i need something new, something trivial will do; i want to satisfy this empty feeling

Listen up, ladies: if you never take anything else out of our short time together — that is, other than the toe-curling ecstasy of an orgasm so powerful you’ll likely die alone, forever shunning all other sexual contact with the newfound knowledge that you could never be as satisfied by anyone else, ever again (obviously) — it should be that, no matter how hygienic your husband/boyfriend/teenage son’s best friend (while he’s sleeping over (and you’ve been drinking (duh (and anyway, it’s not pedophilia when the woman is the adult)))) may be, if you decide to play with the head of his penis immediately after he leaves the bathroom, you’re going to get a little bit of pee on your hands.

He can shake it all he wants, but it doesn’t matter; touch the penis right after he pees, you’re going to need to wash your hands.

Best to let that thing air dry for a few minutes.

Listen up, men: if you ever switch to one of those front pocket wallets — on the advice of your chiropractor who said sitting on that old back pocket wallet was causing you back pain (on account of it being so fat because of all the money you have) — you will inevitably touch your ass on the back pocket, feel that it’s empty and, for a second or two, you will think you lost your wallet.

Also, this will happen probably five times a day.

And you’ll laugh it off the first few times, because silly you! Of course your back pocket is empty! You switched to the front pocket wallet a few days ago, remember? OMFGLMAO!

But let me just tell you, it gets old after a while.

sometimes i dream that he is me

Write this down, Internet: if I should ever @ you on the Twitter after, oh, 8:30 or so in the evening, you can rest assured that a) I was drunk, and b) I thought that shit was hilarious when I wrote it.

Speaking of which, do you know what’s even more fun than eBaying while you’re hammered? Waking up the next morning, checking the blackberry and seeing all the stupid shit you bid on, all whilst hungover. Yay!

Thank god for last-minute bidders. Although in hindsight, he did get a pretty good deal. And I probably could have gone $20 more. Maybe.

Hey LeBron. I hope your children contract the AIDS after having been fingered by a homeless person.

if i could be anything in the world that flew, i would be a bat and come swooping after you

The next person who tells me “Happy Fathers’ Day” is getting a fork to the eye.

Here’s a haiku:

I don’t need a card
to yell “who’s your daddy?” and
slap your mother’s ass.

Happy Fathers’ Day, Internet. Even to you, prison tatted Waffle House guy.

if you don’t like it you can stick it in your mamma’s mouth, and if she chew it she ain’t ever gonna spit it out

I wonder if that oil slick floating around in the Gulf is going to help the Mexicans swim here more quickly. God knows we could use some more, what with Cinco de Mayo coming up. Hector! Otra cerveza, por favor. Ahora!

Good thing Arizona isn’t on the Gulf Coast. Am I right people?!?!?

So I flew to Baltimore last week. In coach. I was upset initially, but then I tried to convince myself it would be a fun sociological experiment, sitting so close (and cramped) near people that are so very far beneath me, intellectually and financially. Sort of like that TV show where Paris Hilton and her friend (who used to be cute but then she got knocked up so there goes that) went and did poor-people things like vote Democrat or wait tables or go to church.

It would be fun, I thought. Maybe even a tad humbling. But then I got on the plane and oh my christ you poor people are obnoxious.

I mean, waking me up to tell me the drink cart is almost to our aisle? Are you fucking kidding me!?!

No wonder they serve coffee in Styrofoam cups to the people in coach. Why should poor people care about the environment, anyway? It’s not like they have anything to live for.

But I digress.

In addition to digressing, I also saw a midget one morning in the deli next to my hotel. And I know you’re probably assuming I’ll make some witty comment about how gross midgets are (and omfg they so are), but you know what they say: when you assume, you make an ass out of yourself.

My first thought (clearly) was to demand the manager call an exterminator pronto or they could keep their three-dollar bagel. But having been humbled by the horrors of coach just one day prior, I decided not to freak out and, instead, to show a shred of compassion.

So I snuck up from behind it with plastic cup, caught it, slide a piece of paper beneath the cup, then went outside and let it go

The end.

happy easter

i’m not a genius i’m more like a genie, granting girls’ wishes from a stone-cold bikini

I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately — sketching up diagrams and researching patents and organizing focus groups and the like — and I’m pretty sure I’ve stumbled upon what could possibly be my greatest idea for an invention yet:

A color-changing vibrator.

Turn it on, it glows a bright red. Turn it off, it turns to a darker maroon. Or maybe burnt sienna, but that’s something the aforementioned focus groups can help us figure out.

Because really, what woman wouldn’t love to be able to masturbate while on her period without the having to deal with the considerable inconvenience of clean-up?

That’s right. None of them.

And I know you’re sitting there wishing you’d have thought of this first, but haven’t we been over the whole “me: smart/you: not so much” thing again and again? I’m getting rather annoyed with your lack of focus, Internet.

you only wake me up if you’re hungry; i’ll make some dinner, but not today

If there’s one thing you absolutely must take away from this conversation we’re having, Internet, it’s that on the day before Valentine’s Day, the card section at Hallmark is no place to pick up chicks.

I’m not even kidding here. I don’t care how cute she is, chances are she’s already got plans.

And I know you were banking on the whole “you’re shopping for a Valentine’s card, so obviously someone else wants you, thereby making you instantly more attractive and desirable” angle working in your favor. But that’s only true for wedding rings, and not overpriced greeting cards. For all she knows, you’re buying the card for a fat girl. And really? You think the cute blonde in the Shoebox section is going to leave her boyfriend for some dude who can’t do better than a fat girl?

And look, I know you’re puzzled at the wedding ring/Valentine’s Day card distinction, because a wedding ring could mean that you’re with a fat girl, too. And you’re right. In fact, she probably is fat. But odds are she got fat during the marriage. Because who in their right mind would marry a fat girl?

Anyway, the point is that instead of casting doubt in the cute blonde’s head as to your desirability, the ring lets her know that a) you are, in fact, desirable to other women, and b) you’re married (i.e. miserable and desperate), so she can get what she wants with little to know effort on her part, thus making you more desirable.

Wake up and smell the coffee, Internet. Then take a sip. It may be bitter, but it’s eye-opening.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

untitled

it’s really not all that complicated; beats living out every day sedated

Twitter all you want, fringe celebrities, but I’ll likely not be texting the word HAITI to make a $10 donation anywhere, on account of how I really don’t care. Seriously, Haitians: try using some of that voodoo of yours to conjure up a U-Haul and move out of your shit country.

And don’t you even dare take offense to that, Internet, because you know damned well you don’t really care, either. You pretend you do, and say things like “oh yes, it’s terrible” or “first they all get Aids, and now an earthquake?” but then you grab the remote and the next thing you know it’s “oh, look! Women’s bowling is on ESPN2” and that’s that.

Hey! Need some advice on how to pick up a MILF? It’s easy! Borrow someone’s kid and take her to Chuck E. Cheese, where you’ll spend $20 on crap food and then walk around for an hour or so, arms filled with tickets and souvenir cups while she, through the magic of some lame Sponge Bob machine, turns 25¢ token after 25¢ token into 1¢ ticket after 1¢ ticket, all in hopes of getting a shitty Chinese yo-yo on the way out.

The MILFs love it. Love it.

It’s sort of like the old “taking a puppy to the park” routine, but with a far greater risk/reward ratio in that puppies cost less than kids to feed, they don’t talk non-stop (seriously, non-friggin’-stop), and you’ll never have to worry about the puppy’s paternal grandparents accusing you of molesting the puppy.

Sadly, though, the joke’s on you in that most of the single moms there are either fat, ugly, or some unacceptable combination of the two. Except for that one who was kind of cute, but she was with three boys and was clearly at her breaking point. And believe me when I tell you that you don’t want to be around when she loses her shit. Best to smile back but keep walking. Right? Right.

can you believe some things are not appealing, and there’s a spot on the ceiling of my childhood bedroom

I never knew when, but I always knew this day would come. It’s time for me to talk about the past and to confirm what people have suspected: for a period of roughly eight years, beginning approximately in mid-2000 up until 2008, I engaged in the use of illegal, performance-enhancing drugs.

Steroids.

I began injecting steroids into my left forearm out of necessity, in that my right forearm was becoming disproportionally larger than my left due to far more frequent use. And while I initially turned to the drug for purely cosmetic reasons, I continued the injections after discovering just how much it enhanced my performance.

With my left.

No matter how hard I tried, I could never quite get the proper stroke down with my left hand. And although my right has always been more than adept, having to pause ever-so-briefly to work the mouse with it — perhaps to open a new webcam video, because the college coed in the first one turned out to be a lot fatter than she appeared in the thumbnail — always threw my concentration off and prolonged the activity. And when your wife will be home any second, timing is everything. Everything.

Anyway, thanks to the ’roids (and the divorce leaving me with hundreds of hours of uninterrupted practice), this is no longer an issue. I can freely swap from right to left without missing a beat.

Off.