Yes, But EXACTLY How Much Has the 'Sex and the City' Franchise Set Back Women?
Faster than Cynthia Nixon's agent can say "Cynthia's free for a third go-around if anyone else is, by the way" returns the Hindenburg that is the Sex and the City film franchise. Indeed, today marks the debut of Sex and the City's cleverly-titled sequel, Sex and the City 2, starring four women who are good at nothing except making everyone with the slightest bit of depth angry at their continued and unfathomable pop-culture relevance.
Sure, it's become somewhat trite and definitely easy to take shots at the ladies - particularly Sarah Jessica Parker, who looks like what Alec Baldwin turns into at the end of "Beetlejuice".
(That WAS easy!)
But listen - there was a day where I actually sat and watched the first movie on HBO. I did. All the way through. Mind you, this was during a phase of my life where I was extremely unemployed and my day took on some chronological form of food consumption, midday naps, masturbation, "looking for jobs" and playing with my dog. When I woke up before 10am, that was considered an accomplishment on par with some form of company promotion. If I put on anything other than sweatpants, my parents (whom I lived with sans paying rent) assumed that meant I had big plans for that day. Here's the point: It wouldn't have taken much to entertain me for three hours on a Tuesday afternoon.
Put it this way - it's very difficult to make me angry; after those three hours, I made this kid look like a little girl getting a puppy on Christmas morning:
So yeah, the movie was bad. But was it bad enough to directly affect the societal progress women as a whole have made in the last 200 years? In his essay The Hurt Knockers: Feminine Origami Folding Under the Pressures of Everyday Life, Associate Assistant to the Deputy Vice President of the Ancillary Studies of Women at The University of El Paso Online, Sir Dr. Ryan A. Walls argues,
While most historians and current members of the neo-fem movement would argue that this movie endorses women's rights and promotes the empowerment of women, I would have to say that not since November 1988 when Senator Harlan Chubbsby (D-LA) attempted to pass legislation to enforce women to ride sidesaddle on all moving objects (bicycles, cars, trains, skis, etc) has the women's movement been so threatened. By elevating an individual like Sarah Jessica Parker to the level of spokesperson for this new generation of free thinking women, the mainstream media and everyone who buys a ticket might as well be paving the glass ceiling over with broken glass -infused cement; hell, you might as well feed Hillary Clinton Susan B. Anthony's ashes, then toss her IN the wet cement. Anyone who sees this movie has blood on their hands. Women everywhere should use their right to choose (While they still have it! Watch your back Alito!) to go see something else instead, or maybe just stay at home and after you've cooked dinner, rent 'Confessions of a Shopaholic'.
Sir Ryan's arguments hit home on many levels. But EXACTLY how much have women been set back by the four horse-faces of the apocalypse? Scientists have been baffled for generations asking this question; here at Shatterfaced, we're not so confused. By creating an easily quantifiable mathematical equation, it quickly becomes quite simple:
(Domestic Gross of the first Sex and the City film) x (Number of seasons for the Sex and the City television series)
((Amelia Earhart's speed record) X (Billie Jean King's margin of victory over Bobby Riggs) X (The length, in seconds, of the Kim Kardashian sex tape) X (Diane Lane's Age)), penalized - 30 million points for Sarah Palin's rise to prominence
or...
152,647,258 x 6
= 13.205 years
(((184) (8) (1500) (45)) - 30,000,000)
Yep, thanks to Sex and the City, women have traveled back to the dark, dark ages of March of 1997. Look in the mirror, Sarah Jessica Parker. You did this. You.
SOURCE - WALLS: The Hurt Knockers: Feminine Origami Folding Under the Pressures of Everyday Life (2007, Highlights for Kids). All rights reserved.
Wiz Khalifa: Man of Prose - by Tom - DPA
Some of you may not be aware of this song. For this I declare you the equivalency of an inbred neanderthal. For all I know, sir or madame, you might well consider rhythmically beating your head against a brick wall to be a passable form of musical consumption. You sicken me.
But I take pity and I will now allow your ears to be graced with perfection:
Your life is certainly changed at this point. Several of you may have to go clean yourselves off.
What many don't know about this opus is that it is actually a cover. Well... not a cover, but an adaptation of the 1566 poem "An Exuberant Declaration of Purpose," written by the Dutch poet Dichter Gerhardt Oosterhuis. While studying the renaissance during his time at Oxford University, Wiz found this delicate composition while writing his thesis on Joost van den Vondel.
Dichter Gerhardt Oosterhuis
The similarities in demeanor are striking; both simply exude grace and talent.
Printed below is a copy of the original poem as well as Wiz's adapted lyrics. Enjoy.
| Say Yeah In the back of the club Throw that money in the air and say yeah I'm high and drunk doin my same dance Look at all these dames damn You smell that haze scent Lil momma work for every dollar she drop it low Shorty mad she came with you And say yeah Throw that money in the air I said listen here And I got my cup filled you see how them bucks peel | An Exuberant Declaration of Purpose By Dietrich Gerhardt Oosterhuis Proclaim an affirmation! I only have one evening in this hamlet; thankfully all of my acquaintances are in the vicinity. I'm currently in possession of a surplus of coinage and I plan on recklessly making expenditures until my coffers have been laid bare. Such a spree is guaranteed to attract a large group of females who will undoubtedly plan on entering our carriage. There will be such a gathering that many will be required to place their posteriors into the haunches of another. It appears as though my accompanying party is in a spirited mood, celebrating the atmosphere with calculated and careful gyrations. I, however, feel that we should increase our tempo to an allegro. In fact, I order that it is increased to an allegro. Behold that wench's dancing ability! It is as though she is a lady of the evening, paid for her performance. Provide this saucy mistress with a strapping post for the purpose of sliding hither and yon. There will be little to no time to quantify my treasury this evening. And besides, the purpose would be for naught as the plan, as previously mentioned, calls for returning bereft of my vast wealth. What, may you ask, is the meaning of such wild indiscretion? I am devoted to the effort of finding a fair dame who will engage in oral pleasures. However, this is not solely my rationale. I qualify that this maiden must seem as though she has partaken of the tree of knowledge! My goblet is brimming and I intend to display my masculinity in front of God and all present witnesses. My sexual veracity is that of an untamed steed. Now observe as I hold court! The evening’s festivities will most likely take place in the rear of an ale hall, surrounded by piles of ornately decorated spokes for my vehicle. I will make movements as if it were my profession, these actions will be brisk and flirtatious in nature. Thus is the plan. Did I mention all the people I enjoy the company of are here, including several loose women? That’s right friends; behave as if tomorrow is the rapture! Throw thy riches towards the azure sky! Exclaim exuberance and agreement! I am besotted, engaged in a familiar jig. The shimmy in question recalls the name of a barbaric princess; it is said that it opens the heavens. Whilst I do not believe in such pagan idolatry, I theatrically simulate the rain with a deluge of monetary notes. They flutter in a slow manner, similar to the thought process of one afflicted with the demons of retardation. Some would consider this use of money to be of unsound mind and principles. I am beholden to once again remind the dear audience of the sheer number of females. Perhaps the amount of money I have recently acquired has transformed me into the sort that generates more interest in the fairer sex. Has that redolence caught your attention? If it has, I believe you are aware of this evening’s course and, ultimately, my intentions. If not, I shall qualify. While some might only wish to end the night with necking, I seek otherwise, if one were to understand the implication. At last, here is a young lady who gives her all! She will earn every penny for her abilities. She would be advised to perform her acrobatics at a tempered pace. After all, my entourage is not quite sated with herb yet and we plan on continuing its use. The other females appear envious towards the newly found focus of our attention. Some are rather chagrined to have accompanied us on this jaunt at all. Fret not my compatriots, our lascivious new consort wishes to join our merry adventure. A hearty agreement! Propel your money towards the heaven! And thus ends my tale, but not before a quick aside; so take notice. What has occurred was done for all to see. I feel no shame and would repeat these actions perpetually in much the same manner. I would credit much of the events success to my penchant for inhaling superior vapors. Heed these words: My goblet is brimming and I plan to show off my masculinity in front of God and all present witnesses. My sexual veracity is that of an untamed steed. Now observe as I hold court! |
An Addendum to the Statement Laid Heretofore by the Landman - by Joe "The Event" Santuccio, Jr.
SUP, BITCHES? It’s ya boy, ya favorite Sicilian-American-born poon-destroyer, Joe “the Event” Santuccio Jr. Now I know my boyee the Landman has been throwin down mad real knowledge on how it is to be the fuckin’ tits at fuckin’ tits (right before getting’ that pussy nailed down, NO DOUBT) and that’s cool ‘n’ shit, but I need to let you know how it RALLY goes down for an Italian stallion stone-cold stunna like yours truly.
Now peep this: I love the Landman like my own fuckin’ brotha. If some punk bouncer ever tried to stop my boyee Landman from giving himself a beer shower during an off-the-hook DJ AM set (can you say AUTOMATIC?), I’d be liable to shout “WHAT YOU WANNA DO, BRAH?” at least 20 muthafuckin’ times WAY before 2 yuge black brothas tried to tame THIS beast while bitches were holding me back. But LAX, BRAH? I’m liable to slice you like fresh mozz (don’t worry Grandma, definitely not without a little Tuscan olive oil) if I find you playing that ball-in -a -mini-hammock feather-Indian shit. (No hate, but it is what it is, am I right?) The REALEST brahs don’t play games when they could be working on their REAL Game at the gym, funneling Muscle Milk and benching the same weight as YA FUCKIN’ WHORE MOTHA (no disrespect). And for the reckid, if you think being a card-carrying Guido is anything like that shit on MTV, let ME tell YOU that you need to check yaself QUICK, fa real.
First off,
no one has a fairy-ass, “I-like-ellipticals-better-
When I roll up, it’s not even like people instinctively flock to me like flies to shit (which they DO, might I add). Nah son, this is a muthafuckin’ CORONATION. Peep this: it’s like fuckin’ Pope Benny (bless da name) himself rolling up with his boys to St. Pete’s square on a bumpin’ Saturday night when the robed bitches are begging for it, except when I roll up, they aren’t pourin’ holy water and blowin’ horns - they’re pourin’ RedBull and vodka shots and bitches are blowin’ YOURS MUTHAFUCKIN’ TRULY (WHAT). I can’t believe it either - fuckin’ unreal.
I’m tellin’ you, me rollin’ up gets EVERYONE so fuckin’ lifted. I’m not even five feet into the airport bar when I have some slut hangin all over my nuts and putting her hands up my lights-out, tiger-in-the-grass Ed Hardy tee to feel my can’t-handle-it lats. And fuckin’ riddle me this, Batman: If the The Event wasn’t such a fuckin’ hot-ticket, than why is it that horny-ass, Franzia-pounding bitches tell me on the reg that I’m even better looking than their half-grandsons?? YOU. DON”T. EVEN. KNOW.
Irregardless of my no-joke skills for knocking down grade-A talent, you gotta know that I am above all a fuckin’ REAL man who loves his fuckin’ family and Jesus more than all the certified DTF pussy in Seaside Heights COMBINED. I’m a REAL Catholic, so I know all about being a no-bullshit, straight shooter who never contradicts shit. YEAH, I might slip E and roofies to half the Paramus High sophomore color-guard team, but you can bet ten bottles of LA Looks that the mutherfuckin’ likeness of our Lord is dangling in little Hannah Montana’s face as I show her the REAL fuckin’ meaning of “watching a movie at my ma’s place.” SPPPREADD THAT SHITTTT, BOYEEEE!
Alright pussies, I'm out like my dick at Spring Break. Til then, follow the most important phrase in any REAL man's life: HIT THAT SHIT AND QUIT IT, BRAH!!
Goodbye Port-au-Prince, Hello Rose Bowl - by the Reverend Roy Pentecost
In his first piece for shatterfaced, ouramericangod.com's Reverend Roy Pentecost makes the case for the imprisoned American missionaries in Haiti.
PORT-AU-PRINCE(Reuters) - A Haitian judge made no decision at a hearing on Monday whether tofree or prosecute 10 U.S. missionaries accused of kidnapping children, andtheir leader said she trusted in God they would be cleared and released.
The missionaries, mostof whom belong to an Idaho-based Baptist church, were arrested last monthtrying to take 33 Haitian children across the border to the Dominican Republic17 days after a magnitude 7 earthquake that killed more than 200,000 people inthe impoverished Caribbean nation.
When I awoke the other morning and my valet Dan Dan handedme the latest SAVED TODAY! Newsletter(a collection of articles from the news pool not written by liberals,Hollywood-types or Presbyterians) I was so filled with the Lord to read this:
"I am trusting God to reveal all truth and that we will be released andexonerated of charges, and we are just waiting for the Haitian process, legalprocess, to complete," the group's leader, Laura Silsby, said afterMonday's hearing.
If you thought the DMV in your lower real estate communitieswas bad, you should get a load of the legal system in Haiti. But let me beat thejudicial system to the punch and reveal to you the truth. Our American God loves football and he will see these faithfulfollowers freed to carry out his divine plan.
When interrogated by Haitian authorities Ms. Silsbyresponded, "We simply wanted to help the children. We did not understandall your rules." Help the children to say the least! Sure - you might say,‘hey you stupid, stupid bitch you cannot go in to a country and abduct children,those are the rules EVERYWHERE.’ And you might say, ‘you fanatical whack jobscannot force-convert children in order to stroke your salvation hard-ons.’ Butyou say these things for two reasons: 1)you went to a leftist college, and 2) you’re going to Hell.
Hasn’t the Lord made it crystal clear? Don’t you know whoelse was force-fed Christianity by missionaries? Why only the first college football player toboth rushand pass for 20 touchdowns in a season. That’s right: Heisman trophy recipient and pro-hymen spokesperson Tim Tebow.
By following the footsteps of Bob and Pam Tebow we canpotentially raise 33 Haitian-American (citizenship-contingent on athletic abilityof course) All-American football players. When asked how he raised his childrenso well, Bob Tebow responded, "We are just ordinary people that trustGod." Amen Brother Bob! It’ll be easy, first thing we have to do is homeschool these children, preventing them from developing a social identity and allowingfor more time to practice. Second, we have to install in them a fear of God sostrong they await the lightning at the slightest human urging (cue the Chastityrings). Thirdly we withhold dinner and kill a small animal every time they failto complete a pass. Good-bye Port-au-Prince and hello Rose Bowl!
Sure you might say, ‘but wait a hoot Reverend Roy, some ofthese kids still have family on the island!’ and I’ll remind you that when theday of judgment comes I’ll be up in Heaven eating snacks with Christ and you’llbe busy being eaten alive by crowds of deviants in a pit of chlamydia and brokenglass. Why would you want these kids to stay in the third world when they couldbecome celebrity athletes? Not only could they fulfill the American dream ofbecoming professional millionaires, but they could also star in a Super Bowl adsupporting an evangelical Christian group that contends that ‘tolerance’ and ‘diversity’are buzzwords that support a ‘part of a hidden agenda to promotehomosexuality.’ I think the decision is pretty clear.
So I implore the Haitian authorities, all fourteen of you, tofree these missionaries. These people saw the devastation that happened to yourisland, the death and the destruction, and were they all grossed out?Nope! They got up, paused their live-TV,and decided to go down there to do what we evangelicals know how to do best: Offersuffering brown people water, so long as we can baptize them with it first.
God Bless Us All
Reverend Roy Pentecost
The Flawed Logic of Steve Phillips, and the Coulier Effect
In watching excerpts from the interview this morning, what struck me most was the manner in which he was discussing his own personal character flaws - namely his alleged "sex addiction." He couldn't have been happier to talk about it.
That's right, Matt - I have a sex addiction. (nodding and grinning at the camera) Yeah. Addicted to sex. That's it. Receiving treatment and everything.
Seriously, the man was positively giddy. It was like he was being offered Rick Helling for the rights to Jose Reyes and David Wright. Couldn't have been more thrilled to talk about it.
In discussing the interview with Shatterfaced.com Associate Editor Tom-DPA, the notion and legitimacy of "sex addiction" was parsed. Tom's take is a common one - you aren't addicted to sex, you're merely an asshole. He even cited a 1997 Gallup poll which allegedly concluded that "98% of all men are addicted to boobies", Tom paraphrased. Noted. During our inevitable discussion of Tiger Woods's recent behavior, I defended the idea of "sex addiction", arguing that if you're worth nine figures and every female wishes to be your fornication partner, it isn't inconceivable that one might not want to stop having sex with everything. Tom maintained it was a bail-out card as opposed to being publicly labeled a dickhead. We're probably both right.
And hey, that might have been EXACTLY why Phillips in particular was indeed so giddy to tell the world he had a sex addiction - he's all of a sudden sympathetic instead of a cockbag, and he knew it. That's right, America - let me cry on your shoulder. My poor wife. What have I done. etc.
Here's the thing though - you are quite simply ineligible to claim a sex addiction if the partner in question looks like former Full House star Dave Coulier:
Phillips wasn't giddy because of the idea of increased public sympathy -- it was because now he had a diagnosable, physiological reason for maintaining an erection around Female Dave Coulier (above, left). He wasn't nodding and smiling at America - he was nodding and smiling at his friends. "Told you guys! Sex addiction, fuckfaces! What could I do?"
Think about it - how much sillier was Alanis Morrissette's "You Oughta Know" when it was gradually made aware that the song was about Dave Coulier? It went very quickly from...
(the Coulier Effect)
Hateful, Vengeance-Drenched Female-Empowering 90s Anthem ----------------------->*** A Song About Digging One's Nails into Dave Coulier's Back During Intercourse
Sorry, Steve - if poor Alanis suffered through the Coulier effect, then so must you. And even if the Coulier Effect didn't obviously apply to your situation, you still traded Scott Kazmir for Victor Zambrano. Nice one.
*** This line represents what Harvard scientists have deemed "The Coulier Effect"; it's also what is likely the actual girth of Dave Coulier's penis.
College Football Tailgating as Seen Through the Eyes of the LandMan - by Landon "The Landman" Parker III
Let’s get one fuckin’ thing straight. When the Land Man writes something on this gay website, you read it. And the Land Man only writes for this site when it narrates what the Land Man does best. And that’s day drinking. And I’m not talking about having a few casual beers at your boys’ bbq. That’s pussy shit. I’m talking about getting rip shit wasted by 4pm and then knockin’ off some drunk sluts. That’s not pussy shit. That shit is pussy. Giftwrapped for the Land Man.
Do I have your attention yet? Good.
One of the best opportunities to engage in hardcore day drinking is game day baby. Last week, BC had a 3:30pm game against some gay team. Probably Notre Dame. I forget. You know what that means? That means the Land Man is rippin shots, bong hits, and Stacey’s clothes off by kickoff. 3:30pm is also premium real estate for a game, because it provides plenty of pre-game tailgating and since I usually leave the game early to hit up Mr. Giggles, I have a full night of bar hoppin’ and pussy poppin’ ahead of me. Sit back, grab a brewski, fart, and let the Land Man fuck you up while he recalls his Saturday. Holler.
There are two types of ways college students approach game day. There’s the type that don’t go out Friday night or at least go out for a little while and don’t’ get wasted. And there’s the type who go out Friday all night, wake up with crusty mustard on their face, a passed out chick in their bed, and a burning desire to carpe deez nuts and keep the party going. I’ll let you take a wild guess which category the Land Man falls under.
It all starts with six words: Black. Eyed. Peas. I. Gotta. Feeling. Bump that shit to 11 and watch the hunnies flock to your dorm room. So I got my beats bumpin’ and ready to rock out with my cock out. Literally. Like I’m so fuckin pumped and comfortable with my body image, that I would literally walk around all day with my dick hanging out of my pants. But that would be gay, cause some of the BC faggots might get excited. And that shit’s just not goin down. So I’ll keep my dick in my pants. Until Stacey’s room that is. I digress.
So we got some frosty brews, a solid contingent of bros and hunnies minglin, gettin pumped for game day, and we gotta feelin, that tonight’s gonnna be a goooood night. Or day I should say. God, this song gets me so jacked it makes my head want to explode. And my dick. Let’s live it up.
So its time to separate the men from the boys and the sluts from the prudes. A few of my roommates are still asleep, struggling from last night. So we cut them like a bad habit, pick up the girlz and head to the Modz mufucka. We all got our Superfan shirts on (well in my case, my SuperDrunk shirt because that’s just how I roll) and we’re ready to go. I throw a couple of brewskis in my back pocket, rip a shot of Jaeger and head to the door. I just know that today is going to be epic. Blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-a-alcohol. Or just the fact that I’m the Land Man.
Commence the Bronado (Brody thought of that term to describe when a day gets so crazy that it just spins wildly out of control, destroying every ounce of alcohol and pussy in its path.) Before we head to some of my bros’ tailgating spots, we play a little Spin the Bottle with Brody and Trip (not sure if you know him, but he’s really fat and awesome at drinking. Also good to have when you wanna talk shit to pussies at bars and threaten to fight them by yelling ‘whaddya gonna do about it, tough guy’ and then not actually do anything about it. Annnnnnyway, this is how Spin the Bottle works: We fill up a wiffle ball bat with beer, chug it, spin around with the bat on our foreheads, and then point the bat ahead of us. Whatever house the bat points to is where we go to hit up some free booze and intimidate strangers.
I’m up for Spin the Bottle, so naturally I destroy the beer, spin around and end up pointing to a house where six girls live. Unreal. It’s almost like when I play Spin the Bottle, the wiffle bat acts an extension of my dick, guided by a pussy radar built in me that just naturally gravitates to women. I love Spin the Bottle.
Still feelin a little woozy, I stumble into the house and we are shot some weird looks. No worries, though. Within minutes, those looks will quickly turn from “Who is this guy and why is he here?” to “Who isn’t this guy and why I am not blowing him right now?” Just the way it goes. The first step to causing that transformation is locating the speakers in the house, and throwing my playlist on there.
To get the party poppin’ I usually like to start it out with these dudes called Girls Talk. Nobody knows them, but they are so sick, they mash shit up. Once the hunnies hear Girls Talk, they’ll be so smitten by my good looks, confidence (I mean I just took over their speakers and they don’t even know me) and hella-sick musical taste, that they won’t be able to control themselves. The sickest part about Girls Talk is that they use a lot of ridiculous rap lyrics, which in turn, encourages the girls to rap out lines like 'come girl I’m tryna get dat pussy wet’, which in turn, makes them feel reckless and horny, which in TURN, makes them vulnerable to the infectiously sick-ass charm of the Land Man. I. Gotta. Feeling.
I’m working the dance floor. I mean I am getting DOWN. It’s a tall task to get the dance floor poppin' when there’s nobody on it, and its 9am, and nobody knows you, but I’m up for the challenge. I throw the chicks some winks and smiles and realize that this subtle shit is just not cutting it. Thankfully my favorite Girls Talk part comes in for the rescue and I go in for the kill. I go up to the fat chick and start dancing. My logic, though blurry from boozing and dancing, is that she will be so surprised that I chose to dance with her that she’ll be flattered and start dancing. The dance floor slowly grows. THEN, her hot friends (LandMan’s end goal) will be 1) pissed off that I didn’t choose them and 2) impressed by how I’m such a nice guy to make the fat girl feel special, that they will start getting down on the floor and suddenly…what’s going on?, why is the room shaking?, why are my clothes falling off?, why is the ceiling ripping off the house????
Because a Bronado has arrived.
Now the key to keeping the Bronado in full force is switching up tracks. After Girls Talk, you gotta go to some old school shit like Real McCoy’s ‘Another Night’ or this gem. Chicks love that shit and they’ll think I’m so fun and ironic once I get those middle school panty droppin’ tracks going. Plus, the LandMan’s sexual journey started with a French kiss on the dance floor at Camp Lackawanna the summer of 1995. What song was playing? Real McCoy’s “Run Away.” The song comes full circle, in college, at the peak of my sexual prowess.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t work out quite that way. After attempting to grind on Ms. Piggy while lip-synching, “Wait till you see my dick. Hey bitch. Wait to you see my dick. You will never get enough” she is somehow not turned on and runs away. Probably to eat another burger. Whatevz. It’s almost like God won’t allow the LandMan to hook up with ugly chicks. It’s truly a blessing.
I would have kept working the room but they didn’t have any beer. Well, actually I never went to the fridge, but they probably didn’t have any. Because they’re lame. Fuck it. Moving on….
We bump into some of my boys in the MODS, the tailgating spot for BC games. The Chadster thinks it stands for Mecca Of Drunk Sluts, but that’s neither here nor there. I approach the group, while giving double shockers to my boys. I like to announce my presence with authority. To really announce my presen-sizzle, I give Chad an exploding pound, throw my warm beer in Tobey’s face and slap Colton in the face. Mostly cause he’s a fag. And when Greg comes by, there’s only one way to greet each other. We both do a running chest pump, then follow with an imaginary jump shot, and yell BALLLLLLLIN!!!!! God I’m fucking cool. Feeling amazing and ready to bang, we call up the chicas to meet up with them before the game.
We make our way through the stadium, and find an open patch where we can see the game. Naturally, we find ourselves surrounded by faggot freshmen. You can tell them from a mile away. They all awkwardly stand around, barely interacting with each other. They don’t know the chants, they don’t know what to do after touchdowns, and when they finally learn that you are supposed to lift up a girl and toss her up in the air after a touchdown, they NEVER go cop a titty or ass grab while the girl is bouncing helplessly in the air. Freshmen. Thankfully they learn, that is, if they study under the master, Yours Truly.
Naturally, the game is gay, and nobody seems impressed that I was recruited by BC hardcore. Just didn’t want to play, as I’ve discussed before. I’m telling you right now, I could step on that field 18 beers deep and drop bombs. But you think I’m gonna let 5am lifting sessions and 3 hour practices take a serious bite into my quest for pussy? Nope. Not a chance. I decided I’ve had enough this shit. I leave the game.
I walk over to Stacey, slide my fingers down her stretchy black pants and seduce the shit out of her by giving her a romantic massage on her ass cheeks. She loves it, but she won’t admit it because she fires back, “Landon, get your hands off of me.” I’ve heard that before. No biggie. I tell Stacey I’m leaving and that she should too, because well, I think we would both agree that me banging her during halftime is way sweeter than sitting on a cold stadium bench for 15 minutes while your buzz melts away.
“Landon, I’m watching the game, we’re beating ND…like this is amazing!”
“No Stacey, what is amazing is me and you back at my dorm room, watching the Real World while you heat me up some EZ Mac and suck my dick.
“Landon, first of all, we are DONE, and that is not fucking happening…my roommate ate all my EZ Mac. Besides, why the fuck are you like so obsessed with the Real World?”
I am at loss for words, not only for her blatant rejection of my forward sexual advances, but more so, for her hating on the Real World. Stacey loves the Real World, she was just trying to piss me off. And she succeeded. Fucking slut.
I walk away from the stadium. Alone. Time to hit up Mr. Giggles, take a quick nap, and get back at it. I get back to my room, load up the bong, and smoke myself retarded. Obviously.
I wake up, the lights are off and I’m the only one in the room. The clock reads 1:38am. My pants are by my ankles and True Life: I’m a Crystal Method Addict is on TV. Fuck. I figure it’s too late to go out and meet my boys. Plus, Stacey McSlut is probably banging some other dude. Fuck it, I’ll go back to sleep and start raging tomorrow. Fuck yeah, raging on a Sunday afternoon. Like only the Landman can. Tomorrow, I’m gonna nut on Sunday’s face. And Stacey’s. Fuck. Yes.
A Nymphoid Barbarian in Dinosaur Hell
Lea: "Sometimes my juices start to flow and I feel like a nymphoid barbarian in dinosaur hell."
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Tom Spends His Labor Day in the Heart of Darkness - by Tom - DPA
Horror has a face... and you must make a friend of horror. Horror and moral terror are your friends. If they are not then they are enemies to be feared.
I thought I was from New Jersey. I mean, if I were to tell you what town I’m from and you looked it up on a map, it would be within the borders of New Jersey. As a matter of fact, knowing where I was from in New Jersey, you’d assume I’d seen and dealt with every stereotype possible. I’ve made every joke about it. Guidos. The smell. The beaches. Sure, I know all of them. But I’m not “from” New Jersey. At least I wasn’t for a long time. But it’s possible that I’ve changed. After 23 years, it’s possible I’m now, “one of them.”
The quote above in italics is from the movie Apocalypse Now. I find it very fitting, as I too would like to tell you a story about a descent into madness - a descent into the jungle. I’d like to tell you about the horror.
Saigon... shit. I'm still only in Saigon... Every time, I think I'm gonna wake up back in the jungle.
I woke up Saturday morning staring at my ceiling fan. To say I had a bad Friday night would be a lie; to say I’d had a Friday night that made me want to strangle puppies in front of children would be a lot more accurate. How long had I been asleep? There were those six hours that I know about for sure. I smelled bad, and I’m sure I looked even worse. New York City, that fucking cesspool, had really done a number on me. Horrible decision after horrible decision by people myself and people I call friends had left me feeling like someone had raped me while watching a Carrot top comedy special. I was mostly livid at what I’d done; some of my methods had become…what’s the word? Unsound? My methods had become unsound.
Earlier in the week, it had been relayed to me that a few kids from school were going to go to the beach for Labor Day weekend and that I was more than welcome to join. Originally, I didn’t have any intention of going. I’m not much of a beach guy. There are parts of the arctic with more color, and I haven’t worked out since 2003. After Friday night I didn’t even want to leave bed for the next three days - let alone face the sun. I wanted to curl up in a ball and potentially have someone deliver me hot wings. I decided I was not leaving my apartment and the most I was going to do for the rest of the day was watch and the Discovery Channel (The world is just awesome!) and porn (boobs are just awesome!).
That’s when I heard my phone buzz.
It was a text message from my friend Tommy: “Hey I’m going for a run, let me know when you’re coming down.” Me and Tommy had never really discussed me coming down the shore, so the wording of this was a little off. I took my alcohol-soaked mind about 5 minutes to realize that this was not an open ended suggestion; this was a demand, a mission. I was going down the shore. What the hell else was I gonna do?
I quickly rolled out of bed and after slapping myself around a little bit before taking a shower. At this point I didn’t think much was gonna come out of this trip. A little time on the beach, a few drinks, maybe a trip out to a bar. Despite my early morning malaise the thought of getting as far away from NYC was all of a sudden priapismic. All three of my friends down the shore had significant others and I’d never really been out heavily drinking with any of them. As far as I knew, I was the low grade alcoholic of the group. Any decisions made to drink more than socially would be made independent of them. I ran to the station and jumped on the first train to Belmar. I was headed down the Delta…I mean, Parkway, for better or for worse.
My orders say I'm not supposed to know where I'm taking this boat, so I don't. But one look at you, and I know it's gonna be hot.
The trip got off to a less than stellar start. After switching about three trains, I was somehow lost less than a mile away from my house. I walked to the information desk and asked the lady when the next train to Belmar was. She pointed at a train, and I looked at her and said, ‘Are you sure?’ and she assured me that yes, she indeed was certain. I don’t think anything pisses me off more than poor service with a smile. If you’re going to be unhelpful, let me fucking know from the get go. Say what you will about airport security, but at least I always know what I’m getting up front (“I said 3ozs of Astroglide only motherfucker”).
I get on the obviously overcrowded train of people heading all over the place for the holiday weekend. No one bothers making an announcement about where the train is actually going. But I’m armed with the information I got from the smiling information lady - what could possibly go wrong? After about 15 minutes we pull into a covered train station. I don’t see any signs saying where we are so I asked the two Indian gentlemen standing next to me. Penn Station, they tell me, New-ark Penn Station.
Good, I’m going in the right direction. So why is it that everyone clears off the train except me and an angry conductor is yelling “no passengers” at me? Well obviously, the answer was because those two guys were actually saying “New York Penn Station.” This, if you didn’t know, is in a different state, the very one I happened to be trying to get very far away from.
All of this is fantastic news to me, as the next train is not for another hour, and all of a sudden the large iced coffee and egg sandwich I downed in 23 seconds that morning has decided it no longer wants to sit in my body. Nothing is worse than being a hungover sick mess in a very public and crowded place, especially New York Penn Station. I sprint to the bathroom only to see a line out the door. I go for option B and throw up in the nearest trash can. A family of five and a bum gives me a dirty look. Top five lowest point of my life? Yeah…let’s go with top five. At this point, I really ought to just give the fuck up and go home.
After sweating profusely and several false vomit alarms I finally make my train. It’s even more packed than the first train. The crew headed down to the Jersey Shore is just about what you’d expect: diverse, restless, and utterly trashy. A group of children sit in seats right next to a group of guys downing forties in paper bags. Several blondes in bathing suits are chatting their heads off in the corner while a group of older guys in Ed Hardy t-shirts stare at them and elbow each other. This is my first guido sighting, and it won’t be the last. These ones are fairly restrained right now; soon they’ll be throwing back Ketel One and sugar-free Red Bull before running off to the bathroom to get a couple push-ups in. I hide in one of the seats in hope that my stomach will get back to a somewhat normal level before I get to the beach.
The train ride takes about two hours all told and with about three stops to go I let Tommy know I’ll be there. “Already on my way,” he lets me know. At this point I should introduce Tommy properly. I probably wouldn’t have made it through first year of law school without him constantly pulling my head out of my ass. He’s always doing things like “studying” and “working out” and generally being “responsible.” I’m constantly learning classes two weeks before an exam and getting tanked on Wednesday nights. I invite him out on a lot of weekends and he usually tells me he’s saving himself for one night or another. I usually scoff at this and call him a “belching vagina” or some other remark. Point is, I was supposed to be the more reckless of the two, and a reputation is a reputation. When the train gets into the station I run to the Duane Reade and buy a bottle of Pepto and down about half of it. I couldn’t show any signs of weakness – I had already called Tommy “King of the Gays” that morning because he went for a run.
The next three days would be spent showing what a little wimp I was in comparison. It was like a 2006 Matt Leinart telling Kurt Warner, “thanks for warming the seat up for me old man.”
I dove into the car and patted Tommy on the back. He introduced me to his buddy Gabe and drove off.
"Can't tell you how happy I am to be getting out of town for the weekend? The night I had last night man…I’m just saying, you gotta promise me a good time. No chicken-shitting around. A true Jersey Shore eperience," I yelled up front.
"I wouldn't worry about that," he laughed. "I hope you're ready to get the fist pump going."
It might have been my mission, but this sure as shit was Tommy's town.
If I say its safe to surf this beach, Captain, then it’s safe to surf this beach. I mean, I'm not afraid to surf this place. I'll surf this whole fucking place!
Belmar is not your normal beach town on the Jersey Shore. The main road looks just like any other stretch of Jersey Coast: expensive mansions with elegant porches and widows walks interrupted only by cheese steak and salt-water taffy shops. But the back blocks are a winding maze of shanties and shacks filled to the brim with mid twenty-somethings. The air was thick with it - a never-ending fraternity row with hide nor hair of an English building.
Belmar on any given Saturday
I walked into Tommy's beach house into a thick fog of hair spray and techno music. The house was the front of two on a single lot and couldn't have been much bigger than two dorm rooms. A gaggle of girls were hurrying about clamping their hair with straighters while fumbling with their dresses. Not a one batted an eye at us as we walked the 15 or so feet that made up the core of the house. Tommy and his buddy Gabe grabbed beers and we escaped the din of chirping women and aerosol. Within seconds of leaving the door, a group of Tommy's roommates came bounding across the lawn. It was no later than 7, and they were hammered and rabid with excitement.
They shook my hand and gladly introduced themselves, even giving me a friendly jab or two. These weren't the stereotypes I had expected. These were smart and welcoming kids; I-bankers and consultants, not guidos and Jersey trash. Normal kids that traded in their weekday jobs to go tear-assing around Belmar looking for the shit.
They'd just come from a place I'd only heard whispers and jokes about; D-Jais. A place so infamous for being "Jerse" its name had almost become synonymous with guidos and the smell of the turnpike. A place that's name had spread like wildfire through the internet thanks to such videos as this:
Yes, that bar. That’s where they’d just come from. And it was a place I feared. It was a place I’d eventually have to see. It was close, real close, right around the corner, actually. I hadn’t seen it yet, but I could feel it. As if the I were being sucked towards it and its techno flowing up into the side streets. Whatever was going to happen, it wasn't gonna be the way they call it back in New York.
We went inside and started to drink. I reached in and grabbed a beer, feeling more welcome than I usually did in new situations - a rare breech of man-etiquette. One of the roommates chided his friend.
“Wooo, you gonna let the kid in the Sox hat drink your beer?”
“Any man brave enough to wear that hat around here can drink from my beer any day.”
The night went on and I was feeling pretty good. The group grew and grew and the night got hazier. In time I was over my usual stand-offishness and was well on my way to drunk. I was having a good time, not even thinking about the previous night when I heard the question proposed:
“So Tommy, you taking the rookie to D-Jai’s with us?” The look on my face must have been telling.
Tommy immediately recognized my reluctance, “Nah I think we’re gonna take him somewhere a little more his speed tonight. Ease him into it. We can’t have him facing all that Jerse at once.”
“Oh, c’mon it’s not gonna hurt or harm him. Just take him to the bar, Tommy. It’s a good bar - and we all like it. You know how hard it is to find a good bar you like down here. C’mon, don’t you want to have good time rookie?”
“I don’t know man, doesn’t seem like my scene. It’s a guido bar.”
“Guidos don’t puss out! I take it back, no more beer for you!”
I was saved. The night ended up panning out as I hoped. A good time had by all as we went to a bar a little more my kinda place (even with the Springsteen cover band). Still full of shore trash, but the kind I could deal with. Only notable highlight was the an inquiry I made to a girl I was talking with who was engaging in the standard fist pump when Jovi came on.
“Why the hell do people instinctively dance like that here?”
“Well I think we’d put both up but we have to hold on to our drinks.”
At some point I crossed over to “infinite mode” (discussed here) and it was time to leave. Somehow I’d lost Tommy, who I would later find out spend a good portion of the evening falling all over various things his girlfriend owned, but took a cab ride back with his friend. As we pulled into the driveway we noticed the house was jammed full of people. I stepped into the screen door but held it open for a girl who was right behind me on the steps. This led to a bizarre sequence of events.
The girls who had been there when I first arrived had apparently come back from the bar and were less than pleased to see a girl who had followed me into the house. So much so that one of them grabbed her by her amply hair-sprayed do and started screaming at the top of her lungs. The level of cat hisses and whistles was loud enough to stop a whole house full of people whose only reaction was to stare at the two young ladies twirling around the living room with a fist full of each other’s hair. They became a whirling dervish of big hoop earrings and dress shoes both emitting noises that you’ve only heard on Planet Earth. While every guy in the room seemed paralyzed by booze and confusion one of the other girls took the opportunity to start throwing haymakers right into the unwelcome girls face. I have seen a lot of booze filled fights in my day, most of them devolve into a lot of tussling on the ground, a few errant swings followed by a crowd breaking it up. I tell no exaggerations when I say we would have needed a panel of judges to determine the winner of this brawl. It took a full 3 minutes before anyone in the room decided that the heavyweight bout needed to end and the girls were separated. While I may have not been totally cognoscente I did determine one thing, I was truly in the jungle. I’d never seen anything like that, I don’t think Steve Irwin ever saw anything like that.
I woke up the next morning actually feeling good. I was on the couch surrounded by beer bottles and bodies all over the floor. I stepped over a few of them and ran right in to Tommy who had just walked in wearing gym shorts and a T-shirt. He was going running. Drinking all night and going running. This was about the clearest example of how far the two of us differed. I didn’t want to run, I want a croissan-wich.
Just my luck, the boys who’d gone to D-Jais the night before were hurting and were ready to go grab some food. We roused some of the people and kicked a few of the various girls scattered about the floor out the front. As we stepped out on to the porch I saw one of the grossest and funniest things I’ve ever seen. Right next to the front door was a large pile of hair. One pile was blonde; one was brunette; the collateral damage from the night before sitting right there bleaching in the Belmar sun. Proof of life. (I can’t believe I didn’t have a camera just to prove this existed. The guys left this here for a few days apparently just to show to people that the fight had indeed happened. It was cornered off with a table like a crime scene).
We walked around the corner to the Dunkin Donuts looking about as ragtag as a group of hungover individuals could. One of the guys was wearing a Duke Lacrosse Jersey with the words “Acquitted 07” on the back which I commended him on. That’s the sort of shirt people expect you to have in Belmar, New Jersey, as I saw nary an eye batted. We walked into the Dunkin Donuts only to run into approximately 9,000 people who all appeared to be in our condition.
“I love the smell of Dunkies in the morning.” The kid in the Duke jersey quipped after a long inhale. “You know, every time you go drinking, could even be for 12 hours. When it’s all over, you can walk in and no one won’t feel better, not one of ya. The smell, you know that coffee and donuts smell. Smells like…sobriety.”
And indeed it did. Large iced coffee and sausage egg and cheese is enough to get any man going. In 45 minutes I had a beer in my hand on Tommy’s front lawn. Nice cold day, no pressure to go to the beach and no work tomorrow. At some point a girl none of us really knew but somehow had left some of her clothing at the apartment got dropped off after doing a drive of shame from Staten Island. Staten Island!! Look up where that is in comparison to Belmar. If a person you randomly hooked up with drove you from another state to a place you left clothing at that wasn’t a very close friend of yours, you’re supposed to be horribly ashamed, right? Not this girl. No, this bitch with the bumblebee hive haircut chewing gum was upset we didn’t know exactly where her clothing was.
Trashy girl aside I was feeling pretty fat and sassy. After a couple beers and a few hours back from his run and hanging out with his girlfriend, Tommy suggested we get some burritos, a suggestion that damn near put me over the edge. On our way to the place I let him know how well things were panning out.
“Damn man I can’t believe how awesome this, is truly seeing the Jersey Shore: drinking outside a shack on a lawn, going to a bar with a Springsteen cover band, hanging out with some truly classy, classy broads. I appreciate the hell out of you having me down.”
“I’m glad you’re having a good time,” he smiled at me while parking the car. “But I think we could do better.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Hell, I was thinking about rocking the train home tonight. The girl fight was about all the Jerse I think I can handle in one weekend.”
“You can’t do that. We’ve got plans for tonight.”
“Well what are we doing?”
“Well for one we’re meeting them to go to D’Jais to go to happy hour.”
End part I
The Worst Cow in the World
This is a cow, but not just any cow. He's a Nazi. He has a special hatred for cancer patients. He is trampling a once-spritely little girl to an early, painful death while spitefully flipping you off. He has life aspirations to direct child snuff porn, and he's probably thinking about the quickest way that he could Fed-ex your family to the basement of Hezbollah headquarters, making sure they're all wearing macaroni-stained "Freedom isn't Free" t-shirts. This is the worst cow in the world.
We will call this cow "Tucker Max."
One day, an uninspired, depthless farmer named "Tanner" drank Tucker Max's milk and was overjoyed. This sex-deprived, wife-beating farmer had never tasted such wildly delicious milk. Tanner told his lifeless, miserable farmer friends about Tucker Max's milk. Soon, everyone in the town of Beerstittia couldn't get enough of Tucker Max's milk, and even sooner, the whole countryside would walk for hours just to get a taste. Tucker Max the cow couldn't have been prouder of his little-girl murdering, philanthropy-despising self.
Over time, however, Tucker Max's milk wore out its welcome. His teet was just milked one too many times. It became sour and chunky, and the people of the countryside grew weary. Only Beerstittia still reveled in its prized possession: the milk of Tucker Max, the worst cow in the world.
Then, on Friday, September 25th, Tanner and the rest of Beerstittia brought Tucker Max out for a picnic, to try once more to spread what they considered his delicious milk. They called the picnic "I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell: The Movie".
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1220628/
Unfortunately, nobody outside of Beerstittia attended the picnic, and the fatted calf was slaughtered for a delicious, hateful, anti-semitic steak dinner that Sunday evening.
And thus concludes the tale of Tucker Max, the worst cow in the world.
Beyonce's Inner Thighs (and other things I noticed while watching the VMA's) by Col. Plug Redux
For me, last Sunday night marked the true beginning of autumn. Without having seen a fallen leaf or felt the crisp bite of fall air, I knew it was time to buy Shatterfaced.com a whole new Hollister wardrobe (mostly because I wanted to check out the cellulite on the back of the store’s female greeters' legs) and send our little baby to Internet middle school.
Shatterfaced is now about 10 months old, and in Internet years, I believe this milestone more or less marks our entrance into adolescence. We greet this next awkward stage of our lives with greater knowledge, higher readership, and an acknowledgment of one bitter irony: Michael Jackson’s dead right as we start growing fucking pubes. For so many years, prepubescent boys had to vigilantly avoid being invited to one of Jackson’s seemingly well-intentioned playdates, and from here on out, surviving childhood without being fondled by the most famous singer on the planet will be about as difficult as making sure Terri Schiavo gets to bed on time[1].
So sitting with our hands down the itchy boxer shorts of American culture last Sunday, Shatterfaced tuned into the same program watched by 99% of fellow slightly pubescent back-to-schoolers (excluding retards, the home-schooled, and kids that don’t have TV’s): The MTV Video Music Awards.
First off, I’d like to say that the VMA’s are absolutely genius. The spectacle, the controversy, the overt sexuality; all of these keep middle-schoolers talking to members of the opposite sex for at least the first week of the year, more than enough time to develop intrepid new crushes. These are of course, the same young romances which lead to treacherous brace-faced makeout sessions, vitriolic gossip (I heard she got her period all over his iPod Touch), and later high-school prom pictures, unplanned pregnancies, and pretty much everything else discussed in The River (Springsteen et al.,1981). And in doing so, the VMA’s ensure their own survival, spawning future generations of teens, tweens, and sorority girls possessing the critical thinking abilities of a shower floor.
Speaking of idiots, the show began with a nearly fifteen minutes of Madonna eulogizing the King of Pop while such talents as Jimmy Fallon, Pete Wentz, and Billie Joe Armstrong looked on solemnly. That’s who you guys chose to feature? If Heidi Montag, the remaining member of Milli Vanilli, and George Lopez are the closest to achieving a consensus on their talentlessness, the celebrities MTV chose to spotlight during Madonna’s little speech are the second rung of sucking cock. And all this as Madonna is characterizes the media’s treatment of Jackson in the mid 90’s as a “witch-hunt,” and accuses herself and the overall community of abandoning him. No, bitch, that’s called a pedophile hunt. You don’t give a kid $22 million dollars to keep his mouth shut about a completely appropriate relationship in your booby-trapped carnival funhouse. That person your parents always told you to stay away from? That’s him! It’s not abandonment, it’s good decision making, probably instilled in you by the mother you unembarassedly talk about losing at age 12. Michael Jackson had inappropriate relations with boys, and I’m not buying yours or any of these dickheads’ CD’s.
But ok, whatever. We’ve addressed MJ’s controversial life and death, now the uncomfortable part is over and we can just get on with our fun award show totally devoid of awkward moments, right?
Haha.
First, there’s Russell Brand, who for all his sexual attractiveness, I can’t find myself even slightly admiring. He interviews poorly and his stand up blows. Between his bizarre purple dress and arrhythmic narrating, I couldn’t help but think he’d be better suited to MC a Rob Zombie rape fantasy than one of Radio City’s biggest events of the year. In his defense however, there’s a rumor he banged one of the hottest girls I’ve ever met, so there’s that.
Ok, well as long as he doesn’t talk too much, I’m sure the rest of the night will go off without a hitch. Time for the first award. Oh, Taylor Swift. Good for her, she really seems to deserve it. This looks like it’s going to be a pretty normal acceptance speech… wait what’s he doing, did he just—
Kanye, Kanye, Kanye. I really didn’t think I could hate you any more. For someone who has made consistently worse music for the past 4 years, you seem to really be making up for it in Hennessy consumption. Initially, I was pretty perturbed by his behavior. In the past week however, as I’ve had more and more conversations about his interruption of Taylor’s acceptance speech, I’ve actually come to see his actions as extremely edifying. Finally, people are admitting that I’ve been right about his cocksucking-ness for 2 years now. I wish I could buy stock in shit like this.
It doesn’t end there. Later in the week, a recording leaked of Barack Obama calling Kanye West a "jackass."
Not only that, but if you’re going to embarrass one musician, don’t do it to country’s innocent little sweetheart, Taylor Swift. I hope to God that there are rednecks sitting at home on TMZ listening to Obama’s quote like, “wow, and here I was thinking that me and him had nothing in common.” Dollars to donuts that guy writes to his congressman in favor of healthcare reform and saves his tactical rifle for Kanye’s next tour instead of Obama’s next speaking engagement. (Fingers crossed that guy also reads Shatterfaced).
So after that little debacle, Taylor had to give a really, really gay performance on what looked like a disco-lit model of NYC’s “F” train, singing her latest single as she passed through what looked like 300 feet ("F"trains are a shade over 60' long) of those irrepressively upbeat kids from the Reading Rainbow. Reminiscent of something MTV would have pulled around in the early 90’s, I guess it made the continued beating-to-death of the Madonna and Green Day horses a little more acceptable.
I don’t want to sound bitter or jaded; I will say there's some serious talent out there now. Lady Gaga’s and Jay-Z’s performances were both entertaining and exciting, as are their albums. Beyonce, between her Amazonian hip-gyrating performance and gracious invitation to let Taylor Swift finish her speech, showed why she will be remembered as one of the great leading ladies of R&B.
And then there was Pink, performing some sort of metaphor-soaked tandem trapeze act while singing her hit of the year, “Sober,” in which she really had no actual chance of self-injury despite being so high above the ground. I’ll let freshmen English majors at BC dissect the symbolism of this performance; suffice it to say, I found it a little pandering. But good for Pink, I really don’t know how she’s lasted this long on the pop culture landscape without ever really being popular.
But I guess that’s what the VMA’s are all about- familiarity. Eminem and Britney Spears both took home Moonmen, same as when I was in middle school. So as our little site enters its likely-uncomfortable adolescence, it’s nice to know we will still have the awkward moments, trainwrecks, PR nightmares—and maybe even some glimpses of pure awesomeness—that pop culture has given us so consistently.
We have ambitious plan for the upcoming year, including the worldwide release of a friend of the site’s mix-tape, the integration of video, and a cosmetic tune-up. School’s in session, and it’s good to be back.
[1] Yes, I know she’s already dead, but considering she’s the most famous vegetable since the cucumber, I figured why not.
One More Name Change
"Oh my God, she was kidnapped? We should call the police!"
"No, no - I have a better idea."
Since this is a Non-Blog
As such, all of my thoughts at the moment are dedicated to A. acquiring a job (few) and B. coming to grips with the differences between North Hollywood and the Massachusetts South Shore (many).
I could probably personally call all of the people that check this site regularly in the time it takes me to inflate my aero-bed, but this makes me feel less lazy.
An Open Letter to Bobby Teenager: Why I Still Hump Everything That Moves, Even Without Balls - a Rebuttal from Gus, the Miniature Dachshund
Dear Bobby Teenager,
On January 22nd, you wrote an open letter to me in the wake of surgery to remove my testicles. It was good-willed and sincere, and it was noted and appreciated, even though, you know, it was approximately five minutes after that awful moment in time when I woke up, looked down, and didn't see either of my nuts. Your letter is just as good though, right? Wonderful consolation prize. "Hey, Gus - no manhood anymore. You're no longer a dude. But Bobby Teenager (sweet name, by the way) wrote a funny letter to you on his website." That's like handing a couple black jelly beans to Anne Frank in 1942. Mmm, these taste delicious, but I'm still being hunted by Nazis.
The funniest part of the whole thing, however, was the fact that you guys thought it was totally over after the twins were gone. I remember looking up from my bed as you petted the back of my neck with that really high, patronizing, (frankly) gay voice with the "Are you okay? Are you okay little buddy?" chants. Oh, I'm okay, Bobby. I'm better than ever.
Because you can take my nuts, but you can never take my libido.
Just when you thought it was safe to sleep. Just when you thought it was safe to watch TV in the family room. Just when you thought it was completely fine to dangle your right arm in front of me without thinking about it - here comes Gus. Because I bust up inside of bitches...and by 'bitches' I mean seat cushions. And seat cushions didn't even do it for me WITH balls - I hump them completely out of spite, now. Spite, and freedom. Any time I hump your shin when you're trying to watch baseball, I do it in the name of freedom. Some day I want other nutless dogs to remember me and say "There goes Gus...the greatest limb-humper to ever live."
I do what I want. I hump what I want. And there's nothing you can do about any of it.
Now make me some Alpo. 'Mixed Grill', not 'Original'. God help you if I eat 'Original' Alpo in ten minutes.
With love,
Gus the Miniature Dachshund
Loooneeeely, I Am So Looooneeelyyyyy
For example, Col. Plug is in the middle of writing one about how the more disgusting the sexual position, the less the chance of conception. Or something like that. Guaranteed a nice balance of academia and indecency, anyway.
So as long as your company keeps blocking facebook, espn, yahoo, and cnn, but inexplicably allows shatterfaced.com, keep checking in.
Womack! Well why am I not surprised, you piece of shit!
Also - gotta love this movie on cable. "Winners go home and DATE the prom queen." Yep, that's what winners do.
A scathing rant against all fantasy sports 'experts' on espn.com
Allow me to demonstrate with a chart.
No organization has capitalized on this upsurge of baseball stat geeks than espn.com, who has hired approximately 32832908322123094 otherwise nameless douche bags to indirectly impact the outcomes of fantasy sports leagues across the country. You can't particularly blame their thinking; each one of these aforementioned d-bags' "chats" on espn.com each week features no less than 25 versions of the exact same question:
Clueless, Impressionable Fucktard (Boise): HELLLPPPP!!! I've been offered Konerko for Hanley, Sabathia and Youkilis! FIFTEEN MINUTES!! DO I PULL THE TRIGGER!! PLEASE HELP!!
Now, mind you - "Pierre Becquey" and "Tristan H. Cockcroft" were once nameless statheads. Now, considering how much money is on the table for every fantasy sports league, the rankings of people across the United States who impact the most money every day, according to a recent shatterfaced.com study, are as follows:
1) Timothy Geithner
2) espn.com fantasy experts
3) General Motors
These people have become the town elders of every fantasy sports league in the universe now. Trades made between two otherwise knowledgeable gentlemen now are brought to the town elders for approval. "I like the trade, you like the trade, but let's take it to "Brendan Roberts", who has the tag "ESPN.com" next to his name and who I will never meet in my life, to see what he thinks."
Brendan Roberts: I wouldn't do that trade.
(Trade is now off.)
And that's the thing: the trade IS always off, because these people do not speculate. They are empirical, all-knowing soothsayers who see the universe six months ahead of time. They are right, you are wrong. Let me give you an actual example from a recent chat with someone named "AJ Mass":
HELP...OVER HERE!!!!!!!: Please help me Mr AJ, Inge or Wieters and V.Wells for Holliday. Yes or No?
AJ Mass : No, especially in an AL-only league. Wouldn't be surprised to see Matt get traded back to the NL in a month or so.
Dude who wanted Wieters and Vernon Wells for Matt Holliday? Shit out of luck, buddy. Sorry - "AJ Mass" said so.
Their lack of reluctance in firing out their unequivocal opinion is hardly surprising, however - I can't imagine all this time having the shit ruthlessly beaten out of them for thirty years wouldn't lead to a life in which you are THRILLED to be looked at as omniscient.
Listen - I ask for advice from my friends for trades and pick-ups all the time. A second/third opinion is natural when making a significant move on your team. But who the fuck were these people three months ago? Now that they have the "sportsnation" logo preceding their name in bold, their stance on a given roster move is not to be questioned? Everything is agreed to with a trade, except 'Tristan H. Cockcroft' has reservations, and now it's off? Wonderful.
Annnnd scene.
Tom Recounts His Glory Days of College, Blames Others for Why There Wasn't Any Glory - by Tom DPA
I am now officially one year removed from college. This, naturally, is a depressing feeling. I don’t drink as much, I don’t sit around on my ass as much, and now I actually read books. The only similarity is that they still do not pay me. This being said, my biggest regret about college is not that I didn’t get better grades so I could go to a better law school; it’s not that I didn’t take advantage of many of the school’s activities; hell, it’s not even that I didn’t go to bigger and better parties. My single biggest regret is that not enough women touched my penis.
Now a few girls touched my wiener and god bless those who did. You’re the real American heroes. But here I sit in law school, surrounded by women in high heels who want nothing to do with me, except potentially to castrate me in front of others. It’s a sad world we all live in now - the amber waves of female grain have turned into your neighbor’s unmowed lawn: wild, untamed and full of gopher holes.
I’d imagine many of you can sympathize - I mean, lord knows you can never have enough women touching your penis. But there’s a simple fact that many of you don’t realize regarding MY penis specifically. It’s not that it didn’t get touched because I’m subpar looking and it’s not because I lack self-confidence; it’s not because I abhor exercise or that I lose any and all ability to be clever and witty around girls I find remotely attractive; it’s not even that I have a tendency to get tanked before engaging in any social environments. Simply put, the reason I didn’t get laid more is you. That’s right, every single one of you. It’s completely 100% all of your faults.
Now you may say, 'Jesus bud, pointing fingers huh?' And to that I say, Fuckin’ A pointing fingers, I’ve got my reasons. It simply can’t be my fault. I mean, I put next to no effort into anything else and that seems to work out, so where the hell are my tuggys? Huh? Where are they? It HAS to be your faults. No other explanation.
I’m not just pinning this one on the ladies - though trust me, you’ll get yours in a bit. I blame a lot of this on the fellas. Where were you guys? The fact is you weren’t there for me. You were too busy having sex to help me get sex and that’s just unacceptable. You’re supposed to be my bros, my dudes, my wingmen. Instead you guys were at your gyms and your bars flexing and generally being more confident and better looking than me. What’s up with that? Didn’t you take two seconds away from your charity work and your intramural sports and your deep boning to think, 'Hey, maybe I oughta give Tom a call and see if he wants any of this. No, you didn’t, and I thought we were cool man.
And girls. Girls girls girls girls girls. Tsk tsk. Just what were you thinking? Prancing around like you didn’t know I was there. You knew I was there. I was the guy walking down the sidewalk on my way to the 1:15 class every Tuesday and Thursday. You saw me! You knew I was there, so what the hell?? What was I supposed to do, walk up and talk to you or something? That’s outrageous! When you’re at the grocery store, do you wait for all the food to just jump into your basket? No! Of course not! And what was with the boyfriends? That guy? Really? What’s he got that I don’t have, besides 4 inches and 25 pounds that aren’t all flab. Half of you brought these jackasses from high school, and you kept dating them? He was like 40 billion miles away and I was two dorms over! Two dorms over! You’re telling me you came to a school of ten thousand people and didn’t find someone other than that jackass? You easily could have found someone better than him...you could have found me. You probably SHOULD have found me. I was the one sitting around watching episodes of Aqua Teen Hunger Force and drinking Natty Ice. You know, that guy. Come on ladies, who’s the keeper: some meathead who does charity work and tells funny jokes, or the guy who slinks around the bar and knows the entire starting lineup of the 1996 Red Sox?
To conclude, I think it’s high time I was paid reparations. Guys, find some girls and bring them to my house. Girls, come to my house. Form a neat and orderly line. I’m getting my just desserts, and frankly, I think it’s about damn time.
Five Haikus Dedicated to the Dunkin Donuts on Driftway in Scituate
Today, I drove down my driveway on my way to get iced coffee, trying to decide between Mary Lou's, the South Shore's fantastic coffee chain, or the Dunkin Donuts on Driftway.
I made the wrong decision.
Me at Drive Thru: Hi, can I have a medium iced toasted almond, skim milk, two splenda please.
Dunkin Donuts Employee: Ok, iced blueberry, one splenda. What size?
Me (confused): No. A medium iced toasted almond, skim milk, two splenda.
Dunkin Donuts Employee: Medium iced toasted almond, skim milk, two splenda. Drive up.
They then handed me - no joke - a medium with cream and sugar. I point this out to the Dunkin Donuts employee.
Me: Are you sure this is mine? This definitely has cream in it. It's almost white.
Dunkin Donuts employee: Yeah! That's blueberry! And I think I put in milk.
So I wrote five haikus about my feelings on the matter.
Dunkin's on Driftway
The short bus of coffee shops
Corky Thatcher laughs
Dunkin's on Driftway
Fills me with murderous thoughts
Instead of coffee
Dunkin's on Driftway
Employees just like Hawking
Except retarded
Dunkin's on Driftway
Mary Lou's is L.A.P.D.
You are Rodney King
Dunkin's on Driftway
Sullying a great franchise
Nuclear holocaust
