a passing interest in physics, the creation of the universe, black holes, or anything related, this is a great place to start.

What? CERN, the European Organization for Nuclear Research (Organization used to be Council - the C; the acronym was always bungled) is in the physics research space, most recently known for building a particle accelerator, the Large Hadron Collider. It smashes together particles at very high energies. You may recall a light hysteria over the imagined dangers, namely a black hole swallowing the earth, from a couple years back. Research from the LHC will supposedly (and hopefully) lead to the discovery of the Higgs Boson, a particle that is believed to give other particles mass when they interact. Obviously, the implications are huge - why is anything, anything? Because it has mass, that's why.

Additionally, they hope to find out what the deal is with antimatter (every particle in the Standard Model of physics has an antiparticle that is its twin, with an opposite charge and when they meet, they annihilate. Somehow, after the Big Bang, matter curiously won out over antimatter); to bring to light more about dark energy and dark matter (research says that you only see about 4-5% of mass in the universe); to explore the possibilities of hidden dimensions (up to ten or eleven, and I had trouble wrapping my head around the fourth, space-time); and finally, to learn a little bit more about black holes (don't jump in one!). Of course, they wouldn't be mad if some other burning question gets randomly answered, like, who shot JR?

Huh? So CERN built this multi-billion dollar, huge, scientific contraption (over the France - Switzerland border, close to Geneva and the alps. The beams of particles shoot around this underground 16.5 mile tunnel, powered by tens of thousands of tons of gigantic magnets, until they reach just shy of the speed of light. Then some dude, or chick, probably in a white robe, probably with a PhD and a couple pubs under his or her belt, directs them to collide.

Particles smashing together at very high speeds - imagine a one-way street with two huge semis (not the flesh, half-filled-with-blood kind of semis) careening towards each other as fast as they can go, then colliding. Main differences here is that when the particles collide, there is valuable data to be had, where as when the semis collide, we just hope somebody caught it on youtube.

Anyway, they're doing all this high energy particle smooshing to emulate literally shades of a second just after the big bang, right before things started becoming things. Upon collision, the particles collide, and since energy and matter cannot be truly destroyed, we get a whole bunch of different particles. By using weird things like theories, mathematics, physics and computers, they think they know what they're looking for and have an inkling that they'll know it when they see it (particle reaction trails, energy calculations, mass approximations, photons being emitted, and electrons jumpin' all around, etc.).

Since the book was written in 2010, they're still looking to wrap up experiments at the current energy level (7 TeV, read: shitloads of energy) sometime this fall, with a much better idea of whether or not the Higgs Boson does exist by end of the year/early 2012. The plan is to do some maintenance so the energy level that it currently accommodates can be doubled, all the way to 14 TeV (a double shitload of energy). Think of this as an excuse: "oh yeah, heh, about the billions of dollars we're requesting for maintenance - uh, the data is inconclusive, we need a higher energy level." Bigger, faster, more is a way of life not just for America's slovenly masses, but for quantum physicists too.

Bottom Line: I'm kind of a turd and not as much of it went over my head as should have.


Wednesday, September 21, 2011


What do we have in this world if we don't have time? I don't know and I don't care. No time to get all deep and thoughtful. Just time to get PUMPED.

It's true, in my new found unemployment, I am keeping busy. Very busy. Heckyeahwoman's got things for me to do, I got things to do, and it's so much harder to do them while sleeping till at least noon every day!

One of the things I'm NOT doing a lot of is watching tons of TV. Since my unemployment over the last week and a half, I've probably watched about 20 minutes of TV during the day. And that's great cause I hate TV, along with a lot of other people-related things.

Lucky for us, I did manage to flip on the boob tube at just the right time - to catch this 30 second PUMPvertisement. Watch this commercial and tell me if you don't just PUMP yourself into a WTF-induced frenzy right around :025!

OK, the question I'm sure you're asking yourself is, WHO THE FUCK IS MORT CRIM AND WHY SHOULD I MENTION HIM? EVER?

Mention some creepy old dude and get a discount!

Does that work everywhere? Is MORT CRIM some universal name to be dropped for deals? Can I go to JC Penneys and just start blurting out MORT CRIM, MORT CRIM mid-checkout? Will that automatically give me the hook up?

What if when I'm paying my credit card online, I close my eyes and whisper MORT CRIM seven times, will that Ctrl+Z my charges?

Either way, I'm going to be belching out MORT CRIM at every available opportunity, discount or not. Mid-sentence, during job interviews, over dinner with my wife, when my mom calls, doesn't matter.


Old MORT CRIM has got my PUMP juices a-flowin'!

This next video was one of the suggested videos from the previous, and if you know anything about me, you know that racism and stereotypes are two of my favorite things that PUMP ME UP. After all, you wouldn't have racism without stereotypes, and you couldn't have the latter without a GOOD FUCKING REASON!

Get PUMPED as a younger, much creepier MORT CRIM look-a-like goes on with his mildly racist schtick.

Imagine my UNPUMP when I learned that the above video was a parody, and not intended to make anybody feel bad! Bummer! Still, if you're not feeling the PUMP at :28, when the little Indian parody guy pops across the bottom of the screen, I couldn't begin to fathom how joyless your life is!

C'mon, indulge a little, GET PUMPED!

And tell me if this isn't the catchiest goddamn song to PUMP you through these dreary, unemployed times.

Monday, September 19, 2011

monday morning advice

Little bit of funny I found from an advice column.

Q. Do all men look at porn? Seriously? It used to bother me so much that I found my husband looking at porn so much. We have an active sex life and a good marriage. He is looking at very "normal" stuff. Why do they do it? I've resigned myself not to get upset about it anymore, but it does bother me to an extent.

A: The fact that you asked this question, or series of questions, tells me that you don't know men at all. You may be an antisocial shut-in too. Chances are pretty good that you are pretending to be married, and imagining your husband/good marriage/active sex life. In fact, I'd be willing to bet that you're probably a dude that has been called "tuna can" one too many times.

Nevertheless, assuming you're a happily married woman, porn is kind of an unspoken truth in relationships where men are involved.

Here's to me the real problem left unmentioned: watching porn and not whacking off. The question I pose to you, weirdo, is if your husband is going to watch porn, why is he not slapping his salami to the point of no return? (that was rhetorical; don't answer) What is the point?

Even worse, I can't imagine beating my meat when my wife is home. No matter the size of the house (or my dong heck yeah!) or how secluded my man-lair may be, there is really no time I'd feel secure doing my thing with myself. It's sketchy enough when she's not even home. What if she walks in again!?!?

Anyway, to address your queries, yes, almost all men look at porn. I think it's pretty obvious why they do it - cause big ass glistenin' titties are awesome and watching some bimbo get plowed is way better than whatever you are currently doing (unless you're plowing some bowels right now, however doubtful that may be).

Q. Please Help Me—Tickling Co-Worker Problem!: This is going to sound like a ridiculous problem. I work part time at my mom's office, and one of my co-workers repeatedly tickles me. If I happen to be standing while sorting out documents or something, she will sneak up behind me and either poke or tickle my sides. It irritates the hell out of me as I am an extremely ticklish person. I usually burst into giggles and she seems to find this amusing. I have asked her to stop, politely and firmly, then angrily. She thinks the whole thing is a joke and doesn't take me seriously. I am the youngest employee here, and she does this only to me, maybe because she thinks it's a cute way of relating to the little girl who works at the office. I have to restrain myself from punching her in the face because it's been going on for several weeks. I can't exactly avoid her in a small office, either. When I told Mom how annoying this co-worker was, she didn't really respond, because, "Mom, Sally at work keeps tickling me" doesn't sound like a big problem. I'm thinking of quitting my job because this is so annoying and I HATE, HATE, HATE being tickled. Can you offer any advice on how to get her to stop?

A: This is not even real lol. First, I think we can safely assume we're dealing with two women here and the question will be answered as such. Don't really see two dudes tickling each other, much less one writing into an advice column about it. Maybe the tickler is a broad and the ticklee is a dude and he doesn't quite know how to handle the sitch. In his shoes, I'd probably be tempted to slug the violent tickler, (ir)regardless of gender.

Whatevs, letttuce dispense with the advice, friends. It's true, tattling to your mother, the boss, about another coworker tickling you isn't a viable solution; DON'T DO IT. You have to handle this on your own, ticklish one. Show your parents you can rise above a little tickle-action. Maybe start a full blown tickleWAR. Mount a strategic tickle-offensive. Only the thing is, my tickles hurt; at heckyeahman industries, we tickle exclusively with Smith & Wesson .357 magnums, ya smell me.

Or you can be an adult about the situation and the next time you get tickleassaulted, just stand there and give that classic one-eyebrow-raised, half smirk/half frown look of disgust, and mutter something about working in an office, being 30, and condescendingly say things like "really" and "wow, you're tickling me".

"I already told you to stop tickling me, and you're going to continue to touch me inappropriately in the office? Not sure, but you do know that we live in America, right? People and companies have been sued for much lesser offenses. You do know what a lawsuit is, right?"

It should be noted that the original answer referred to this quandary not as a problem, but as ABUSE. Going further, her suggestion is to loudly demand the ABUSER not ever touch her again.

Hey man, anything to STOP THE ABUSE AT ALL COSTS!

Friday, September 16, 2011

the simple joys of being strong

McDonald's is just begging me to go on a woman-beating spree. What? Yeah.

Watching TV a little bit over the last couple nights, this stupid advertisement would come on at least once or twice an hour.

And it would consistently piss me off.

I don't know if you're seeing what I'm seeing, but the dimwitted husband is making small talk, and his wife automatically assumes the worst -that he's scheming to get out of doing some menial task - painting the garage. Like she even thinks highly enough of him, that he'd be able to scheme about anything.

So she jumps all over him with "BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH fine then I guess we'll do the alternate weather-proof activity."

Let's face the facts here:

1. It's a commercial featuring a husband and wife.
2. Television advertisement relationship rules are now in play: the wife is hotter and smarter and the husband is dumber and goofier.

Yeah. Anyway, dude gets unintentionally outsmarted by his wife.

Now picture this, if I were that guy, owned by his wife in front of millions of television viewers like that, I woulda reacted.

Say this in a nasally, yet kind of hostile voice: FUGGIN' REEEEE-AAAAAACT-TIIIIIIID

I'd get that crazy look in my eyes, stand up, flip the table over, point my finger in her stupid fragile face and scream at the top of my lungs "DON'T YOU TRY TO ACT BETTER THAN ME!" Then I'd calmly walk to the unfreshly painted garage, grab the biggest wrench I could find, and beat that slut to death with it.

As the camera pans out over her bloody corpse, the man's voice is heard: "The simple joys of being smart? Heh, the simple joys of being stronger".

And one last thing, how insulted are you that Mickey D's would suggest that merely purchasing anything from a dollar menu makes you smart? I can go to the park a block away and literally shovel dog shit into my mouth for hours on end, for free, and it has roughly the same nutritional value as anything on that goddamn dollar menu; does that make me smart?

No, it just makes me pissed off.

But then a couple weeks ago, this commercial would be on multiple times per hour, and suddenly the world is a better place.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011


Our internet has been out since FUCKING SUNDAY NIGHT. Do you have any idea how fucking shitty it is to not have internet for the first weekend of fantasy football? What a bunch of fucking shit. FUCK YOU COMCAST, FUCK YOU ANYBODY ELSE THAT IS HAMPERING MY INTERNETTING.

Back to the PUMP, cause yo we can’t be stopped, just kinda delayed. People want the PUMP and whether it’s at 6:43am or fucking noon, I’m gonna bring the goddamn PUMP.

Enough doom ‘n gloom bullshit, let’s get to the PUMP so we can POWER THROUGH the rest of this goddamn shitty week.

Yo, so my mom came to visit last weekend. She got into town Friday evening and before I could even give her a hug, she throws a bottle of Jack Daniels at me (the whiskey, not the person). And don’t even ask: nobody brushed their teeth with it.

After chilling at the crib for a minute, we went and got pizza at goddamn UNDERGRAD CENTRAL. How undergrad was it? It was fucking raining and I still saw more fake Ray Bans than I could count. But yo, Ms. HYM wanted pizza, we frickin’ got pizza.

Eatin’ pizza with your mom and your wife pays for it PUMP!

Rained on Saturday, but that didn’t stop us from CRUSHING Borders at their going-out-of-business liquidation sale! Fifty bucks later we all had like up to 9 books! BOOK FANCY LITERATURE PUMP!

Finally the sun started to come out so we headed downtown to some stupid Farmer’s Market Homegrown Festival thing. Heckyeahwoman dropped us off, and before she could even find a parking spot, I called and ordered her to pick us up. Yeah, it was that lame. Lines and Lame-o’s, no thanks.

Have you ever heard you mom say: “yo this lame as shit let’s get the ferk outta here, cuz.”

Funny, cause my mom totally said that. Then she called me the gayest ninny bastard she’s ever seen. I think she was sneaking tugs off my flask before we left. Anyway, then we immediately headed to Alley Bar so my mom could sample a Pickleback – a shot of Jameson immediately chased with a shot of gourmet pickle juice.

Yes, gourmet pickle juice.

Then of course a little later that night, the Wolverines had an amazing comeback victory spearheaded by this year’s Heisman Trophy winner, Denard Robinson.

Sunday was a beautiful day; I took my mom on two and a half hour bike ride around Ann Arbor. She probably thought I was trying to kill her with all the hills we had to go up, and with us getting lost. But yo, I was biking too fast, I hain’t got time for a sense of direction.

Got home to check fantasy football and not only was I killing it, but Ray Rice and the Ravens were putting the fucking hammer down on the dirty, cheap shot Steelers! Loved that!

James Harrison getting slowly crushed by the massive weight of defeat PUMP!

In summary, it was great to have my mom visit, but she made us eat and drink more than we planned on.

And just because that’s the end of today’s HUMP DAY PUMP UP, don’t think for a second that the PUMP isn’t coming back in FULL EFFECT this weekend, with Heckyeahwoman’s dad coming to visit! PUMPTIME!

Monday, September 12, 2011

bitch move etiquette

Disregard the title for a minute please. My mom came to town on Friday evening sometime, and we are PUMPED to have our first visitors from the HeckyeahMAN side of the family, in Ann Arbor.

I would have included this on last HUMP DAY'S PUMP UP, but I totally forgot. Besides, I think there was more than enough PUMP to go around. Think of this as an extra little bonus pre-PUMP as we jump into the week: my mom visits and Heckyeahwoman's mother in law visits. PUMP!

On to the regularly scheduled post, entitled, "bitch move etiquette". Again, I emphasize this has nothing to do with my mom. I was just at a friend's house a couple months ago, doin' some drinking and it was time to leave and this thought crossed my mind.

Your friend invites you over to crush a couple cold ones - you naturally bring over whatever it is you're going to drink for the night. Common courtesy, right? Yeah. If you're not a complete total chunk of fucking bullshit, you'll bring over enough to share. Maybe you bring over a little whiskey for shots, or some wine coolers for the kids.

I'm sure you get it.

Friday night, probably even early Saturday morning, it's getting late, people are loaded, we're about ready to take off. But there are two beers left in the fridge.

Do you take them?


I think the general rule is to leave whatever alcohol you brought over.

You leave them in the fridge as a token of gratitude to your friend(s) for letting the party take place at their house, for putting up with a bunch of drink idiots, for them seeing in the morning how badly you missed the toilet while taking many leaks, among other drunken, semi-forgivable transgressions.

Before I knew of this general etiquette, like in college, I would totally take home my two, three or one beer(s). Looking back now I am kind of embarrassed.

Say you go ahead and pull the bitch move and grab the last two beers from the scenario above. Michigan is a deposit state, meaning you pay ten cents for each beer can or bottle you buy. Then you return them at the grocery store for your money back.

Do you also grab the ten empties so you can get your goddamn dollar?

Well if you're ***ish enough to take your two full beers, what's stopping you from taking the ten empties you sneakily placed to the side, you premeditating recycling cheapskate you?

Hey man, if you gotta recycle, might as well get your deposit back.

Speaking of bitch moves, I saw some dumb bitch at the gym spill shit all over. Twice. First her water bottle splashed all over her face, spilling water all over the floor. After a slightly embarrassed smile, she looked down at the water puddle on the floor, sheepishly smiled, and moved right along.

And then a little later, she was (kindly) wiping the machine down, using the spray bottle, but then made a big mess because the cap wasn't on tight and it was leaking all over the goddamn place. Again, a sheepish smile, and she just moved on to the next machine in her pathetic circuit workout.


Wrap your head around that: a dumb bitch pulling bitch moves. So meta.

Friday, September 9, 2011


Busy day yesterday, totally forgot to finish a post.

But the following gif and picture are way funnier than anything I could have produced. Besides, my mom is coming to town today and we're all gonna party furiously.

Hate KISS, but love this.

Unbelievable. I would totally walk up, ask if he minds if I have a seat and deal him a hand of poker.

We'll talk about about real bitch moves on Monday, and I'm hearing rumblings of a little something I like to call PHILOSOPHY WEEK!!! coming up soon. We'll keep you posted.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011


So I've been acutely aware of the show, It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, since it started in like 2005. I remember it was always on after Rescue Me, but I never watched it, cause I just didn't give a fo.

For the most part, I thought it looked stupid. Also, many of my friends thought the show was hilarious, which normally would be a good reason for me to check something out - but they also considered themselves avid Simpsons fans, regularly watched Flight of the Concords or straight up I just hated them. Anyways, three HUGE red flags, among many.

So I never watched the show.

That is, until Heckyeahwoman and I got essentially DVD-raped by our friends in Ann Arbor. Funny thing here, that same friend recently asked me why I never mention her on HYM, so here you go, *******: thank you for forcing your It's Always Sunny Season 1 DVDs on and in us.

After deciding to check out the show, I remember thinking how stupid it was going to be. What I didn't plan on was being totally wrong! Show was hilarious!

Oh, I see you, you don't believe me. Well, believe me, and get PUMPED:

Two of my favorites right there - kittens and funny! Those two always make for such a great combination!

This next one was in the first season, don't remember which episode. Double PUMP here: the funny PUMP and racial implications PUMP, of course those two go together like pooping and post-poop quick-showering, you smell me.

Obviously we saved the best PUMP for last, THE IMPLICATION. Watch and get PUMPED as the delicate topic of rape is broached. And while we are vehemently against rape, we can't help but be enthralled, and in turn PUMPED UP, by THE IMPLICATION.

I see the periodic ads for a new season, but I honestly don't care - we haven't even finished the first season. Let that be a PUMP lesson to you: don't just blindly follow the PUMP, take your time and nurture the PUMP, and ye shall be handsomely rewarded with a fully ripened PUMP.

Friday, September 2, 2011

getting philosophical

Been having a kind of philosophical week. Philosophical in the sense that a couple things occurred to me, and while they're aren't really life-altering, I just kind of wanted to address them. And adding "philosophical" really churches things up, IMO.

I'm 30 a thirty year old salesperson. Of the three jobs I've had since college, none have required a college degree. Even though I have since paid off my student loans, I could have skipped college and would now be tens of thousands of dollars richer, albeit only a couple tens. Eh, you win some, you lose some.

Since graduating, I've watched my wife get a Masters degree and then a doctorate. Pretty awesome cause she's really smart. But like Seinfeld says, "what is that doctor doing with that salesman?"

Really makes me thank my parents for passing on the genes that made me so good looking and surprisingly awesome, in lieu of brains.

So in order to make up for my academic and collegiate shortcomings, I have this blog. And with this blog come some pretty profound ideas.

The first thing I want to talk about are books. I don't know if it's me or what, but it seems that books are more prestigious than movies or DVDs. You go to a friend's house and see a huge shelf of DVDs and immediately think, "wow you fucking dork." You go to your next friend's house and see a monstrous bookshelf full of books and immediately think, "yeah no fucking way you read all those, but still, impressive." If you're not as cynical as I am, you'll probably just be kind of impressed.

Thing is, books seem to have this stigma of "elite", "intellectual" or even just "smart" attached to them. But why? Because you can learn so much more from every book in the world than from every movie in the world? Maybe.

What about this - what do you do when you're reading? Probably smoking a fine cigar, sitting in a nice reading jacket, sipping tea (or wine or champagne). What are you doing when watching a movie? Probably either getting drunk (we'll get to that later) or if you're with a chick, trying to scam on the slore.

With books having this almost implied superiority over movies, you'd think it would be an automatic candidate for something that really sucks (other examples: hipsters, chicks that aren't DTF, people from New York that always tell you they're from New York).

You know what, forget it; nothing I've typed so far has really changed my mind about books being better than movies.

Also overrated: Lady Gaga. She is just a more accessible Marilyn Manson with a good voice and poppy songs. Everything about her has totally been done before, including her, hard. Besides, I find the insanely autotuned songs way catchier anyway.

Something redeeming: she actually did a risque photoshoot for some European magazine a week or two ago and in one of the shots you can see her boobs. I guess when she looks normal/kinda strung out and trashy that she's kinda hot.

Otherwise, totally FUCK THAT BITCH AND HER GAY BULLSHIT. Like, I was all for gay rights until I saw Lady Gaga advocating for them. I'm all for eating bacon, hating the environment and blasting chicks, but if I ever saw Kanye West or Oprah Winfrey advocating for those causes, I'd totally have to rethink my views.

Long story short, I hate Lady Gaga.

Last thing, and maybe most controversial: Drinking.

Yeah, drinking is overrated. I was sitting at home the other day, pretty drunk, and asked myself, "why am I even drinking; why am I drunk?"

The answer to the latter question is obvious, but seriously, why?

Really, drinking is pretty stupid. How does it make my life better? I try not to get hangovers anymore, so I don't usually get drunk enough to make really bad decisions, but usually just drunk enough to get really FUCKING ANGRY about politics.

And I think we've been through the vicious cycle thing enough around here.

Some people argue that they like the taste of different alcohols. I can't argue with that, but I'll take your taste preference and raise you one: image and aesthetics. Yeah, what is harder than a grown man, pissed off at the world, sipping on warm whiskey?

With a .357 magnum clutched tightly in his left hand?

Nothing. Alcohol wins.

For now.