Saturday, July 05, 2008

Moving On...

Alright, everything below this post was written some time ago, when I was less bitter, jaded, and hateful towards the world. So now that I'm working full-time, paying bills, commuting like a bastard, and generally hating most aspects of my life, the material should take a dramatic turn upwards. A few things I should mention...

This blog was shut down because I was in the midst of a federal background investigation. Sure, most of the things I had written were harmless, but I didn't think the government needed to know how upset I was about a non-rewarding shit I once took. It has now been reopened because I passed my background check and am now employed by the federal government. In fact, I'm actually typing this from my office right now. So, in a way, your tax dollars are actually paying for this blog.

You. Just. Paid. For. This. Sentence.

Bear with us as there are still some modifications and adjustments to be made during this rebuilding process. Even now, I can't decide if posts should be centered or right-line justified. The decision is seriously killing me inside.

Check back when you have time and tell all your friends because there are plans to post a lot of new stuff, including a multi-part series entitled, "The Time Travel Chronicles." Until then, [British accent] jog on!

Mind Your Manners

Something distressing has struck me recently: do manners actually matter to the average person anymore? Sure, we would all prefer everyone treat us like royalty and sprinkle roses under our feet but would we ever return the favor? No, I doubt we would. Take the administration of oral pleasure, for instance – if you’re capable enough to receive it, are you kind enough to give it?

The age-old practice of holding the door for your peer is still continuing strong here at Roanoke College. But in these increasingly lethargic times I feel we should make guidelines. I was holding a door for two girls walking into Trexler one morning and felt it would be rude to cut in front of any other females entering the building, so I ended up holding the door for almost twenty different women. Thus arises, a very poignant question: should one be expected to hold the door for ugly girls?

This is a tough issue because, let’s face it, ugly girls don’t deserve special treatment. Otherwise, they’ll think they’re getting it for a reason. And then they won’t try to clean up that trainwreck they call a face. If anything, we should be slamming the doors on the ugly people to let them know something’s awry. I suggest we purposely let the door smash into their face and hope it rearranges their features into a more pleasant configuration. And afterwards run over, rub the door and say, “Oh my goodness, are you alright? That ugly girl just walked right into you.”

All I’m saying is, sure, you might have a bubbly personality and be the nicest person in the world, but if it’s becoming increasingly obvious that no one’s holding the door for you, maybe it’s time to call up your local plastic surgeon. And what about fat women? Do I have to hold both doors for them? Now this is getting ridiculous.

This whole ladies first, equal rights, Title IX bullshit is really getting old too. Hold the door for a woman and you’re oppressing her femininity. Don’t hold the door for her, you’re a chauvinistic pig. “How can we ever be equal if you inhibit my ability to be an independent woman? I am woman, hear me roar.” Yeah, roar away, darling – just don’t put any yellow mustard on my fucking sandwich. But back to the manners thing…

One of my professors once suggested that everyone on campus wear name tags to increase the intimacy among the student body. No, not that kind of intimacy. Perhaps learning one another’s names would help us understand we’re all human and here to achieve the same goals – get drunk, get laid, and get graduated. Perhaps name tags would make those that tend to be less outgoing more personal and extroverted. But what about people like me – ya know, people who judge every book by its cover because we’re too lazy to do otherwise? I would probably walk by a fellow student, read his name tag, extend a courteous greeting, and afterwards say to myself: “Man, Bruce might be his name… but he’s still a douche.” Two-faced, you say? Well, then you’re just a hypocrite. And you’re probably a bigger douche than Bruce. And thanks to this little name tag concept, he’ll be “Bruce The Douche” until the day I graduate.

So, do manners really matter to us anymore? I mean, I have a friend who draws faces on his penis and then makes it sing songs at his twelve-year-old cousin’s birthday party. Crude, rude, and horrifyingly disgusting? Absolutely. But he’s one of the most well-mannered people I’ve ever met. Nevermind. Bad example.

Talkin' Shit

You know when you're sitting there, butthole puckered and stomach churning? Sure you do. Don't be embarrassed - it's perfectly natural. Everybody shits. Except really hot chicks. I don't know how they get rid of it, but really smoking women definitely don't do what I do at least once a day. But still, as natural as this bodily function may be, sometimes it really lets you down.

Earlier today, I had to poop. Straight up. I'm not gonna sugarcoat it for you. But it was the kind where your stomach is almost saying, "Dude, get rid of this or I'll make you regret it." So I get down to it, finish my business, survey the scene and I'm left empty - literally, but emotionally too. All that trouble my stomach was yammering about and I leave this dinky little donker, thinking to myself, "That's what all this nonsense was about?" It's a shame really. An ordeal like that leaves you irritated, only slightly relieved, and with no true feeling of accomplishment.

Wait a minute, am I really writing about taking a dump? Holy shit, I need to try a harder on these. Just pretend you didn't read all this.

Know Your Rights

Originally intended for the Roanoke College newspaper. Never made it to print.

We’ve all had our share of run-ins with the law. Whether it be a minor traffic violation or a double-homicide, we all know how difficult the strong arm of the law can be at times. So, in my infinite wisdom, I have developed four easy steps on how to speak, treat, and interact with a police officer. Please note: many of these tactics can be effective on all figures of authority, ranging from your parents to your dominatrix.

  1. Respect. Police officers crave respect. It is essentially the reason they pursued law enforcement careers. Therefore, it is important to respect the officer at all times. If he says his name is Officer Wellington, say “I’m sorry, did you say ‘Officer Pig’?” If you want, tell him you smell bacon and start making oink noises. If he gets angry, tell him pigs are actually the third smartest animal, which almost makes up for how they're fat and smell like shit. This is the absolute best way to show the officer you respect him.
  2. Answer Honestly. The police do not appreciate a skewed answer. It is very hard to give an officer and honest answer without having your integrity questioned. In order to avoid such a conundrum, give nothing but skewed answers. When he asks for your name, tell him you’re the ambassador of Tonga and you have diplomatic immunity. Since Tonga is a relatively obscure country, the officer is bound to be confused and let you go.
  3. If you feel that giving skewed answers isn’t the best approach, try not answering at all. Begin acting as though you only understand sign language. After the officer tries mouthing your violation several times to no result, he'll likely become frustrated and start beating you. That's when you yell out “I’m deaf, I don't know what you want from me” in that funny deaf guy voice. Make sure passers-by hear you and become outraged at his behavior. Soon, you'll have an angry mob gathered around that petty excuse for an officer and you can crawl under their legs to safety.
  4. Never let the officer into his comfort zone. If he says your eyes look bloodshot, tell him you were born with a genetic defect that makes it impossible for your eyelids to close (be sure not to blink while explaining this). If he tells you he has extensive training to determine when someone's lying, ask him if he's ever seen “Training Day”, and does he know if the DVD has any good extras. If he tells you you're going to jail, ask him where he's going. He'll start to say “jail” but then he'll catch himself. As he thinks of a better way to answer your question, steal his cruiser and head to Blockbuster to rent “Training Day”.

The Age of In-No-Sense

I think I wrote this in high school at some point...

Simply put, it works like this: some think every girl is a harlot at heart—this is fiction. There are girls out there who can melt you with a smile, a word, a wink, or wave. Sadly, they come along few and far between leaving us in search of moments to share with them. But in terms of reality, we’re all human. The satisfaction of our innate sexual desires is crucial to survival. Chronic masturbation is unhealthy. You’ll associate a Toys R Us® catalogue with rim-jobs if you pleasure yourself too often. At our age, we have just enough innocence left to plow unsuspecting dames without the pesky constraints of the date rape legal arena. Our age, immaturity, and - most importantly - stupidity provide us the safety blanket of anonymous sexual encounters with little worry of jail time for either party.

A Lot Cooler If You Did...

I once told someone she’d be a lot cooler if she were dead. She wasn’t too happy with me. But it’s true: without the heart continuously pumping blood throughout the body, circulation stops, and body temperature decreases. It’s a scientific fact. Of course, I never explained that part to her and she was still angry. God, that bitch would be a whole lot cooler if she was dead.

Punctuation, Homosexuality, & Massive Head Trauma

The following was the result of a quick glance at a friend's away message... and drugs.

As I looked at Kristina’s away message, something out of the ordinary struck me. An entirely honest and innocent quote, probably picked up from some vapid teenage love series like that wretched OC in the most likely of scenarios, was adorning the white background. “Love can be a comma, a question mark, or an exclamation point.” Clever to an extent, I suppose. Perhaps referring to how it can cause moments to come to a halt, put them into uncertainty, or enhance them with loud yelling.

However, my initial reading of the quotation set my mind a-gasp. I read it as “Love can be a coma, a question mark, or an exclamation point.” This startled me. I thought about it for some time, almost passing out actually. How could two forms of grammatical etiquette possibly relate to the condition of Steven Seagal’s character in Hard to Kill? Or was it Out for Justice? No, it was definitely Hard to Kill. Better yet, why was the word “coma” inserted in a quote about love? I mean, what sad, depraved, French, pig-fornicating dolt came up with this gem?

“Hmm… I need something passionate yet genuine that can dazzle and entice the masses. Soon, everyone will believe that massive head trauma and love can be symbiotic in the same environment.”

Obviously, this fellow’s boyfriend was hit by a transit bus or a San Franciscan trolley a while back. I can already picture him at his mate’s bedside in tears with his job acceptance letter from the Hallmark Company in hand, vowing to never leave his beau’s side until his recovery. After giving up his potential career and awaiting his lover’s consciousness for months, he loses the edge. The right stuff. The bread and butter. The talent. Eventually, everything else too. He lost his career, his home, and his ability to compose a beautiful love aphorism. Even his car keys. And those little bastards are always so hard to find as it is. So he begins trying to write his own personal love maxims.

“Love can be a hammer to help build a strong relationship, a vice to hold it together, or a life-support machine synthetically feeding your brain-dead lover faux vitamins, minerals, nutrients, and anything else to enhance your false hopes that he/she may someday wake and be in your arms again.”

That one doesn’t work out for him too well. So he tries to write something more valid for everyday people. Sadly, his second attempt at fusing love and vegetative lovers was, although - thankfully - shorter, it was twice as archaic and thrice as puzzling. “Love can be a coma, a question mark, or an exclamation point.” What does he mean?!

Of course, eventually, I went back to reread the maxim. I had, in fact, read it wrong. I calmed myself down with some Sally Lund bread and milk. Don’t you worry who Sally Lund is either! She’s good people. The quote was increasingly comprehensible after my sixteenth reading of it.

But then I thought, “I don’t feel this proverb is being very fair to other forms of grammatical correction.” Why does the apostrophe hold no ground in the love-expression-metaphorical-realm of things? And what about the period? Why can’t love be a period? Nevermind. I just answered my own question.

Passing Time

The following is the result of sheer boredom, stream of consciousness, and minor insanity during Humanities class sophomore year...

If Thoreau’s dumbass was right, should we just be sitting here letting life pass us by? Shouldn’t we be out there “sucking the marrow out of life” with a wacky, twisty straw we from a box of Cocoa Puffs? Should we really sit in classes, seminars, and trees with binoculars while life is passing us by like the family of four does to the smelly, hitch-hiking hobo? Who’s to say education is even important? Maybe learning all these equations, historic events, and how much alcohol it takes for a trip to the hospital is just a distraction keeping us from attaining true happiness? Shit, maybe true happiness is the glistening mirage in the empty, lonesome desert of life. Shit, maybe O.J. didn’t do it. Maybe God has just put us on earth to puppet us around and laugh when the elderly poop themselves. Maybe God doesn’t exist? Maybe God was the pigeon killed by a 95 mph Randy Johnson fastball and we should blame the multiple Cy Young winner for destroying all hope to mankind. I’m just kidding – Randy Johnson is the savior to the New York Yankees (well, he was fucking supposed to be when I originally wrote this).

Which brings me to my next point: was the Big Bang an explosion that created the universe or was it Adam boning Eve under the Forbidden Tree? Yeah, now I got your mind working. Speaking of which, I’ve heard the average human only uses 10% of his/her brain’s full potential. The typical viewer of The OC uses 0.3%. Therefore, it is my goal to use at least 11% of my brain’s full potential. Only then will I finally figure out how to wipe my ass without hurting myself. In regard to the byproduct of ass-wiping, whatever happened to Greg Ostertag?Ooh, I just heard this one: “What do you get when you throw a hand grenade into a bathroom? …Linoleum Blownapart.” We’re talking about the 5’2” French dude who loved waterslides. At least, that’s what I learned from Bill And Ted’s Excellent Adventure. Have you ever seen the sequel, Bill And Ted’s Bogus Journey? Yeah, BOGUS doesn’t even begin to describe it. I could have used the four bucks for that rental to buy eighty pieces of Bazooka Joe. Then trade those in for 400 pennies. Then eat the pennies. Then spend the next week shitting miniature copper Lincoln heads. Copper or something – whatever the hell pennies are made out of. That’s how bad that sequel was. And class is over.

Character Development

Creating a character for literary purposes is no easy task. He or she must be dynamic, intriguing and vulnerable. Your protagonist must suffer and then overcome what seems like unconquerable adversity. Here is a brief strategy you can use to develop your own Jack Ryan, Dirk Pitt, or Scooby Doo...

Create dialogue. Give a voice, a personality to your character. Don’t simply tell people about the size of his penis. Let them relate to him. Make them hate him. Then, force them to love him. Only then, when they finally embrace your character, can you tell them how big his dong really is. Now… force them to love his dong.

The E-Mail: Think Before You Write

This was was an actual e-mail I wrote to an administrator at Roanoke College. Aside from removing certain people's names, everything is exactly as it was the day I sent it. I also sent a copy to the president of the school. And then I was almost kicked out. Enjoy.

To Whom It May Concern (YOU):

This e-mail has been a long time coming. Lucky for you, my mother convinced me to take a few days and several deep breaths before composing it. These two simple steps are responsible for the absence of vulgarity and threats in this e-mail. Allow me to set the scene for you...

I am a sophomore of decent academic standing with a strong upbringing in hard work, focus, and most importantly, integrity. My name is T**** Q**** Fischer, but my friends call me Q. You may call me "Disgruntled Angry Young Roanoke College Student With Six Pack Abs". As previously stated, integrity is very important to me. and with integrity, comes honesty. However, with a lack of honesty, comes broken promises, shattered dreams, and an angry sophomore typing an e-mail to his mother that contains innumerable expletive deleteds. Tell me, is the forthcoming nature of this e-mail already giving you goosebumps? Well, prepare to meet R.L. Stein in the flesh.

First off, I disagree with May term. Intensive Learning not only has no appeal to me whatsoever, but it also shares a word found only in negative connotations i.e. intensive care, intensive investigation, and intensive Middle Eastern torture. What really "cooks my grits" as Denzel Washington's character in Remember The Titans once said, is the housing situation for May term. Naturally, it would obviously be easier for the school and the students if us peppy intensive learners were allowed to simply stay in our current rooms. But, of course, that option would only make sense - and sense is something far from familiar to Roanoke College. Dismally, I was under the impression I would be able to stay in my current and sizable room. Why would be assuming such a thing? Because you told me I could. Here, let me refresh your memory. Below you will find a brief e-mail communique between myself and you, Ms. *******. Your response is above my initial e-mail. I've highlighted the parts that warrant extra attention.

You will be receiving more information at a later date from the Office of Student Life. If you have specific questions, I will try to answer them. You will be allowed to keep your things in your room until June 3rd.-********

From: Fischer, T****
Sent: Mon 3/21/2005 6:47 PM
To: ********
Subject: RE: May Term
Regarding your inquiry about my plans for May term, I will be staying in my room (Wells 1, Room 130) for the three week duration. However, I would appreciate some details as to how the housing process works for May term. Any information would suffice. Forgive the lateness of my reply.

Please note, I changed the font color to blue to better represent the e-mail communication. The parts that are highlighted in bold and underlined represent a nonverbal agreement based on trust and, most importantly, integrity. Oh sure, you never officially told me I could stay in my room. And sure, you probably didn't even notice that I informed you of my residence hall, section, and room number. And triple sure, why not tell me I can leave my things in my room until June 3rd. It's not like telling me something like that would bother me, much less cause a chain reaction of anger, frustration, and lengthy e-mails.

So naturally, following your ruse, I talk with my parents and tell them I can simply leave a decent amount of my belongings in my current room. Of course, now, much to the chagrin of me (and my father's bad back) I am to move all of my things roughly twenty yards down the way to Yonce IV. Aside from the extreme inconvenience you've befallen on me (and my father's bad back, mind you), you've also decided to slap me in the face and tell me to move my things from my large and comfortable room to Hitler's bunker in Yonce IV. Please note, Hitler allegedly killed himself in that sardine can. Please note once more, his suicide was a blessing, but tight spaces after comfortable living is enough to drive a man mad. I understand you probably made a mistake or may have not even known about this Virginia Synod conference in time. In fact, while on the subject, what in God's three-letter name is a Synod conference? Wait, I just used the wondrous tool of the internet to find out... and I almost threw up on my computer. So I am being given the boot from my room so a bunch of Holy Rolling Lutherans can nominate each other for who sports the most stylish crucifix? That's not a slap in the face - it's a kick in the groin. If you happen to be a practicing Lutheran, disregard my previous comments. I lack the basic respect for religion a normal human being would have, especially when it impedes on my living situation. Now before I go off on another atheistic tangent, let's get down to brass tacks here...

As I said, I understand your e-mail was a simple mistake. Albeit a mistake that filled me up with a false hope. The same false hope religion gives to people. Oops, there I go again. The purpose of this e-mail is not to ask for your permission to stay in my room - I know it will not happen. This e-mail is merely an attempt to express my intense discontent with this school, its actions, and its inability to gain my approval. Furthermore, I also realize how easily you can claim ignorance about this conference, but I also realize that something as big and SPECTACULAR as the Virginia Synod conference does not simply slip under someone's nose.

All right, enough with the formalities and snide remarks, I am angry. If I had it my way, this entire e-mail would be emblazened with obscenities Chris Rock couldn't even formulate. Unfortunately, my mother and friends convinced me doing so would probably end my tenure at Roanoke College, but at this point, does that even really matter anymore? Sure, maybe I'm making a big deal out of nothing. And sure, maybe I'm acting selfish and childish responding in a manner such as this. And yes, triple sure, maybe I should just sit back and accept the fact that I was bamboozled, tricked, and made a fool of. But unlike the inactive, sad, sorry, pathetic student body that comprises the remainder of Roanoke College, I will not fall victim to your chicanery. At this point, I would normally apologize for the excessive length of this e-mail, but the truth of the matter is, I would not regret a single word I wrote. Good day to you and I hope your month of May is as fabulous as mine.

This Guy

Your Lucky Day

Luck is viewed by some as imaginary and to others as crucial to survival and victory. The cliche badass in a movie will say a real winner "makes his own luck." None of this nonsense really matters to me because I've realized that there is more than just one kind of luck. Allow me to elaborate and differentiate my first significant finding...

I call it “gross luck” – similar to bad luck in theory but more meticulous. Bad luck is when everything that could go wrong, will go wrong. Gross luck is when everything that could go wrong, will go wrong and somehow you’ll get shit on during the process. There's a substantial element to it that separates it from your average case of bad luck. For instance, say you’re walking down the street and your shoelace gets untied – bad luck. But when you bend over to lace the fucker up, a bird shits on your neck – gross luck.

It's Pronounced "Ethics"

This was written during a Public Relations class I took in DC. Looking back, I realize I used a lot of quotes from the Special Features of 40 Year Old Virgin. Either way, italicized sections refer to something the professor was rambling about during her lecture.

Right now I could transcribe her shit definitions verbatim but I’ve opted not to. Again, she’s yapping and the odds are this crap can be found in my book. NASD? What the fuck is that? Bullshit. That’s what. Keeps on yapping. Stimulate an institution’s social conscience. Yippee! Then she talks too fast for me to write. This class is so fucking terrible, it’s scary. Press agentry. Yap Yap Yap. Effics. Efficks. You must be kidding. Publicity. Or I could pig blap you. Give you a mushroom tattoo. Shoot it in your eye. But that’s about to change. Yeah, you could fuck a glove full of jelly – that’s just creepy, though. Even as I sit here and write all this random shit, time is still moving slow as fuck. Don’t know if this is helping. Might look obvious this isn’t in note-form. Roosevelt. PR Master of Fire. Like Pyro from X-Men. And that was a smart movie. I’m a virgin. I wanna fuck you – BANG. Just like that. Muckrakers. Moonraker. James Bond. Bail bonds. Ben Bailey. Bailey Lyon. Lionheart. Jean-Claude Van Dam. Hoover Dam. J. Edgar Hoover. Hoover vacuums. And that is "Ten Degrees To Hoover Vacuums."

Local Man Finds The Meaning of Life, Loses It Minutes Later

Ben Bailey (who better invite me to his wedding, damn it) needed a fictional newspaper article for class so I wrote this for him. Supposed to have that "Onion" feel to it...

ROANOKE—A local Roanoke man reportedly found the meaning of life earlier this week, only to lose it several minutes later. Thirty-three year-old Rich Winters, whose friends refer to as Richie and whose foes call Richard-head, said he discovered the answer to existence’s greatest anomaly while resting under a tree on a brisk Spring day.

“I was tired from finishing my second pack of cigarettes that day so I decided to rest and collect my thoughts,” claims Winters.

Apparently, while drifting in and out of the conscious mind, Winters, a qualified paleontologist, discovered the meaning of life.

“It just came to me. I realized why we’re here, what we’re supposed to do with our lives. I discovered life isn’t just some conveyor belt we’re strapped to, slowly taking us to a horrific, and torturous death. My mind was completely lucid and I felt deeply relaxed. I passed gas and lost it. Might've stained my drawers too.”

This is not the first time Winters has lost important findings. He is well-known for his below par short-term memory and general irresponsibility. While laboring over an archaeological dig, Winters allegedly lost the shinbone of a brontosaurus. His co-workers and friends all recognize Winters extreme negligence.

“Oh yeah, I remember one time Richie and I went to pick up some brews for the football game,” comments long-time friend and convicted sex offender Jarvis D’Marco, “Once we got back to his house, Richie realized he left his four year-old son at the supermarket. We never did find out what happened to the wandering little bastard.”

In addition to losing his only child, Winters is also notorious for misplacing his car keys, losing the remote control, and forgetting to zip up his fly. Winters once confessed to a friend that he loses things “faster than a sorority sister loses her self-respect at a keg party.” Although he does regret forgetting the meaning of life, Winters has taken the situation with a grain of salt.

Concluded Winters: “I think I can go on without it. As long as they don’t raise the price on Marlboro Reds and that strange kid at the grocery store stops asking to come home with me, I think I’ll be happy.”

Cut The Cute Colered Collar Crap

This is the original, uncut version of an article I wrote for the Roanoke College newspaper my freshman year. You bet your ass it was an instant classic.

Now I’m not one to judge people, but I am one to lie. By that I mean, I do judge people; not just for their actions, but for their appearance too. Superficial? Sure. Realistic? Definitely. We live in a society in which following the latest trend is crucial. Not to our survival, but to our very social status. Sad? Sure. Pathetic? Quite.

No, I’m not crusading against the fashion industry because where would anorexia and bulimia be today without it? Rather than state my grievances with toothpick models and real-life Zoolanders, I shall focus on one epidemic sweeping this innocent campus. This is my second year at Roanoke College and I’ve put up with it for too long and now, something must be said. Yes, pastel colored shirts with the collar flipped up like you’re some sort of Easter egg hunting Elvis Presley has simply got to go. Apparently, this entire school is taking fashion tips from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. I’m sure at this point, those of you sporting this fashion will be outraged, but please, calm down and let me explain why you’re such a tool.

Allow me to begin with the collar problem. Contrary to popular belief, The King is dead. Yet, you are still trying to carry on his popped collar tradition. Why must you spit on the style he so diligently set forth by rocking a pastel colored knockoff Izod shirt? He’s probably rolling over in his fat man’s coffin right now. And I understand 50 Cent said something about “poppin’ fools like I pop my collar” but there’s a slight difference between him and you – he’s worth millions and you couldn’t pop a balloon with a hacksaw. I will admit that the collar concept is much less irritating than the color scheme, but unless you’re trying to hide the hickies administered by the fat girl from the night prior, it’s really not necessary. I understand many females at this school also sport the popped collar, but I have neither the time nor the desire to criticize both genders on this issue. Besides, girls wearing pink makes sense.

As for the color scheme, I don’t know how you can look at yourself in the mirror and avoid vomiting all over yourself. I’m not what you would call a fashion guru, but I understand the aesthetically lacking qualities of pastel colored shirts. Perhaps you think you can seduce girls by blinding them with your flamboyantly bright shades of the rainbow. But let’s be honest, everyone’s favorite weapon of seduction is alcohol. Still, I can’t picture any girl saying, “Thanks, but no thanks… come back with a teal green shirt and maybe we can talk.” The most appalling of this trend is one specific, widely-worn color I could write volumes about. Yes, the color pink. Why any self-respecting dude would want to sport the same color as the six year old girls in my mom’s daycare is far beyond my comprehension. You claim it takes a real man to wear a pink shirt. Well, I say it takes an even bigger man to walk into a biker bar wearing that same shirt and walk out with all of his teeth still intact.

I, myself, am from Connecticut and have never seen such a trend among my peers. However, I’m told this entire concept originates from the New England area by wealthy Ivy League yuppies in the 1970’s. Well, here’s a reality check: this isn’t the disco era, this isn’t a New England based Ivy League university, and the only money you have belongs to your parents.

Look, I can put up with the plaid shorts for the time being, but please, let go of the rest. I implore you, future Graham Nortons of America, give up on this fashion. Just try performing this quick exercise to reach full enlightenment: Go to the mall and find one of those pink, collared shirts you adore so much. Hold it up to yourself in front of a mirror. Say to yourself, “Man, I would look so good in this!” Admire yourself for a few more minutes. Now, kick your own ass.

For anyone possibly offended or hurt by this blatantly opinionated article, I will accept any responses gladly and cordially… with a baseball bat.

Back On The Wagon... Again

Well it’s been quite a hiatus. I haven’t posted anything new for almost a year. I’ve been busy working two jobs in DC, commuting from Baltimore, CrossFitting, and watching Sister Act at least four times a week. But, with any luck, I’ll have this thing updated more regularly so the two people who actually read it have something to do between bestiality sites.

Before I begin adding new material, I will be re-posting all of the things I had up here before. The original order is going to be totally fucked, but it'll have to do. Not that there was any sort of chronological sequence going on anyways.

In the meantime, it’s good to be back and before we go any further, I should make this perfectly clear: Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.