Monday, September 28, 2009

FCS

We all know them. We see them all the time: in class, at parties, walking along the streets near Mooby’s. They’re the fat chicks, and though not all of them have the malaise we will discuss today, far too many suffer what many psychologists know as Fat Chick Syndrome.

You will generally hear FCS sufferers (also known as Big Bitch Disorder) far before you see them, which is saying a lot since they are fairly easy to spot. Usually surrounded by two or three Barbie-esque women (except unlike Barbie they actually have full working vaginas), the FCS patient will usually wear black shirts and denim since they don’t realize that such camouflage only works to a point. Take care to try and spot the oil-drilling stiletto heels. As you or your friend approach this booby trap (pun very much intended), you will immediately be judged. No matter what subject of conversation you try to have with any of the hot friends, this poor neglected FCS victim will somehow become the main participant of this conversation. She will either do everything to agree with you in order to establish some sort of connection and common ground, or she will disagree with you on every point in an attempt to spread her obese misery on you, her friends, and everyone within earshot.

Don’t fear these gentile giants, my friends. Handling them requires one of two things: great patience or a chubby-chasing friend, your own Ahab willing to take down Moby. The latter is self explanatory, but the former can be alleviated a bit. Note that direct confrontation with a fat chick, while generally hilarious to you and your compatriots, will decimate your chances with any of her friends. Instead, sit back and observe. Learn their habits, know both their weaknesses and their strengths. Use her strengths to your advantage. If she wants to talk, let her. She can guide the conversation, and as she does, you merely get her attractive friend involved in the conversation. The BBW wants to talk for the next ten minutes about how awesome some movie was, so you let her, and at a good time, you ask her friend about movies. Now, you can try to focus the conversation on the pretty one, your unicorn. Prepare to realign conversations in this fashion several times. Beware, however, of the dreaded pack bathroom break. It may be beneficial if the big one leaves, but if you are stuck with her she may move over a chair, and without another one next to you that is free you will probably have to abandon ship without a life vest.

One should not blame these women for their condition. It really isn’t their fault. Social neglect is the main cause of FCS, and it’s sad to say that men are often the major contributors to this. When one of these women is with one or more smoking hot women, who do we give the attention to? Don’t deny the facts; we eyeball the hell out of the hot ones. This automatic reaction, be it conscious or not, tends to leave the bigger women feeling unimportant, unwanted. They themselves might not even realize these bitter feelings, even deny that they care, but they do. So what happens? FCS happens. They compensate, trying not to steal the spotlight, but to merely share it with their friends. Unfortunately, FCS is the end result of unconscious overcompensation, and ends up further alienating them from people. It has been known to spiral into something not even bourbon can cure, and not even Kyle the rampant chubby-chaser is willing to deal with her, regardless of how much he like to feel like he is scrumping a water bed.

There is no known cure for FCS. There is a treatment, but it will never be fully cured. The treatment, known to medical radicals as “jogging”, will take time, dedication, and understanding from us. Beware, however, that treatment may result in CHD, or Cuntish Hottie Disease, which is more tolerable for a night or two but not in the long term. We can discuss this second horrid malady at a later date, but be aware that when one jumps from FCS to CHD, people generally wish upon this obnoxious attention whore nothing but loneliness and socially inept children.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Sunday, September 13, 2009

9/11 Fireworks

So, yesterday Occoquan, VA had a public fireworks display in memory of the 9/11 attacks. I have just a few issues:

1. 1. Fireworks are generally used to celebrate an event. The Fourth of July, New Years, your first acquittal, all events worthy of pretty lights in the sky. Terrorism and war? Not so much. Those generally come with their own lights (called machine gun fire).

2. 2. Is it really appropriate to have giant explosions to mourn the fact that four planes blew up, killing something in the ballpark of 3,000 people? Especially 70 miles from where one of the planes hit? I really don’t think so.

Yay! Terrorism!

Hey, maybe next year, we can have a Mardi Gras pool party! That’ll be just as sensitive! We can ask some Italians to crucify a few Jews on Good Friday, too. Instead of fireworks, we can shoot a couple of Brits next Fourth of July. And my plans for December 7th this year are going to be awesome. I'm thinking Zeros over Honolulu, a few Arizona survivors, and Cuba Gooding Jr on a machine gun.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

A tale

I present to you a tale, primarily about the series of events that drastically changed my welfare in life. If you would begrudge me a few moments, please remain seated, and I will elaborate on how I became the ruler of an affluent California neighborhood.

I grew up in the western part of the City of Brotherly Love. I idled away much of my time in a local park, playing basketball outside of my local educational facility. Unbeknownst to me, a group of thuggish hooligans were causing a ruckus in the area. After a single altercation I had with these brutes, my mother became frightened, and exclaimed, “You’re going to live with my sister and her husband out in California!”

I hailed a taxi, and upon its approach I noticed a comical pair of fuzzy dice in the window and a vanity plate that spelled out the word “Fresh”. If I were forced to describe this vehicle, I would have to settle on 'unique'. I decided to suck it up, and told the driver, “California, please.”

I arrived in the evening and, after commenting on the odd aroma I had to deal with from the taxi, I took a gander at my new home. I was finally prepared to reign over as the newest monarch of the quarter.



God, I need some fucking hobbies...

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Link, Stop Being Such a Dick

So, waking up early today, and having absolutely zilch on the schedule (except for finding, you know, a job, but mermp) I decided to start playing The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask. During the game, I realized something. This game is all about three things.


1. Beating the everloving shit out of the outcast kid with no friends because, well, he is kind of a douche.

2. Stealing shit, and the destruction of other people's pottery.

3. Killing people and walking around for three days with their broken tattered bodies as proof that you slit their throat with a sword (as well as hit them a few times with arrows, a boomerang, a grappling hook, bombs, or acorns] all the while wearing masks to conceal your identity or, at one point, to make people think you are SOMEBODY ELSE.

Considering that the hero of this game is supposed to be twelve years old, I can't help but get the feeling that this game is possibly detrimental to the psyche of small children. But hey, that outcast jackass shouldn't have stolen the epic musical instrument that can control time. Maybe it's a lesson about sharing.

Monday, August 31, 2009

Things No One Wants to Hear in Bed #1

Many well-greetings Earth people-folk!

This begins a series of posts listing the top 20 things nobody wants to hear during that intimate time in the bedroom. I know there's dozens of lists detailing this exact subject, but I think you'll find a few originals here. There's lines that can be negative for guys, girls, or both. Here's this week's unfortunate phrases:

1: "Whoopsie."
2: "Jango!"
3: "Is that it?"
4: "Maybe we should leave the lights off."
5: "Shazam!"
6: "Oh... it's ok."
7: "You said you were on the pill, right?"
8: "Good for you."
9: "Are you done yet?"
10: "My bologna has a first name..."

11: "Don't worry, it's not contagious."
12: "Is that how it's supposed to look?"
13: "I thought you said you were a 'grower?'"
14: "Wait, wait, I need another Extenze..."
15: "Ew! Sorry, I guess I just sobered up."
16: "I'm gonna call you Gonzo."
17: "Oh yeah, it's so much better when you're inflamed."
18: "No, it's ok. That's just pus."
19: "Oh K-Fed!"
20: "Do you have health insurance?"

Eh, they can't all be golden. Comment your own if you care to.

With all the usual tidings
-Steve

Sunday, August 30, 2009

Buttercup The Bi-Curious Beagle

So, my brother recently purchased a beagle. He named it Ronin, and though it is an over-energetic little bastard, we still love him. We have also discovered that he is bi-curious.


The gay beagle


It probably started when he had his balls chopped off, which is really something humans did and not his fault. However, I think it confused him a bit, and he is still trying to adjust to the changes. Then, not content with just hacking off the poor puppy’s stones, the shelter decided to name him Buttercup. I’m not certain if it was some sort of experiment to see if they can damage a dog’s gender identity, but if my parents chopped my balls off and named me Karen, I’d be a bit confused, so I can only imagine what he’s thinking.

Now that the shelter turned a perfectly good beagle into a nutless pansy, he’s been trying to cope with the genital alteration and cross-gender namesake. Instead of the standard one leg off the ground, he pees like female dogs. Though he occasionally cuddles up to women, he is far more likely to find a guy and try to get as much attention from him as possible. This includes sniffing men’s testicles, though maybe he is just wondering what the hell those things do since he’s never really had a pair to call his own.

The biggest sign we’ve seen happened on a road trip. We were driving on the highway, crappy Pennsylvania radio station blaring, and the song changed. I’ve never seen that dog happier than when John Mayer began playing, soft acoustic guitar and all.