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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

I’ve resolved, among other things, to lose a bit of weight this year. And considering I’m not much on either the dieting or the exercising, and since cutting back on the drinking is so preposterous an idea that I almost didn’t even bother mentioning it because you’d just ridicule me for bringing it up and really? You ridiculing me? That’s even funnier than the whole “cutting back on the drinking” thing. So anyway, I’ve decided I’ll lose a few pounds this year by way of chronic masturbation.

I don’t know how much semen typically weighs on a load-to-load basis, but thanks to the innovation and sheer brilliance of my poop-weighing technique, I figure I can simply substitute semen for poop and presto! And then after a day’s worth of the weighing/jerking/weighing/math, I’ll be able to find the arithmetic mean of semen weight (which I’ll absolutely share with you (in the name of science)) and we can put together a nice workout regimen for me.

Nay.

For us.

I know it’s a couple of weeks late, but here’s that video of my dog you wanted to see.

He’s so cute…

So I was going to write something about how sad it is that the Brittany Murphy chick died, but since I don’t know who she is, I don’t care. In her face.

In fact, I’m trying my hardest not to get pissed off at her about it. Because when you really stop to think about it, how dare she? How dare some chick who no one even knows who she is to up and OD from snorting the coke go into cardiac arrest and die right around the holidays, taking your and my focus away from what really matters: Tiger Woods.

Here’s a question for you: what’s more annoying, the guy riding his bike on the street when there’s a bike path going to same route he’s going maybe ten feet to his right, or the guy in the car behind him (and in front of you (obviously)) who refuses to pass him, even though there’s no oncoming traffic?

Turns out it’s the guy in the car. Because while they’re both responsible for making your commute last longer than it should, when you finally got a look at the guy on the bike, you saw he was foreigner. And what with it being the holiday season and all, you felt sorry for him growing up in some crappy country with some crappy religion that doesn’t have Santa Clause. Poor Balki.

Here’s another question for you: notice all the colons? That’s three in one blog post, and I’m pretty sure they’re all used correctly. I bet that dead girl from Clueless couldn’t have done that even if she were still alive, which she isn’t.

Happy Christmas, Internet, in case I don’t post anything else this week which I might but probably not.

Subtract weight number two from weight number one and you now know how heavy your poop was.

Then you’ll snicker at how ironic it is that “weight number two” is the one without the poop, but compose yourself, Internet, because the focus here is how much your poop weighed.

And I know the whole “if you’re anything like me” threw you for a loop because you’ve always considered yourself too fat and stupid to even pretend you’re like me. And you’re right. But with dedication, hard work, some sit-ups and maybe a tutor, maybe — just maybe — you can get yourself to the point where people won’t laugh in your face when you tell them you sometimes pretend you’re like me. They’ll still laugh at you, but they’ll do it behind your back. And they were probably going to do that regardless of what you’d said. Dare to dream the dream!

Anyway, the point of all this is that I woke up this morning and had to poop, and after the weighing/pooping/weighing/math was done, I calculated that my poop weighed exactly one pound.

The end.

Me.

A racist.

I would have been upset had it not been so laughable. I mean, seriously, who has time to hate one race over another when they’re all so worthy of your hatred?

Black. White. Black with a hint of Asian. You’re all obnoxious and stupid and I’d prefer that you leave my company post-haste.

Speaking of which, I think it’s time you people got off poor Tiger’s case already. So he screwed around a little. Big friggin’ deal. It happens, and you don’t know what was going on in his marriage that provoked it.

I mean, you’ve seen his wife. She’s hot, but she’s also blonde. And Tiger seems to be a smart guy, so it has to be frustrating being in a marriage with someone he can’t have an intelligible conversation with.

Plus, she’s Swedish. Can you even begin to imagine how annoying it must be having some Euro running around the house yelling “bork bork bork” nonstop? No. You can’t even begin to imagine it because it’s that horrible. Funny to think about it happening to someone else, sure, but if it were in your home, not so funny. Right? Right.

And look at him. The guy’s a catch. He has a bajillion dollar, he’s athletic, and he can do your nails. I’m not entirely certain if his penis size was determined by his black or his Asian genes, so that could be a pro or a con. But even still, what whore woman wouldn’t be willing to chance it?

Like you.

And I know you’re probably excited at the prospect of me wanting to relate to you in some manner, but calm yourselves, Internet. Because you’re wrong. I’m bringing it up now because I’ve tried to relate to you and your kind as of late, and you know what it gets me? It gets me asked for favors at entirely too late of an hour, that’s what. As if me not knowing the answer to this one question makes it okay to call past 10:00. So enough already with the relating and the favors.

Anyway, so I’ve got this question which has been perplexing me for years and years, and I’m sharing it with you now because, for one, I want you to understand the trivial things I’m able to spend my mental energy on since I have the other parts of life figured out — in your face! — and for another, I’m hoping someone might know the answer.

But first, a lesson in zoology:

The term midget is regularly thrown around to describe all tiny people, the big headed/curved legged kind and the kind that look like real people but way shorter. In actuality, though, a midget has proportional limbs. Think Webster, not Tattoo. Tattoo, with his freakishly large head and sharp teeth and French accent, is a dwarf.

We still call dwarfs midgets because the word midget just sounds funnier. And that’s okay, because really, who cares? It’s like referring to a spider as an insect; the only people who care that there’s a difference are nerds. And if there’s one thing I’ve taught you, it’s that we do not care what the insignificant think, nerds and midgets included.

But I’ve gone off on a tangent.

Okay, so here’s the question which has been perplexing me for years and years: Why do Dwarfs get offended when you call them midgets?

They prefer to be called “little people,” despite that term being only half true, and get so pissed at being called midgets that they’ll bite you right on your ankles. And while no one cares what a midget thinks, who has the time to go to a hospital to get a rabies vaccine when there are all those people in line ahead of you getting the swine flu shots? It can take an entire afternoon!

And yeah, while we can all agree that they’re both disgusting, I think we can also all agree that, on a scale of one to ten, with one being the least disgusting and ten being the most disgusting, that midgets have a lower disgusting ranking than do dwarfs. Probably eight for midgets and ten for dwarfs, but those are estimates so don’t base your term papers on it.

So midgets getting pissed at being called dwarfs, okay. Sure. I get that. But what the hell is up with dwarfs catching ’tude at being called midgets? It’s practically a compliment.

Happy Thanksgiving, Internet.