I swear this shit is so prophetic

Etymology

2010-02-01T17:04:00.002-06:00

Technically, we aren't just a bunch of white boys, because we have Emilio.

Revenge is a dish best served cold: a eulogy

2009-12-07T12:49:00.040-06:00

The other day I had a few guests over to my Omaha abode for a short-order breakfast. I sat them all in my dining room and cooked at the speed of light: eggs, bacon, french toast, all in mere seconds. It was one of those Sunday morning stomach-saving breakfasts. You know the kind I'm talking about.

I was moving so fast between the eggs and the pots and the pans and the bread that I accidentally knocked the plastic bread bag onto my bacon skillet, where it melted and smoked, triggering the smoke alarm, and the whole kitchen grew so hot that I tore off my sweater and threw it on the ground-- I didn't have enough time to stow it properly, not like a sensible person.

The dining room was shouting orders to the kitchen and orange juice was poured in every cup and people were raving mad with hungover punch-drunk tomfoolery and toast crumbs on their lips so that when I finally took my seat at the end of the table I was exhausted. We all sat and I wiped sweat from my brow, and there was a brief lull, but I saw that in the kitchen my dog Coco was squatting herself in just that sort of way over my sweater so that I raced from my seat, but only too late. She had peed all over it.

This demon-eyed imp is Coco. She is a long-haired chihuahua (chihuahuas are the only dogs my sister's allergies can tolerate), and she is somewhere in her mid-teens. For years she was the toast of dog-town, garnering "oohs" and "aahs" at every public event we brought her to. Here's my own cute Coco memory: at Walk for the Animals she laid down next to a giant St. Bernard, and the contrast in size was downright adorable.

But then she expanded to a hefty 1.5 pounds overweight-- and when you only weigh 5 pounds, that's about 30% of your total body weight. The 1.5 pounds were killing her back. So we made her lose the weight. But her skeletal frame revealed a hideous lump on her hip. Turns out this lump was a part of her intestines which had escaped the normal casings of her body. Then all of her teeth fell out. Then she grew a cyst on her face. Then she developed congenitive heart failure and cancer.

Then she peed on my sweater.

But my parents had her put down this morning. So I'd say the score is about even, wouldn't you?

5 reasons why you, too, should love the Boston Celtics

2009-12-04T11:30:00.137-06:00

The Celtics are in my family. My mother once received a share of stock in the Celtics as a gift. We always had a Larry Bird Christmas ornament on our tree. My dad used to watch Celtics games over at Robert Bly's place when he was in New York.

I started writing about the Celtics the other day, but it prompted an itch that hasn't been scratched until this very moment. So here it is. I give you five undeniable reasons why you, too, should love the C's.

Reason 1 - Kevin Garnett:

K "The Big Ticket" G is the indisputable winner of any bones day celebration because of the fact that he is the only living 7'1" skeleton on the planet. Looking at him is looking at thousands of years of history; primeval warfare on African plains which over time has become primeval warfare on the hallowed hardwood of the Boston Garden.

However, KG tops our list for a reason that is mostly separate from basketball. Most people don't know this, but Kevin is a master analogist/similist/metaphorist. Examples include:

"It's like hopping out of the shower without a towel, running into a meat freezer and staying there for about 10-15 minutes, and running back out. It's chilling." – Kevin Garnett on what it's like being an All-Star

"I'm 30. I've probably got 4 to 5 years, you know what I'm saying? My clock is ticking, man. I'm almost like a woman who's trying to get pregnant. My years are limited, so my clock is definitely ticking." - Kevin Garnett on winning a ring

"I'm like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. If I'm not ready, the sled isn't going to go." – Kevin Garnett on himself

"The third quarter has been our Achilles heel pretty much the whole year." - Kevin Garnett on third quarters, with a downright prophetic allusion

“I feel like the Commodores. I feel like the Commodores.” - not positive why he said this, but I think it was because of stadium lightshows and theatrics during the all-star game

"It's like that bully that you go to school everyday, and you know when you get out your mom's or dad's car-- you know you gotta see him soon as you walk through the front doors. You know he's sittin there with his feet up, waiting on you to pat your pockets, mess with you. And then it's like one day you say to yourself, 'You know what? This gon' stop today,' and you walk through and soon as he pats your pocket you lay his ass out, and you saw that expression on his face, and you're sorta kinda shook cause, you know what, you just knocked the bully out. And you don't know how he gon' come back. So the next morning when you come in and he not there, it's like...a sigh of relief....I knocked his ass clean out. That's what it feels like." - Kevin Garnett on winning the 2008 NBA Finals

Kevin is the defensive leader and an MVP-winner and yadayadayada. What's important is that he brings a colorful, childlike characteristic to his 7'1" presence. He's kind of like Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer that would tear Pau Gasol's head off and let the Spanish blood drip from his red nose and into his mouth. Then he would spray it all over everything and scream, "Anything is possible!"

Childlike. Knee-weakeningly childlike.

Reason 2 - Ray Allen:

"Where you at, baby? That's my rock." - Denzel Washington to Ray Allen in Spike Lee's movie, He Got Game.

That's right. Ray Allen is the only professional basketball player to have a leading role in a movie alongside Denzel Washington. Roger Ebert called him a "rarity: an athlete who can act," although I'm inclined to disagree (Ray is a little mush-mouthed). He plays Jesus--pronounced 'Jee Zuss'--Shuttleworth, a rough-neck from the hood with a basketball aptitude and a jailbird daddy. But in real life, Ray is the opposite. He had a military upbringing and he is the only member of the Celtics' starting 5 without a tattoo. His style of speech is awkward, nerdy, confused, and it always sounds like he could use a glass of water. Despite all this, he is unintimidating, so the league likes him for a spokesman. They find him to be 'articulate,' even.

The reason Ray makes the list? His stroke is ridiculous. While Eddie House's 3-ball arcs to the rafters, Ray's hits the net at a more flat, aggressive angle, causing more friction and an optimally satifying 'swoosh' sound. He is one of the best 3-point shooters of all time, usually mentioned in tandem with the similarly articulate-yet-awkward Reggie Miller (who will be forever remembered for his canonic, televized revelation, "Thith ithn't a blackberry, iz juzzth a pitchur a one.")

Reason 3 - Kendrick Perkins

Unlike Ray Allen, you will probably never see Kendrick Perkins in a movie. Kendrick is the quietest of all the players on the Celtics. He never shows emotion, he is never interviewed, and he is thought the be the least talented of all the starters. Yet he's lovable because of his boyish Texas twang and his kinship with fellow non-allstar Rajon Rondo. They are the least famous of the starting five, the biggest and smallest of the starting five, and they are openly best friends (lovers?). You can tell by this youtube video that they like to smoke weed together. A lot.

If you ever watch Kendrick play, take note of these two things:
1. His body looks like it's too small for his skin, like his internal mass is trying to burst out.
2. When all the other players are smiling and laughing, Kendrick always looks like he is going to bury one of his family members.

Reason 4 - Paul Pierce:

Nicknamed "The Truth" by Shaquille O'Neal, Paul Pierce is lovable because he is the ultimate underdog. He's less of an athlete than he is a fine-tuned scorer. He can be brutish about it--the world 'bulldog' comes up a lot--and he is constantly heckled for his unathletic figure. But he doesn't mind. He excels in getting to the basket no matter who is in front of him, and he is an artist when it comes to drawing the foul. Watch the video above, where he feeds Toronto's Chris Bosh a big serving of "fuck you," and then looks down with disdain. It's by far the most sinister glower ever captured on film.

Paul is the true Celtic, spending all of his 11 years in Boston, the best player on what was usually a very bad team. Ray and KG get all the fun in Boston, but Pierce was digging through the slop for a long time.

Also, back in 2000 he was stabbed 11 times, leaving scars all over his back and face, some cuts 7" deep, puncturing his lungs and his diaphragm. He was out of the hospital in less than a week, smiling and talking about getting back to the team. This man wakes up every morning and says, "I get to play basketball today."

So when you see Paul happy about winning, celebrating, you always know he deserves it.

Reason 5 - Rajon Rondo:

Last and certainly not least is Rondo. He's the up-and-comer, the youngling they expect to build the team around when KG, Ray, and Paul are dead. He's quick, he's a playmaker, he's a steal machine, and he has unusually large hands. Unfortunately, he does not know how to shoot jumpers.

There are two things you need to know about Rondo. First, he loves rollerskating. He claims he's pretty good at it. In an interview with Maxim Magazine he was asked if any players "talked smack" about his skating, and he said Kendrick claims that the skating makes him soft. Maxim then asked, "What's Perk do, play video games?" to which Rondo replied, "Him? Nothing. Man, he's asleep."

Those two are so cute.

Also, Rondo is the first NBA player to become a spokesman for Red Bull, and Red Bull is corrupting his soul. Here's an entry from Rondo's blog, written during the famous first-round Bulls and Celtics series:

"What's good! We are in Chicago right now...I'm about to get dressed for the game. I wanted to drop yall a few lines first. I want to get this win tonight. I know yall have been watching, and these past two games have been close. I'm really hoping we go out and get this one tonight. Some of yall may have seen me jump out of the Red Bull car before game 1. That car was crazy! I am officially the first NBA player to sign with them, so I'm pretty excited about it. I've been drinking it a lot since I signed, and I will have to say that it does give you wiings! Well...I have to get dressed now. Just wanted to stop by for a minute. I'm going to put up some photos from a Red Bull shoot I had, so check them out. I'll holla!"

But it's okay. We love Rondo because he is shamelessly uncultured. He loves selling out to Red Bull, he loves Will Smith, he loves expensive cars, he loves shopping and rollerskating, and he doesn't really care what you think about it because he's Rajon Rondo. His best friend is a foot-and-a-half taller than him, he doesn't talk much, and his name sounds more fitting for a soccer player than a basketball player. He probably smokes weed, cheats on his multiple significant others, and he is about as smart as a kid. What can you do but place him in your heart?

This is how bored we are....

2009-11-16T03:04:00.007-06:00

Leave a comment saying what your favorite clip was and if your funny enough you may get a date with Max!

Scary Stories: The gayest shit I ever wrote

2009-10-30T12:06:00.087-05:00

In honor of Halloween, let's talk about something scary. Something scarier than aliens or zombies, or even nuclear war; let's talk about something real, a threat from within. More specifically, let's talk about gay people.

Homosexuality is scary because it isn't some fictional The Shining/Night of the Living Dead/1984 bullshit. Somewhere in the world there are millions, if not billions, of saddlebag-toting, tofu-eating, hot brown pipe-slamming homosexuals, and they've all cut holes in their biking shorts so they can jerk off to home movies of your kids.

Think it doesn't sound scary? "After all," you may say to yourself, "just like zombies and aliens, no one actually knows any gay people, right?"

For a long time, especially in the city of Lincoln, that might have been true. But lately I've been doing some research, some real espionage work, and what I found was startling.

A few weeks ago I wrote about my "unimportant friend 'Colin.'" He was unimportant, and that's all I said. But now we need to delve a little further into who this man actually is. Colin represents the core of basic neo-collegiate values; he's a socialite, a seeker of mad bop prosody, a White Russian connoisseur, and an all-around "chill dude." Some of you may know him personally, many of you have shared a drink or a laugh with him. On more than one occasion he has caused an unsuspecting woman to swoon under his gentle gaze. In fact, I'll bet some of the young ladies reading this right now have had the honor of spending a romantic evening with him. And some of the young men as well.

"What? Did he just say 'young men?'"

Yeah. Totally fucking did.

See, I've been up to some undercover shit lately, and I've taken the last few weeks to carefully analyze some photos that were taken on the sly. I present you now with some of these photos, and a brief interpretive analysis of each one:

This photo initially prompted my investigation. It looks normal at first, doesn't it? But stare at it long enough (like I do at all photos of Colin), and it becomes something else. It begins to look strange. It begins to look gay. Notice, he has his arms around what seems to be an almost-attractive young woman. Yet he is wincing, grimacing. His eyes are closed. He doesn't want to be there. And observe how the young woman's arms are around his neck. Her eyes are closed and her teeth are bared from the effort of forcing him to pose for the photo. If she wasn't holding him down, he'd be running as fast as he could (to fetch some lotion, this quarter's GQ, and a handful of privacy).

Compare the last photo with this one. Colin's arm is around another man's shoulders, and he looks perfectly comfortable. There's no coercion here. He's happy as a cloud, and he even has his thumb up, as if to say, "I am in close bodily contact with another man, and I find it to be a completely agreeable experience." The other man has his thumb up, as if to say, "This is what I'm going to put inside of Colin later."

This may be as indefinite as a sasquatch snapshot, but trust me; that is Colin on top of another man. I don't think there's much interpretive analysis involved here. We know what's going on.

I can at least concede that what a man does behind closed doors is his own business (until we get a republican back in the White House), but in this picture, you can see that Colin is just plain coming after me. I didn't provoke him. I didn't come onto him. Yet here he is, making as though he wants to 'kissy-kiss' for a while. And you can see me, in the upper right corner, resisting with all my strength.

This, ladies & gentlemen, is the scariest part of Halloween; the idea that one of our friends, one of us, could be trying at any time, like we have seen in Colin's case, to turn our faces into phallic pincushions. Or even scarier still, that we ourselves could be the monsters, that we could wake up one day and find ourselves "man-crushin'," a lost soul like poor Colin.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, happy birthday Colin. And happy Halloween everybody. Have a Pabst.

"The Dog Story," or "How I Ended My Political Career"

2009-10-26T03:00:00.011-05:00

If you are a member of my family, don't read this entry. I would not lead you astray; you don't want to read this shit. I promise. I don't mean this for my own good, but for yours.

For everyone else, I'm going to tell you a mystical fairytale about an imaginary boy named Sam (this name is not meant to implicate anyone).

When Sam was back in highschool, he had been going steady with this one girl for quite a while. One day, when their relationship was at its peak, when it was really budding, they were spending some coy, pleasant alone time in his girlfriend's room, and suddenly a big fucking lightbulb went off above her head. She was struck with a novel idea.

"I think it would be really neat if I put ice cream on your dick and gave you a blowjob," she said, sentimentally. Sam grudgingly agreed.

Sam's girlfriend went down to the kitchen and returned with a pint of her favorite flavor: moose tracks. It was cold, and creamy, and chock full of Reese's peanut butter chunks. She instructed Sam to lay on the floor, because she didn't want the ice cream to melt and get all over her bed. Sam obeyed, and she took his pants off, and then, on her hands and knees, she spread the cold creamy deliciousness all over his erect, trembling passivity.

She didn't dig in on the ice cream right away, however. She rose, put the ice cream and spoon on her dresser, put her hair up, and did some other things that I don't think Sam was really paying much attention to.

Also, I should mention that Sam and his girlfriend were not alone in the house. His girlfriend's parents were downstairs ("Where are the kids?" "Um, I believe they went upstairs with some ice cream."), and so was their hunting dog. For the sake of anonymity, I won't reveal the dog's name, but it was a German Wire-haired Pointer, and it looked a little something like this:

It wasn't uncommon to find this mutt crawling around on its front legs, dragging the other two behind, spreading menstrual discharge all over the carpet. She must have had a pretty good nose on her, and she must have loved moose tracks ice cream, because she sure came a-runnin' as soon as that sweet, sweet scent pricked the end of her hunting-trained nostrils. While Sam's girlfriend was standing up, fiddling with the garbage on top of her dresser and whatnot, this trained killing machine came ambling into the room and put its tongue into the cold, clammy recesses of Sam's timid genitalia. Sam looked down in horror as this beast turned his penis into a lollipop. He couldn't scream; there were parents downstairs. He couldn't get up; any agitation and the dog might bite down, ruining his life forever. So, completely vulnerable, lying on the ground with his pants around his ankles, he did the only thing he could do; he waited for the dog to finish.

His girlfriend turned around from the dresser, witnessed what was happening, and broke into hysterical laughter. She giggled, she teased Sam, and she did not offer any help. And when the dog had finished, when Sam was left there with a penis that was sticky from dog saliva and melted ice cream, she didn't even do the job she had set out for in the beginning ("I'm not putting my mouth on that thing! My dog licked it!")

So today our hearts go out to Sam, the poor boy lying alone, frightened, sticky, and blowjob-less, all because he was taken advantage of by a dog.

Sympathy for the devil

2009-10-22T18:05:00.004-05:00

I never wanted to admit this, but now I feel I must: I have a little program on this blog that I use to count how many people are viewing it (because, honestly, I would have stopped writing if no one but my roommates and myself were reading it). But it does a little more than just count the views. It tells me personal information.

Now, don’t get all alarmed and whatnot. There’s total anonymity. It doesn’t say, for example, that Kate Humphreys or Claire Anderson is checking up every 15 minutes (although I know they are anyway). It doesn’t give me names, but it does give me just about everything else: the time someone viewed, the general location of that person (city, state, and country), and the webpage from which they clicked the link (i.e, if they found a link to my blog on facebook, it would say http://www.facebook.com/home.php).

I usually glaze over these facts. I’m just interested to see how many people have viewed the blog since my last post, to see if people are reading; for example, I now know that if Emilio is in any remote way involved with a blog entry—if it is about him, if his name is mentioned, or if he writes it—viewership increases dramatically. He’s just plain good for numbers, I guess. And that’s mostly all I use the counter for. But sometimes, once in a blue moon, someone accesses my blog by random coincidence, and it usually sticks out when I’m glazing over the stats.

For example, someone found my blog via the website, “http://www.google.com/search?q=hollister application not working”

This is a simple google search of “hollister application not working,” which led to my Hollister: so not-racist we’re racist entry. Someone also chanced upon it by searching “is hollister racist” (to which I would reply: yes).

But recently I have been noticing quite a few google searches leading to my Capitalism’s a love story, Socialism’s a porno entry. One person from Tubize, Belgium found it on the 2nd result page of a “maxs porn” search. One person from Puteaux, France found it on the 76th result page of a “SHITING PORN” search. If you are in Stockholm, Sweden, and you google “shit love stire,” my blog is the first result out of 5,020 possible choices (woohoo!).

And today someone from Henderson, Tennessee discovered my Christmas in September in Flames entry after searching for “erection when child sitting on my lap.”

First: I would like to point out the fact that all of the perverts who stumbled upon my blog are either from Europe or Tennessee. Think it’s a coincidence? Think again. Try to mentally conjure some other people you know from Europe and Tennessee: Sacha Baron Cohen, Van Gogh, the Pope, Connor Mayfield. Yeah, fucking gross.

Second: Who is worse? The man who seeks out “SHITING PORN,” or the man who seeks out “erection when child sitting on my lap?”

Let me give you a hypothetical scenario: Tom notices that he is excessively hungry/thirsty, has blurred vision, is urinating frequently, and is tired all the time. It’s been going on for a few weeks now. He’s getting a little concerned. So Tom types these symptoms into google and finds that they’re symptoms of diabetes. This doesn’t necessarily mean Tom has diabetes, but he has the symptoms.

On the other hand, someone who has been diagnosed with diabetes doesn’t type these symptoms into google. This person doesn’t need to; he knows the symptoms, he knows he has it.

“Erection when child sitting on my lap” isn’t something a hardened pedophile (no pun intended) writes anywhere, except for an autobiography or on craig’s list. It isn’t a demonic roar of pedophilic exaltation, but instead it is a cry for help. A young, perhaps just barely-pubescent male teen in Henderson, Tennessee woke up one morning, perhaps a little hungover, perhaps feeling a little sore. He was up all night, thinking, confused. “Why is it that other people don’t get erections when children sit on their laps, but I do? Am I different? Am I alone? Am I a monster?” So he reaches out. He does a google search. He doesn’t immediately go looking for child porn (or for “SHITING PORN,” like some assholes in France). He looks for someone with a common experience. He looks for help.

Somewhere in Hendersen, Tennesse a confused young man is confronting the pedophile within himself. He can overcome his depravities, but he is alone and scared and confused, and he needs your support. And don’t forget to drink Pabst.

I hope I did not offend Kate or Claire. I have no idea how often you check my blog, either of you.

Save the beer that saved America

2009-10-12T00:43:00.096-05:00

By this time we all know that the beer doesn't make the man, and I don't mean to name drop, but honestly; what's better than cozyin' down to a nice cool buttery Pabst?

It's a no-brainer. Nothing can beat a good old-fashioned Pabst Blue Ribbon. It's cheap, it doesn't taste very bad, and you can even drink it. But don't trust my opinion. Let's look at the facts:

Pabst was deemed "best beer in the country" in 1893, and it's still going strong today (just like ragtime music, phonographs, lynchings, and the temperance movment).
A 24-pack only costs about 15 dollars at South Street Liquor, which is less expensive than college tuition.
Pabst won a gold medal in the 2006 World Beer Cup, held in Denver, CO, the undisputed beer capitol of the world ("The World Beer Cup, often referred to as 'The Olympics of Beer Competitions,' is the most prestigious beer competition in the world." - worldbeercup.org).
Fact: Lincolnites frequently wear cutoff Pabst t-shirts.
Pabst gives you the drinkability of Bud Light, but without all that unwanted vomit. Proof: Emilio drank 24 PBR's before writing that last blog entry, and no one heard a word out of him the entire night.

But the best thing about Pabst has nothing to do with its
accessible price, or even its challenging, complex flavor. More subtle than any of its hops or malts is Pabst's marketing department. When was the last time you saw a Pabst advertisement? Probably never, because Pabst doesn't advertise. Yet Pabst is everywhere (all over the counter, all over the floor, half-full cans, upside down empties, puddles; Pabst all over the place). If Pabst doesn't advertise, how is it that we continue to see cases of PBR and Old Style at parties, lounging in stacks of Keystones like sagacious war-weary veterans? I could tell you, but this excellent New York Times article pretty much covers all of that nonsense.

Instead, I ask a more important question. Pabst is trying to compete in a market flooded by opponents (think Miller, Coors, Corona, Budweiser) with advertising budgets that could choke the life out of poor Fredrick Pabst (the 1840's steamboat captain/Milwaukee dreamer). So what can you, the Pabst-lover, the Old Style aficionado, the shotgunner of many blue ribbons, what can you do to help perpetuate and sustain the presence of Pabst products in your local liquor store? There are two simple steps:

You can contribute your dollars. Buy more Pabst. Today. Now.
When you go to bed at night, every night, ask yourself what you did that day to help sell Pabst. Expect more from yourself than simply doing nothing. And remember, only you can be held accountable for your sins.

You may be thinking, "gee, I'd love to help spread the holy word, but that second option seems mighty vague. What specifically can I do?"

Get creative. Connor, Emilio and I made the poster pictured above. Totally original, and we had a great time (a few PBR's) doing it. Yeah, we're pretty cool. And if you really can't think of anything, then try incorporating sales pitches into your everyday speech. Here are a few examples:

"Brews tonight? Pabsolutely."
"When your great grandfather Otto came over from Germany, first thing he saw was the Pabstue of Liberty."
"Jane had one too many last night and pabst out in the bathtub."
"My favorite Queen song is Bohemian Rhabstody."
"Am I making myself clear? Perhaps I'm being a little too pabstract."
"Check it out! This restaurant has Pabst on tabst."
"What's the habst?"
"In A Christmas Carol, Ebeneezer Scrooge is hounded by the Ghost of Christmas Pabst."
"In order to join the parish he had to take a vow of pabstinence."

Do your duty. Enjoy Pabst, and enjoy it loudly, and be it otherwise, may God have mercy on your soul.

Almost exactly 1 of every 25 words in this entry is the word "Pabst."

An Anti-Sex Tirade

2009-10-11T01:29:00.011-05:00

Emilio is making a guest post. It's so necessary, and most decidedly prophetic:

Guest Entry
10/10/09 2009:

"When a guy goes to a hooker, he's not paying her for sex, he's paying her to leave."-Unknown

I am no writer. My talent with words is lacking to say the least and I do not really feel like I have anything of importance to say. But what the hell, I’m drunk, I’m down, and Max said I could, so please bare with me. So what do you want to read about?

The economy?, healthcare?, Jesus, Heaven, Hell, happiness, Gay rights?, AMERICA, (Fuck yeah), did I say healthcare? Trivial topics. Lets, talk about sex baby! (Lets talk about you and me)

In the mortal words of Bette Davis, “Sex is God’s joke on human beings.”
I agree, sex is just a wonderfully cruel joke. To put it bluntly, I hate sex.

The moment you learn about sex it slowly starts to creep into your mind. Vines growing up some brick wall, slowly taking over until the walls gone and only the vines exist. So, for most of your adolescence you wait, impatiently, for the moment some girl says, “ Stick it in me, move it fast and hard, share my mind, make me feel alive, make me cum.” So, you work it, hard, fast, finish and you’re ready to go to sleep and dream.

Unfortunately, it seems sex is a much more complicated process than this. It seems like one of you is always there and the other one isn’t. The boy is extremely excited and the girl just wants to get straight to the sleeping, or vice versa. So, you both awkwardly put in some sort of effort, something is accomplished and then your done. It’s awkward, stupid, embarrassing, but luckily over. At this point you jump right into the sleeping and dreaming, normally as soon as possible.

My second point, besides the awkwardness, is the disease. Listen ladies, its not that I don’t want to touch every single one of you, kiss your thighs and put my tongue in your ear, I just don’t want to wake up one morning wondering why my dick is on fire, dripping some type of strange liquid, and think, “Oh god damn it, this is a problem……….for life!” I also do NOT want AIDS, sorry, sex is not worth death. Maybe, not everyone reading this blog had the pleasure of attending Mrs. Hanus’ s human growth and development class, but the slide show on STDs was more than enough to convince me that my dick does not belong in every hole that it fits into.

Now, I know that this whole thing is pretty anti-sex. Please, do not get me wrong, sometimes, it’s right. A complete abandon of pride and manipulation. You’re both there, mouths linger over each others bodies, everything you do works, you share each other, you sweat over each other, and for a moment of bliss you each share the exact same thought. As I said before, wonderfully cruel.

To end this rant, Ladies, I love you, your curves, your tans, real ones though not fake, your hair, your eyes, and your legs. Oh, I love your legs. I love how you are all on a completely different planet from me, and I don’t understand any of it, but I more than enjoy visiting your world.

So, I leave you with a challenge; prove me wrong.

Hollister: so not-racist we're racist

2009-10-05T22:28:00.017-05:00

Emilio is getting a job at Hollister, probably, and this is sinister. Why is it sinister? Well, he even said it himself. He said, I need this job at Hollister so I can drink, but I only want to drink because I’m working at Hollister. It’s a vicious cycle.

Emilio has been applying for jobs everywhere the past few days. He’s looked on and off campus, in each type of industry. But, interestingly enough, he never applied at Hollister. I’m pretty sure he’s never even been inside a Hollister. Instead, Hollister found him. An exquisitely dressed young woman and an exquisitely dressed young man both approached (cornered) him in the student union and asked him if he needed a job. And what do you think he said? (Hint: he said fucking yes)

But how does this happen? Emilio has been looking for a job for weeks, unsuccessfully. Out of all the hundreds of other students in the union, the Hollister representatives selected him. Not only that, but they have since called him several times to follow-up on his application progress.

Emilio must be the luckiest man in the world. Two angels came down from heaven to guide him in his hour of darkness. I mean, ask yourself; when was the last time someone approached you on the off-chance you needed a job? But then, ask yourself; when was the last time that you were a man of Mexican heritage who happened to dress, talk, and act like an un-intimidating white American youth?

I guess Hollister has a diversity scouting program now. They hang out on college campuses, and when they see a black man surrounded by anglo-friends, or a Mexican who doesn’t know any Spanish, they whisper, “see that one over there?” “Oh, yeah. We gotta get that one.”

On a normal job application they might ask you to check a box to indicate whether you are caucasian, african-american, latino, etc. Emilio’s application said, “Are you Hispanic or Latino: Yes/No,” and that was it.

“Are you hispanic or latino?”
“Yes.”
“Do you act kind of like a white person?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever sold clothes?”
“No.”
“Uh, we can teach you that.”

If you wanted to read one of the world’s most primitive documented discussions about Hollister and racism, go to this website (I would write about it, but this shit is so insanely stupid I don't even really know what I would say. just read it): Stupidest Conversation Ever

David and Goliath and Emilio and a fatass table

2009-09-29T12:27:00.017-05:00

This is an attempt to explain the above photograph.

The other day, Emilio and I walked into our apartment and saw a big table sitting in the livingroom that wasn't there when we'd left.

That reminds me. I use a lot of phrases incorrectly. Usually when I say "the other day," I could be talking about any given day between yesterday and 5 years ago. But I promise this time it really was just the other day.

The other day, Emilio and I walked into our apartment and saw a big table sitting in the livingroom that wasn't there when we'd left.

"Goddamnit," said Emilio. "I saw this laying out by a dumpster earlier, and I just knew I was going to come home and find it here."

At that moment Connor and Conci walked into the room and said, "Hey! Check out the end-table we got!"-- though you could hardly call it an 'end'-table. Three people could sleep comfortably on top of it. Its surface was a foot thick, faux-mahogany with a sloppy finish.

"I saw this table out by a dumpster," said Emilio.

"Yeah dude!" said Conci. "Free table!"

I suppose one man's trash is another man's overwhelmingly large living-room intrusion.

Later that night we had a few guests over, and things got a little hazy. People stumbled past our living room, slightly vexed, wondering aloud where we procured our "huge fucking table." Connor or Conci would pat it with genuine pride: "Yep, picked up this beaut' for a bargain down by the dumpster. Can you believe someone was just gonna to throw it away? (Yeehaww!)"

The night drew on longer and our guests grew hazier. Emilio, sitting in the corner of a room, twisting the ends of a mustache that he is yet to grow, became more and more possessed by his thoughts of the violently useless pile of timber. Suddenly he was struck with an idea.

"Colin," he said. ("Colin," he said to our unimportant friend, 'Colin') "Colin, do you want to throw a table off of our balcony?"

"You know," replied Colin, "recently I've been looking to get into some stuff like that."

So at 2 in the morning Colin and Emilio hoisted the table near the edge of our balcony, quivering under its weight. They gave an exultant heave-ho and let it spill onto the ground, splitting into 3 or 4 pieces in the grass. Claire took the photograph posted above, and this is how it came to be.

But there's more.

As one might expect, when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object, like the fat table meeting the earth, not only do we have a metaphysical dilemma, but it creates a very loud noise. And the table happened to land near our downstairs-neighbors' door. Very near their door. Very loudly, very near their door at 2 in the morning.

So Colin and Emilio and all of their spectators ran inside to avoid being yelled at from below, and we continued participating in the night's haziness, happily and securely indoors. But after a while we started hearing noises from outside. It wasn't people shouting or scolding us. It was something much more bizarre. Something strange and primal, a pounding or a knocking, and then cracking and splitting, sounds like the smashing of a crucifix or the incineration of a baby's crib.

We went to our balcony to see, and our downstairs-neighbors were shredding the table, stomping on it, tearing off its legs and using the splinters to impale the table's surface, and then lifting the impaled pieces above their heads and waving them, as though victorious over some dead animal. They were drunk and angry and sweaty and mauling the end-table into an unrecognizable collection of dust and kindling, roaring as they went.

The lesson of this story: fuck our neighbors. We tried to do something crazy and they one-up'ed us. But it's not going to end there. We're going to get them back.

Christmas in September in flames

2009-09-18T12:25:00.013-05:00

There are a million different species of asshole in this world, but, in the spirit of Christmas, I will only talk about three of them.

Asshole #1: I-Can't-Fucking-Believe-It Santa

Every year, just around Christmastime, the Rose throws a big fundraiser-party called “Breakfast with Santa.” Kids and their families come from all over Omaha to eat pancakes, make holiday crafts, wear costumes, hear Mrs. Claus read the Polar Express, and, most importantly, sit on Santa’s lap.

I remember one time there was a family standing in line for Santa in front of me, and they had a little baby. The baby was cute enough; it was wearing a coat all buttoned up to the top, a green beret-style hat, thimble-sized shoes with the Nike swoosh on each side, and it had a big stupid grin on its face. But the whole time we were moving through the line I kept thinking, “they can’t seriously intend to put that thing on Santa’s lap, can they?” Because, honestly, what kind of meaningful things can a baby say to Santa Claus? (“what would you like for Christmas this year?” “to not die of SIDS.”)

The line moved forward and soon we were up to the front. I watched with much dismay as mother and father lovingly plopped their big fat ball of unimportant joy on Santa’s lap. I didn’t have the patience for this; I had pancakes to go eat, costumes to try on. And not only did the baby just sit there cooing, spouting gibberish, but Santa allowed a disproportionate amount of time for it to do so. Mother and father were smiling at each other and snapping photographs, the baby was staring blankly and bubbling from the mouth, Santa was posing for the camera and “ho-ho-ho”ing to a non-responsive subhuman, and everyone else in line seemed to be okay with it, reasoning that the magic of the situation justified the length of the foursome. And before Santa handed the child off he said, “This baby is adorable: so precious, so special. I mean, can you believe some people want to kill these unborn fetuses?”

Asshole #2: Pedophile Santa

When I was older, able to reflect upon this previous incident and see what it really meant, I told my sister about it. But all she had to say was, "Could have been worse. Could have been a pedophile."

She told me about how the wrong kind of Santa can position a kid on his lap in the right kind of way so as to achieve optimum satisfaction. And that as human beings, we won't usually hand our babies over to just anyone, but, if you put on a red fat-suit and a white beard, parents will fight to have their kid be first in line to sit on your genitals.

Asshole #3: My Sister

When my sister said, "Could have been worse. Could have been a pedophile," she was only half right. Indeed, the Santa could have been a pedophile, but would that have been worse?

I'm not endorsing pedophilia. It's sick and wrong and everything else, but specifically in terms of a public, dress-up Santa Claus, I think they're mostly harmless. Let me try to explain: If I place my child on the lap of a shopping-mall Santa, I will be able to see where his hands are the whole time. If I look at Santa's lap and he has a noticeable erection, or if he puts his hands below my child's waist, then that's one thing. But as long as he can hide his pedophilia from me, then for all I know this Santa is just a very generous man, donating his time to the community. Even if underneath the white scraggly hair and the red fur coat is a child-hungry skin-shaving John Wayne Gacy-caliber madman, I still have to say- no harm, no foul.

Unlike pro-life Santa, at least the pedophile Santa is not acting upon his vices. The pro-lifer can't keep his mouth shut. He's contributing tangible harm to the world. The pedophile's harm only exists within his head (that is, in his relation to Santa Claus. What he does to children outside the costume, behind closed doors, is another matter entirely. And it's not funny at all.)

Although at this point, my sister would chime in, "it's not only about touching the child. Remember, he gets sick pleasure from the child just sitting there." But pedophiles can get sick pleasure out of a child any number of ways: looking at them, talking to them, watching their ballet recitals. If you guide your child's life based on the idea that anyone interacting with him/her could be getting sexual pleasure out of it, then your child is going to have a life not worth living.

I suppose that the main point I'm trying to make is that December is only 3 months away. Let's all try not to be assholes this year. Merry Christmas.

Darwin can eat my shit

2009-09-13T23:48:00.010-05:00

This is going to sound strange, so you’re going to have to bear with me:

My dad was telling me a story of when my brother was an infant. They were both at a pet shop, trying to buy a goldfish or something, but the store owner was trying to sell them a ferret instead (had a couple lying around?). “You’re gonna really want this thing,” he said, and he listed off the reasons why ferrets are easy to take care of, how they sleep 14 hours a day, and how they’re “so darn curious.”

My dad seemed a little apprehensive. Cradling my newborn brother in his arms, he explained he just wanted a goldfish, but the store owner wouldn’t hear no for an answer:

“What’s not to like? Cute. Cuddly. And you know that thing about how ferrets eat babies?” The store owner pointed to my brother. “Yeah, well, that’s over and done with. People don’t believe that anymore.”

End of story.

But this little anecdote got me thinking. For most people, a ferret eating a human child doesn’t even seem like a possibility. And it’s difficult to think back to a time when ferrets weren’t domesticated creatures (feral ferrets, anyone?). Ferrets seem to have no other existence beyond man’s plaything; release them into the wild and they will come crawling back on broken, useless little ferret-paws. Five seconds on their own and they’re going to be eaten or trampled. Right?

Wrong. Ferrets are straight up carnivores. They were originally domesticated to help people hunt. They’re agile, they slink into holes, and they love the taste of blood; a ferret makes a rabbit its bitch; any rodent about to deal with a ferret is a rodent about to be dealt with real quick.

Maybe you weren’t as surprised as I was to find out that ferrets are finely-tuned killing machines. Maybe I’m just an idiot. But whatever.

I did some research, and I found another astounding creature that persists in existence, despite any first-impression implication of feebleness or species terminality. This creature is called Emilio Barrientos.

We all grew up thinking Emilio only existed because of welfare handouts and the continued, often-unwanted interference of pro-lifers. But if you take a look into the history of Emilio Barrientos (a simple Wikipedia search should suffice) then you’re going to discover that this creature didn't always subsist on such insulting means. Emilio Barrientos used to define a hard worker, someone who earned his keep honestly for thousands of years. So at this point I make a proposal.

Would Emilio still be standing if it were not for the crutches that the modern world has lent him? Has he become too soft and weak to fend for himself in this domesticated, sheep-like state? Let’s consult Darwin on this one. Let’s release him back into the wild, and see if his number gets drawn in the natural selection.

Act like you've done this before

2009-09-08T23:07:00.008-05:00

My friend was rolling on the floor, touching himself near the lining of his pants, and saying, “Guys, listen up. Listen up. Listen up. This is great. The other night I was having intercourse with my girlfriend. She was on top and it was just awesome. ” (that’s an abridged version. He actually moaned something to the effect of, “The other night, she was on top and we were fucking and it was nuts.”)

Somewhere along the line this friend missed out on an important life lesson, a lesson I learned from Coach Sams during my freshman year of highschool. I remember like it was yesterday:

Our baseball team was about to beat a Millard team, which is the Nebraska legion baseball equivalent of the New York Yankees. We had been playing all summer and losing every game, but not only were we about to beat one of the elites, we were going to end the game early due to the 10-run rule.

Just before it was all over, Coach Sams gathered our team together and said, “When you win, go out there and act like you’ve won before.” The game ended and no one lost their cool. No cheering. No gloating. We shook the other team’s hands and retired to our dugout like perfect gentlemen.

I suppose it’s natural for a man to appreciate his conquest of a woman; feminists be damned. But I also know that Coach Sams has had sex thousands of times, and he doesn't throw a party each time it happens. I do remember one time he told us he saw a girl pee on herself, and he did tell us about one girl he had with "tits so big your eyes are gonna fall out of your fucking head." He tells us the good stuff, not the mundane trivialities of day-in and day-out.

So if she’s on top and begging you to fuck her harder, I guess you can tell me about that. If she’s asking you to put your thumb in her butt and calling you her little Napoleon, tell me about that. If she’s wearing a bunny costume, saying that your penis is a crucifix and that Jesus wants to go on an easter egg hunt inside her vagina before he rises from the dead, you sure as hell better tell me about that. But if all you have to say is, "I totally had sex with my girlfriend, it was crazy," then remember these words: when you win, go out there and act like you've won before.

Can I hit you up for that quarter?

2009-09-07T22:22:00.007-05:00

There’s a funny boy at the Rose who volunteers, and he loves quarters. He always asks people if they have quarters, and if they’ll trade him for his dimes and nickels and pennies. I used to think he just loved consolidating, cutting down on loose change.

One day he gave me 13 dimes and 4 nickels to turn into 6 quarters, but I only had 4 quarters in my drawer. When I handed him back 5 of his dimes and only 4 quarters he looked really sad. But I had 2 quarters I'd brought for the parking meter, so I traded him.

He came back half an hour later, standing outside the box office and talking to my boss. He’s very short, so he had to look up at her. He said he tried to use the snack machine but it wouldn’t take his dollar bill. He wanted to know if she had any quarters.

I could tell he was lying. I had just given him 4 quarters out of the drawer and 2 out of my own pocket. He didn’t need any more. The most expensive thing in that snack machine is only 75 cents.

But he was being very sweet about it: “You wouldn’t by any chance happen to have some quarters, would you? I sure could do with a few quarters.” And he was good at it. My boss searched through her purse and bent down to give him 4 more quarters. If instead she had offered him 10 dimes he would have said no thanks. I’m pretty sure he’s been doing this for a long time.