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.

Better lock in now so you don’t get burned later, just like how I should have bought those holiday plane tickets to New York back in September but I didn’t and now it’s more expensive. Same exact thing, if you imagine expensive plane tickets having an unsightly gap between their teeth.

And I know you’re probably thinking “what an awesome simile,” but that’s because you’re stupid and obviously don’t know what a simile is. I bet you were probably even thinking it was a metaphor at first, but then you looked it up on the wiki because you knew I’d call you out on it were you wrong, and you saw the word “like” and thought “bingo! It’s a simile, not a metaphor! Boy, will I look smart!” But you failed, just like that time you tried to perform oral sex on yourself, or like your life in general. You failing failure, you.

Anyway, I realize the “turning Ssssuckay now” bit is all hypothetical, of course, partly because it’s just a television show, and partly because vampires aren’t real, but mainly because I’m pretty sure if I were a vampire, I could pull better tail than Ana Paquin.

But for the sake of conversation, I’m sure you see my point.

Obviously there’s the fact that you’re going to need it to deal with all the snotty kids running around.

But when you also consider that there’s always a chance that one of the attending parents will over-indulge a bit and wreck their car on the way home, killing themselves and their child in the process (and thereby effectively reducing the number of hot dogs and juice boxes and sodas and bottled water I have to buy for next year’s party by two), well, it just makes good fiscal sense.

Right?

Right.

I considered starting off with “happy belated Halloween, Internet” but I find the whole “happy belated” trend to be particularly obnoxious right about now because, really, if I meant it, I’d have said it on Halloween. And if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s, well, it’s probably a midget. But if there are two things I’m not, it’s a midget and a liar.

I suppose you could make the argument that I don’t really care whether or not you have a happy November 4th, either. And you would be correct in that. But if you try to turn that around on me and call me a liar because of it, be prepared for me to turn it right back around on you and tell you that you’re wrong, so wrong in fact that it would surprise me that a person could actually be that wrong were I not talking about you, whose immense wrongness I’ve sadly grown accustomed to these past few years.

I wasn’t being a liar by wishing you a happy November 4th when I didn’t mean it. I was being polite. And sometimes, in order to be polite, you have to say things you don’t really mean, such as “that was delicious” or “porn is gross” or “I wasn’t checking her out, I was just noticing how much uglier and fatter she is than you.”

And if there are three things I’m not, it’s a midget, a liar and rude.

Speaking of which, I think my next career is going to revolve around making custom action figures to sell on the eBay, because I tried it for the first time a few days ago and clearly I have a knack for it.

I’m a little surprised I was able to find a toy rat that was actually the same scale as the midget. But I guess it was meant to be.

I’ve got a new hobby, Internet: watching the True Blood and trying to say Sookie the way that main vampire guy says it.

Ssssuckay.

Over and over and over, I whisper Ssssuckay and I tell you, it’s like you’re right there in the show.

Try it. You’ll like it.

And sorry, Anna Paquin, but that gap in your teeth makes you about as non-underoo-cream-worthy as the Rachael Ray, although I’ll continue looking at your boobs when you show them so keep that up. But mouth closed, please.

And lastly, so I was talking to my girlfriend the other day and she says to me, she says “I wish I were a kid again.” So naturally I responded back with “I wish you were a kid again, too. Because you’d be tighter.”

Zing!

Although for the sake of your own stupidity, I feel I should point out that I was taking the “really big vagina” angle and wasn’t going down the pedophilia route.

Because if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: big vaginas are the new midget joke.

It’s been my experience that, when your iPod is on shuffle and Bon Jovi’s “Bad Medicine” comes on, tapping your foot underneath your desk while you silently ponder whether or not the song is old enough to fall into the “lame music but has some nostalgic value so it’s okay to listen to” makes for a very handy way to distract yourself from how gay you are to have Bon Jovi on your iPod in the first place.

That’s a true story, and not fabricated for the purpose of this blog. Because I guess I’m gay.

Also, you should know that when Jon Bon sang the lyric “there ain’t no doctor that can cure my disease,” it was his way of telling you that he’s got the Aids.

Zing!

See what I did there? I took a jab at the Aids, which we all know the gays are still sensitive about (even though it’s so late ’80s (and quilting is even gayer than the Lance Armstrong bracelets (which are also quite gay))), but it’s okay. I’m allowed, because just one paragraph earlier I called myself gay. See?

And in doing so, I totally redeemed my heterosexuality and now I can admit I’m not really gay.

Sorry for the confusion, but that’s just how sexuality works. It’s in the rules, and I’m nothing if not a rule follower.