Afterthought: Holy Crap!

By Brian Peebles

The Marketeers finally got to me: they challenged my manhood to the point where I had to go out with them in order to defend my honor. I was able to convince them that I had unbreakable New Year’s Eve plans, so I only committed to a one-party deal for their December 30th New Year’s Eve Eve Warmup Bash. I held my own and hung with them until a respectable 2am (albeit by taking a few strategic bathroom breaks whenever Alpha Marketeer Skippy would sound the “SHOTS!” clarion call). We parted company on good male knuckle-bashing, slurred “Love you, Man!” terms, and I went home without incident, apparently none the worse for wear.

I don’t recall drinking TOO much, and I certainly don’t recall eating enough (quite possibly since Thanksgiving) to justify this morning’s porcelain wrath. By nine AM, I was overwhelmed by and succumbed to what could only be described as a Vengeant Etruscan Thunder Dump. I haven’t seen a bowl that full since the Port-A-Potty company went on strike during the County Fair three years ago – but this pile was all me. The following items may or may not have shot out of my ass during that wrenching, wretched twenty-minute cringe-and-purge session: A bratwurst (which I haven’t touched since Oktoberfest ’97); a tiny purple antelope (still kicking); the 3, 7, and 12A buses of the Pittsburgh Public Transit Authority; my own toes; Jimmy Hoffa’s wristwatch; the Holy Grail; Oprah.

After that awful offal workout, I am convinced that my sphincter could bench press a Buick. What the hell could possibly have caused such an evil, evil gastrointestinal seismic event? I may have set off a tsunami warning in Seattle with that Richter-scale-blowing shitfest! I’ve got to hang this on Skippy and the Marketeers – my attempt to match their intense cock-stomping, testosterone-junkie company enraged my guts to the point of mutiny. Next time Skippy calls me out, I’m going to have made arrangements with my girlfriend – either a real one, or Rachel Ray and her cooking specials on my TIVO.

Ask Uncle Scooter: Boobs? What?!

By Old Scooter Lowry, Everybody’s Uncle

Dear Uncle Scooter,
My boyfriend broke up with me last week so he could date another girl. Everybody says I’m smarter, prettier, and more fun to be around than her – but she has the breasts of a porn star. If that’s what he wants from a girl, then I guess I should be glad to be rid of him – but I just want to know why guys love boobs so much.
Love, Beckee W. – Seattle

Dear Beckee,

Two big reasons. (Sorry – I couldn’t let that joke go.) Well, there ARE two big reasons, and I’ll get to them shortly.

Sigmund Freud would have posited that the major attraction of breasts to men has to do with the subliminally hard-wired connection between breasts and mother’s milk – the bigger the breasts are, the more likely they are to provide enough milk for survival. Freud also prescribed cocaine and freak-sex as therapeutic tools, so screw Freud. Freud was nuts. Men don’t go to strip clubs for their milk menus.

The real reasons men like big boobs on women are a lot simpler and much less creepy. First, we like nice big, round breastesses for the same reason we like Tiger Woods’s chipshot or the neighbor’s workbench: because we don’t have them. However, if we get to put our arm around a lady with fully loaded front torpedo bays, we get to fool ourselves into thinking we have some control (thus a vicarious form of ownership) over the breasts, their host lady and all their accompanying glory. We’re pigs, Beckee – but for lack of a reproductive alternative, you have to love us.

Second, many men - OK, about 80% of men between 18 and 30 – like to drink themselves rotten on occasion, then try to pick up women. One’s vision (as well as his dating standards) is reduced by a substantial measure while in this state. Large breasts strongly indicate the person his drunken carcass is chatting up is indeed a female, which greatly reduces potential for a Sloshed Sausage Surprise should his slurring seductions produce success.

Similarly, for men at my age who need to wear glasses to see our own faces in the mirror, we like to know the gender of the person addressing us so we respond appropriately. If a lady’s treasure chest is so pronounced that we can tell she’s a woman from three blocks away, we have that much more time to prepare our charming repartee – time which is deeply appreciated at this point in life.

That’s pretty much it, Beckee – I apologize if the demystification leaves you disconcerted. For what it’s worth, it sounds like that what you’ve got enough going on above your neck will in time impress decent men enough that they won’t concern themselves with what’s poking out of your sweater.

Sincerely,
Uncle Scooter

Knicks-Nuggets Brawl: A Modest Proposal

By Espen Jockovitch

First, let me apologize for the lateness in my editorialization upon this significant display of bad behavior by millionaire athletes. I’m Jewish, the wife’s an Episcopalian, and quite honestly I've only had this hour and a half or so after Channukah clean-up and before Christmas set-up to work my day job since the 13th or so. Why, yes… both sets of parents *are* coming in to stay with us for their different Holidays. How could you tell? Thank you in advance for your sympathies.

On the evening of December 16, Mardy Collins of the New York Knicks flagrantly fouled J.R. Smith of the Denver Nuggets with a gangland-style clothesline chokehold around the neck as Smith was flying in for the second of back-to-back acrobatic dunks. At the time, the Nuggets held a 19-point lead with 1:30 to go in the fourth quarter at Madison Square Garden, the Knicks world-famous home court. A full-on bench-clearing streetfight ensued, with fisticuffs spreading into the first few rows of the stands.

Above are the facts. Below is the whining attempt at justification for such street-punk tactics by Knicks players and their coach, who allegedly ordered the melee-instigating hard foul. Nate Robinson, Knicks Guard: “They just wanted to embarrass us.” Isiah Thomas, Knicks Head Coach and Hall-of-Famer from his playing days: “They were having their way with us.”

Three words for those quoted above: Boo. Fucking. Hoo.

Excuse me, Knicks… but you know what might stop people from running up the score on you at your own house? STOP SUCKING! All the Knicks players make the same ridiculous elephant-shitpiles of money as other NBA players. Knicks players have the advantage of instant fame and recognition thanks to the storied franchise for which they play and building in which they suck. How many more special treatments do you whiny putzes need before you sack up and play (or at least take it) like men? For crying out loud, the entire Atlantic Division is waiting for you pathetic golfpencil-peckers to get over yourselves and take charge: at 12-18, the Knicks are only one game out of the division lead. Grow a pair, take your lumps, and move on to the next game!

Further, I may be out of touch, but I thought it was the Coach’s job to help his players learn from their mistakes, not to be the Big Cheese pairing with their whines. This collection of eggshell egos and dormant potential has made so many mistakes over the last couple years that any decent coach should be reviewing his players’ doctoral dissertations on How Not To Lose Like A Group Of City Punks Getting Their Jock Straps Tied Over Their Damned Heads On The Court By A Bunch Of Fair-Playing Suburban Peanut Leaguers by now. Well, Zeke, you really screwed the pooch here. No taking the team out for ice cream after this one: not because they lost - because they didn’t play nice with the other kids.

Operation Broqbaqi Freedom

By Mohammad Saeed al-Sahaaf

Big Bad Bush come swing his dick
Watch it swish and sway –
Look at which hole he stuck it in -
He must swing The Other Way!

Iraqis knew he likes it there -
We lubed and caked with stench
Then once he thinks he’s done with us
We hold his dick and clench.

Bush blew his wad and now he’s stuck
With Middle East collapse
Dubya Bush is Cowboy, but
His kind wears assless chaps.

Open Letter to Ad Copy Writers

By Ron R. Clark

The holiday shopping season is upon us like winter itself with its companion advertising as the weather: cold, blanketing, oppressive, and always, always blowing.

As I settle in to end my December days with a little mindless televised entertainment, I find myself bludgeoned with perpetual advertising for myriad products, many leaning heavily and lazily like a 285-pound road-worker on the same tired premise-shovel: (1) Multi-gendered, multi-aged group (quite often assumed to be a family) banter with respect to needing and/or acquiring product; (2) early-to-middle-aged husbandly/patriarchal figure suggests terrible alternative which lays bare his grotesque lack of knowledge of current technology/events and/or the other group members around him; (3) rest of group ignores his screaming dullardry and wisely opts for Advertiser’s product or service; (4) adult male shrugs and defensively cries “What?” with clueless deer-in-the-headlights expression and/or rest of group sidles away from him in bitter disgust.

In the interest of full disclosure, I personally fall into the early-to-middle-aged male demographic, as do a significant percentage of my associates and compatriots. The social and professional circles in which I circulate are indeed peppered with instances of middle-aged men suffering from mental flatulence, yet we all still manage to hold down jobs and largely satisfy our obligations to families, employers, and creditors. The numbskull males in these ads, however, are incompetent social retards whose apparent purpose in life is to always be the Dumbest Mother Fucker In The Room so everyone in their lives from the non-threateningly attractive and wise adult female to the snarky-yet-witty eight year old to the ass-licking mongrel mutt feels that much better about themselves by comparison. My reality glares brazenly in contrast with the fantasy realms created ubiquitously by ad copy writers and their actor-whore drones. Either my reality is false or the liars are the people being paid to manufacture nonexistent eye-catching scenarios with the end purpose being separating the general public from its money. I will let you readers draw your own conclusions as to which side stands in the light of Truth.

The family-ad premise described above has been beaten to for fifteen to twenty years running now. I blame it – thus indirectly the copy writers of Madison Avenue – for the continued implosion of traditional family structure. An entire generation of young women has grown up being indoctrinated into the unfuckingbelievable stupidity of middle-aged men for thirty seconds at a time for their entire young adult lives. These young women thus find these DMFITR as highly undesirable and their adult female companions as servile wretches. Once they realized they’ve called members of this abhorrent class of society Mom and Dad all their lives, young ladies recoil in horror and swear never to allow themselves to fall into the same living hell. As time progresses and they see boys become men, the ladies panic knowing the ultimate transformation into DMFITR is inevitable. Thus running low on companionship options, they either become crazy cat ladies, voracious lesbians, or lonely angry blog queens with formidable vibrator arsenals.

Thus in the interest of America’s, nay, Global Society’s future - in the name of institution of Family – I beseech the community of Ad Copy writers to abandon this hackneyed fake-family set-up. Endeavor to pry cash from our wallets using a more challenging scenario. Hey – why not let Mom be the doofus every once in a while? She can’t be THAT smart – she did marry Dad’s dumb ass…

Dogs Of Love, Volume 1

Relationship Advice by Patches the Beagle

Patches,
A male friend I am not interested in romantically hangs around me a little too long for my comfort level after we go out with the group. How would you let him know his individual attention isn't desired outside of the group?
Stacie F., Baltimore

Stacie,
I like to drop right down in the middle of the floor and voraciously lick my own genitals to send that “Time to go!” message to Hun’s friends if they linger a little long for my liking during their scrapbooking klatches. I’d suggest trying the old faithful JunkLap Maneuver… with caution. Considering the video clips that Sweetie enjoys watching on his computer when Hun is away, doing so may have the opposite effect with male hangers-on.

Patches,
My boyfriend and I have been an exclusive item for over seven years. Our relationship has lasted longer than most of our other friends who got married and divorced, and our love has never waned. However, whenever I hint at the desire to marry, he turns cold and distances himself emotionally for a month or two. I just turned 31 and I’m starting to hear that clock tick… is it time to ask him to commit once and for all?
Laura S., Phoenix

Laura,
Your plight is the most common – and most sensitive – situation for which I receive requests. Addressing it in a manner that doesn’t make your boyfriend feel pressured (which could foment silent resentment from him down the line) requires detailed focus and intense concentration on his feelings both expressed and unexpressed, his body language… SQUIRREL! SQUIRREL! Hahaha! Hey, don’t make me chase you…all right – here I come, you fluffy-tailed rat! Hee hee! Yay! Squirrels!...