Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Chris Kringle is a Man Crush

If you ask pretty much anyone (that celebrates it, anyway) what their favorite day of the year is, I'm sure you'll get an overwhelming number that cite Christmas. They'll most likely maintain that this has been their favorite day of the year forever, and it's even better than their birthday.

How weird does that sound? That people like celebrating some other dude's birthday more than they enjoy celebrating their own. That just doesn't sound very plausible, but that's how it is.

Let's not fool ourselves here, though. Your majority of normal people do not enjoy celebrating Christmas because a savior was born. (I say majority, because there are people out there who actually honor the true meaning of Christmas, which is very admirable and I throw mad props to these people. Sadly, I am not one of these people, and if I went to church right now I don't think I'd even know what to do. I talk much too loudly and often to be in that place worshiping a being that is probably pretty modest and doesn't really want all of that attention anyway. It's like how Troy Polamolou would be if he was a religious deity.)

People like the holidays for family and stuff, but lets be completely candid here: people like Christmas because they get gifts. They may say they don't, but it's hiding there in the back of everyone's mind, no matter what they tell you. It's like when people tell you money doesn't matter to them, but in the back of their mind they're wishing they could live the lavish teenage life those kids on Gossip Girl are. Now, the man that encapsulates this whole gift thing is obviously Santa Clause, and that's why he's my Man Crush of the Month for December.

He's obviously not somebody I'd normally be crushing on in this totally heterosexual way, but he's appealing for so many reasons that I couldn't really pass up on it. You see, Santa represents many things. He's one of the most symbolic people out there, behind only Prince (I mean, he has his own symbol) and Paris Hilton (who symbolizes that stupid whores are almost always unjustly successful).

Lets start with the obvious. Santa symbolizes selflessness. Who the fuck do you know that would sequester themselves on a deserted ice cap for the entire year just so he can help a bunch of little people make presents for all of the good boys and girls across the globe? Really, this guy has sacrificed his entire social life (as parents also often do) to please children. He can't have much to do at all up there, except kick it with reindeer and elves. His only interaction with a woman is his wife, and they've been married for a long fucking time, so it's probably difficult for them to really get creative in a sexual manner anymore, which is pretty depressing (I've checked, Enzyte does not ship their free 30 day sample pack to the north pole). So, this guy does not give a good goddamn about himself, but he wants to make the world happy. It's unbelievable.

The next thing he represents is efficiency. Make no mistake, this guy gets shit done. He flies, in a sleigh, around the world, in one fucking night. He doesn't piss around at all. He suits up, gets his big sack, and goes after it. He makes no excuses, and he's always resourceful enough to achieve his mission no matter what. It's snowing too hard? Fuck it. Just find a reindeer with a red nose to guide the way when you're in hyperdrive on your way to Hong Kong to deliver 600 million GigaPets. I can't even write a five page paper in one night, and this guy is sneaking in chimneys.

Speaking of chimneys, Santa also represents being straight badass. He's above the law in a way that even Richard Nixon didn't believe he was. He commits more B & E's (breaking and enterings, if you're wondering) in one night than Jenna Jameson has given blowjobs in her entire career. I crunched the numbers and know this to be true. Lots of research was involved. Mr. Clause doesn't give a fuck about the police or anything else. He's so badass that he's actually vaguely like Batman, because he leaves the police scratching their heads. Just as Batman violates the laws of the land to apprehend criminals, Santa breaks into houses but leaves a bunch of shit for little kids. The only thing he takes is some cookies, a glass of milke, and occasionally carrots for his reindeer. It's very enigmatic.

Santa also represents true love, in kind of a strange way. He's obviously not very obsessed with his physical appearance, or else he wouldn't have such a huge paunch or a ZZ Top-esque beard. He also wouldn't rock that stupid fucking hat. But you know what? Santa is loved by all. He represents the kind of things that people should fall in love with, which is a good heart and a nice personality. You could make the argument that Santa's appeal is based largely on materialism, but he's really not that materialstic. He just hooks people up with gifts. I'd be surprised if he even has TIVO at his workshop at the pole. It's obvious that people are initially attracted to others by physical appearance, but when you get older you realize that there's a lot more that factors into that. If the person is smoking hot but treats you like you're more worthless than the bassist for Nickelback, you're not going to want to be with them. I'm pretty confident that Santa would never treat you like you're worthless, unless you've been a bad person all year. Even then, though, he still gives you coal, which could prove to be pretty worth it in today's climate. Natural resources are where it's at. Santa even tries to make the bad people rich, hoping that maybe when they get a shitload of money they will buy some gifts for the people that are special to them instead of cocaine and hookers. I don't know where I was going with that.

So Santa Clause is appealing. I like him, you like him, everyone likes him. He isn't as ripped as Jesus supposedly was, but he's still doing his part to make the holidays a merry time for everyone. That takes real humility to do all that he does for people so that they'll get psyched and celebrate someon else's birthday. If I was him, all I'd do is buy you a shot at the bar. Instead, he buys you a Red Rider BB gun and a new fucking sled.

Happy Holidays, everyone. Enjoy them and be safe.




Tuesday, November 18, 2008

An Analysis of Cosmopolitan Magazine

I, like any other boy or man I know, would like to understand women. Even just a little bit. This seems to be an impossible task, and I often wonder why women think in such a different (sometimes irrational and vice versa, to be fair) manner than us. You know that face Kobe Bryant makes when a referee makes a call he doesn't like or agree with? That's pretty much the way my face is after every argument I ever engage in with the fairer sex. "Defensive three-second violation" is to Kobe as "You're the asshole that doesn't want to date me just because I threatened to cut your penis off and donate it to Cher" is to Scott.

As far back as I can remember, no man has had an explanation for any of this shit, and virtually no progress has been made. Instead, elder males always say the exact same thing: none of us can ever understand a woman. That's it; all they say. They don't even make the effort to try, mainly because there's no real obvious way to do it. If they get pissed at you and you try to talk to them, they just cry then run away and call their mothers, which immediately turns it into a triangle match with a female alliance based solely on irrational thinking. Not only will you not understand what they're thinking or what you really did wrong, but you'll almost instantly have two people harassing you, when all you were doing was trying to gain some fucking knowledge. It's like trying to figure out the ending of Gone Baby Gone on your first viewing, except Morgan Freeman isn't spewing awesome sagely wisdom everywhere.

But I think I may have found a way to understand, at least a little more than most men do now. It came to me during an epiphany when I was at Wal*Mart the other day (kind of like the time I decided to mix ranch and ketchup together and dip chicken tenders in it...an epiphany of the highest order) waiting in line to pay for my Faded Glory flannel shirts and copy of Stephenie Meyer's teen romance novel, Eclipse --not a joke. I looked at the magazine rack and saw this month's issue of Cosmopolitan, or as those in the know call it, Cosmo.

I picked it up and started looking at it, becaus sometimes I do that. I do this because they often have sexual tips that girls are supposed to perform on their boyfriends (or whomever, Cosmo tends to bring out the inner slut in folks) that are just totally hilarious. At least until one of them is performed on you. Because you see, at least 60 percent of the sexual tips I've come across in Cosmo have been things I would not, under any circumstances, want any woman doing to me. Some of these things are so harrowing and frightful that I can't even think about them, much less write them down here. They're so fucked up that, months or even years after reading them, I still remember what they are, and they make me cringe. (Just for the record, too, I'm not a prude, so it's not like I'm overly sensitive to people trying to experiment sexually. It should just be stated that I have a very perverted mind, and I'm not some softy who cringes when he reads about someone getting a handjob in a movie theater. This shit is beyond that.)

I was just checking out the picture of Jessica Simpson on the cover--because, well, she's hott--and considering some of the odd things I've read in Cosmo, when I just absent-mindedly said to myself, under my breath: "Some of that shit is just so irrational."

That's when the lightbulb went off. Women and Cosmo have something in common: Sometimes they make no fucking sense. And you know what? Every woman reads Cosmo. You could call this a generalization, but it's an accurate one. Have you ever been to a public swiming pool in the summer? Well, I fucking have, and every woman brings their copy of Cosmo. This starts in the 7th grade (and the way things are going these days, will soon drift down to 3rd, kindergarten. By 2012 Cosmo may actually manufacture a version of Hooked On Phonics for pre-schoolers. Five year olds will be able to read and pronounce the word "clitoris" before they're tall enough to ride a roller coaster at Cedar Point.), when they sit there with their friends and review style tips and giggle over sexual tips. This continues for the rest of their lives, and they continue to sit there with their friends and review style tips and giggle over sexual tips. This is assuming they still have friends once they reach 20, because due to the brainwashing from Cosmo that turns them into dirty whores, they've hooked up with everyone's boyfriends in a cat's cradle kind of clusterfuck and they all hate each other. It's not unlike an episode of Melrose Place.

Anyway, all of that shit was running through my head, and I still had the magazine in my hand when I got to the end of the checkout line. I started to panic, but somehow kept my head and decided it'd be a good idea to actually purchase a fucking copy of Cosmo. I put it down on the counter and was pretty reassured that the cashier wouldn't think I was a total fucking moron. There was that copy of Eclipse, which is predominately read by girls, that complimented the magazine pretty well. She probably thought I was buying these things for a girlfriend, because there was also a flannel shirt, which is undeniably masculine.

Either that, or she thought I was Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs. If I'd had lotion in my cart, she probably would've made a joke about "putting the lotion in the basket," and, "it does what it's told."

My real intention in buying the magazine was to leaf through it (okay, read it cover to cover while wearing eye liner and spandex tights), and sort of analyze all of the things that made no sense to me. Then, I'd use my keen observational skills to see if any women were following the advice from the magazine, thus proving my hypothesis that Cosmo guides women in the wrong direction and--at least partially--contributes to their confusing nature that is often viewed by men as incoherent and irrational. So, here it goes.

Rationally speaking, the most justified way to start such a project would be with the cover. We all know the old adage that says people shouldn't judge a book by its cover, but this is not true as far as magazines go. You see, magazines always have "cover stories" that say what's going to be, allegedly, the most interesting articles in the magazine. So, I'll go from cover story headline to headline, then flip to the page the article is on and thoroughly analyze it for your reading pleasure. I'll try to be objective, or at least not completely mysognynistic. I'll start with least ridiculous and progress to most absurd.

Jessica Simpson: Even MORE uncensored: I chose this as least ridiculous because, well it's Jessica Simpson. She's pretty much a simpleton, so I just kind of figured, what damage could she really do? Then I opened to the interview, titled "Sexy Texan" and remembered that she is presently attempting to sing country songs and is failing more than miserably. Also, she's dating Tony Romo, who has a mole not unlike the dude in the third Austin Powers movie.

This interview was pretty insightful, in that it let me know why she's failing so miserably at country singing. She told Cosmo that she wrote most of the songs on her new album. Case closed.

About Romo and past relationships, she said (I'm not making this shit up) "I'd always fall for guys I wanted to save. For the first time, I fell in love with somone who saved me." I can understand the savior thing, because without Romo she may have ended up with fucking Pete Wentz, like her little sister did. This quote just struck me as ridiculous because it's one of those hokie ones you see high school girls sending to one another on Facebook bumper stickers. I learned from this article that she could've been a fucking staff writer for Sex and the City.

She also called him her best friend, and said it's nice to be in love with your friend. There's weird girl thing number one. Girls sometimes love eachother, and upon drinking a few martinis become what we call "barsexual." This is a brief amount of time where they like to make out just because they're best friends, and it's not supposed to be weird at all. Sure, it's enjoyable to watch for guys, but still different from the way we operate. I've been getting drunk with Evan since we were thirteen, and we've never made out (not entirely true).

She also calls him her rock. I've heard that one before.

Sexy vs. Skanky: This one was just pretty much pointless, I think. It was all obvious stuff, like it's sexy to smooch sweetly in public but skanky to have a tongue filled public make-out session. I did, however, find one extremely irrational portion. They wrote that it's sexy to "spread harmless gossip," but skanky to "spread STD's." Naturally, I agree with the latter assesment, but what guy have you ever met that is like, "Dude, I totally wanna wife that girl because she told me about that threesome Lenny had with those two Asian-American girls even though he had a girlfriend?" That's not sexy. Why the fuck would you tell a woman that it's sexy to gossip? Guys hate that shit, unless you're Perez Hilton, and I'm not totally sold that he's even a dude.

This was the bonus section of the magazine. What a ripoff.

18 Genius Ways to Make your Cash go Further: This one wasn't all that remarkeable, it just had the normal shit you do to save money when the country's in an economic crisis. You're not supposed to go out to eat as often or drive as much, and you're not supposed to buy Coach purses or berets made from the skin of starving children.

I was surprised to see that Cosmo didn't suggest the most obvious and simple way to make a woman's cash go further: Get a fucking boyfriend. Guys usually pay for everything, and, much to my chagrin, chivalry is not completely dead yet.

**Writer's Note: Apparently, when they passed Title IX, they failed to include a bullet that required women to go dutch on dinners, movie tickets, late night ice cream purchases, or Celine Dion backstage passes. Also, we're still not allowed to charge them for beer when they come to a party, or even hit them. This is like...okay I'm not even going to write the two analogies I had, because they're so inappropriate I don't even want to print them.

The Trick that Attracts Hot Guys like Crazy: First, they say not to disregard the basics. The basics: Dress like a slut and suck on a Tootsie Pop the entire night. Also, don't cut your hair like Natalie Portman in V For Vendetta. They then say to choose your wingwomen wisely. They throw out all of this shit about the girls needing to be outgoing; by this they mean keeps some fat, ugly bitches with terrible personalities at your side at all time. Eliminate the competition. They say to show off your neck and shoulders, and call this a stealthy tactic. Fuck that. Showing off half of your upper body is about as stealthy as Drew Barrymore is talented/appealing. Just take off the entire shirt and just rock a bra. Dudes like bras. Believe me. They go further, and say to subtly show off your lower half, which is just fucking redundant. Stealthily and subtly are synonyms. Waste less time, space, and paper and write "stealthily show off your entire fucking body."

Lastly, they say to put on your best game face. I was confused by this, but apparently Cosmo has a different definition of the game face than anyone who has ever seen Little Giants. My first impression was that they wanted women to take a tums and let it foam out of their mouth, and that they believed this would attract Kenneth Cole models. Apparently, they just think a game face is a smile. Needless to say, The Legion of Doom and Pooh's friend Eeyore never read Cosmo.

Remember, ladies, if you want to attract cute boys (and intellectual properties are totally out of the equation), just remember the old Dwight Schrute proverb: The eyes are the groin of the head.

You can also just be friendly, sensible, and funny. Believe it or not, you can get guys acting like yourself. I've seen it happen from time to time. People don't (usually) get married because a woman stealthily exposed her collarbone to the male at a bar once.

Total Body Sex: Finally, we get to the part where they tell you weird shit to do that guys are supposed to dig. There are a great deal of things that were disturbing about this, and they even mentioned the adrenal glands. To be honest, some of the suggestions weren't too bad. Some were actually pretty fucking rad. They said some things about the feet that moderately freaked me out, and they also said pinching a dude's nipples was a good idea. That's just downright scary to me, but I consulted a female source who claims to have experimented with this phenomenon and said there was no displeasure or fear evident during the process. I'm not sold on that, and I think further research may be necessary.

Props to Cosmo on this one thing, though. They taught me what the medical name for a taint is: the perineum. That's like the Holy Grail of anatomy names in that it's virtually impossible to find.

What He Thinks of Your Orgasm Face: I'm not sure if this even warrants an entire article. Basically, guys think of one of two things when they see the elusive O-Face: 1) Yes! I did it!!!!!, and 2) Is she faking it?

But Cosmo has an uncanny ability to state the obvious, kind of like John Madden when he's commentating a football game. Their first piece of advice for the woman is to breathe deeply, as if something like this is really in their control at such a moment. I'm pretty sure if you don't breathe deeply while reaching climax, you will start to grow faint and maybe go blue in the face. If this happens, then the guy will be frightened and maybe begin to perform first aid on you. They also might ask if you have asthma, and if so, should they retrieve your inhaler? They also say not to stifle your moans and groans. My question is why would you? Start cackling like a fucking hyena if you want to, men will dig it. This could be a bad idea, though, if you're doing the deed at a church lock-in at the local YMCA or you're in your bedroom "studying" while your parents are in the living room playing Yahtzee or Backgammon. If it's a situation like that, either stifle the moans and groans or put a pillow over your face...this could be a win-win if you're one of those girls that likes to refrain from breathing heavily. With a pillow over your face, they man will not see it turning blue. Also, if the guy has no visible reinforcement, he won't have the slightest clue whether you're faking it or not.

How to Outsmart a Date Rapist: I attempted to read this one, but when I saw the subline "Fight Like a Tiger," I just pretty much quit. Apparently, their definition of fighting like a tiger is to go for the soft spots, like the groin, eyes, knees, or nose. Apparently the Cosmo writers didn't bother to research the fact that most date rapes occur when the girl is under the influence of some sort of drug that renders them unconscious, which makes this virtually impossible.

So, to outsmart a date rapist, just don't go to raves or suspect frat parties. If you're at a normal party, don't be lazy and go get your own drinks. Keep your hand over the opening of the drink, and be vigilant. If someone drops something in your drink, don't consume it. There you have it.

Cosmo's Naked Quiz: They always have a fucking quiz. I figured I'd take it. Why not? This was a series of questions (obviously for women, but hey) that determines how comfortable you are being in the good old birthday suit. I scored in between the classifactions of, "You're a surface sex bomb," (whatever the fuck that means), and "You're unnerved when you're naked." Now, I know this is some stuff for girls, but allow me to be the first one to tell you that I am in no way unnerved by being naked. If you don't believe me, ask my roommates, who have seen me do naked lunges on more than one occasion--per week. This leads me to believe that Cosmo is giving girls the illusion that just because they don't parade around naked all the time like they're Carmen Electra or Angelina Jolie in Taking Lives they're overweight and should be uncomfortable with their bodies. Let me let you in on a guy secret: we like to see girls naked, and you are not as fat as you think (usually), and if you say you don't want to be naked because of your alleged obesity and we tell you you are not fat, we mean it. If we don't want to see you naked, we will either say something to that effect or will noticeably cringe when you disrobe.



So, there it is. My analysis of Cosmo magazine. I can't rationally say that it makes women act irrationially, but I also can't say it's giving them the perfect advice. There were a great deal of things in the magazine that astounded me, and a few portions that even forced me to unintentionally don the "Kobe" face. I do know that they should slow their roll a little bit, or maybe get the opinion of more male figures before publishing certain things, but then that might ruin all of the fun. Men will never totally understand women, and Cosmo is a conduit for that message.

This whole drawn-out analysis has made me believe that maybe Cosmo is a bit sensationalistic and that they cater to the female audience without really giving so much thought to what men like or what is truly a healthy direction to steer impressionable women in.

All of this could easily be my non-objective male viewpoint talking, though, and if it is I apologize for wasting your time.

I did learn one thing for sure, though. Men aren't meant to read Cosmo, just like adults aren't meant to read Highlights.











Thursday, October 30, 2008

Socialism is really the answer.

There's an election coming up, in case you didn't know. It's been a constant subject debate amongst my friends (and also kids I really don't like at all) about who should become the next president. This is healthy and all, but I never really understood political arguments. No matter who is right, no one can ever be convinced that they're wrong, or voting for the wrong candidate just by something someone says in between shots during a game of Power Hour or while they're trying to beat Tom Morello in Guitar Hero. It's basically a fool's errand, so while my friends bicker incessantly about it, I kind of zone out and think about my own things, as I am so often wont to do in any situation that would require actual meaningful and serious thought.

Try as I might, though, I was unable to steer my mind completely away from the presidential election, and I got to thinking about something: John McCain's wife, Cindy, is probably the hottest 54 year-old woman I've ever seen, and that's saying something. I've seen a lot of women over 50 in my day, and I am not really an age matters kind of guy--it's just a number, right?

Then, I thought about how fucking goofy John McCain is. This lady is (or at least used to be) actually boning him. And she's hott. I know girls that would pay to take it in the ass from Carrot Top that wouldn't touch McCain's penis. It's just absurd. I'm not saying this guy wouldn't be a great president (he wouldn't), but based on looks and personality, he should be a real bottom feeder.

My question was, how can one of the foxiest cougars roaming planet earth be banging the poor man's Manchurian Candidate? A guy that is thirty years her senior nonetheless? First guess would be money, but I guess her family has a shitload of it, so she didn't need any more of that. (Apparently, her pops owns some big beer distributing company, so maybe she's just drunk all the time and doesn't care who she's fucking. People like that do actually exist.) So, I came to the conclusion that she had tied the knot with this ugly and pretty lame man because he was powerful. They married when he was a Senator and his aspirations to become the president before he reached the age of 90 probably slipped in somewhere during pillow talk.

I was disgruntled by this, but not for long. I mean, all my life I've known that money and power can ultimately get a great many women to like you and become attracted to you. I'm not saying all women are materialstic in this way, but some are. (Maybe some guys are, also, but it seems like we're a different shallow. We just scope out hottness initially and then let the chips fall where they may. It doesn't matter how fucking out of whack they are, at least at first, we just follow our cocks like idiots.)

Think about it: hottness is sometimes based on societal status and position.

Girls will say a certain person is good looking, and I'm pretty sure it's because of their fame. It kind of cloaks their judgement and makes them attracted to something they wouldn't normally be into. One huge example of this that comes to mind is Michael Cera. I constantly hear women talk about how sexy Michael Cera is, and how they'd love to date him. That's cool and all, he makes good movies (even though he is the exact same character in every one of them, like a young Ben stiller), but he's just not equipped with an ass chicks would be trying to wax if he was a no-name and they ran into him at a dance club. If he hadn't been in movies, girls would walk by him on the street and not even take a second glance. They might make fun of him for being a nerd and wearing courdorouys. But, he's famous, so his image gets skewed to attractive. One of my friends even said, "I'd love for him to be my boyfriend, even though things would probably be pretty awkward in the bedroom."

If you look around, instances of this are all around. I constantly hear girls asking Sidney Crosby to put it in their five-hole. If they saw Crosby walking down the street and he wasn't the savior of hockey in Pittsburgh, they probably wouldn't think a thing about him. This one may be a little inaccurate though, because he really is fucking sexy.

To really nail this home, I'd like to say that Chad Kroeger is probably not a virgin, and has probably banged girls hotter than I will ever even kiss on the cheek. Think about it. Chad Kroeger. Have you seen his fucking hair?? Alt-rock chicks dig him because he's rich and famous. Someone out there probably thinks he's attractive, just like some people out there think you can build a boat out of an oak tree, ball of yarn, and love.

This kind of thing happens in high school, too. Kids that play and excel at sports are found attractive at least partially for that reason. Believe me. So this starts young, and it'll probably keep starting younger, just like everything these days. Pretty soon third graders will be blowing rails off of their recess lady's ass, and girls will be digging boys who can launch one out of the park during a game of kickball (while yakked out, which is impressive).

Is there a solution to all of this? I think so. In fact, I came up with two.

The first is to change our government to a communist/socialist regime.

I know, I know, you're like "You fucking idiot. There's no way we're going at shit like those fucking Chinese. They make great food at an economical price but their government sucks even worse than ours does! What the fuck is wrong with you?

Well, hear me out. This regime would have to be like a real socialist one, where everyone has the same amount of everything and everyone works equally as hard as their counterparts. Basically, everyone would be on the same level of prosperity, and what not. So, girls would see guys as really physically and/or mentally attractive without anything else standing in their way.

I'm pretty confident that if this would've been set in motion 20 years ago, David Hasselhoff would never have gotten a girl in his life.

I'm not proposing this because I think that I'm some sexy dude who should be ramming on Mrs. McCain or Megan Fox or anything like that, but because I like to see a fair fight. I've gotten to know John Mccain from the shit he says to me on TV everyday to know that I know a lot better people than him--both in looks and substance--and they should be the ones that get first cracks at that cougar wife he's got.

Something like this will never happen, and many girls will remain materialistic. Far too many, actually. There will be women (and men) out there for eternity who search only for financial excess and security or a pretty face to make them happy for the rest of their lives. The little things will continue to mean next to nothing to some people, but I guess there will also be people who rely on the little things and the right things for pretty much everything. If you're one of those people (female), let me know. Especially if you like really little things. (I was, of course, referring to my cock just now).

My second solution of the problem is to get rich and famous.


Thursday, October 2, 2008

A Solution to all of our Problems as a Nation

I like to keep myself abreast about current events and issues, even if I don't always totally understand their significance or meaning. I just like to know so I can converse with people without sounding ignorant--though I'm sure most of the time I do, because it seems like us college kids only talk about the important issues when we're drunk and pretty much unable to spew out a coherent argument about anything at all.

There are three stories in particular that I've been following very closely. The first one is the current state of the economic crisis and how the government is preparing to make their first attempt to ratify it. Naturally, this kind of thing scares the piss out of me, because I'm not the kind of guy that can struggle through a depression. I like air conditioning and Internet (for pornographic reasons, mostly...referring to the internet, not air conditioning) way too much.

The next one is the discussions that have begun between college officials and other radical people out there who are lobbying for the legal drinking age to be changed to 18. At first, I was like "Hell, yeah, let's do that shit." Then, I got pissed because I've been flying under the radar with drinking since I was 14, and I really came out of my shell around 18 but have had to live in the drinking shadows until now, just over a month until my 21st birthday. Fuck those kids, they should suffer too, is what I thought. But, now, I've got to throw my hat in and say I'm for the drinking age changed to younger people, if only for the greater good. And there is a greater good. We will address that soon enough.

DISCLAIMER: This next run-on paragraph has nothing to do with the rest of this story. It's about the election, and if you're not that worried about it, don't read it. Fuck, if you are worried about it, still don't read it.
The third story is Senator McCain's pick for VP, Sarah Palin. This really doesn't have much significance to do with anything, she just makes me laugh and also makes me feel great because I'm probably smarter than the governor of Alaska, which is a pretty sweet place if you consider that Carlos Boozer and Trajan Langdon both came from there. If I became their Governor someday (maybe I'll take that woman's place if Maverick does win, but that'd be for naught since the country will go to Hell in the proverbial handbasket within a month of his election when people finally realize that he is in fact the Manchurian Candidate). I'm not a terribly political person, and I don't walk around shirtless with "Barack and Roll" buttons pinned through my nipples, but I do know a cheap trick and a stupid woman when I see one (the two often mean the same thing). If you're one of those people that say the VP doesn't matter, then fuck you. That's idiotic. Maybe they don't always matter so much, but they're the next person in line for the Presidency of the United States!! John McCain has already lived to be older than probably half of the people in America. To expect him to live four more years while doing the second most stressful job in the country (the first is working on any project with Andy Dick's stupid ass) is just stupid, and you cannot tell me that Palin would make a good president. Like Bill Maher said, she's more like a stewardess.

Now hear me out on this. I'm not a political or economical analyst, and I won't pretend to be, but I think I've got a tentative solution to this problem and a great deal of other problems that are plaguing America. Actually, this little idea I'm about to throw forth could very well solve most of America's problems, and it starts with the consumption of alcohol.

Sounds promising, right?

Okay. If you're in college as a freshman, sophomore, and probably the beginning of your junior year, you can't drink legally, which means you cannot buy it. You still get your hands on it, sure, but most of you can't find a way to make it happen every day of the week (because older kids will not buy it for you everyday), and you most certainly don't sit around your dorm room and drink a few beers while watching the hockey game, do you? No, when you get a chance to drink, you binge, right? More often than not, you'll go to a kegger, pay five dollars and just get wrecked, which is cool. I like that, but don't you think if it was legal, you'd probably do it every night, at least a little bit? Kids don't get so excited to do things to excess if they're allowed to actually do it (unless they suffer from alcoholism, which I don't think is really a disease, just a set of balls and an equal dose of apathy about things other than boozing), but they would be able to buy it on their own and do it whenever they want.

In these times that try mens' souls, facts must be faced. If you decrease the drinking age by three years, sales of alcohol will rise. Significantly, also, because college kids can drink more often than anyone else, because all we really do is pay for a bogus education that some of us really don't need in the first place. Things like that drive us to drink, and also alott the time to do such a thing constantly.

So, if we get the booze flowing into the mouths of the young legally, more money will be spent that, if proper legislation ensues, could very well go to the government to be distributed to stimulate the economy. I know this is very far-fetched, and the beer companies may lose a bit of a profit while we're pumping the former underagers weekly food budgets into the governments pockets to spend on liquidating mortgages or bailing out Morgan Stanley (who has two first names even though they're last names), but once everything's all straightened out, the booze makers will be profitting from an entire range of teenage drunkards. That's a win-win situation if I've ever heard of one. The only problem will be getting the alcohol distributors on board, because some of them are still feel a little slighted by the whole Prohibition thing back in the early 1900's.

Okay, I'm going to have to cut this a little bit short and provide more of an outline of my brilliant plan in the stead of a real good presentation, because I'm getting pretty drunk and won't be able to put together any good thoughts for a while. I don't think I'm really doing anything that out of the ordinary. Just pretend I'm the government.

Anyway, the young kids start drinking. Drinking makes people gain weight. We can somehow make an advertising campaign to endorse kids gaining weight, and make a muffin top the new definition of aesthetic beauty. Get them to drink heavy beer, because sometimes it's more expensive, and shit like that. Maybe we could do an ad campaign that tells them not to eat bad foods and drink beer, because then they'll do it. (If you've seen the ads about smoking pot, then you know that this will absolutely work with flying colors.)

Okay, so then kids will start to drink heavily constantly, and will probably die younger as a result. Eventually, this will solve the social security problem, along with the obesity problem. If it's hott, it's not a problem. Just ask Shia LeBouef. Dude can get a DUI and it's fine because he's cute, but if I got one my parents would string me up by the balls.

So, there you go. All we have to deal with now is Russia, North Korea, Iran and Pakistan. Oh, and Canada. The quiet kid is always planning something.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

I've been slacking off as of late, and I have no good excuse. I've been too wrapped up in my own ventures (all pretty much pointless) to devote the time that my ever-expanding list of Man Crushes deserves. My devotion to them was supposed to be shown here in all of it's splender by way of a monthly essay describing a crush and why he was to receive the honor of Man Crush of the Month. I haven't done one since May of this year, and even that one (Sidney Crosby and every Pittsburgh Penguin) showed my acute distraction--I couldn't even narrow it down to one guy, so I sloppily rambled about an entire franchise sports team that consists largely of Canadian men.

I've basically smacked the ideal of the Man Crush in the mouth, and for that I must repent, and I've decided to do that with the biggest and most epic Man Crush event of all time. (Bigger than a David Hasselhoff music video.) This is what's going to happen: I will conduct a study of worthy men who could theoretically achieve Man Crush status. I figure the best way to do that is to have people tell me who their Man Crushes are, and I will document them. My e-mail address is srm5082@psu.edu, and my instant messaging screen name is smpbball23. You can throw me your votes right there, and none will go unheeded. From these votes, I will randomly assemble a bracket laden with chest hair, metrosexuality, and mustaches, and there will be a fucking showdown. If you're lost, just think of the March Madness basketball tournament. It will work that way; I'm even considering doing pre-tournament rankings, but I haven't thought out a way to completely make that work as of yet.

Hopefully, by the end of this, we will be able to have a man crush of the year. It's going to be a difficult process, because a Man Crush is a very subjective thing. Everyone has different ones, depending on personal taste, hobbies and interests. For example, I'm sure someone out there is crushing on Bob Costas. This is because some people are douchebags. But, that's just my opinion, you see? So, keep in mind that the Man Crush of the Year may not be your favorite man crush, but you will certainly have a say in it. That's why you have to rock the vote. This will be kind of a warm-up for the Presidential election in November, but I'm pretty confident the Maverick won't be on our ballot or bracket.

Women, you can vote too. Maybe we'll do a Lady Crush thing someday soon.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Fall: Quite Possibly My Favorite Season, for Ridiculous Reasons

Football season is coming, which means Autumn is also on its way. This is one of my favorite times of the year, and I'm sure many people share that same sentiment. Many enjoy this season because of the transitional period that has been made famous because leaves change colors and fall on the ground, forcing children doing community service to gather them up for the elderly. (My parents attempted to raise me Catholic, and I had to be confirmed whether I wanted to or not, and the congregation felt that me raking up leaves for five of my twenty required community service hours would do me a solid as far as getting in God's good graces. At the time I wasn't as brash as I've become, so I went about my business without questioning the authorities that were forcing it on me and raked up some leaves for elderly people, which is insane, because the only elderly people who give a baker's fuck about their lawns hire someone to care for it, which would make it a lot less than a neccessity for us to rake their leaves. So, we were raking leaves for people that didn't give a shit. If I'd had the same attitude then as I did now, I'd probably ask my Sunday school teacher why we had to rake the fucking leaves during the Steelers game while the priests were feasting on spinach dip and alter boys while listening to Myron Cope. Sorry that was such a long parenthetical rant. I dont' think I can do footnotes on here.) Then, sometimes little kids jump in the pile of leaves, scattering them about again and forcing the person who raked them to do it all over again.

Obviously, this isn't why I like fall. I could care less how pretty the colorful leaves are. My mother once suggested that we take a tourist's train ride through Pennsylvania to check out all of the colorfull scenery, and that was--allegedly--the first and last time I showed a woman my left hook.

Truth be told, I don't think football makes it my favorite season either, because I'm a much bigger fan of basketball and spend most of the football season brooding over my home team (the Steelers) decision to continue to pamper and play an overrated fuck with a butt-chin who happens to have a pretty hott sister (Ben Roethlisberger). I used to play football, but was never that great--I was a 2nd string quarterback at one point, so I can compare myself to Matt Sarrassin and Jonathan Moxie--and I still love to watch it, but I don't think it's what makes me love fall. The only sport that can make me fall in love with a season is women's beach volleyball in the summer, which is automatically discounted because I refuse to let a woman's sport be the reason that I love anything except hidden locker room cameras.

So then, logically, I move to my birthday--November 6th in my case, which takes place during the heart of Fall. Some people get really psyched about their birthdays, and I guess this year I kind of am...I'll be turning 21, which is the most epic date of birth anyone can experience--at least in my opinion, but I'm drunk right now, so what does that tell you?--but normally, I don't get too excited. Sometimes, I'm completely irrational, but I think my viewpoints on birthdays are completely understandable: why would you celebrate the day that you were born? You didn't do a fucking thing, really. It's like celebrating winning an Olympic bronze medal because the Polish guy who initially finished third called the judges fat fucks and threw his medal on the ground whilst on the podium, leaving them no choice but to award it to you, the fourth place finisher.

Call me crazy, but shouldn't your mother be the one that celebrates this day? I mean, she did do all of the pushing and went through all of the pain for you to be born on this day, which I hear is pretty painful. Even your dad has more justification to celebrate than you, because he was in on the process and probably cut your umbilical (yeah, I actually spelled that right, I just checked) cord, so he can play a little cameo in the day's celebration. Then they had to put up with your shit for as many years as you've been alive. You shouldn't be getting presents on this day, you should be pouring out some drinks for your parents. So, birthdays are out.

I'll finally get to the point now, which is why I like Autumn: Halloween.

It took me a long time and an in-depth conversation with my friend Bryan to deduce that this is, in fact, the reason I love the season so much. As a younger child, I loved it because you had reason to dress up as someone that you weren't for one day out of the entire year. You could be an FBI agent clad in a Canadian tuxedo that carried a cap gun in a makeshift shoulder holster; you could be a Nascar driver; you could be the serial killer from Scream; you could be a fucking Power Ranger. (I was each one of these in my younger days.) You could even be a character from Sandlot with all of your friends, while one of them dressed as a gigantic dog and chased you around an urban area. (That's what I hope to do this Halloween.)

Oh, and you got free candy for being someone that you weren't. It's the most absurdly rewarding experience a child or adolescent could ever hope for. It was the pinnacle of the year, outdone only by Christmas, when you were celebrating someone else's birthday. That would be Jesus', which I guess is kind of acceptable because his birthday is different. His mother still went through labor and everything, I guess, but he was a miracle. That's way off point.

Then, as you got older, it was the one night when pointless and narcissistic vandalism was socially acceptable. You could throw eggs at the houses of the people who gave out carrot sticks and popcorn balls as treats, and on this night they were the evil miscreants who were to blame, not the kids plastering their siding with yolk.

Then, as you got to late high school and a college stage, and even into adulthood, there became another reason to love the holiday, which is why I love it so dearly now: Seemingly normal and non-promiscuous women were able to dress as complete and fantastic sluts, and it was socially acceptable.

Now, you might think that this is a terribly perverted and uncalled for reason to love any of the four seasons, but I don't think I'm alone on this. In college, dudes look forward to Halloween and put a lot of thought into what they'll dress as. So do women. They decide to dress as prostitutes thinly veiled as nurses, Catholic schoolgirls, secretaries (or sexcretaries, I coined that), ets. You get to party like a fucking mad person on Halloween, regardless of the day it takes place on in the week.

I was very skeptical about acknowledging my love for the holiday and Fall based on this simple matter, but during my freshman year it was proven to me clandestinely, and I didn't even notice it until years later. Initially, in college, I played basketball. We started practice on October 12th, and the worst experience of my life went on through the night of Halloween. The day following, we had a 6 am walkthrough, which consisted of my sadistic coach making us run around like fucking idiots before our 8 am class. And some people say that Halloween is the devil's day and is sacriigeous. I'm forever indebted to the Halloween of 2006 for convincing me that I loved viewing seemingly normal women dressed as pornstars and also convincing me to question certain religions that seemed hell-bent on extracting fun from the lives of teenagers. Shortly after missing any Halloween hedonism because I was asleep at 11 p.m. and dreading my early wake-up call from an inexplicable douchebag of a man, I quit the sport I'd loved for most of my life. I'd matured into a man that hated extremely unneccessary physical exertion and loved seeing women in short plaid skirts and tube socks. I've yet to look back.

Halloween gives young men hope. They see the girls that they have crushes on strutting about inches away from indescent exposure, and they feel that they may have a chance. They catch a glimpse of the inner sex kitten that encapsulates the minds of young women coming into their own. Regardless of how they act on the other 364 days of the year, guys can see that girls really want to let loose, and probably would if it wasn't for the whole slut/manwhore double standard, which will hopefully someday be miscredited by a fucking holiday that is really otherwise meaningless (except for the candy, toilet papering and mailbox bashing, of course). They get the feeling that they can somehow find that pseudo-slut that is hiding somewhere in most normal girls, and it is an undeniably beautiful thing. They know that these women are just like them in the way that they wouldn't dress up like Marilyn Monroe if some part of them didn't actually want to act like a chick that would bone a married United States President. Just like I wouldn't spend sixty dollars on a pair of PF Flyers and dress like Benny "The Jet" Rodriguez if some part of me didn't want to steal an autographed baseball from a blind man or steal homebase in adult hood after I grew a masterful mustache.

It goes both ways, too. For every normal and prudinistic (I'm fairly sure I just made that word up) woman, there is a contradiction. There are girls who embrace promiscuity year round, and are not afraid to show it. They show plenty of leg at any party they go to, and won't hesitate to wear a skirt with leggings--a weakness of mine--to a first-year seminar class. If you're out on Halloween and you're not feeling philosophical or daydreaming about what these one-day-a-year-skin-showers might be like if you got them into your dormitory shower, take this advice: the women that aren't scantily clad on Halloween are more often than not the ones that are extremely scantily clad the rest of the year. They're the ones that dress like they're looking to get paid to perform fellatio after Easter mass. These are the women who are not inclined to tease you, because they can do that with the rest of their year's wardrobe.

So, Halloween is a time when you can (usually) very easily tell the kind of person that someone is, and it's the one day in the year that effectively removes the gray area of wonderment that boys torment themselves over every other day. This is why I like Halloween.

And, this is why I love Fall.

Sunday, August 3, 2008

Brett is Back

About two weeks ago, I was in a very dark place. A place I was certain I couldn't come back from. One of my heroes and a former man crush of the month had betrayed my trust and left me on the brink of insanity. I'm willing to bet that you were thinking the same things I was at that time, except my emotions were amplified by at least 10% and came with the sensation that one of my nuts was constantly lodged in the area between my groin and small intestines.

We were all thinking: What the fuck is Brett Favre doing?

The answer: Nobody, and I don't think even he, knows.

When he first began to express interest in coming back to the NFL, I was ecstatic. Then I heard people didn't want him. I could immediately see why. They were pissed because he'd expressed his desire to retire from the game, and they were all ready to move on. It's kind of like when you get the sweetest blowjob of your life in the 10th grade, break up with the girl, and then decide later on that you'd like to have her back, only to find that she's moved on and is now dating a total tool.

You might say that the two things aren't even remotely related, but if you observe poignantly, they surely are. The 'you' in the story is Favre, the 'girl' is the Green Bay Packers, and the 'total tool' is Aaron Rodgers (the man slated to take our future Commander In Chief's place). Yep. I hope you brought your umbrella, because I'm raining knowledge.

The realization of this, coupled with the conjecture that Favre would not end up in a Packers' uniform this coming season but in a suit for another team--quite possibly the Vikings, who wear purple. Fucking Purple--was simply too much, and I decided to just let it all go. I stopped watching ESPN for a while, waiting for it all to go away. I actually watched the real news, and knew what was going on in the world politically. That's how bad it got.

In other words, I moved on. I picked a new favorite player, Trent Dilfer, because I knew he was retired and would stay that way, if only because nobody else would take him. He wouldn't hurt me like Favre and Jake Plummer had. I knew what to expect from him. He'd be on ESPN on Sundays, doing some color commentating, and he might even make me laugh every now and then. Trent Dilfer made me believe in a world of laughter that I'd thought was gone the day #4 hung up his cleats.

I decided I could start watching ESPN again, because I'd heard through the grapevine that the Pirates had traded their best two players to the Yankees and Red Sox, and that they were scorching the American league. I wanted another reason to get mad at the sporting world, and another reason to move away from home. In the sports world, we call that a win-win situation.

I figured the whole ordeal with Favre was at some kind of standstill, because I refused to talk to anyone about him, because they would almost always bring up the articles I wrote for the school paper or the blog entries I'd written about the man, ceaslessly praising him, and what a douchebag he was acting like.

So, in preparation for the event, I had my mom stop in a convenience store in China Town (I'm in DC right now) and buy me a bottle of Blue Rasberry Mad Dog 20/20--sadly, that was not a joke. I came back to my hotel and cracked it open, and decided to check ESPN's website before turning the television on. That way if I saw a photo of Roger Goodell skull-fucking my man crush, I could quickly shut the computer monitor off and keep myself from the bad news.

As I got the page up, I was terrified to find that Brett's picture was on the homepage. I tried to stick with my initial plan, and I did. But I kept finding my way back to the page, telling myself I was trying to figure out if Brian Deegan had scored a gold medal yet at the X-Games, and if manny Ramirez had choked on a burrito and died.

But really, I was looking at Favre. And, eventually I read the article. It told me that as of Monday (tomorrow), Favre would be reinstated and listed as an active member of the Packers' roster. Their coach was rumored to be planning a quarterback competition between him and Rodgers to decide who would start.

The first thing I did was get an erection. Then, I decided my silence had to end. I was tempted to write something about Favre before, when all of this started, but I just couldn't. The knife had gone too deep. I experienced my first real bout with writers block. Everytime I sat down at my computer, I would break into tears and be forced to listen to the Kangaroo Jack soundtrack for the rest of the night in order to cheer myself back up.

I didn't know what to write about though, because I could address the way he's acting, but I was totally flabbergasted by it. Instead, I decided to focuse on the argument that the Packers shouldn't take him back, because it's Aaron Rodgers time to start as quarterback there.

That is a terrible argument. Why does Rodgers deserve to play? He hasn't earned it at all, and it's not like his uncle is the offensive coordinater. Whoever's most qualified for the job should get the job. I don't think anyone would say Rodgers has a better chance of leading the Pack to the Superbowl than Favre. No more than I have a better chance at writing a kickass novel about a boy-wizard than J.K. Rowling does.

Favre holds many records in the NFL. Rodgers can't even hold Favre's jockstrap, though I'm sure they made him do it during his rookie season. They may have made him wring it out on his face too. Mushroom stamps may also have been involved.

I, personally, welcome Brett Favre back to the NFL, and feel that the prospect of Rodgers starting over him is the same as me getting married and being happy about it. (Except that Chris Berman would not cover my wedding. If he did, he'd probably say something like "He...could...go...all...the...way...less than 50% of the time.")

Brett Favre is back, and I am fucking happy about it. I hope he starts on opening day, and pulls off his comeback in a greater fashion than Michael Jordan or David Hasselhoff did, or I'm going to sound like a total idiot.

Now, though, if Favre's playing football, he will almost certainly not be the next President of our great Nation. That's a big problem, but lets face it, that's not as important as football...




Saturday, July 12, 2008

Marriage: Good, Bad, or Both?

I was having a stimulating conversation with my good friend Frank a few days ago, and somehow the subject of marriage popped up. We were talking about someone--I think it was either a famous actress or Harrison Ford--and I said, in jest of course, that I would marry that person. He responded by saying, "Yeah, you seem like someone that's ready to settle down and get married," which was obviously sarcastic, and I said, "Frank, the day I get married is the day that you see Chuck Norris in a pair of pantyhose playing the role of Sandy in a production of Grease.

If you didn't catch what I was throwing out with that comment, I was insinuating that I will never be prepared for marriage, and may never get married. There are reasons for this, and anyone that knows me very well would probably attest to the fact that I may not make a good husband, and have a phobia of commitment so deeply routed that I cannot even accept a fictional Facebook relationship request without first shitting my pants and crying. (That was a joke, kind of. Frank, I want you to know that the past week as your Facebook boyfriend has changed my life irrevocably, and I love you for it. Never leave me.)

Also, Frank found this funny, and put it up as his away message. I have since had more than one beautiful woman tell me that, if I was seriously in a pinch later on in life, they would marry me. Nice.

But, for some reason, the subject of marriage has continued to creep into my mind since that conversation, and I don't know why. It keeps showing up in books that I'm reading or television shows that I'm watching. It's actually a bit creepy, but has helped me think about the sacrement (?) of marriage and allowed me to see it in a new light; basically, because I over analyze pretty much everything. So, I'm going to drop some of the knowledge and ramblings that have been going on in my head, in the hopes that I'll soon be able to forget about marriage and revert back to a life that has a main concern of how I'm going to stay alive in four months when I turn 21...

In typical college male fashion, I've always been vehemently opposed to marriage and have felt that instead of simply legalizing gay marriage, we should also ban heterosexual marriage. I've had various dreams and thoughts of possibly getting married someday, of walking down that fucking aisle and saying the big "I do," and I've woken up drenched in sweat and frightened of my own shadow. I even had a dream that I married my mom once, and no, this isn't a play on words for how people always tell you that you marry a version of your mother. This really was my mother (Oedipus complex for sure). I shouldn't have gone public with that one.

Recently, though, I've thought about it, and if you can find the right person, marriage probably isn't all that bad. Obviously, finding the right person isn't any small or easy task, since statistics will show you that if you get married, you've got a 50/50 chance of getting divorced, which strikes me as extremely odd and disgruntling. So, I've decided if I ever do get married, it will be to a woman as close to perfect as I can possibly find (e.g. Megan Fox, Tina Fey, or that chick that's married to Ben Stiller), and it will last. This thought has helped warrant the ceaseless ponderings I've allowed myself to do concerning matrimony in the past few days.

One of the things I think would be cool about marriage is getting to sleep with a woman every night. I don't mean have sex, because lets face it, if you do that every single night it may get monotonous, and there will almost always be some sort of chafing issue involved. I mean actually sleeping.
***SIDENOTE: Who the fuck ever came up with the euphemism "Sleeping with someone" as a substitute for "having sex with someone." That's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard in all of my life. That's like saying you're cooking dinner when you're really outside playing a game of horse in the driveway with your Mexican neighbor, which is to say they're not even remotely close to being the same fucking thing.
Now, if you know me (and if you're reading this, you probably do, because no else does), then you're probably thinking, "But Scott, you like to sleep alone. You are the most restless sleeper I've ever met, and sleeping with a girl seems to only compound that problem for you," and I can't argue that. But, there is a definite difference between me sleeping with a girl and married people sleeping together: I sleep in a twin bed. When was the last time you threw on the television and found and episode of Family Matters that had Carl and his wife sleeping in a twin fucking bed? No, that shit doesn't happen. Married people get to sleep in a queen-sized bed AT LEAST. Most of the time, it's a king-size. This means that you have options when you're going to sleep. If you feel like cuddling that night, you can spoon your fucking heart out. If not, you can just stay on your side of the bed, read an Ayn Rand novel, and pass out. If you start out wanting to cuddle but then want to go to sleep after you start sweating as a result of their close body heat, you can disengage your sleeping arm and roll over. That shit would be awesome, it's like the best of both worlds. I wouldn't need my stuffed animals or an extra pillow anymore. Instead, I'd have a wife. I'd also get the priviledge of wearing pajama bottoms to bed every night. It seems like married guys in movies and on television never just rock the boxer briefs to bed. It's like once you join the world of married man, you get an automatic pass to the land of the bourgeoise.

Another awesome thing about marriage is kids. I really don't see any point in getting married if you're not going to have children at some point. Kids would be a big part of me wanting to settle down, and if I wasn't ever going to give it a shot at making them I probably would just continue to float through life in a drunken haze. I mean, sure, you can have kids out of wedlock, but lets face it: people still look down on that. I don't know why, really, but they do. In the future, I'd love to have some little kids that I can hang out with all the time, that admire me just because I'm their dad. I can teach them things and take them to the park. You know, shit like that. I'd especially like to read my blog to them, because little kids can't decipher vanity and will listen to whatever I say (I know this is true because my parents told me George Bush was cool).

Now, since I just talked about children and am neither Angelina Jolie or Madonna (they got their kids without taking part in the funnest prenatal activity), I feel it's my duty to talk about another aspect of marriage that leads to the children. That would be boning. I hope my mom doesn't read this one. All I've heard my entire life is that once a guy gets married, he stops getting laid. Well, that's entirely the guy's fault if it is indeed happening, because believe me, I know women, and women don't dislike it as much as we pretend they do. I'd like to think that if you're going to marry someone, it's a person you find very attractive and someone you would like to nail every other day for the rest of your life, or until you're rendered impotent. And this can happen, it really can. Take it from someone with no experience whatsoever. You just have to keep it interesting.

You can't just come home from the office everyday, eat dinner, read a magazine and then come into bed and throw it down missionary style. That shit gets boring, and eventually it becomes a regularity that thrills about the same amount as brushing your teeth in the morning. It's like masterbation. Any guy worth his salt has done it over a thousand times since the sixth grade, and will admit that it's not nearly as fun now as it was the first few times. You can't make it that interesting, and most people do it more out of habit and need to bust a nut on the computer screen while checking out some Asian women than for real enjoyment. For real enjoyment we watch The Office.

For a marriage to really work sexually, I imagine it must be spiced up. You've gotta do some role playing, at least. I'd elaborate on this but I'm really getting paranoid that my mom will read this and label me a deviant. Honestly, though, I have some good ideas. If you want to get married, let me know.

I really don't know what I'm talking about. I'm still probably not ever going to get married.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

NBA Draft

I spend a lot of time alone this summer, in a town I'm not familiar with. I live in a single person college dorm room, without even my own bathroom. So, you can kind of say that I'm living in prison, except that I have the Internet and television. Since these are two of my only connections to the outside world, I sit in this chair for most of the day while watching the TV, which is positioned in a perfect position on top of my refrigerator, so that I can see both at once.

This allows me to simultaneously write this while watching the NBA Draft; an event that is going on right now (8:15 on Thursday night), and for the first time in recent history--or ever--I've been looking forward to it for more than a week and have actually sat down to watch it.

Not only have I been looking forward to it, but since I watch ESPN so much now, I've been soaking up all of the data, rumors and possible scenarios that will come up through the first fourteen players, so I'm probably more qualified to comment on it than Bill Raftery.

If you don't watch the NBA draft, which you probably don't, because I think NBA games get about as many viewers as the MLS Thursday night games, then let me tell you something: it's not very interesting. Basically, what happens is the NBA's Commissioner, David Stern (who looks not unlike a creature that inhabits the Mos Eisley Cantina in Star Wars and speaks in a monotone that is indecipherable from that of Ben Stein) walks up to the podium every five minutes and says the selection of the player that the team currently "on the clock" has decided to take for their own.

After that, commentators Jay Bilas--the guy that played for Duke and hasn't done shit since, but seems to know exactly what he's talking about--and Mark Jackson--the guy that played for the Pacers, wore wristbands actualy on his wrists, and doesn't appear to know a fucking thing about what he's talking about--weigh in on the wisdom the general managers and coaches showed with their selections.

Following this, the players sit down in a Laz-ee-Boy across from Stephen A. Smith--the guy that sometimes knows what he's talking about, but is kind of cheesy and speaks with diction that's only slightly better than Jim Rome's--while he asks them all the exact same question with different wording, essentially: What Are You...Going To...Bring...To...Themilwaukeebucks????????? I could seriously do this guy's job if I was hammered drunk on Mojitos and had just smoked Angel Dust (on accident).

The players try to answer this questions the best they can, and none of them--aside from maybe Kevin Love--answer the questions with anything worth saying. Everyone says that they want to help the team win, can play the point if they need to, and will play defense for real if necessary. They don't show much individuality, but it's not a stand-up comedy show. Most NBA players aren't known for their witty banter, and that's not what they get paid for.

***SIDENOTE: Some players are known for their witty banter. Well, one at least, and his name is Shaq. If you haven't seen Shaq's freestyle rap song from last weekend, when he tore Kobe Bryant's arrogant ass to shreds, look it up on YouTube. With one innocent rap in a NYC club, Shaq has moved into second place on my list of "The Best and Worst Rappers Ever." He is behind only Kanye West, who can make words rhyme in a pretty successful manner, but is without a doubt the biggest douche bag in the history of the world (that wasn't a dictator or advocate of genocide or murderer, well as far as we know). If this isn't self-explanatory, read his blog.

This may not sound like the most captivating thing on television, but at this point in the year there's not really anything else on other than baseball, and that's not that thrilling to watch either. But, you've got to ask yourself: what else am I going to do on a Thursday night?

So, for some reason, I'm going to do some draft analysis. If you enjoy and know basketball, some of it might be a little bit intelligible, and if not, you probably don't even want to read this since it will be an incredible bore. Instead, I suggest you rent a movie or, I don't know, read a book or article by someone that's really a writer.

I'm only going to do a few picks, like 10-14, because I rented Pride and Prejudice and need to get myself ready for a good cry. Oh, and the lottery picks only go until 14, which is basically all anyone cares about.

1.) Chicago Bulls- Derrick Rose, Guard from Memphis.
The Bulls came out as the winners in the lottery this year, despite Miami having the worst record in the league. It doesn't really matter that much, because if they would've gotten the second or third pick, Rose probably still would've been around, due to the fact that he doesn't fit as well with the other worst teams in the league.

Chicago, apparently, needs a point guard, which I can understand. Someone needs to check Rose before he wrecks himself, though. He keeps babbling all of this shit about how he's going to "lead the Bulls to victories," and I keep saying, "What the fuck are you talking about?" I'm sure Kirk Hinrich is saying the same fucking thing. The dude is younger than me, and he wants to lead the most famed franchise in the history of professional basketball? You cannot be a leader of a team when you're that young, unless you're LeBron James, and Rose most certainly is not.
That said, I hope that Chicago does well. I love those guys. They are probably the most diverse team in basketball, as far as nationalities go. They have white American Hinrich, a childhood hero of mine; the Sudanese Luol Deng; the black french Joakim Noah; and I guess that's it.

But, they also have a new coach, and his name is Vinnie Del Negro. How unbelievably awesome of a name is that? It's the perfect one for a coach of such a diverse team. His name encapsulates Italian, Black, and Mexican all in one! And the guy is, I think, actually white! What a beautiful fit. I think they should try and get Eduardo Najera--the only Mexican born player in the league.

2.) Miami Heat- Michael Beasley, Forward from Kansas State
People were questioning whether Beasley would go second, because Pat Riley's dumbass decided to say he didn't like Beasley without naming a reason. I've never liked Riley, and strongly believe that Jason Williams should be made player-coach of the Miami Heat. There was absolutely no doubt that Beasley should go to the Heat, and he would've (I think should've) gone first to the Bulls, but they had an erection for Rose and his immaculate leadership skills.

I don't know what to expect from the Heat this next year. If you look at their roster, they should be better than a nude photograph of Jennifer Connelly, but they were the worst team in the league this past year after winning the championship the year prior. It's really a strange anomaly that the Heat would go from first to last while the Celtics went from worst to first all in the same year. I guess it's because the Celtics were handed two of the best players in basketball when they already had another one, but I don't understand the Heat's loss. Weird.

3.) Minnesota Timberwolves- O.J. Mayo, Guard/Man-Child from USC.
Let me tell you a story about O.J. Mayo. When I was in 9th grade and he was in 8th (though he will turn 21 before me), my AAU team squared off against his. Get this, I guarded the dude, and held him to only four points. FOUR POINTS. Of course this was in the fourth quarter, and he wasn't really trying because they were already beating us by forty points and he had at least thirty-five of them.

Anyway, he's good. The Timberwolves will still suck because their best player is named Al Sharpton, or some shit like that.

4.) Seattle SuperSonics- Russell Westbrook, Guard from UCLA
I don't know much about Westbrook, but I hope he works out because the Sonics need to do something to get their fans back. I guess they're about to be moved from Seattle, which will result in mass suicide by the hardcore fans. What else is there to do in Seattle if you don't work at the hospital from Grey's Anatomy? All it does is rain there.

On an upside, they do have the most picks in this draft out of anyone, so they'll get some young talent to go with Kevin Durant. Oh, and they have Luke Ridnour, who is on my all-time list of awesome white guards that have actually somehow made it to the NBA. Ridnour has even started for like three or four years, so he wins my professional basketball Bob Woodward award, for being in the right place at the right time. Put that dude on a team with Jason Kidd and he's fucked.

5.) Memphis Grizzlies- Kevin Love, Forward from UCLA
This shouldn't come as much of a surprise to anyone, given that it's the Grizzlies. Do you think it's a coincidence that they're the first team to pick a white boy, and a terribly unathletic one at that? Well, it's not.

Think about the Grizzlies' history with white men: Bryant Reeves, Jason Williams and Mike Miller. All (supposedly) franchise players.

To further bolster my point, look at who their general manager is: Jerry Fucking West. One of the most--and only--successful white men to ever kick it in the NBA. The Grizzlies are basically the KKK of the NBA. Wait, I take that back. Their highest scorer's last name is "gay." That doesn't fly in the Republican Party, let alone the KKK.

6. New York Knicks- Danilo Galineri, some dude from Italy that must've been no good at soccer.
The Knicks are in pretty bad shape and didn't make things much better for themselves with their first draft pick. I didn't know much about this guy coming into it, but the Knicks fans at the draft--it was held in NYC--told me plenty when they proceeded to boo the shit out of the guy. The commentators said they were impressed by how he didn't seem to worry about the fans. They called him tough. But I think he might just be foreign and stupid. I'm not sure he really sure he understood what was going on at all.

I'm not sure what the Knicks are planning to do with him, but it's going to be tough for everyone when the ball keeps slipping out of his hands. (Get it? Italians are stereotypically greasy. I'm an asshole.)

You never know what will happen, though. The Knicks did get Mike Dantoni to man the ship for them next season, and he is the most innovative coach in the league. Also, my favorite.

7.) Los Angeles Clippers- Eric Gordon, Guard with Two First Names from Indiana.
The Clippers are usually terrible, and I'm not sure if Gordon will be able to turn their shit around. He's decent though, and I like him a lot because he's the player in the draft that I can most relate to (even though Muska could never be misconstrued as a first name).

Jay Bilas said that he could shoot lights out and was a scorer, but that he was a bad passer tha tturned it over too frequently and couldn't handle the rock very well.

I relate to him because I could shoot half-decently, and couldn't do anything else at all. I turned it over like a pancake chef in my day.

8. Milwaukee Bucks- Joe Alexander, Forward from West Virginia
Well, Joe Alexander is pretty sweet...and another guy with two first names! He's a really athletic white dude, which is an oxymoron like "day dream," and he played at West Virginia. I haven't really traveled the entire country, but I figure that Morgantown and Milwaukee are about as similar as two cities can get.

Alexander will be playing in the front court with Andrew Bogut, who is an Aussie. That's all I have to say about that. It's pretty cool, I think.

Terrible joke: Alexander was born in Taiwaan, but he wasn't made cheap.

9. Charlotte Bobcats- D.J. Augustin, Guard from Texas
I don't have much, or anything to say about Augustin, but I do feel sorry for him. He's gotta play for Larry Brown and Michael Jordan, both of whom I've been told are big dicks.

I'll take this opportunity to wax man crush about Adam Morrison, though. That guy's still in the league and still getting burn. What a fucking animal.

10. New York Nets- Brook Lopez, Forward from Stanford
Alright, I can't suffer this guy. He might be good and everything, but i actually got legitimately pissed off whenever he wasn't drafted by Charlotte and started crying. Wow. Who would cry over not getting to sit on the bench behind Emeka Okafor?

I probably wouldn't have dwelt on this for so long if they hadn't interviewed his brother right afterwards. The dude was hilarious, and was obviously the cooler brother. Fortunately, he got drafted fifteenth to the Suns, my favorite team.














Wednesday, June 18, 2008

No Homo?

As something of a self-proclaimed next generation story-teller, I have quite the appreciation of slang. I use that shit, and I abuse it. I latch onto a hip word of phrase and subsequently beat it to death within two weeks. I quote lines from movies like they're going out of style, until, finally they do go out of style.

I use the phrase "sick" totally out of context so often that it's become a despicable habit. I might say something to my friends like, "Dude, Conor Oberst is the sickest song writer since, like, Bob Dylan." If you're over the age of, say, twenty-five and weren't particularly into Mr. Dylan, you might think that I mean that Bob Dylan was already dead as a result of tuberculosis, and that Oberst was going to soon follow him because of a severe allergic reaction he had to shellfish and/or peanut butter whilst on tour.

If you do happen to be young and hip (or, say, not unlike myself) you probably know that what I really mean is that Conor Oberst is the greatest or best songwriter since Bob Dylan. (This, of course, is arguable. Chances are you've never heard of Oberst or his band Bright eyes, and if that's the case then you probably like Chad Kroeger and Nickelback. If that is indeed a little bit more down your alley, then substitute Kroeger with Oberst and Brett Michaels with Bob Dylan and you'll have basically the same scenario. If you decide to go this route, after switching the names, close this window and never read anything I like again, because Nickelback is almost as terrible and un-creative as Oprah Winfrey.)

That's slang for you, right there, and it's been around for generations. People saying that something was "groovy" in the '70s wasn't exactly part of the scholarly vocabulary, but everyone knows what it means. The same with someone saying that they "dig" something. When taken in a literal sense, it makes absolutely none, but with the proper knowledge of slang it's easily understandable and reusable.

Now, as a scholar of slang terms, I hate it when a phrase or term comes about that is absolutely awful, and I hate even more when people start to use it in every other sentence. Examples of this would be the phrase "I know, right?" said in a valley girl tone, or anything repeated from the movie Napoleon Dynamite. Phrases from the movie Borat are also beginning to fall into this category, which hurts me deeply because that was a film of rare comedic genius. But, it's just like anything else: if you hear someone scream "Very niiiiiicccceeee" in a Kazegi--wherever the fuck he's from accent for the six millionth time, it begins to grind on your very psyche. Just like if I hear that Rihanna song about sharing umbrellas on the radio one more time I will have high-efficiency earplugs installed in my canals for the rest of eternity.

Another instance of this--I know, you get the point, but bear with me--is the term "Party like a rockstar." I thought I was finally done with this, but just yesterday (against my better judgment) I was watching MTV and saw a special show. It was Sean Kingston's Super Sweet 18th birthday. He must have used this term three million times, and I wanted to just scream through the monitor that he should shut the fuck up. He was making an entrance onto a private island from a fucking yacht. I've never seen any footage of The All-American Rejects doing that. Just let that one go.

Now, the term that's recently come to my attention and has immediately begun to wear on me is "No Homo." I hear this at least twice a day, whether it's on television or with someone I'm conversing with.

It's quite possibly the worst slang term to come into existence in the last ten years, and I was just going to put an exception here, but I can't think of any. And I'm declaring a mission to extricate it from Urban Dictionary and from the mouths of all of this nation's youth.

For those of you who aren't in the know about No homo, you should first of all be thankful. But, if you're going to fight a war against terrible and overused slang, you must first know and acknowledge your enemy. I learned this from Tom Cruise in The Last Samurai before he turned into a total fuckhead (his coming out party was on Oprah's show, nonetheless) and completely cock-blocked Dawson and stole his childhood love.

"No homo" is a term used when a supposedly heterosexual alpha male says something that could be construed as gay, either before or after he utters the offending sentence. For example, a guy could say something like "I can't believe I just swallowed all of that!" He would then immediately say "No homo!" so that his colleagues realize that he's not really gay and didn't mean to sound that way. What a silly boy. Another would be a man saying to his friend, "No homo, but damn Drew, I saw you in the showers and you're hung like a damn Clydesdale!"

You know, things of that nature.

Now I'm worried for a few reasons about this, and I will list some of them now:

1.) If you feel a need to prove your masculinity so much, you should never, at any point, talk to your friend about how big his junk is, and you especially should not compare it to the biggest species of horse in all of creation. If you're really an alpha male, you should be swinging a large enough bat to point to center field for a home run whenever you damn well please, and if you're not, you shouldn't draw attention to others that far outdistance (and quite possible even outweigh...it's Physics) your own genitalia. Word like that spreads around pretty fast I think, and if you become the public relations coordinator for your friends jackhammer, then he'll be beating off chicks lined up down the street with a broom, his weiner or both, while you'll be reduced to writing sonnets in order to even get a consideration for a prom date.
--Sidenote: I'm astounded with the amount of synonyms for the penis that I used in that paragraph. I'm not even going to say no homo, because this is the beastly male part of this rant, and masculine men have no need for it.

2.) Sexual confusion can happen. Using the term "No homo" can only further this confusion. Think about it for a second. Do you honestly believe that Neil Patrick Harris knew that he was gay during his adolescent years while he was starring on Doogie Howser, Kid MD? No, he probably didn't. He was awash in women during those years and was probably too wrapped up trying to bang the entire Mickey Mouse Club that he didn't even know he was gay until he'd used up all of the women and encountered Justin Timberlake. He probably also started saying fruity things, you know, they might just pop out of nowhere, which may have led to the confusion that eventually let him accept that he was one of the coolest gay dudes to ever have lived, if not one of the most comedic. If "No homo" was around then, and he could use it in every instance that he made an unintentionally inappropriate quip concerning a stethoscope or tongue depressor, he might still be questioning his sexuality. This confusion should be avoided, because honestly, there's nothing wrong with being a homosexual. These days, there is no shame in it at all, as far as I see. It doesn't bother me and it doesn't bother anyone, unless you're rooming with the kid and he finds you extremely attractive, which I don't think really happens. I'm pretty sure gay people are attracted to other gay people for the most part, but I'm not sure. I'll have to research that and get back to you.
This can also work on the other side of the spectrum. We've all heard of those guys who get married, have kids and then figure out that they were gay the entire time. Like one day they wake up and realize that they really dig dudes, and decide to move to San Francisco, leaving their wife and six children ranging from ages two to ten in the dust so that they can go swingin'. What the fuck do you say to your spouse? "Sorry honey, but I've jumped fences. I'm going to Cali to explore the disco clubs and maybe get married to a man someday. I guess when I get a job at Pottery Barn I'll start sending child support checks. Believe me, this is for the best, and you can tell our oldest, but I'd probably wait until Sue is at least potty trained to let her know the good news. I hope we can still be friends, Will and Grace really had something going, don't you think?" With the up-and-coming "No homo," less and less men will be able to accept their sexuality before settling down with women when they deep down don't want to but aren't truly aware of it.
Take, for instance, Pete Wentz. I know that right now Jessica Simpson is down in the dumps because her little sister is married and happy and she can't even hold onto Tony Romo. She'll feel a lot better when she finds out in a couple of years that Wentz successfully "No homo'd" Ashleey Simpson into a high profile marriage.

3.) My last reason is that this new slang is just totally unnecessary. It's not at all needed in the trendy and comedic canon of vocabulary. I've tried for the last hour to think of a time when I would need to use "No homo," but haven't thought of one instance where it can't be substituted with one of the most hilarious and creative slang phrases of this generation or any other, which would be: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID.


Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Man Crush of the Month...Every Pittsburgh Penguin

So, you're walking down the street in downtown Pittsburgh, somewhere near Mellon Arena, just minding your own business when you see a flock of like six foxy ladies that rate at least a 13.5 on the 1-to-10 hottness scale (with probably a -2 on the smartness scale, because god is usually fair, but hey) walking in your direction.

My question for you is, if you could be any man in the world, who would you want to be?

In pretty much any other city in the world, you would want to be Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, or any of the other men who have captured the prestigious Man Crush Semi-Monthly Award, but not in the Steel City. So if not these hunks of manly perfection, then who the fuck else would you want to be?

Donald Trump, or Richard Branson, because they've got a lot of money? That's a logical guess, especially in this sad world of materialism we live in, but no.

Ben Roethlisberger?

If that was your guess, please X out this window and never read this again. He's a no-talent ass clown, and I've proven my point numerous times, but that's for another day.

The answer of course, is Sidney Crosby, and if not him, any other Penguin.

I've lived outside of Pittsburgh my entire life. Twenty years I have suffered through the drastic climate changes of Penn's Woods, but it wasn't in vain; I've learned a lot, and I've seen even more, and something that I haven't seen in all my years in Pittsburgh is the amount of rabidity with which its citizens are cheering on the Pen's in the Stanley Cup Finals.

I was only four years old whenthe Guinos won the 1992 Stanley Cup, but I remember it like it was yesterday, and it wasn't that big of a deal. Mainly, because they'd been good for a number of years and people expected them to go to the playoffs and do well. In other words, fans acted a bit more humbly.

Now, when I come into my bedroom between periods to check my computer and creep around like the loser that I am, I see at least five girls' away messages that say something like, "Put It In My Five-Hole Sidney."

I'm extremely confident that until three weeks ago, 9/10ths of these women had no fucking clue what a five-hole was, and when their boyfriends tried to explain it to them, they didn't get it until it was compared to a vagina.

Some might get mad about this ridiculous bandwagon bumblefuck we've got going on in Pittsburgh, but I sure a hell won't, because to me, the more the merrier. I don't give a baker's fuck if you didn't like the Pens when Ed Olczyk was giving blowjobs to Craig Patrick while they were teaming up to make some of the worst roster deals in the history of sports (behind only the Phoenix Suns), or didn't even know they existed. Now, they're doing good, and they're getting a lot of love for it, which they deserve.

I mean, in pro sports, it's your job to do good and win, so the whole bandwagon thing makes a great deal more sense than many people give it credit for; regular fans like myself should feel like we've been getting hosed for all of these years by wasting countless hours watching the Pens lose to the fucking Islanders--they have an American goalie, and therefore should suck. We just didn't know that it was easy enough to watch reruns of Roseanne three nights a week until the team got some good press and started winning their shit.

Anyway, you definitely don't see the players complaining. Not only have the fans been ridiculously loud and supportive at their home games, but people have even showed up to Mellon Arena to watch the games inside on the JumboTron during road games. This obviously doesn't help the team at all when they're in Detroit getting spanked by a bunch of clones of that girl in Dodgeball that took the horse tranquelizers, but it does create some energy for when they finally get to play at home tomorrow.

Not only this, but these guys could pull some mad women. Whatever type, hair color, ethnicity, whatever the fuck they desired.

At the forefront of this is obviously Sidney Crosby, who I will openly admit is a good looking guy, in what I would call a humble way. But, make him the captain and franchise player of an up and coming hockey team, give him a Reebok contract to go with his multi-million dollary Pens papers, and set him up in a home with pseudo-Father Figure Mario Lemieux (the ladies must love sneaking around...Mario doesn't allow sleepovers, I hear), and he turns into Mel Gibson before he fucked everything up by getting drunk, making fun of Jews, and calling girls "Sugar Tits."

Sometimes I'll be sitting with some of my guy friends, talking about hockey, using words like "forecheck" and "facewash" or "fighting strap" and a girl will just look up from her back issue of Cosmo and say, "Oh. My. God. Sidney. Crosby. Is. So. Fucking. Hot. I will immediately concur, and try not to get angry at the fact that these women don't know shit about hockey, and only want to bone the star player. I rationalize for a minute and think, Shit. I would not mind if something like that happened to me. I'd love to be on the Penguins right now, and would probably not have one single ounce of regret if women were all over me because I knew how to swing my wood. By wood I mean hockey stick, or penis. Mostly penis, because that's subtle boner humor right there.

It's amazing how you can take an ordinary guy and put him in extraordinary circumstances (think Shia Leboeuff), and just watch the women flock like bees to honey or Angelina Jolie to third world children.

Try and wrap your head around this: my friend Evan was born on the exact same day as Sidney Crosby, which would be August 7th, 1987. Evan is currently attending college and not doing very much with his life. His biggest achievement to date has been cracking his skull open on a concrete floor when he failed to execute a standing backflip at a fraternity party during freshman year in Erie. I dont' even need to say what Crosby has done so far.

Then there's Evgeni Malkin, who speaks only Russian, could pick up a Vietnamese woman that played a cameo in Full Metal Jacket as soon as she stepped off of the boat by communicating with a fucking head nod. He doesn't need to learn any languages to get a bitch in between Gonchar's silky sheets, all he needed to learn was a wrist shot.

I've also heard women feigning for Marc Andre Fleury, which I don't really understand. I mean, yeah, he's cute, but how many women do you know that actually watch the post-game interviews and see him without sixty pounds of padding on? When he's out there on the ice, he looks like Marlon Brando except with a smaller head. They must like it because he can empathize with them, since random guys are always trying to put it in his five-hole, and sometimes he actually takes it there, but other times it goes into other places. They probably like that he feels something like they feel, or at least that's what they equate it to.

Then there's Gary Roberts. I can't say much about him except that he is basically the male version of a cougar. Who doesn't want that notch in their belt? Speaking of belts, if you're anorexic or bulimic, you can just go on a ski-trip in the locker room after game three. With all that weight you're probably losing, you can probably use a few extra notches in the belt to keep the Juicy Coutoure's up. If you need a press pass, leave a comment.

You can add any Penguin to this list: Maxim Talbot, Kris Letang (his face is like butter), Ryan Malone, whoever. I've heard it about them all. If you're a female in Pittsburgh looking to be elite, you've simply gotta bone a Pittsburgh Penguin.

These guys are straight rugged. They've got black eyes, broken noses, exploded fingers, and most importantly beards. If they wore flannel, they'd be easily confused with lumberjacks.

I love this for a few reasons. The first would be that I've loved the Penguins all of my life, and didn't think that they might ever make it to the finals again, much less win a championship (which is, admittedly, looking bleak presently). I also like it because there's a few guys my age playing a professional sport and excelling at it without getting in trouble for smoking or selling crack. This effectively throws the bird at the Baby Boomer population and says, "Fuck you, you guys aren't the best generation. Global Warming doesn't even fucking exist."

I also love the thoughts of Ben Roethlisberger going home without two bitches on his arm and crying himself to sleep because he will never be as good as Terry Bradshaw or even Neil O'Donnell.

May's Man Crush(es) of the Month: Sidney Crosby and every Pittsburgh Penguin.



****Author's Note: The scenario I laid out in the first paragraph where one would see five broads that were all extremely hot was simply a hypothetical situation. Any man worth their salt knows that there is no such thing as a five-girl clique that consists of five hot girls, unless they are Victoria's Secret models, and that doesn't count because the only reason they know one another is because of their extremely fortunate gene pools. If you don't believe me on this, even movies will prove you wrong. Think Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. (I didn't see it, I'm not that fucking stupid, but I did see a preview. It looks god-awful.) That chick from Ugly Betty is in it. Women always have to have at least one ugly girl in the group, so that they can feel better about themselves. This is also why Monica and Rachel hung out with Phoebe, and why Buffy kicked it with Willow. I could go on for days.