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.

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.

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...

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.

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

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.

Self-Image

Good morning all you early birds and dumbasses,

No lengthy sermon. No quips or witty remarks. Just a suggestion. Consider your self-image. Really consider it. If you're unhappy, it's your own damn fault. Self-image is one of the more important things in life you could say. The difference between a guy from Jersey with gelled-up hair and way too much Swagger from Old Spice on and a bulimic sales rep settling for a significant other who is not in their league. Those are both bad examples by the way.

For all of you who are overconfident, think you're better looking, a better dancer, or more talented than you actually are, go jump off of a bridge and take yourself down a peg or two on the way down. For all of you who can't see how wonderful you are, put on your best outfit and go turn some heads. For all of you healthy in-betweeners, go tell arrogant douches to die in a fire and pay compliments to unfortunate souls who don't see their own merit. (By the way, making someone else feel better makes you less of a douche, you arrogant douches)

And if all else fails, remember the words of wisdom, passed to me by a good friend, "It doesn't matter what you eat for dinner, so long as you have two fingers for dessert." Thanks Briggles.

I'm out.
-Steve

The Truth Behind a Beloved Cartoon

I have some bad news. This news will forever taint your view of Nickelodeon, cartoons in general, and possibly your childhood.

Spongebob Squarepants is actually a tampon. I will allow you time to soak that in.

I have proof of this fact (that’s right, fact, not theory).

First, he works at the Krusty Krab, so we immediately start out with the knowledge that this woman is a hussy.
Second, he lives in Bikini Bottom.
Third, his boss has a sperm whale daughter. Her name is Pearl, which is a type of tampon itself.
Fourth, his closest friend Patrick resembles an asshole. His next closest friend is named Sandy Cheeks.
Finally, if you’ve ever seen a medical diagram of a vagina, and then looked at Spongebob’s pineapple home, you will get chills down your spine. It’s quite disturbing.

Now, I apologize for having to spoil the fact that this sponge is actually soaking up not salt water, but something far more colorful. Just pray they never release an episode entitled “Red Tide”.

Remember When?

Hello intergalactic webslaves!

My first contribution to this little piece is a gem I remembered while trying to tiptoe out of my friend's apartment. Anyone recall this popular game?

The game that made every child in the 90s terrified that if Daddy ever woke up then you would suffer a beating beyond compare.

Seriously, what's the premise here? Run to the the kitchen and steal snack cakes while dad naps on the sofa because he had one too many beers after work and got handsy with mom but don't wake him up because he's got work at 6:30 tomorrow or he will wreck your skinny ass for keeping him away from 3 extra hours of sleep? I don't recall what the dial was for, perhaps green meant "smoke weed in the bathroom without Daddy smelling?" What kind of broken home is this that Daddy is a creature to be feared and fled from, rather than loved and embraced? And does anyone remember what happened if you win? "Congratulations! You don't have to play 'Don't Confess to Teacher' tomorrow morning."

To be honest, all I learned from this game is how to fuck my girlfriend and sneak out of the house before her parents caught me stealing Miller Lites from the garage.

All that said, I'm sure this would make a terrific drinking game now. Maybe it should be updated to "Don't Wake Stepdaddy" as that seems like a more frightening prospect for all you mailman-resembling gingers out there.

Go buy it. $20 online at "www.specialneedstoys.com" (I'm not even joking, Google it)
-Steve

A Hypothetical Date With That Chick From the Progressive Commercials

I sit at the restaurant waiting for her to arrive. A slight knot builds in my stomach, and I adjust my tie. It happens to be the only one I possess that lacks that “just out of an ice hockey game” aroma, and I hope the Niagara of nervous sweat flowing down the back of my neck won’t show through my suit jacket. Any man would be nervous; come one, she’s on TV. Finally, she arrives. She looks exactly how I remembered her from watching Spike TV yesterday. Actually, she looks EXACTLY like she did. Same lipstick, same hair. Wait, is she wearing the outfit she wore on set? She even has the name tag she talked about tricking out. It looks like she took a Bedazzler to it. What the hell? This is a four star restaurant, why is she wearing this crap? She fails to notice my confusion as I pull her chair out for her, because do I have occasional moments where I attempt what I think class to be. I return to my seat, and what begins can only be described as me being verbally water boarded.

The dinner begins with her being even peppier than on television. The director must have actually sedated her to get her to the state she is in while peddling boat insurance. She initiates conversation with her blood feud with all amphibians. Toads, salamanders, newts, they are all apparently on her hit list. I motion to the waiter, and we order a bottle of wine. And a triple scotch, straight up. He eyes me worriedly, but she continues the conversation she was having with everyone who didn’t want to hear, and the waiter nods his head. He returns with the wine and two triples. I note to give him the best tip of his night.

She neglects the menu, and orders frog’s legs. I wonder whether she wants to gauge my reaction to the price they must cost or because she feels a little better knowing she caused another amphibian to be assassinated in her name. The bottom of the second scotch is getting dishearteningly clear, yet somehow dangerously blurry as well. Time to stick to the wine.

I’ve yet to get a word in. A single one. The continual shelling of questions with no pauses to respond begins to spawn visions of using the waiter’s cheese grinder on her tongue. She somehow is able to consume a full meal without talking with her mouth full yet never pausing. It seems like a talent that would be on Ripley’s.

Finally, dinner is complete. The bill comes, and after the third bottle of wine and a dinner whose cost is more graphic than a Chechen snuff film, I lose more out of my back account than I do on rent day.

Steps to Being a Quality Stalker

If you decide an individual is worth stalking, you really want to leave a good impression. With the arrival of Facebook, MySpace, Twitter, and other stalking-made-easy networking sites, the quality of stalking has truly gone down the shitter. For the sake of all stalking victims, I have decided to finally gift the world with the guide to be a memorable stalker worthy of your target’s fear and restraining orders.

The Distant, Longing Stares: We start out with the classic stalking. For the amateur, this involves following your beloved, generally at least half a block behind them or parking near their home. However, this won’t really let her know how much you care. For the professional, this takes homemade ghillie suits, digital video cameras, and camelbacks of RedBull to consume as you wait for her to walk up the steps to her apartment building. I also recommend a colostomy bag to ensure you are at your post at all times.

The Introduction: So, through various methods, you’ve memorized her routes, schedules, license plate, mother’s maiden name, social security number, and you’ve Low-Jacked her Altima ; now it’s time to properly introduce yourself. Though breaking and entering is not a bad way to get into her life, I recommend you actually keep your distance for the first short while. You already used the B&E to find out her information anyway, and you don’t want to make her suspect that it was you who ransacked her dorm room. Keep it to chance encounters; at 7-11, passing on the street, going into where she works, or sitting a few seats from her since you planned your classes so that you two have all the same ones. Hey, study groups are a good place to get to know her. After a while, you can plan a chance to hang out. With your suave moves, you may be able to ask her to a meal or other social function. This requires you to not pass out at her acknowledgement of your existence.

The Courtship: It’s been a few months now, and she seems to not be completely repulsed by you. Or maybe she is, but hey, she’ll come around. Anyways, it’s time to start the ancient art of courtship. I find that gifts like her own cat a week and a half after it “ran away” are excellent at winning her affection, as well as much needed practice for your lock picking skills. Present it to her at her home after you talk in class about how you found it on the street. Sending her “sweet nothings” work well, also. Try poetry written in squirrel blood; it shows both your artistic side and your devotion to her, since you were willing to murder small rodents in her name. Do not, under any circumstances, jumble these two gifts together. Haikus written in her own beloved pet’s blood are extremely counterproductive, and may end up with PETA protests and indictments.

The Final Stages: By now, you have either sparked her interest in you or aren’t allowed within 200 feet of her home, work, or person. I must note that restraining orders are just her way of testing your love for her; only through persistence will she come to believe that you meant all those beautiful LiveJournal posts and mammal-fluid poetry you wrote for her. At this point, your relationship will end one of two ways: time in the state penitentiary or beautiful marriage. The former leads us nowhere, so we’ll assume the latter. She had fallen for your social awkwardness and lurking demeanor, you have endeared her to your silent brooding, and she even deals with the 48 pictures you take of her daily and post online. From here, it’s all on you to not scare her off with gratuitous cuddling, jealous rage, or paranoid inquisitions.

The Merits of a Good Wingman

They’re hard to find, quality wingmen. Despite this, you are also probably expecting a bit too much from the ones you are using. A wingman’s mission isn’t to get you laid; that’s your job. A good wingman merely acquires you the opportunity to convince a woman that a night spent with you is something she won’t entirely regret in the morning, or at least good enough conversation to leave her phone number with before she leaves the party. However, I feel it’s my civic duty to finally reveal the sacred tradition of wingman.

First, there are two routes to take: the instigator and the initiator. The former is essentially the villain, be it creepy stalker guy by the keg, the shallow narcissist that constantly needs to be the center of attention, or even the horrifying asshole that defends all the wrong dictators of history and then calls someone at the party “thunder thighs”. This type has a two-fold benefit, making you look better by comparison and being able to spark conversation, generally starting with “What’s up with that guy?” However, more often than not, this wingman is going back home to loneliness and Handrea.

The second route is generally more effective, and since you will sometimes get some random individual that is naturally the instigator at the party anyway, the initiator is the best way to go. It takes some cohones and charisma, but if you can find someone that has what it takes, you’d be quite surprised on the results. The initiator’s job is to begin a conversation with someone, and somehow work their friend (or the “Maverick” or “star”, or any other title you wish to use) into the discussion. It may take time, but it will eventually happen smoothly. Generally, this wingman needs to know several topics that the star knows enough about to hold a decent conversation with a person. This MUST NOT include politics, religion, philosophy, or online gaming. Good example topics are concerts or personal work/life experiences (road trips, etc). If at a party or other gathering, the wingman can then call the star over to join in the exchange; my personal favorite is “Oh, yeah? (Maverick’s name) and I were talking about that earlier. (to Mav) Hey, (name), what were you telling me about (subject) again?” They saunter over and join in the conversation, and in the next five minutes, you find a reason to leave, returning to drop off a pair of beers so the two don’t have to go anywhere for a short while, and continue to find other things to do. From here on out, Goose is running distraction, either keeping other guys busy or ensuring the homely friend is at least enjoying herself.

Surprisingly, it is significantly easier to be the wingman for the opposite gender. This way, I am approaching people of the same gender, and they aren’t initially defensive at my engaging them. Also, instead of chatting up the homely friend, I get to talk to the female star’s competition, who are more often than not at least semi-attractive women who weasel their way into the conversation the star and her prey are having and try to hit on the star’s target. It’s quite easy to reenter the exchange because I started it and I already know one of the participants. Placing myself between the competition and the prey, I keep her distracted as the other two slowly back away. At this point, I can abandon this bitch and return to cock redirecting.

Bars, however, are a different ordeal altogether. Here, the competition for estrogen is fiercer and it is quite easy to get utterly shithoused. At these locales, you aren’t so much starting discussion as you are steering them through avenues that welcome others to join, allowed the wingwomen of other groups to utilize your openings. This requires a bit of eavesdropping, then adapting the debates of your own friends in order to intrigue the women to join in. Once this has taken place, interruption from other groups is minimal, and you can relax your guard.

Through not technically required in the job description, there are other duties an exceptionally nice wingman can take upon himself. Keeping your star sober enough to perform or not make an ass out of himself is always appreciated, though usually not that night. Being the DD is nice, but this act removes the “I need to grab another beer” excuse to leave discussions, and now you need to find a new reason to leave conversations. Generally, this means going to talk to other people, leaving prey (or homely friends) with the feeling that they are boring or unimpressive, and that feeling should be reserved for your star’s competition.