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.