The Street Map to Pussy, Why Nice Guys Finish Last, and Other Urban Myths|
[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 18 most recent journal entries recorded in
|Wednesday, November 16th, 2005|
|GOD! I hate meatheads
Ever know that guy? You know, that guy. You’re at your local pub and he walks through the door. It’s 6:00pm on a Tuesday, yet for some reason he’s decked out to go to the club. His rack is bigger than that of most of the chicks I have dated – combined. His tips are frosted, he looks like he stole his shirt from a 10 year old boy, and the girl sitting next to you instantly wants to fuck him? That guy. The meathead. I hate that guy. What may surprise you however, is that God also hates the meathead. Yeah yeah, I know. “God loves everybody.” Not true, because God hates meatheads. Allow me to illustrate:
What’s in the box?
Vanity (pride): Ok, no question here. God hates vanity. He told me. I read it in a book God wrote. Have you read it? You have? No no no, not that book that was written by corrupt popes. I’m talking about this little known classic: Why I hate meatheads. Yeah. By Jesus H. Christ. It’s a must read. Basically, the meathead stares at himself in the mirror for 3 hours everyday thinking to himself, “I want to have sex with me.” He loves himself more than I love myself. Difference between the two of us is he loves himself with his body and soul; I just love myself with my right hand.
Envy: You would think that the meathead wouldn’t be very envious, because he is so sexy and full of manly manliness for men. He’s pretty well-to-do when you think about it. What’s he got to be envious of? Well, see, behind the chiseled, hot, tanned, sexy (I think I’m getting wet right now) exterior of the meathead is an insecure little girl named Suzy with an unquenchable thirst for compliments. The meathead walks down the street and stares at other dudes thinking, “man, I want that ass.” Or, “If only I could get me a set of hot manly man-pecks like that.” He also ponders the clothes of others, like “oh boy, that’s an awesome blazer, but would it make me look fat?” Well, at least that’s why I think the meathead stares at other dudes walking down the street.
Gluttony: The meathead is a glutton for protein! “More protein!!!!” Exclaims he. Protein shakes, protein pills, protein sandwiches with protein sauce. The meathead can sometimes be found looking befuddled at the grocery store wondering why no one makes protein flavored ice cream. However, more often than not he can be found gnawing on the rumps of cows in fields. If he was running low on protein, the meathead would glady suck you off for your protein fortified baby batter. So god obviously hates the meatheads, because we all know God isn’t down with the gays. Moving along .
Lust: Ain’t no lustin’ like self lustin. See vanity.
Anger: More often than not, the meathead was once fat, and as previously stated, insecure. He started working out to look pretty, which is completely understandable, but he then takes his bod one step further thinking that just because he is stacked, he can fight. The meathead is often seen in crazy skirmishes at the neighborhood bar, likely to have been caused by a disagreement over whether or not the other guy purposely spilled his drink on the meathead when he accidentally bumped into him. Ladies, beware the meathead, he is two redbull and vodkas away from punching you in the baby-maker. However, you should easily be able to determine his meatheadedness by investigating his domicile where a true meathead will have made countless holes in the walls. For some reason, when angry, the meathead’s feet and fists are uncontrollably attracted to drywall.
Greed: Is the meathead greedy you ask? You’re damn right he is!!! He’s um. Greedy, because… um. He’s greedy in bed! Yes. That’s it, greedy in bed. The meathead never eats box or engages in foreplay. I don’t know per say, cuz I don’t have a box, and I’ve never actually… um. Yeah, someone else think of why the meathead is greedy not up to the task right now.
Sloth: Now you might think that the meathead isn’t into sloth like you and me, because he is always working out. Obviously, this man must be the Asloth. Well you’re wrong my friends. I ask you to recall Matthew 10:37. “For if the brain shall fry, then fire will rain and there will be gnashing of teeth.” - I swear to Ala. It says that – And since the meathead makes a consorted effort NOT to use his brain, his teeth will be gnashed. Hey. Someone wanna tell me exactly what gnashing of teeth is? Is it like grinding, or is it like when you have nothing in your mouth and you chomp down real hard? And if so, why the fuck would you do something like that? Anyway. Meatheads hate books and crossword puzzles, and the history channel. If you ever suspect someone close to you of having contracted this terrible disease turn on “modern marvels” with him in the room. If your friend runs to the tv and puts his foot through the set, yelling “Meathead no learn! Only watch sports!!! Watch Dan Patrick now!!” Then he’s a meathead.
In closing – as you can see, not only I, but also God, hates meatheads. The meathead engages in all 7 deadly sins, and if that doesn’t warrant the hatred of an all-powerful deity, I don’t know what does. Plus, I think the first ever meathead got shit faced once and threw God’s good knives at a picture of Walter Cronkite, passed out naked on his white leather couch and pissed himself. And god can totally hold a grudge – like that time Adam ate an apple and he got kicked out of paradise. I mean, he ate an apple. He ate an apple off an apple tree – its not like it’s not going to grow more, plus they’re in paradise, its probably growing apples all year long. Fuckin’ abundance of apples, man! God, you greedy bastard, hording all the apples to yourself. Anyway, if he never let Adam, or even any of Adam’s grandbabies back in just for eating an apple, imagine how much he must hate meatheads for pissing on his nice couch.
|Tuesday, October 25th, 2005|
|Porn: the Cause of and the solution to all my sexual frustrations.
Pornography is bad. It is. And not because it’s degrading to women. It is, but so are movies with Rosie Odonell in them, and you don’t see me switching off “Free Willy” do you? What’s that you say? Rosie Odonell wasn’t in “Free Willy?” Bullshit! Then who played Willy’s stunt double (that took a while to set-up, but it was totally worth it)?
The trouble with porno is this. Watching pornography over and over again creates delusions of what can actually occur in the bedroom – or in porn’s case, the back alley, dinner party, or crowded train station. Porn is misleading for guys. We watch the stuff and think, “Hmm, if I surprise this perfect stranger by unzipping her dress, she will probably want to have sex with me,” or “yes, a well aimed money-shot to the face is the appropriate thing to do at this juncture in the relationship.” However, when we actually try this shit out, or request for it nicely, it backfires like a 1983 VW Fox and results in fighting within the relationship and/or jail time. Either that or we just never ask, and are always displeased and unsatisfied, because we want to have get-on-your-knees slap you in the face with my penis porno-sex.
And that’s bad. Not only because you shouldn’t be smackin’ your girlfriend in the face with a penis, but for other not so evident reasons too. But I’m not here to bash that which has kept me company on days of the week ending in y(including leap years) since 1983. I’m here to draw clear comparison between chick flicks and booty smackin, orgerific, spoogetastic porno!
Because, really, chick flix are pornos for girls. See. Porn creates an image of women that is much like a bowl of the delicious Jello instant pudding: cheap, ready to go whenever I want it and always satisfying. And while chick flicks don’t create this exact image for men, their message is the same.
Chick flicks provide women with a fantasy of what a relationship is, just like porn provides men with a fantasy of what a relationship is. Except, where most guys understand that they probably aren’t going to get to put it in the butt (at least not on a regular basis) I don’t think chicks understand just how unrealistic their favorite chick flick really is.
First and foremost, you have the main character. A chick so hot that she shouldn’t under any circumstances really have guy problems. The ‘gents should be at her beckon call. But they’re not. Then, this woman has every woman’s dream job – creative director or head event planner or head writer for a major PR firm/ad agency/magazine. Or she’s a fashion designer, don’t forget that. So, when we start the movie, this poor broad with tons of money living in a penthouse apartment somewhere in NYC is always dating Todd. Todd is a yuppy from the Hamptons who has more money and prestige than he knows what to do with. He is the perfect man, except he is cheating on the gorgeous piece of ass, also known as our beloved heroine. Enter Ryan, the incorrigible, plays-by his-own-set-of-rules, yet down-to-Earth nice guy with slightly unkempt hair, and a smile that could make a frigid 90 year old nun cream her underoos. He works with our Heroine, who we’ll call Jen, and somehow is not initially attracted to her at all. In fact, they are constantly fighting until they are assigned to work on the same project. Late hours together, Chinese food and coffee spur the most terrific conversations that she has ever had. He’s sharp as a tack, witty, and what’s that? Handsome now? Not only that, he has consoled her in her time of need because Jen just found out that her fiancé has been cheating on her all along with some girl who looks snobby and has brown hair, or has huge tits, a little dress, smeared make-up and blonde hair. You decide. At any rate, after consoling her, cooking her the most delicious homemade Italian cuisine and taking her ballroom dancing, they kiss, fuck, make babies – The end.
Now I realize that this isn’t always how it works, which is why chicks need to watch every chick flick that they can to discover the tiny changes and nuances that the last chick flick didn’t possess. This time, instead of NYC, it takes place in the country, and instead of a PR Firm, it’s a little bitty book shop, but its always the same damn thing! And just like I bust a nut over porno, girls get emotionally captivated by these movies and begin thinking… “wait, why isn’t my relationship like this?” I got news for ya, sweeheart, because it doesn’t fucking exist.
I have come to accept that you’re not going to pull me into the mens room and fuck my brains out in the handicap stall, and you need to realize that I’m not learning to swing dance. Furthermore! You’re just as likely to hear these words escape my lips: “Honey, you know what, I don’t want to watch the Penn State game and drink beers with the boys, I want to go shoe shopping with you,” as I am to hear these: “Baby, this is Amber, she’s the new 20 year old intern at work and she wanted to have a threesome, so I thought, great! Isn’t she hot?”
This is the reason why chick flicks are like porno, because just like I think I can convince you to have sex with me at Victoria’s secret, you think you can convince me to take up ballroom dancing. It’s a fantasy.
Both porno and chick flicks create a completely skewed image of what relationships are about. For guys it’s about crazy sex. For chicks it’s about have a man that constantly makes you feel good. A woman is for sex, and man is for self image. Each takes the stance of, what can the other person in the relationship do for me? Which is bad.
Ok, this has gotten far too serious, although I am once again right. Peace my homies!
Chick Flicks = Chick Porn.
|Monday, October 10th, 2005|
|Laguna Beach is the Worst show onTelevision
So. I recently had this conversation with my best good friend Inga Swett and I thought I would share it with the rest of the blogosphere. It all started when I went over to my perpetually lonely friend’s house in Buckhead to watch the Teli and I was forced by this formally redheaded broad to watch one of my most hated television shows since the season premiere of “Phenom” - Laguna Beach.
Here’s my point kids. You know how when some broad is complaining to you about her life. She mentions the names of roughly 30 of her friends strung together with some other words such as “like,” “blah, blah, blah,” “oh my god,” “did you know,” “I can’t believe,” “I can’t like believe,” “is such a bitch” and “ew!”
It goes a little something like this:
Oh my god, Mike, like I can’t believe that Jen is such a bitch. She hooked up with Jason, the boy that Tiff had a crush on and now they’re like, not talking. So I wanted to go out with Tiff, and she was talking to me, blah blah blah, and she said that Trish said that Joey said, that Tyler said, that Milkovich the angry Russian Mobster said… … that Emily said that Jenny is a huge bitch! And I was like, EW! Can you believe that? Anyway, so I went shopping this weekend, and mike, did you know? Abercrombie was having a sale on cute plaid skirts, so I bought six. I’m so bad.
Ok. Now, that is the mindless dribbling that I have to go through when I’m talking to MY FRIENDS. People I know and love. So, why on God’s green Earth would I ever want to listen to those exact same rants, and overall bullshitery from a bunch of rich people I never even met? I have a hard time giving a shit about the mundane problems that my friends have, let alone people I have never met. So why the fuck do you?
But chicks love this show! They love it to little annoying pieces! And I know they must, or the damn show wouldn’t be in its second season. What about a bunch of spoiled rich assholes with little to no redeeming qualities has you tuning in week after week? The only thing I can think whilst watching this poor excuse for television is how pathetic the lives of its viewers must be to be reduced to watching this craptastic horse puckey for the purpose of entertainment. How boring must your life be if “I can’t believe Kristin would hook up with John, when Tina totally is crushing on him” is entertaining to you? What is wrong with you people? How sedated is your imagination that you find the petty drama of rich high school girls stimulating? I mean, are the shows on the WB getting too hard to follow or something?
There just has to be something more stimulating than watching teenagers bicker. Would you walk into my house during Thankgiving and just watch? Hmmm. Actually that might be pretty entertaining, especially if my Mom’s side of the family was over. What with the great iceball fight of ’01. But would you sit down and watch the Thanksgiving dinner of a non-ridiculous family? Would you be on the edge of your seat as Uncle Lester passed the cranberry sauce to Aunt Ruth? Then why are you for this awful awful show! I know you might not think so right now, but I swear there are better things on TV.
And this gets me too. For some reason, people don’t think the show is set-up at all. Chicks believe that the show is shot from start to finish in one completely spontaneous effort. I got news for you kids, there is no way it isn’t at least guided. Perhaps the themes are real, but there is no way that the beautifully shot and overally dramatic scenes can be captured candidly. If you know anything about television and film, you know, that it would be impossible not to coach these kids on where to stand, what to say and when to say it.
Basically the show is bullshit, and is built around the premise that I care about the little bitty problems of the Laguna Beach gang. I certainly do not. And I hate you if you do. And I hate you even more if you are a Nielsen rater and you do.
|Monday, September 26th, 2005|
|New and Improved, Why Nice Guys Finish Last - Now with "Racism"
Nice Guys Finish Last Revisited
I remember when I was 11. An unusually striking and handsome young man, I was, like many of my peers, still uneducated in the ways of the world. I knew not of such things as money, sex, or advanced trigonometry. Indeed, in my mind there was a void on the verge of a new beginning, and much like a horny trophy wife pleading to be serviced by a rugged blue collared gentleman, I waited anxiously to have that void plugged and filled with the power and control that only an expert can provide. I am of course talking about the horny trophy wife’s gas tank being serviced by a gas station attendant. Because as we all know horny trophy wives DO NOT pump gas.
I tried everything that I could to learn the ways of the world. Starting my own business at age 11 and a half, I was noted in the “12 under 12” entrepreneurial section of Forbes magazine. Truly, I had learned the ways of the business world selling lemonade on my driveway at $0.15 a pop. Yes, my appetite to learn was insatiable. I even tried to learn to cook.
I remember helping my mother in the kitchen. “Mike in order to make cookies, first we need to grease the pan.” And so, pan firmly grasped betwixed my fingers I began to rub it down on the nappy head of Giuseppe, our Italian neighbor, who happened to be standing next to me at the time. Scolding me for soiling a perfectly good cooking tray, my mother explained, “Yes Mike, there certainly is an abundance of grease on the head of your WOPpy friend here, but you need to find it from a better, less flea infested source.”
And it was not until last night while conferring with my friend Carly that I realized that within this lesson of cooking and racism was the answer to many of the nice guy’s problems. You see, the nice guy finishes last because he gives a great deal of himself to people that unknowingly take advantage of him in part driven by his undying passion for acceptance and inbound love.
The mistake that the nice guy makes is simple. He’s going for the wrong grease. Friends, how often does a meathead hook up with a book worm, a sports enthusiast with a knitter, a caribou with a giant panda, a nice guy – stay with me here – with a not nice chick? Nice guys, your problem is that you’ve got the wrong grease. Now I know that nice guys finish last syndrome occurs in all circles, across cultures, and civilizations, but ask yourself this, where do you hear about it most? Where? Ok, yes, in this blog, but also in the scumbagosphere. Yes, it is in clubs or bars or around the mud-wrestling pit at an ultra classy strip joint that this disease runs rampant! And why? Because nice guys are looking in the wrong places.
Nice guys, you can’t just rub the head of the closest paisan to grease your cookie sheet. You need to spray that shit down with some PAM. And then give that ghoomba a shower. You are a person that values generosity, forgiveness and integrity. Can you find these things in your average cum-guzzling club scene whore? Yes, but only in very small numbers. You want your best chances to pick-up your kind of lady? The chick that won’t take advantage of your kindness and good nature because she’ll be too busy having her advantage taken by you? Find yourself a cum-guzzling church whore instead! Sure, you’ll have to listen to her babble on about Jesus, and the local soup kitchen, but as rated by the Princeton Review’s semi-annual issue of “Best Places to Bang,” no sex is hotter than soup-kitchen sex. Especially if you’re in a giant vat of cooking soup while doing so.
Now I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking “But girls who love Jesus don’t aren’t interested in having soup-kitchen sex.” Well you couldn’t be more wrong! It’s the 21st century, man. Open your eyes! Diddy flew to an awards show wearing a jet-pack. Hover boards are only weeks away, and sexual morality is so 1993. In fact, the only reason chicks go to church anymore is to meet up with a nice feller who can give them something better to do on Sundays than go to church. Like have the sex.
Ok, so you might still be skeptical. Understood. You don’t think the whole church thing will work. Ok. So don’t go to a church. Go to a Catholic Church. I mean, that place has everything! Priests molesting boys, a fridge in the back packed to gills with wines cira 34 A.D., hell it’s a tradition in one of my Catholic friend’s families to get tanked and head off to midnight mass on Christmas Eve. These days, you’ll be more likely to hear about the Monsignor’s latest drunken debacle with the cleaning lady in a sermon than something about Jesus. But they still teach that whole “generosity” thing, which is great for you, Nice Guy. For example, last week Father O’McReilly gave his sermon on making sure that the cleaning lady is satisfied before you even took your pants off. Trust me, that place is a gold mine.
In closing. Party girls are not like you. Generosity, integrity, and dignity are the values that you hold above all else, and while party girls are exciting and seem like fun, I just don’t see you finding those values in some chick that’s making out with her best girlfriend at the bar while 15 guys take pictures with their phones so that she can get her 10th free shot of the night. Find yourself a good source of PAM, nice guy, or your cookies will never come out the way you want them.
Well, there are my pearls of wisdom. Do with them what you will. (Note to whomever finds this after I have been struck down by lightning: please post what you find in this word document on my blog… no no, its cool. You won’t be struck down by lightning. No. Seriously, you’re good. Dude, Just fuckin’ do it.)
|Wednesday, September 21st, 2005|
|Why can't we be friends?
OK! So! After much jibba jabba, and many e-mails involving begging, pleading, and offerings of oral sex, I have finally settled upon my next blog topic.
I really need to start dedicating all of these blogs to Carly, as not only does she listen to every one of my insanely idiotic dribblings, but she also comments on them, offering many helpful suggestions before they ever reach the information super highway, and of course, your hearts.
Remember that term? The information super-highway? What a crock of shit.
I’m going to write two blogs this week, me thinks. The first dealing with that damp, moist and scary place in which men have flopped and fumbled around for generations, grasping for the perfect spot that they might reach that higher plain but never finding it – the friend zone. (Cue plot twist music) Dun dun duuuuuun. The friend zone claims the lives of more men every year than heart disease, and has destroyed the youths of more fellas this year than has every American war combined. The friend zone makes a concentration camp look like a carnival, the Norman invasions a tea-party, and the Passion of the Christ – When Harry Met Sally. Yes friends, the friend-zone is, barred none, the single worst place a man can find himself… with exception to having his balls literally in a vice, operated by Vinny the Leg, whilst being questions by Tommy Papacolioelliaeeeiiieeeiiiooooo.
For those of you who are without a brain capable of interpreting complex symbols… I don’t know how you are able to read this, but let me break the friend zone down for you. The friend zone is a cosmic phenomenon occurring in men of ages 1-99 wherein a guy wants to hook up with a girl, feels a vibe, but cannot convert said vibe into actual pussy due to his propensity for non-converting. The feller however, is so undeniably attracted to said wench that he cannot give up his undying hope that one day, they will indeed make babies. And so! He latches onto her much like a leach would to a really hot other leach, and it is at this point that he is trapped. Blindly, the chick admits him as a friend, although if she had half a goddamn brain she would be able to figure out that he just really wanted to bang her.
Hey, hot chick! Did you ever stop to think why you have so many guy friends?
“Oh, I just don’t like girls that much.”
You ever wonder why they want you around?
“Um. Because I am so cool?
Ladies, I have news for you. No. We don’t want you around. We have fun with our boys. And no matter how tomboyish you are, sorry ladies, you still have nothing in common with us. In fact, the only reason why you are ever invited anywhere is because we want to bang you. And when we say stuff like, “Jen, you are the funnest girl ever! I can’t believe how fun you are. We should hang out all the time!” What you should be hearing is, “Jen. I want to fuck you. Compared to other chicks you are fun, compared to my boys, you’re like a dead fish washed up on shore that no one wants to put their blanket near, but compared to other chicks, you’re friggin’ awesome! So, we should hang out more, so I have more opportunities to get you drunk and have sex with you.”
But when in the friend zone, the man is so smitten with this chick, that he forgets how not-fun hanging out with her really is. All she ever does is bitch and moan about bullshit that interests you about as much as being beaten with a bar of soap wrapped in a sock being whipped at your head by an inmate name Tiny, when she should be talking about the Eagles offensive line. You think I really care that your roommate is a slut? That I empathize with this horrible predicament you find yourself in? Fuck no! And furthermore, complaining about your roomate wastes precious time in which you could have been giving me her number.
The absolute worst thing about the friend zone is that it is next to impossible to get out of. If you’re in it, you have someone that you can tell all your bullshit problems to, and who will listen to your rants without regard for her own well being ( which is good in its own rite), but, you’ll never hook up with her. I’ve only known of one man that was able to pull it off. It was some years ago. Went by the name of Fites. He was 7 feet tall if he was an inch, and he had a streak of hair, red, like the fires hell. I tell ye true as I’m sitting here writing a blog while I should be working, that young buck David Fites, why he whipped and wrangled, and jiggled and flabbered until he made that fine lady his. Almost killed the man it did. Had to have a double bypass surgery on account of all the lovin’ he was pourin’ out to his special lady had weakened his heart so. But he snagged her, much like the immortal Legs McMuster snagged that line drive shot from the bat of Snapo McGilicutty in the Series of 1902.
Now I have been asked rather frankly, Mike, how do I get out of the friend-zone? The answer being – sorry. You don’t. Once a girl sees you as a friend, there is no turning back. She’s probably not that attracted to you for one reason or another. Had she been, you wouldn’t be in this predicament now would you? You’re there for good, leaving you with two options. 1. Stop hanging out with her. 2. Hang out with her when you have a problem. Option 2 implies having to be there for her when she has a problem, so I recommend choosing option 1, as her problems are usually stupid and boring. It’s not like she ever comes to you with a, “I have a terrible problem, I can’t decide which one of these thongs is sexier, can you come up here and give me your opinion while I try them on?”
Wait! WAIT! Light bulb! Maybe, just maybe, if you were the wickedest awesome friend since Tender Heart in the Care Bears Movie, or possibly even Lots of Heart Lion, but then stopped talking to said friend altogether for no particular reason, and so upon returning 6 months to a year later to the friendship, when she is in the emotional doldrums of her existence, you come in with a zest for life not seen since Howard Dean made that noise like a hippopotamus being raped, and sweep her off her feet, riding off into the sunset atop your mighty steed, Artax.
No. Forget it, it’s impossible(bonus points however if you can tell me where I got the name Artax).
I will now write a line that is reminiscent of the after school special, “HIV – you CAN get it from sitting on a toilet seat” circa 1984.
Johnny, the best way to get out of the friend zone, is to never get into it in the first place. If she’s not feeling you the first night, no amount of you following her around and badgering her to hang out is going to do it for you. Your guy friends are there for a reason. Guys are always more fun than girls, and the only thing the friend zone will do to you is take you out of the running with every other girl around you. If another dame is interested she’ll back off because she’ll pick up on the fact that you’re keen on the chick that you have no chance with. Not to mention that you can’t run game on other chicks if you’re only ever trying to get with one that isn’t interested.
What you need to do, is be an asshole, chug beers, take shots, watch football, make yourself look pretty, and eventually something will fall into your lap.
|Wednesday, August 24th, 2005|
|Pick up Lines – Their Origin and When They Work
Alright. If you happen to be of the gentler creamier sex and you just read this headline, you are probably thinking, “Oh my god, this incredibly handsome young lad has stolen my heart, I need to send him my phone number and my knickers right now. Wait no. I was about to think something else until I realized how much Hugh makes Brad Pitt look like old crusty bird shit on the hood of a 1987 Firebird… Oh that’s right, pick up lines don’t work… My god he is devilishly handsome.” Well you’re right about one thing, I am devilishly handsome, and you can reach me at 814-777-1918 (that’s my real number, I swear. You should call it at 3 in the morning on a Tuesday). And secondly, pick-up lines do work.
Its go time.
First and foremost, lets go over what a pick-up line is, because I know some of you may be a little confused. And by that I of course mean those of my readers that are currently hemorrhaging from the brain, seizing, are dogs, cats, chicken dumplings, David Fites or are otherwise incapable of rational thought.
A pick-up line, friends, is the cheesiest most contrived, ridiculoust, most non scrumtralescent thing that one can you use to start up a conversation with a chick -- ever. In fact lets do this (Budweiser, feel free to pick this shit up… for $10k)
Real Men of Genius…
Today we salute you Mr. Cheese-Dick-Pick-Up-Line-User.
You realized long ago that it was too easy to get laid by just saying “hello,” so you embraced the challenge of picking up women only after you’ve demonstrated with unflinching confidence what an incredible jackass you are.
~Get some tail from that sexy donkey~
Is it hot in here? Are your feet tired? Did it hurt? Seemingly innocent questions, but each lays way to an answer so clever they make Shakespeare’s sonnets look like they were written by my six month old cousin after getting his hands on some ink and a whole lot of parchment.
~Does Billy want his Bottle?~
So have a Bud Mr. layer of the line, because if starting out a sentence with “fuck me if I’m wrong” is wrong, well then we sure don’t want to be right.
God I am talented.
Moving along. So lets talk about the origin of the pick-up line. It dates back all the way to the days of the caveman really. Where a gentleman caller would strike his mate upon the head, rendering her bleeding and unconscious, then physically PICK HER UP and bring her back to his cave where he would proceed to do LINES of prehistoric cocaine from her ass. It’s the truth. If you don’t believe me visit this website: http://www.youareanidiotifyouclickhere.com
Hence the name pick-up line. Fast forward to the dark-ages where if a man was caught talking to a woman outside of marriage he would be halved and quartered, pick-up lines took a brief hiatus until about the 1970’s, or, as I like to call them, “the most incredible ten years in the history of civilization.” It was a time of sexual independence where for the first time in human history, the woman had more say than the man with regards to who got to put his penis in her. And so, it came to pass that men had to not only compete with one another for women, but also had to prove to the ladies that they were charming and well rounded.
Thusly! In the great tradition of 1970’s artistic expression, and following suit with such masterpieces as “Stayin Alive,” “Blacula,” “Starsky and Hutch,” and “H.R. Puff and Stuff,” the pick-up line was reinvented. It was refined in the 80’s by men like David Hasselhof and George Michael, until it reached its pinnacle of pick-up perfection when I heard this one the other day:
Hey are you ladies transvestites? Because if you are, you’re doing an incredible job! Yeah.
OK. So now that I have bashed pick-up lines for the last five minutes, its time to pick up the pieces and tell you when they work. There are only three times a pick-up line will ever work outside of prostitutes and desperate ex-grilfriends.
a.) Remember that chick that gave you herpes? I’ll bet it worked on her didn’t it?
b.) Mid conversation whilst poking fun at the ridiculousness of pick-up lines in general conversation in an attempt to make yourself look like less of an asshole. – They’re actually a wonderful conversation starter, provided the conversation is coming to a screeching halt.
c.) If you are a universally hot guy, or if her type is “the fun guy” or “the nerd” and you play the line off as something cheesy. Basically if she is attracted in which case she will end up talking to you regardless of the situation, so you might as well say funny.
And there you have it ladies and gents. Next time maybe I’ll go over real pick-up lines. Until then, keep watching the stars!!!
|Monday, August 22nd, 2005|
|Cheesy Line of the Day
It's that time again. That time when I tell you all about cheesey pick-up lines, and their added benefit to your life.
Today's line was submitted by Tom Marone:
You: Excuse me, how much would you say a polar bear weighs?
Hot Chick with perfect breasts: I don't know. (Doesn't really matter what she says actually, but then, really, when does it?)
You: Enough to break the ice. Hi I'm (insert your name here).
|Friday, August 19th, 2005|
|The Bradbury Family Recipe for Throwing A Kickass Party.
Have you ever thrown a party that sucked balls. You know the one. It’s dark, the music is playing, there are lots of people there, but the only thing happening is they’re standing around making conversation, waiting to play beer-pong, and drinking your beer. Its ok, but its nothing that you’ll rave about or leave if something better comes up. Have you ever thrown that party? I haven’t.
Throughout my college tenure, I, with the help of my brother and his roommates, devised a formula for creating the perfect party at which everyone had a great time, and many left with a 90% chance of the sexual healing. Much to the assumed chagrin of my brother, Ryan, Fites, Dan, and possibly Adam Bussey, I am going to let you in on the secret. So here we go.
First and foremost, you will need alcohol. That is obvious. However, for a truly great party your average beast or nati just won’t do. First, skip the liquor if you’re in college. It’s pointless. You’ll just end up wasting money and creating a crowd around the liquor as well as a mess. It’s not worth it. Beer should be your drink of choice, but for a great party, you can’t go with anything too shitty. Shitty beer will ruin your party. Instead, buy a few kegs of something that sober people can drink without dry heaving. My brother used to spring for a keg of Killians followed by Miller light me thinks. The reason for this is simple. Chicks aren’t big fans of beer usually, and if it’s shitty, they rarely can bring themselves to drink it. You want to have a good party? You need to loosen those broads up, and since we have already nixed the mixed drinks, they’ll need something they halfway like. I used to do kegs of bud light or bud ice.
Second, the worm for the early birds shall be the ye old jungle juice. My roommate Adam made quite possibly the greatest jungle juice in the history of man, and on Halloween, we would put it in a plastic caldron and put a little dry ice in it. Fantastic. Kept it pretty cold too. I will do my best to get the recipe from him. The jungle juice is perfect to get the buzz started for the early goers, and the small crowd that starts out will quickly become sociable and acquainted. Try to get multiple small groups of friends to come out early so that everyone can get buzzed quickly and start mingling right away.
This is where the real investment comes in, but it will pay for itself in pussy five times over, I promise.
First, you’ll need a stereo. Not a boombox, not a CD player, not a big CD player, get a goddamn stereo. I’ve never been to a truly kickin party that had a big silver boombox, not matter what its blasting. It just doesn’t happen like that. Sorry kids. Well. I suppose a boombox will do, but it has to be very loud, and it has to have inputs. The reason for that is next
A computer/laptop/ipod is absolutely necessary for a great party. Do not use CD’s!!! Don’t do it! It’s party suicide. CDs skip, replay, and worst of all, stop playing altogether. You cannot under any circumstances allow that to happen! The reason you need inputs in your stereo becomes self explanatory, you need to be able to hook your digital jukebox into it.
Third, you’ll need a beer pong table and accessories. Forget flipcup(its only for mid sized gatherings, and tailgates, we’re havin’ a party here.) its not important. Now, pros such as myself have big pieces of stained and polyurethaned board covered in cool designs with special areas for the cups made specifically for this purpose, but you might just want to take the pantry door off its hinges.
Four. Shot glasses and quarters. “Quarters” is a great “off to the side” kickin’ party game if you have the room. It’s easy to play, people can come and go as they please in and out of the game, and you don’t have to pay real close attention to what’s going on (like in card games).
Decorations are unnecessary unless it’s a theme party.
This is a very important part of your party for a few reasons. One, you don’t want to have too many people, and not because they party will get broken up by the cops, but because it no fun if you can’t move. Its hot, sweaty, and it sucks.
The second reason why the guest list is so important is that you need to invite the “right” group of people. The right group of people are a mix of hot, outgoing, drinkers and dancer. They don’t have to be all these things, but at least two of them. I happen to be all four. If you invite too many meatheads, there will be fights and no one will dance. If you invite too many hot people, they will all just sit around and look like models and be no fun. It is impossible to invite too many dancers.
The right group of people can make or break a party, just remember to not invite too many, and make sure the core group are a pack of dancing party animals.
The Play List:
DO NOT SKIP THIS PART!!!!! The play list is the most important part of the equation; it is the catalyst that dictates the flow of your party and its overall success. One mistake and the party will come to a screeching halt and those that have brought fruits and vegetables will throw them at you. So. Here are a couple of ground rules. No punk. Punk music is upsetting, not fun. Do not play it. Second, no trance/techno music. People can dance to this yes, but they can’t sing along and it only inspires assholes with glow sticks to wave them around like big faggy magicians. Keep it off the list if you want a good party.
Now for the good stuff.
The thing about a playlist that creates a great party is including songs that people know and can sometimes sing along to. Songs that people know can create conversations, and with everyone singing, it becomes very simple to jump into a clique of people and meet them. Not to mention that people love to hear songs they know at parties and sing real loud in unison. Trust me.
The second thing that you must understand about a playlist is its flow and type of music being played as defined by what stage the party is in. So I’ll list it out.
1. Beginning of party – Songs that people know that are from the 80’s 90’s today, and occasionally the 70’s or 60’s as long as everyone can agree upon them as universally awesome. These songs make good conversation peaces, or are general background tunes while people jump into the jungle juice and start getting buzzed.
2. After about an hour or 45 minutes, its time to transition into a little dance music. Sublime is great for this. A little bit of dance, yet also a little bit of the chill music you’ve been playing. The keyword here is transition.
3. Old school rap. This is the perfect segway into the dancing time which should start about an hour and a half into the party, around 11:00 or 11:30. Basically it should start when the rest of the people begin to show up. Everyone loves old school rap, most people know the words, and as long as it’s mixed in with something a little newer now and again, no one will complain.
4. Hip-hop and Pop. So you have your party goers liquored up and singing to old school rap with a few of them dancing. It’s time to bring out the big guns. Now sure, you probably hate pop and hip-hop, but the chicks who want to get the party started don’t, so bust out some Beyonce’ and thank me later.
5. The climax. Once the whole party is dancing and singing and swinging its time to super-charge it. Jimmy Buffet(Margarittaville), Bon Jovi(Livin’ on a Prayer), Neil Diamond(Sweet Caroline), The Righteous Brothers(Build me up Butercup), Bryan Adams(Summer of ’69), Whoever sings “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” and many others. You can play these in a row. People love these songs when they are bombed. Your party will shake I guarantee it. The trick here though is to make sure you bought enough brew so that the party last to this point. You don’t want it to be midnight while in the middle of your pop and never get to the climax of the party.
6. The End: Ok. Now. If you know your group real well, to wrap everything up play “A whole new world,” from Aladdin. Its truly spectacular.
And that is the Bradbury family recipe for throwing a truly kickass party!
|Guitars: great for hippies, bad for parties
This blog is in response to a comment left in yesterday’s blog, and while it is a departure from my regular perspective on the dating scene from an overly analytical guy, it just needs to be said.
However, Spence, the absolute best way to stop the artsy guitar playing guy is to pull a Bluto on his ass and smash that shit against the wall! But then he'll probably get mad and make you pay for it. Short of this, get his friends to make fun of him. He'll stop.
Now! There are some times when the guitar is appropriate. For example, if you're trying to close the deal on one chick. One (or two, but they both have to be trying to sex you simultaneously)! Or, when the night is winding down and people are sick of hearing loud hip-hop. The guitar should not under any circumstances be employed during a big party, or be used for attention. I'm not saying this because I can't play guitar, I'm saying this because it ruins the party.
Some guy whips the guitar out during a party, and about 10% of the people stop dancing, and drinking and being social, and they just watch or sing along. Now, that 10% may not seem like much, but I have witnessed entire parties lose their collective funk because of the one shaggy-haired jackass strumming Dave Matthews in the corner.
And don't even think of breaking that out at my party. The art of the Bradbury party has been passed down from generation to generation and is planned and strategized to the point where it can no longer be associated with mere keggers, but rather, as a party work of art, gawked at by pretentious party connoisseurs in New York and hung in the party Louvre in Paris. If you have ever been to one, you know what I am talking about.
Now on top of absolutely destroying parties, the guitar guy also brings out the most obnoxiously annoying, self absorbed attention whores of all: Girls that sing. Have you ever been around where the guy is playing his instrument, and the chick is next to him, and she has a kind of nice voice and she’s singin' all pretty and shit. Or the guy is singin' all pretty, and all you can think is, "damn, shut the fuck up, I want to dance, not listen to you sing a shitty Damien Rice song.” (If you don’t know who Damien Rice is you’ve proven my point all the more, and don’t worry, you’re not missing much.)
The guitar is just such a contrived, forced way to attract attention at a party, and all things being equal, it just doesn’t belong there. A party is a place for drunken debauchery, not artistic expression. Oh! And the same thing goes for you dick bags with the glow sticks, or you jackasses that take up half the dance floor break-dancing. There is a time and a place for both of these things, and unless I’m on E at a rave in 1998, or roller skating down the street with a boom box on my shoulder in 1985, please refrain from doing either. The only reasons why a crowd of people should have gathered around you at a party are as follows:
1. Passed out on the carpet being poked by a pool stick, or something else long and hard.
2. Dancing naked on the counters/table
3. Ridiculously raunch-dawg dirty sweaty making-out without the knowledge of others pointing and laughing at you.
5. Keg Stand
6. Chugging Competition
7. Taking a ridiculous amount of shots
8. Fighting(please don't fight at my parties, i fuckin' hate that shit, but you know I would Gather round and watch anyway.
10. Beer Pong tournament championship
11. Flip cup tournament championship
12. Two girls kissing, which as I have come to understand, from the ladies perspective, is a lot like a guy playing guitar. So that one might not belong. Oh who am I kidding?!
These are all things that belong at parties. If you have a crowd around you for any other reason, you are trying too hard to get attention and you need to stop before someone who is either real drunk, or real belligerent, or real drunk and belligerent or just Irish hauls back and punches you in the nuts. Now I’m not saying that I’m going to do this, that’s not my style(I'm the nice guy remember). I’ll probably just sit behind the crowd and try my best to keep alive the party that you are trying so desperately to ruin, but eventually, you’re going to meet someone named Jim, or Patty, or Seamus, and they’re gonna crush your wobbily bits with their fist. So. Think about that.
Parties are wild and fun booty shakin times, and like I said, unless there you are getting paid, have been asked by the entire party to play, are closing a deal, or the night is winding down, keep those strings and your knowledge of every song "Cold Play" ever wrote to yourself.
|Thursday, August 18th, 2005|
|R-E-S-P-E-C-T -- Find Out How It Will Get You in Her Pants
Respect your lady. Treat her like the proper woman that she is. Love her, care for her, treat her with respect the whole night through, and occasionally the next morning if she wants. Yes, we can all learn a great deal from Aretha Franklin and her poignant song lyrics “R-E-S-P-E-C-T - Find out what it means to me.” But I don’t really give a shit about that right now. Gentlemen, I would submit this humorous alteration, “R-E-S-P-E-C-T find out what it means to you!” (See what I did there? I changed the “me” with “you.” Clever aren’t I?)
If there is one thing that I have learned in this nuclear war of love, it’s that the bigger your inter-continental ballistic missile blows-up, the more ladies you’ll kill. Abstract as that metaphor is, it’s also the foundation for the most rock solid of all my theories: The Rule of Respect. I’m giving you pearls here, fellas.
No, I’m not talking about penis size, nor am I talking about what would seemingly “blow-up” from that region. What I am talking about is attention and respect, and the fact that he who noticeably wields both, will never go un-sexed.
It’s a scientific fact that the guy in the room that is given respect from his boys while holding the attention of the ladies, is bound to attract at least one good lookin’ broad within the aforementioned room. Here is an exert from the National Science Monitor(East Compton Edition)
on the subject:
“In recent studies of the human genome and other such scientific ventures of that nature the conclusion has been reached that in greater than 95% of all cases the null can be rejected, where the null is defined as: ‘Homeys that is getting’ holla-ed at by they crew, while chillin with some crunk-ass bitches makin em laugh an all dat shit, but not hittin tha be-dunk-a-dunk… … … … … … Shizzle nizzle bizzle.’”
And for those of you who don’t remember stat, or speak jive, what is being said here is that if you are the type of person that can take control of a room, or a table or a school bus full of Swedish models and you jump on the opportunity, you will hook up 95% of the time. It’s almost guaranteed. The reason for the rule of respect is as follows: When you have the respect and attention of everyone in a given area for an extended period of time, whether you are or aren’t, you appear to be the alpha male, and the alpha male whether hot or fallen down the ugly stairs that led out the door to the ugly cliff which had at its base the ugly jagged rocks of supreme uglieness, which had growing upon them the ugly bacteria… Wait. What the fuck am I talking about? Whatever. If you appear to be the alpha male, you will attract the ladies.
This trick works great for the artsy guy who plays the guitar. He takes the attention of the entire room, (not necessarily because it was given to him, but because he is playing a musical instrument and it is distracting and often loud) and chicks equate this attention that the room is giving him with Alpha Male-a-tude, and the guitar guy gets laid. It works even better if the guys in the room are also paying attention to him, and not making fun of him(which they really should be – there is rarely any reason to whip a guitar out at a party unless you’re forced to, or you’re being paid). Then he has respect and attention. Transversely, this trick rarely works for the artsy guy who plays the tambourine. Sorry, guy.
Hence my metaphor, in the nuclear war of love (in love), the bigger your inter-continental ballistic missile blows-up(the more respect and positive attention you get), the more ladies you’ll kill(the wetter your dick will stay).
|Monday, August 8th, 2005|
|Hot and Cute Guys
Finally! Yes, I realize it has been weeks since I said I would post this brilliant theory discovered in my infinite wisdom many years ago (approx. 6 months).
I will preface this entry by saying that this will be the defining article of our time for differentiating hot and cute guys, as well as explaining how so many chicks can think so many different guys are attractive, while this doesn’t seem to be the case for the dangly bitted gender.
So let’s get down to it. First, we’re going to have to cover the difference between how the common guy is attracted to a girl, before we can really understand how a chick is attracted to a guy. In general terms, a guy will use the term “hot”, or “bangin’”, or “sexy”, or “oh snap look at her,” any of which may be said while air-fucking when referring to a chick he would have sex with, as well as universally agree with his buddies as to her apparent sexitude. This is also true for chicks – sans air fucking. A guy will use the term cute, I kinda like that chick, or I’d hit that (but never I’d hit that shit, this is reserved for hot status as well) when referring to a chick that is his particular body type. Some guys like their girls a little bigger, some guys like ‘em petite, some love bruenettes, some blondes, some purple-haired, and given enough booze, these gentlemen would hop in bed with just about any of these broads, regardless of taste, because, well, at base, every guy is a scumbag. This is not the case for women.
Throughout the ages man has often wondered what is the fuckin’ deal with broads? Not just on a rudimentary level, because he certainly has thought the aforementioned in that context as well, but also when referring to why girls are attracted to certain guys. For example, I have a girl that is also a friend who has been bangin the same dude for the past four years, and he is the fattest, nastiest, least attractive person I have ever laid my eyes on. Furthermore, I would pay money to have sex with this chick, but never could, and up until a short time ago I was completely perplexed as to why. Then it came to me: I am not her type.
I know. I know. I know. “Not my type” is just another way of saying, “I think someone used her face as the business end of a pogo-stick.” But, somehow, it means something entirely different for the ladies. Guys, you know when your friend tries to hook you up with her friend, and you meet the friend, do everything possible to hold back from vomiting on her due to the sight/surprise/stench, and upon the review of this meeting conducted by your friend you respond, “she’s just not my type.” But what you really meant was, “Why did you set me up with a hybrid of woolly mammoth, and a bigger woolly mammoth?” Well the term, “not my type” to girls actually means, “he’s not my type.” I know! What the fuck, right?
What I’m saying here is that a guy will overlook a less than average face, clown feet, or a missing arm, if another prerequisite is met, and a chick will do the same if he matches a set type or personality. So chicks, if he is an ass man and you sport the J.Lo ass, then you’re in luck. Guys, if she digs nerds, you could get some, no matter how much wax is coming out of your ears. Ladies, if he’s a tittie guy and your bombs are exploding out of your shirt, the outlook is good, and fellas, if she likes meatheads and you have muscles, but your nose if more of a broken zipper than a button, you could still rock her. You get the idea.
As perplexing as this may sound, I’m telling you, this is how it works with women, except, where you look for tits and ass, she looks for a particular personality. Here are the biggest types:
Meathead: Replace with the term jock in many cases. This is the guy that spends more hours working out than at work. He has a nice body, but is short or has a busted face. He has very little personality, and so he covers it up with muscles. He dresses completely metro, yet is the epitome of manliness, and as the name suggests, he’s not very smart. Conversations with the meathead usually revolve around himself, what you’re drinking, how much he has been drinking, sports, awkward silence, or “Woo!! Let’s do some drinking!”
Nerd: The opposite of the meathead. Is skinny, may or may not be tone muscularly. He has a really nice cell phone, usually with far too much function. He dresses like Seth Cohen on the OC, is funny, but often has a dry sarcastic wit on account of being made fun of his entire life. Conversations with the nerd revolve around tv, movies, computers, games, porn, and adult swim. Ladies if you like to watch TV, this is your dream man.
Fun Guy: May be in good shape, usually isn’t. Drinks and swears like a sailor, loves the sound of his own voice. Dresses, pretty much however he wants, often times that means floral Hawaiian shirt. Is tremendously outgoing and always gets the party started. Loves attention and is charming. Conversations with the fun guy consist of “I’ll bet you can’t finish that whole beer in a minute,” and “I’ll get naked if you do,” as well as “Consume!”
Artsy Guy: The artsy guy may or may not be in good shape, he dresses somewhat metro, and one thing is for sure, when the night is winding down, he’s showin’ you his “art.” The artsy guy uses the rule of respect (explained next week) to do get laid, and so when the night is winding down, the guitar comes out and the artsy guy shines! Conversations with the artsy guy include: “Can I draw you?” and “Do you like John Mayer?”
Pot-Head: Also known as trash, and sometimes confused with the artsy guy from another room, because he too is playing a guitar. However, a keen ear can usually pick up subtle differences and the presence of Phish or Zepplin. The pot-head requires no explanation, we all know who the pot-head is. And we love him!
Note: Most chaps these days are a mesh of a few of the above-mentioned. For example, I am the nerd and fun guy. But you don’t have to take my word for it… … … … shit. If I were Levar Burton some six year old wielding a book about talking wildebeests would have my shit covered right now!
Moral: First I would like to comment on the irony of the term “moral” used in these blogs, as it usually is anything but. However, the moral is, find a place where chicks that like dudes like you are in high density, and take ya pick! And then I can walk down the street wondering, “how did he land that? Fucker!”Other Nice Guys Finish Last Shit
|Friday, July 29th, 2005|
|Why Nice Guys Finish Last - Really.
Why Nice Guys Finish Last, Really.
So I have been writing this blog this entire week. I have gone from theory to theory, and after discussing it with a few friends, I realized I wasn’t writing about nice guys in general, I was writing about me. I’m a nice guy (read: Huge Fucking Pussy) On the plus side, I have the next three weeks of blog topics ready to go, so you’ll always have something to look forward to! Excited aren’t you? That’s cool, I’m not really either.
My original theory stated that nice guys are not born that way, but rather, anyone from Richard Simmons to Colin Farrel could eventually become the nice guy. Nope not true. There are distinguishable characteristics that the quintessential drink buying, shoulder cried on, no pussy getting nice guy, and his counterpart, the asshole simply never share. I’m not just referring to smoking cigarettes and wearing leather jackets either. These two cats are like two positively charged ions (or Kelly Osbourne and Mandy Moore for those of you who are not nerds, but do love teeny bopper music (Probably could have thought of a better analogy seeing as my audience is a bunch of guys (I’m straight btw, I swear (Most end parentheses in parenthestical history about to happen right here)))).
The problem that nice guys run into and that assholes don’t, is that nice guys care about other people. For example, if an eight-year-old bright-eyed little boy fell from his bicycle, or if an infant were dropped on its head, a nice guy wouldn’t just point and laugh. If nice guys could just stop giving a shit about others and focus primarily on themselves maybe they could get some fuckin’ tail, but, unfortunately, this is not the case. Compounding upon this inexplicable need to care for others, and perhaps the underlying reason for its existence, is the nice guy’s need to be liked by everyone, and while I realize that this is true for most people, it is amplified like a pimple on prom for nice guys. Given the opportunity, a nice Jewish guy would try to befriend Hitler, a nice Cuban guy would befriend Castro, and a nice gay guy would befriend the state of Alabama. And so it happens that in the stampede of life, it is these two factors that make nice guys not only come in last, but also get trampled like a single urban mother in the welfare office on extra free money day.
Where an asshole’s “take it or leave it” attitude aids him in first, picking chicks up, and second, not getting stepped on in the relationship, the nice guy attitude aids him in doing exactly the opposite. Departing from the asshole’s “take it or leave it” attitude, the nice guy believes it far more advantageous to employ the “take it or PLEASE TAKE IT!!!!! I’ll do anything!!!” attitude.
A conversation between the asshole and the hot chick.
A-hole: Hey, baby. What’s up?
Chick: Oh hey.
A-hole: What are we doing tonight?
Chick: Who said we’re doing something tonight.
A-hole: I did.
Chick: Oh you did?
A-hole: Yeah. We’re hittin’ up “Scumbags the bar you go to when you need to hook up with a skank” I think that’s what its called.
Chick: I’m not in the mood for that.
A-hole: Fuck that. Get your ass out here and have fun.
Chick: But then I have to get ready and…
A-hole: Ok, you have 1 minute to decide.
A-hole: Fine? Hahahaha. Meet us at my place at 10.
This is a man that doesn’t give a shit. He is happy with life, and for that reason, could care less whether or not he gets this broad. Happy people attract other people, so he will inevitably pick up some other broad. However, there is also the nice guy.
NG: So, what are you doing on Friday?
Chick: Um. It’s Monday, Nice Guy.
NG: Yeah, I know but, I was just wondering if you wanted to hit Drinkers or something.
Chick: It’s Monday.
NG: Oh yeah, yeah, I know, you’re totally right. I just wanted to know, because, you know, then I’ll have something to look forward to all week and I won’t feel like my life is a meaningless black-hole of caca-poopie.
Chick: Right. Well. Um. Jen was supposed to call me on Wednesday… I think.
NG: You know, we don’t have to hang out the whole time, just enough time where I can feel sufficiently in love with you, see you get hit on by some scum-bag who treats you like shit, then fucks you, kicks you to curb, and leaves you to me so that you can cry on my shoulder. That’s all.
Chick: Nice Guy, why are you always trying to get with me. Don’t you understand that you have absolutely not chance what so ever?
NG: What if you were super drunk.
NG: But what if –
Chick: Why don’t you try and get another girl.
NG: I do! I hit on them all the time!
NG: Well I need a girl so badly to feel better about my life and completely define myself by her every breath that she can smell the desperation on me as if I’d just bathed in the juice of a catfish. And for some reason that’s a turn-off. I don’t know.
NG: Yes! Oh!
Chick: Well. That was all very telling. I’m going.
Chick: I’ll call you when I get dumped.
NG: Ok, I’ll call you next time I’m needy and don’t want any satisfaction or recompense.
Chick: Cool, I’ll be here. Later.
Ok, so this example may be slightly over exaggerated, but the message is clear. If the message isn’t clear, I have a great book to recommend you, it’s called “One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish.” It’s right up your alley. Nice guys are convinced that the need to be loved by everyone, and most especially, by a significant other. Their days rise and fall on the mood swing of their chick, and they are held at the whim of her disposition. Nice guys scare girls away because of their neediness. As well, because they are afraid to confront their significant other in a relationship due to their belief of impending relationship doom if they do, they basically get stepped on and dumped. The chick will find out how needy the nice guy is, and drop his ass like my brother dropped my cousin Max: on his head. My cousin’s head is friggin’ huge now. It’s hilarious.
Nice guy “friends” are born when a chick needs someone in her life to make her feel special. Sure, a dog or cat can serve this purpose, but a leash looks much better on a man. One time, Militantly Gay Dennis was being lead around on a leash by a chick in a dominatrix outfit on Halloween… at least I think it was Halloween. Anyway, he looked good in that shit. This nice guy acquisition occurs following a break-up, or after a long period of no boyfriend. And there is just no substitute for a nice guy when it comes to consolation and ego massage. He will never reproach her, and whenever she calls on him, he will come running delusionally along.
So. The moral: Nice Guys! Damn it! Have some self-respect, some esteem and some goddamn independence. You don’t need a chick, you’re not really a poet, and no one actually enjoys “just cuddling.” Stop neglecting your boys, you’ll miss them a shit-load after you’ve been married for 20 years. Drink beer, do shots, have fun and treat chicks like you would your boys. Just, no punching.
Are you a nice guy? Here are a few ways to tell.
If you saw How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days with full knowledge that there would be no post terrible movie blowjob, you might be a nice guy.
If you’ve ever gone lingerie shopping with a girl and weren’t allowed in the dressing room whilst changing, you might be a nice guy.
If you’ve ever participated in “girls night in,” you might as well just castrate yourself, and get it tattooed on your forehead – Nice Guy – What Can I do For You Today?
|Wednesday, July 27th, 2005|
It’s funny how little things bring such great inspiration. Now I have been wrestling as of late with a hole in one of my theories that a few of my friends have discovered. My friends have noted that there exists a population of hot chicks that do not fall into my two categories of Alpha hot chick and Beta hot chick, and they are looking for an explanation for the exception to my otherwise rock solid law of social science.
They say to me “Hugh, first, you are looking sexy today, we should fuck, and second, I know a few hot chicks that are in their early 20’s that were equally as hot when they popped from the womb, what’s the deal?” And until about 43 minutes ago , I had no idea.
I was eating my lunch, a meat and cheese salad, when one of my co-workers, who would like to go by “Meeko” that his identity might be saved, was heard in the hallway to say “I am deathly afraid of bees, if I see a yellow jacket I scream like a little girl.” Now, incase you couldn’t tell by the name “Meeko” (after the animated raccoon in Disney’s Pocahontas), my co-worker is a huge freaking nerd. He makes Bill Gates look like P. Diddy. The man has a giant poster of Picachu hanging in his office. He is an IT guy, in his late twenties, and voluntarily admits his girlish fear of all things that buzz. This is when it dawned on me.
Alpha, given certain extreme circumstances, may have the same defining personality of Beta, but she will never show. Beta, like Meeko, was made fun of by the mean/popular kids on the playground because she was so hideously ugly. Now, being a kid that got made fun of in grade school for the overwhelming size of my brain, I know that you get made fun of for a certain amount of time until one day, you just don’t care anymore. You stop holding back, you say what you think, you admit embarrassing foibles and you become an all around more enjoyable person for it.
Beta has a good personality because she was rigorously taunted as a child to the point where she first, had to defend herself (read: develop a sense of humor) and second, stopped caring (read: learned to be herself and not be ashamed of it). So, much like flag waving, parade prancing gays, Beta embraced her personality without care of who saw it, and when she became a hot piece of ace (“ass” for the Billy Madison Disinclined), the boys mysteriously began to appreciate her jokes and admissions of her love for onion farts.
The boys appreciate her because they also, for the most part, have personalities due to the fact that they have also been made fun of their whole lives, mostly by their boys. It’s called bustin’ balls.
Meanwhile, Alpha, also for the most part, has never been made fun of in her life. Why would she have been? The boys were all trying to get with her. You don’t get an auditorium full of 8th graders to chant “you filthy slut-bag” at a chick you’re tryin’ to bang. So she never got to that point where she didn’t care what anyone else thought. Attractive people in general care a great deal about what other people think, and for that reason, hold back their personalities. Alpha hot chick, while being the leader of her group, follows whatever is trendy. If it was ok for chicks everywhere to fart, cup a fart in their hands, hold it to their friend’s face and laugh obnoxiously, Alpha hot chick would be the gassiest girl you know. But Alpha is so scared of admonishment, and ridicule that she will never ever admit to things like masturbating, feelings of insecurity (unless she says “I’m so fat” in which case all she’s really doing is asking you to notice how much she’s been working out), or pooping.
And so, the simple answer to the question, why are there Beta hot chicks that were hot back in the day but never turned Alpha is: she was an Alpha that got made fun of. I’ll bet she either had a falling out with her friends in middle school, or has older brothers.
In any case, someone was bustin’ her chops. I used to call my little sister clown feet, and she turned out great.
|Friday, July 22nd, 2005|
|The Demise of 5
So recently Brad and Jen broke it off and Americans, Europeans and a few very rich Africans had their worlds’ rocked, and their faith in humanity shook like a Polaroid picture upon recieving this news, and although I was poised to have my world shattered and crumble around me as well, it didn't happen. But I think I know why.
Much like Brad and Jen, the alpha (hot and bitchy) chick and beta (used to be ugly, now hot and sweet) chick seem like a match made in heaven. They’re “walking down the street holdin’ hands,” as a friend of mine would say.” And really, what about them would make you think otherwise? They’re both hot, they both have nice tits, and asses. They both have good faces and nice tits and asses. Obviously with so much in common, in what world could these two not be walking down the street holding hands (hopefully eventually engaged in a tongue wrestling competition)? Sadly, shimmering hair bright eyes, tits and ass is all the untrained eye will ever see. But underneath those gorgeous exteriors lies a bitter rivalry as hideously ugly and contorted as the face of Michael Jackson. Ok it’s not that Ugly, more of a Hunchback of Notre Dame. But still, dirt sweaty nasty nonetheless.
To the ignant, a conversation between Alpha and Beta sounds like this.
Alpha: Hey beta.
Beta: Hey Alpha.
Alpha: I got an A on my econ final.
Beta: Oh really? That’s great! Yeah, I like got A’s on the last three so the professor said I didn’t have to take the final. Isn’t that great?
Alpha: Oh my god, no kidding, that is great, well it looks like we both got A’s then! Hey we should celebrate, what are you and Bobby doing tonight?
Beta: Oh, I’d love to but me and Bobby are planned a special night just for us. Sorry. Tomorrow night maybe?
Alpha: Oh yeah that would be great.
However, to a wise and great philosopher such as the world’s greatest philosopher, Mike Bradbury, it sounds something like this:
Alpha: I got a B on my final
Beta: I got A’s on the last three so the professor said I didn’t have to take the final. You stupid fucking whore, it was econ 002, a retarded monkey can get an A in that class.
Alpha: Wow, I hate you and I want to beat your head in with a lead pipe until your pretty little face resembles the insides of an Italian sausage. Also, to make myself feel better, lets go out tonight so I can get your boyfriend to cheat on you with me.
Beta: Sorry bitch, I saw that shit coming from a mile away, so I’m staying home tonight while my boyfriend, who you obviously have a crush on but will never have, fucks my brains out, so fuck off go out by yourself, drink yourself into a coma and contract your third STD.
Alpha: If I saw you drowning I would watch you suffer till you were almost dead, recucitate you, do that lead pipe thing, then drown you.
Beta: I hope your first-born looks like Michael Jackson.
You may be wondering why Alpha and Beta don’t get along so well. However, you may also be wondering if you left the iron on. You did, but don’t worry, I shut it off for you. At first, Alpha and Beta are very close friends for the simple reason that they are both hot and boys are always hitting on them and they both enjoy going to the gym, etc. etc. etc.. They actually do have a good amount in common, but over time, of the groups of guys with whom they “hang”, Beta will begin to get more attention. Noticeably more attention. She receives this flux in focus because she is more fun, and although she was an ugly dork long ago, they don’t care now, because she has a fun personality, and as previously mentioned, great tits and ass. While hanging out playing drinking games, the boys throw witty comments around, or bust balls, or whip out their dicks, wrap them around their wrists asking “do you know what time is it?” In this situation, Alpha hot chick does her usual. She sits and laughs, or if the joke is too dirty, acts offended. Meanwhile, the fellas quickly find out that Beta can easily hold her own, and long before the night is over and Alpha has passed out on the couch, Beta is the first one to yell, “Tea-bag her!” So for most of the night, the attention is on Beta, because she rules.
This shift in attention, much to Alpha’s chagrin, becomes the trend, making her very jealous. So Alpha starts to talk shit on Beta to her Butterface friend and Sara Plainantall. She maintains that Beta is a whore, and is fucking all these guys, and she can’t believe it. When what she really means is, Beta is taking all the guys that I wanna fuck. The truth is that Beta may or may not be a whore. In some cases she is, though I like to think she is pure as winters first snow and her intentions are rich and true (because for the most part the true Beta only exists in my head), but regardless, she is getting a lot of attention from guys. Butterface and Plainandtall can’t really dispute this claim of Alpha's, so they side with her, and after some sort of ridiculously drunken fight that only very rarily results in a hot lesbian orgry, the group breaks up.
The break goes like this. Butterface and Plainandtall need Alpha to get laid, so they go with her, while Beta copes with the loss of her friends with a short period of drinkin’ and whoring, after which time she gets a boyfriend that’s just as hot as her to prove to Alpha that she is the shit and of course she takes ole fatty boom batty along for the ride.
So what does this have to do with you getting laid? The moral of the story is this: Bitches is crazy man! If you know a group going through this demise, get out while you still have all of your reproductive organs! If not, you will be forced to listen to hours of "Oh she is so mean to me," and "that girl is such a bitch," and "I can't believe that she would kill my pet hamster over this," and other waste-of-time conversations when you could be watching sportscenter, playing a video game, or beating off... Whatever your preference.
Recommendation: Try doing all three at the same time. You'll thank me later.
Next up, the difference between cute and hot guys.
Oh and of course, how could I forget the founders of the demise of five and the rule of five, my brother Dave, and old roomie Ryan, without whom I would not ever have been able to elaborate, rant, or theorize further about the ladies, but who lacked the time, inclination, and ability to write humor to put into writing. So fuck you if you think you're gettin money from me when this shit becomes a New York Times bestseller. Except for Ryan, who needs it because he's Irish and will need the money to support his drinking habit. He's irish so he drinks more, plus he gets into bar fights and changed his name to Ryan from Seamus O'Malley. Also because Potatos can get real expensive this time of year.
|Thursday, July 21st, 2005|
|The Rule of 5
The Rule of 5
So. We’ve covered the two types of hot-chicks, now its time to get a little bit more complicated. This section is full of theory, most of which will be documented in the libraries of Oxford and Harvard one day no doubt, so take it slow, I don’t want to lose anyone here.
And away we go.
So. When chicks get into college, everything changes. You would assume that the cool cheerleading chicks from high school would only hang out with cool cheerleader chicks from other schools, and that if you were cool in high school, you are by default automatically cool in college. If you assumed that, punch yourself in the balls right now, and if you don’t have balls, give yourself a big kiss on the lips from me. Mmmm, painful. Unless you go to some teeny wheeny college somewhere in Indiana, that just isn’t how it goes. Groups break off very specifically in college, so pay attention.
At first, all the chicks in a particular dorm will hang out. All of them. Walk down the street on a Friday night in the fall, and in the distance, you may see a giant pink blob of mini-skirts and way too much make-up, ranging from the coon-eyes, to clown faces, surrounded by a whirlwind of mindless banter (mostly pertaining to how difficult econ 002 is) and a hard-on for Vladimir’s fine Russian vodka. If you see this blob, don’t worry, you’re not in a Pink song. Those are freshman girls, and they’re on there way to a night of drunken debauchery, as well as like this really really really nice guy they just met at this frat. Oh my god.
This phenomenon only happens fall of freshman year. Why you ask? Wait, no, you didn’t ask? Whatever, I’m telling you anyway. This enormous group of chicks, like uranium, is too volatile to sustain consistency, and so, also like uranium, it eventually decays, breaks apart, and shortens the life expectancy of everyone around… explaining why the suicide rate is so high among teens. Ooooh, in bad taste. Anyway. Here’s how it plays out.
Janey: Oh my God, Stef is like such a whore.
Janey’s Friend. How so?
Janey: She like slept with Tom last night, can you believe that shit.
Janey’s Friend: Whaaat!? I can’t believe that. That is so fucked up.
Janey: I hate stef.
Janey’s Friend: Why?
Janey: She is hotter/sluttier/cooler (one of these, most likely one of the first two) than me, and so she got to hook up with tom, the guy I wanted to hook up with, so I had to go home and masturbate to internet porn.
Janey’s Friend: Stef already told me about it, Tom has a big dick.
Throughout the course of a month or less, this happens about 2,000 times, and eventually, after the primary outbreaks of herpes subside, the huge group breaks up into individual groups of 5. The 5 girls are as follows:
Alpha Hot Chick: The “hot from inception” chick. (a snooty, no fun chick, on account of she’s been hot since she popped out of the womb.)
Beta Hot Chick: The “aged like fine wine” hot chick (more fun, and friendly on account of the fact that she was once hit by a wrecking ball made of nickel, but then miraculously bounced back into hotdom)
The fatty Awwwww, poor fatty. She has the personality of Beta, but we don’t like her. We don’t like her because she’s fat.
SaraPlainAndTall/ButterFace: The last two chicks are generally one of these two. Oh butter face, for those of you who are unfamiliar with the term = It’s all good but-her-face.
These are the five chicks. This rule applies in some way, no matter what. It’s a scientific fact. The alpha chick facilitates the creation of the group. It’s like picking teams in kickball, and Alpha is the team captain. First, she picks Beta, because Beta is hot, but not as assertive, and attractive people like attractive people, as long as they think they can control them. Then, she picks Sara PlainAndTall, and the ButterFace, because, c’mon she needs someone to make her look good! Now comes The Fatty. That poor Fatty. There are differing opinions among scholars as to how the Fatty finds her way into the group. Some say that, like they would with a beached whale, the others team together to get her back in the game, some say it is Alpha’s lust to have someone to be a bitch to, and the fact that Fatty is a glutton for punishment, as well as a glutton. But I say that Beta, remembering the pain of being an outcast, takes Fatty under her incredibly hot wing in a feat of heroic altruism. Love that Beta.
Now you may be saying to yourself, “self, I have seen a group of five girls, where all 5 are ridiculously ugly, and look as if they have laid on the lawn whilst vultures picked at their faces.” Well Victorian guy that uses the word whilst in casual conversation, this is where my theory of relativity comes in. The theory of relativity states that in a group of five girls, two will be hotter than the rest, two will be comparably “eh” as to the two hotter ones, and one will be fatter than the rest. With exception to the case where 5 super-models are all best friends, and you can only tell the Alpha from the others by who does the most blow.
Then all five go out and get drunk, and guys either hook up with the alpha or beta mostly (remember average guys, you have a chance with Beta), and if they can’t hook up with the hot chicks, they hook up with Sara, or Butter, and if there are no takers there, and the guy is incredibly drunk or playing a cruel game. Well. There’s only one left.
Man. I feel like a scum-bag after writing this one. Poor fatty. Go work out.
Join me next time for The Demise of the Rule of 5!
|Tuesday, July 19th, 2005|
|Observation 1 There are only two types of Hot Chicks.
Observation 1 There are only two types of Hot Chicks.
Its true. There are only two types of hot chicks. Now I know what you’re thinking, sensitive effeminate guy, “That thsimply isthn’t true. Every woman isth beautiful and wonderfully unique. Ohhhh the Gap is having a sale on men’sth capristh!!!” Pull your dick out of your ass and buy a truck, pussy. There are only two types of hot chicks and they are as follows:
A. Hot from inception – This is a broad that from birth is absolutely bangin. She is the reason for maternity wards separating the boys from the girls. Cuz you know those 10 minute old guys would totally be tryin to get into her diapers if not.
B. Aged like fine wine – Remember that chick in elementary school that looked like she got beat with a bag of nickels, no burlap sack of nickels, no wooden chest full of nickels, no back into by an armored car full of nickels, no hit by a wrecking ball made of nickel? - That's the one. She had the snaggle tooth, her eyes were so far apart on her face that half the kids called her Flounder, and her nose and ears were so big that the other half called her Fivel? You remember right? But then her head grew into the rest of her face, and her scrawny second grade exterior gave way to that of a Greek Goddess, and suddenly when she would walk by your locker in 10th grade your pants always seemed a little tighter. (It was because you had a boner, or you were just wearing tight pants in which case you were probably gay and should stop reading this right now, and start reading my other blog, “You’re not gay, Liza Minnelli is just that fabulous.”)
Now you’re probably saying to yourself, “Hercules (assuming you’re a mythological hero), what does any of that have to do with the street map to pussy?”
For the love of irish folk music, would you shut the fuck up and just let me write?! I’m getting to it, Herc. See. Here’s the thing. When you were 12, and at the pool in summertime, jumping off the diving board, competing to make the biggest splash in an effort to impress little Cindy Hotchick (because as we all know, nothing impresses a chick more than a huge splash), Susy Ohsnapwhatisthathideousmonstrocity was jumping off with you and making fart noises desperately trying to get your attention. She was honing her personality in an effort win your approval, while Cindy was being waited on hand and foot basking her own hotness.
Conversations with Cindy went like this:
You: So Cindy, how's it goin?
Cindy: You know.
You: How's your new dog?
Cindy: Oh my god, she is like so cute, did you know? Like, she is just so adorable with her eyes. Yesterday she totally tried to play bite me, and I was all, ew get away from me. But like she totally knew what I was saying and stuff cuz she licked me, and it like totally tickled, and I love that! But then she ate some sugar and I was all, don't eat that sugar, but she was all cute and stuff. You know?
You: Yes, I do understand. So you like being licked then?
Here's how conversations with Suzy went:
You: So cindy how's it goin
Susy: Hey (insert your name here)
You: Yeah, hi, so Cindy, you goin to your brother's baseball game today?
Susy: I'm going, I can't wait, her brother is batting .400 with a 1.50 OPS.
You: Cool. Cuz if you do, a bunch of us snagged some vodka from my mom for the game.
Susy: Oh shit, we should totally streak the field.
You: Hmmmm. You might just have something there Susy. Tell me more about this "streaking" of which you speak.
etc. etc. etc.
And so. Cindy grew up with everything handed to her, never having to claw her way into acceptance, never really developing a personality outside of what she understood of her Barbies and hot mom. She never learned to carry a conversation because boys talked to her regardless of whether or not she had anything to say, and she sure as shit never developed a sense of humor because she never had to make anyone laugh so that they would hang around her. Meanwhile, the boys wern't going to just talk to Susy (read - stare at her tits) in high school, so she had to learn to get attention in other ways (read - develop a personality). And so! Upon entering an inexplicable phase of hotness, known in the medical community as “the time when girls grow boobies”, Susy became not only hot, but also knew how to make awesome fart noises and have fun while baing naked! And isn't that what all guys want anyway? Looks, personality, fart noises, and naked?
Which is the perfect segway to my next blog. Alpha Vagina meets Beta Pie.
|Logos Ethos & Puntos: An analysis of the femine gender, or The Street Map to Pussy
An analysis of the feminine gender as seen through the eyes of the world’s greatest philosopher: Mike Bradbury
Women. For ages men have yearned to learn their secrets. Not really, we just wanna get in their pants. So badly, in fact, that we would sit through hours of mindless dribblings about their days and who they saw, and what they ate, and that their pours are big, and school is so hard, and I think I’m getting my period, and… ok this could go on for pages. At any rate, our asses are firmly planted and our ears keenly fixated just for a taste of heaven’s saltiest nectar: pussy.
Man has courted, dated, wooed, hooked up with, gone steady with, gone out with, got next to, known, betrothed, cozied up to, mozied up to, pursued, flattered and enticed woman only to suffer immeasurable injury as well as insult in search of the most abstract and mythical of entities: A street map to pussy. No pit stops, no U turns, and for you Jersey boys, no jug handles. We’re talkin’ Rand McNally, Mapquest, and old timey gas station attendant guy bundled all into one, conscripting directions from their infinite wisdom straight to your choicest pink taco bell.
Now friend, you may be thinking to yourself, “self, I have been to countless seven elevens and I have never discovered this map, and what with all of this information available on that new fangled interweb, you think I would have found it.” Well friend, let me respond this way, you are an ignorant douche bag asshole. You’ve been looking in all the wrong places. Often times the stronger manlier sex and Hilary Swank take a step towards finding this gem of information, but inevitably shoot themselves in the foot by asking a woman. If your engine wasn’t working, would you ask an accountant to take a look at it? Of course not. Then why would you seek advice from a woman as to the inner workings of her mind and body? She knows less than you.
Case in point: I had this conversation not one week ago.
Mike: So darlin, hows it goin?
Darlin: I don’t know Mike, I so want a boyfriend. I mean I am hot, smart, and funny, why can’t I seem to find a man that’s right for me.
Mike: What do you mean shooga?
Darlin: Well, my last boyfriend was always mean to me. He wouldn’t treat me right. I think he just wanted the sex.
Mike: Your last boyfriend, sweetie? Didn’t you break up with him two months ago?
Darlin: No this was a different one.
Mike: Oooooh, a different one. So then, pumpkin, what was wrong with that guy?
Darlin: He was clingy, and he wouldn’t let me talk to other boys. Plus he cheated on me like five times.
Mike: He cheated on you five times, Angel?
Darlin: Yeah, I can’t believe my five closest friends would do that.
Mike: Uh huh… Honey.
Darlin: Hey look over there? Did that guy just punch that girl in the face? Hmmm. I wonder if he’s available.
Verbatim. I tape recorded the entire conversation. The plain and simple fact is that Broad’s just don’t know what they want. Now, present this argument to a dame, classy or otherwise, and she may respond thusly, “I know I need a good guy, but I just fall for the bad ones. Its not my fault” (which coincidentally is true, as most chicks are fuckin retards lacking any and all self discipline, unlike us guys who altruistically hook up with fat chicks to make them feel better about themselves , and not because we are drunk and horny.)
Now, granted, most men don’t know much either, but still way more than a chick. With that I, Mike the world’s greatest philosopher Bradbury, herby set forth this musing in hope of educating the masses of both sexes in an effort to improve society as a whole.
|Don't tell my boss!
SO I have this stock of "articles" (if you can call them that) that I am writing, showcasing my ability to undermine any and all efforts to get myself laid. I enjoy writing them as well as fooling myself into thinking that I am intelligent enough to redefine the college aged woman like no man has ever. Still. They're fun to write, and as I recently found out, having a livejournal is the shit! Apparently its the cool new thing to do, so, here I am.
So I'm dedicating this shit, as it is the closest I'll ever get to really being published.
For Ryan and Dave for starting me out on this fantastic tangent
And Carly and Erin for inviting me (read dragging me) into the world of chicks.
Also to that guy at McDonalds for making those little eggmcmuffins extra delicious just for me,
Without whom, I might never be late.
Wait what am I dedicating here?