Archive | July, 2017

A Song Of Nice and Fire

27 Jul

“Take a look at them. All nice guys. They’ll finish last. Nice guys. Finish last.”

-Leo Durocher

Nice guys finish last. It’s a cliché for a reason, right? Otherwise, why would people say it SO much. Well, this personally has never been my experience. In fact, I believe nice guys only ever finish last in the bedroom…but that’s an entirely different post.

I’m a bona fide nice guy and I’ve never felt it as a hindrance; to the contrary, I feel it’s benefited me greatly in both work and personal relationships. What is my point? Am I bragging about how awesome my life is and how jealous you should totally be of it? Obviously. I mean, duh. However, I do have another purpose in mentioning all of this. See, I recently stumbled across this article about nice guys and the pitfalls of dating them. If you haven’t read it, I highly recommend that you do as it’s a really fascinating read. While the lady or ladies writing the piece seem, well, nice enough, I unequivocally disagree with them. So as a nice guy, I took it upon myself to write a respectful response to each of the main points.

  1. There is something truly scary to me about a nice guy.

Spiders are scary. Clowns, ditto. Now you could be the nicest clown or spider the world has ever seen and no one would love you. I totally get and support that. But nice guys? We’re really only scary in the mornings pre-coffee.  I understand that our niceness makes you think we’re somehow more hurtable, but trust me, we’re not made of glass like Sam Jackson in Unbreakable (have you seen that film? It’s from before M. Night Shyamalan totally lost it as a filmmaker so it’s definitely worth your time. Also, a sequel to it is coming soon! And it will involve the characters from the film Split, which I haven’t seen, but I’ve heard good things about. See? Nice guys are also full of useful movie suggestions). We can handle whatever you normals can handle and, dare I say, more (oh, I dare). Look, heartbreak sucks for everybody. Just because we’re nice doesn’t mean we feel it any more or less than anyone else. In short, if things don’t work out, we will be fine.

2. I am terrified that a nice guy will want to settle down right away.

Ugh. If there is one nice guy stereotype I wish to dispel, it’s this one. Believe me, nice guy does not equal OMG-I-want-to-immediately-settle-down-and-be-with-you-forever-because-we-are-so-obviously-soul-mates-and-also-can-I-please-chew-on-your-hair. We like casual too, but sometimes find ourselves designated as BOYFRIEND MATERIAL and shelved by potential partners until they decide they’re ready for us. Kind of unfair. But this, like just about anything else, can be solved with a little thing I like to call, “communication.” If you’re worried that you think we want to have an instant and long lasting relationship, be up front. Tell us that’s not what you’re looking for. If a guy isn’t cool with that, he wasn’t worth dating anyway. Personally, I approach every dating situation the same way: I’m not looking for anything, but I’m up for everything. That way, there’s never any pressure that this has to be THE ONE and things can happen organically.

3. Nice guys are so hard to walk away from.

This one I can’t help you with. We are pretty amazing. If you broke up with two nice guys and it was super hard, you’re probably a good person. You also probably did the right thing. Either they weren’t right for you or you weren’t ready for what they were offering. The fact that it hurt you so bad speaks volumes about you. But don’t let the potential of a little pain steer you away from someone who could potentially give you exactly what you’re looking for. Besides, you always hurt the ones you love. It’s inevitable so roll with it. No one’s life was ever made worse because they had more good people in it. The relationship that doesn’t work out today could lead you to the love of your life tomorrow.

4. Mystery still infatuates me.

I assume you don’t mean this guy:

Although admittedly he still infatuates me.

I’m totally with you on this, but I think you’re conflating nice with boring. Those are two entirely different concepts. Being with a nice guy doesn’t mean you have to settle for a boring guy. Take me for example: I’m incredibly spontaneous. Any random weekend I may decide we should take a road trip to another state, play laser tag, or hell, maybe even go skydiving. I may surprise you with a homemade dinner, flowers, and a rubdown just because it’s Tuesday and Tuesdays are, without fail, awful and soul crushing. My point is that nice doesn’t have to be boring and if it is, you found yourself a boring nice guy and need to move on. I’ve dated boring people who were perfectly decent and, yes, it was difficult to leave, but I was happy when I did. And I didn’t let those experiences turn me off of nice people.

Nice guys, like any other type of guy, are all different. Give us another try; we’d love to get you back on our team. However, I would caution you to look out for the “nice” guy. You know him – he’s resentful and bitter because you’re dating someone sooooooo clearly wrong for you and he would treat you so AMAZING, but you must just LOVE assholes who treat you like garbage because that’s all any woman really wants. Yeah, fuck that guy. He gives the rest of us a bad name.

*Contains Recycled Content (Part 4)

17 Jul

The clip show keeps rolling along! We’re now onto the prequel trilogy. As you know, prequels are always super awesome and far better loved than the originals…

Uh, let’s just move on. Oh, and in case you missed the first three parts, click part 1, part 2, and part 3.


My psychic told me my soulmate died during the Victorian Era. If you thought Ok Cupid was bad, try dating a ghost via Ouija board. Awkward af.


Well, I always kind of liked myself, but I thought maybe I was too good for me, you know? But I just got out of a relationship and figured, “What have I got to lose?” So I asked myself out – nothing serious, just a movie – and I said yes! It was kismet – I have so much in common with myself, it’s almost too good to be true. It’s like, “Wow. I totally get me.” I always know what I’m thinking and I always want to do the same things as me. We’ve had a few arguments (no relationship is perfect after all), but nothing too serious. Guys, I don’t want to jinx this, but I think I might be the one!!! Fingers crossed!


This always struck me as the most misguided PSA ever:

Do robots smoke cigarettes? Assuming they do for some reason, they would have had to have been programmed to do so, right? To what purpose? And how harmful is tobacco smoke to a robot anyway? It doesn’t seem like it would damage their circuitry. And who the hell lit the cigarette for R2? Frankly, this ad raises far more questions than it answers.


I couldn’t sleep last night because I was thinking about erotic cake bakers. I’m obviously a man who would benefit from years of therapy and horse tranquilizers, but there are things I’d like to ask an erotic baker. Things like:

-When you reached the fork in the road that led you to erotic baking, what was the path you opted against? Erotic podiatry? Erotic plumbing? Erotic play-by-play announcer? Some other erotic occupation?

-Aren’t bagels and donuts or really any baked goods with holes already inherently erotic? What about the dong shaped ones like baguettes, eclairs, and breadsticks? Does their mere existence cut into your business or do people really desire genital cakes so much that nothing else will do?

-How detailed are the molds you use? Do you even use molds or just fashion a regular-ass cake into, well, an ass cake?

-Are you aroused by your work? If so, is it because you have a food fetish, a genital shaped food fetish, or just a fondness for things that usually aren’t genital shaped being fashioned into genital shapes?

-Do you make gluten-free erotic cakes so that those who suffer from celiac disease can still enjoy a slice? What about erotic pies?

-Finally, how much do you charge for an erotic cake and may I buy one from you?

For a friend of course.


Things I would do if I were Batman:

-Go to the zoo and high-five all the walruses. Then confiscate all the penguins and tell the zookeepers I have to because they’re minions of The Penguin (but really I’d just take them to the ice rink to hang out and whatever).

-Shut down a water park due to “Joker related shenanigans” and then ride water slides all day. In my cape, of course.

-Cut the line at the bank. I’m Batman – I’ve got a lot of Batmanning to do. I can’t be dicking around all day at the bank like you common folk.

-Accidentally “lose” my Bat pants and just walk around in the top half of my Batman outfit nude from the waist down. I’d still wear the utility belt; I’m not a savage.

-Lose the bat signal. It’s a nice thought, but I’d need to leave the house every five minutes or so and search the skies for a spotlight with a bat shaped hole in it. And what if it’s foggy or raining or, you know, the middle of the day? It’s just…it’s just not the best way to contact Batman in an emergency.

I’d use my powers wisely is what I’m saying.


I ate lunch at Panera yesterday and while I waited for my sandwich, a gentleman with a tray fully loaded with soup, salad, drinks, and a sandwich walked past me. It took every ounce of restraint in my body to not bellow, “Expelliarmus!” and slap the tray out of his hands. The only thing that stopped me was my fear that he might not be a Harry Potter fan. Still, it seems like a missed opportunity.


I know English is a difficult language, but I see these particular word mix-ups all the time and it drives me insane:

-SUPPOSED vs. SUPPOSE. You’re not suppose to fight a walrus for charity, you’re supposed to do it. (I should probably mention I started fighting walruses for charity. They have a slight edge because they basically have knives right there in their stupid faces. They swear they’re not going to use them, but then they so do. Cheating assholes.)

-LOSE vs. LOOSE. You didn’t loose your keys while running from a surprisingly spry one-legged Albanian prostitute you refused to pay, but you did lose them. I guess this one is confusing because you pronounce lose with the scary ghost moan typically reserved for double O words like choose or boost. Think of it like this: loose rhymes with goose. And if you lose your goose, your goose is on the loose. See? Easy.

-WORSE vs. WORST. You didn’t finish last in the Best Orgasm Face competition because your O-face is the worse, you did so because it’s the worst. Seriously. It gets all scrunched up and beet red. It’s appealing to exactly none of God’s creatures. Additionally, after being hospitalized with some sort of painful O-face induced palsy and briefly recovering, you didn’t take a turn for the worst; you took a turn for the worse. If you took a turn for the worst that would mean your stuck O-face caused your death and that’s just silly; that’s only ever happened like two or three times.

-LEAD vs. LED. You weren’t lead to eat lead paint chips by a guy dressed as Stan Lee because he convinced you they contain gamma radiation that will turn you into the Hulk; you were led to do so. This one is tough because ‘lead’ is both a noun meaning that metal that’s really unwise to consume and a verb. The verb is pronounced with a long “e” like in “Squeeeeeeeeeee!!!” and the noun is short like in the sentence, “Ted’s Keds are red.” Just remember, ‘led’ is the past-tense of the verb ‘lead’ and also comes before Zeppelin in the name of a sweet band.

So if you’re guilty of any of these, please punish yourself with a mild electric shock. Oh, and please don’t point out any of the myriad grammatical errors I make constantly (many of them in this very post). I like to hurl stones from my ivory tower; just let me have that.

*Contains Recycled Content (Part 3)

4 Jul

The first trilogy of partially new content is complete! Does that cryptic comment mean a second trilogy is on the way? You’ll have to check in a couple of weeks…but [SPOILER ALERT] yes, that’s exactly what it means.

Check out part 1 and part 2 if for some reason you missed them or, more likely, just want to read them again. I understand. All right, here we go!


Do you think seals clap in the wild or is that something we teach them to do for our own amusement? Like if a seal did like a really sweet flip out of the water and shit, would his seal pals be awed enough to break into spontaneous applause? I imagine as I type this there’s a really cool seal in a leather jacket jumping over a shark as his seal and porpoise chums (Ha, chums. Chum, shark – get it?) slap their fins together so hard it sounds like a 21 gun salute. I know I could use the Google machine to verify this one way or the other, but I’d rather assume they clap whenever they see something awesome and leave it at that.

Did you see that shit???


I watched the “classic,” Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer the other night and came away disturbed by some of the implications of that universe. My main area of concern is with the Island of Misfit Toys. Glossing over the fact that hipsters would LOVE those things (well, as much as hipsters can truly love anything. Hollow bastards) the fact that sentient, flawed toys are banished to their own island is horrifying. Most of them are just your run of the mill toys with factory defects — train with square wheels, cowboy on chicken, spotted elephant, suicidal ragdoll — but then you have the Charlie in the Box. The children of this universe are such raging cockweasels that they will not play with a Charlie in the Box. No, for these hardcore asshats only a Jack in the Box will do. It’s the same toy with a different name – it matters not to these little shits. They’d rather Charlie go fuck himself straight to his own island to let him know how unwanted he is than play with his misnamed ass. But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is when you realize the kids in this story, though awful dickheads, are not the ones most worthy of your hate.

It’s Santa.

That’s right. The fat man himself named him Charlie in the Box knowing full well that kids wouldn’t want him. That’s some malicious sociopathy on his part. What a complete and utter bag of dicks. He derives pleasure from inflicting pain and humiliation on his sentient toys, then makes himself out to be the hero by delivering them to kids at the end. No, he’s no sociopath, he’s a full blown psycho. On that note, Merry Christmas, ya’ll!!

In hindsight, the black, soulless eyes should have been a dead giveaway.


I was watching a documentary (at least I’m assuming it was a documentary) called All Dogs Go to Heaven and it got me thinking – really? Because some dogs are assholes. What about Hitler’s dogs? Or that dog who barked at me that one time? They get a free pass into heaven too? I love dogs, but it seems like they should have to earn it like the rest of us, not get a free pass through the pearly gates simply by virtue of being a dog. Before you even ask, no, I’m not high. I could go for some Funyuns though…


How I see the days of the week:

-Sunday – I can never truly enjoy a Sunday because I spend the whole day in a state of existential dread because Monday is coming.

Monday – Monday sucks all the dicks because obviously.

Tuesday – Tuesday is nothing more than Monday in a cheap disguise (think shitty plastic mask & smock Halloween costume from Rite Aid). Fuck you, Tuesday; I know what you are.

Wednesday – Still too far from the weekend. The longest (in a bad way) day of the week.

Thursday – You aren’t Friday. Get the fuck out of here.

Friday – And now I’m too tired from all the other awful days to properly enjoy you.

Saturday – Finally! A day I can truly enjoy…but then again it will be Sunday soon. And then Monday. Fuck me.

To sum up: I am a miserable, curmudgeonly wretch. Come on, Saturday…


Domino’s lets you order what they call pizza with an emoji now. Yay. Is there an emoji with which I can order a kick in the nuts? Because that’s just about as good as a pizza from Domino’s. Let’s be honest: Domino’s pizza is more like “pizza,” right? I mean, it has the elements of pizza — cheese, sauce, crust — but there’s something missing. It’s like they have a demon onsite whose only job is to suck the soul out of, and then rub its ass on, every pizza they make. It’s flat and lifeless like a cartoon representation of a pizza…which actually means ordering with an emoji makes sense after all. And hey — it’s still better than Papa John’s.



William Hanna and Joseph Barbera sit at a large table in front of a mountain of cocaine. They each dip gold straws into it and snort deeply.

WILLIAM: “So Joe, we need 80 more cartoon ideas for the Saturday morning slate. Any thoughts?”

Joe considers, does another massive bump of Peruvian marching powder.

JOE: “Who’s that scary looking fucker with all the gold and the crazy-ass haircut?”

WILLIAM: “Liberace?”

JOE: “No, no. This is a black guy. He was in Rocky 3.”

William does another line.

WILLIAM: “Carl Weathers?”

JOE: “No, goddamn it! Rocky 3!”


JOE: “That’s it! Mr. T. Kids like him, right?”

The mountain of coke gains sentience and speaks to them.

SENTIENT MOUNTAIN OF COCAINE: “Guys, guys, you’re going about this all wrong. Kids are idiots. They’ll like what we tell them to like. So long as it’s colorful, hyperactive, and makes not a single iota of fucking sense, they’ll watch the shit out of it.”

WILLIAM: “He’s right, Joe. Look at all the screeching bullshit we’ve subjected kids to over the years. No matter how stupid or insane it is they watch it and ask for more.”

JOE: “Okay, fuck it. Let’s do a cartoon about Mr. T. So what is he doing?”

William, Joe, and the Sentient Mountain of Cocaine ponder this for several moments.

JOE: “I’ve got it! Gymnastics! Kids like gymnastics, right?”

Sentient Mountain of Cocaine glowers at Joe.

JOE: “I mean, it doesn’t fucking matter. Kids will like it because it makes no sense!”

SENTIENT MOUNTAIN OF COCAINE: “Yes! That’s it! You’re getting it!”

WILLIAM: “Okay, so Mr.T is a gymnastics coach because why the fuck not. And he leads a team of young gymnasts from town to town solving mysteries.”

The Sentient Mountain of Cocaine begins rubbing holes in itself at approximately nipple height.


JOE: “Oooh! And they travel in a van just like Scooby Doo because fuck it I guess.”

The Mountain rubs itself harder.


WILLIAM: “And apropos of nothing, Mr. T has a dog that dresses just like him and also has a Mohawk!”


They do.


Here are just a few things I find less terrifying than motherfucking “Clownfest“:

-Playing snake Russian Roulette. That’s where a buddy and I gather six snakes (one of which is venomous) and take turns letting them bite us until one of us dies.

-Slathering my arm in steak sauce and dipping it into a box of starving, rabid rats.

-Allowing a swarm of tarantulas to prance across my genitals as if said genitals are their own personal Autobahn.

-Taking the Ice Bucket Challenge only with dirty syringes standing in for ice cubes.

-Making out with that one Mob Wife with massive lips (R.I.P.) who looks like she would eat my face off.

-Putting on a seal costume & taking a swim with those uber-intelligent sharks from Deep Blue Sea (all sharks like to bite the shit out of seals).

I could go on, but you get the idea.


Gratitude Challenge: Day 1

[Context: This was one of those random Facebook things that a friend nominated me to do. For five consecutive days I was supposed to post things for which I was grateful. I lasted one day. For me, that’s impressive.]

As an ungrateful and all around curmudgeonly fuck, I was a bit surprised to be nominated for this challenge. Though I question my nomination, I assume this constitutes a legally binding contract and so I will participate. Here goes:

-I am thankful for the guy I saw at the gas station last week sporting a leather vest and a rat tail. Just knowing that guy is out there walking around makes me smile. I’d love to know where he lives so I could anonymously mail him some leather, fingerless gloves. You’re right: he definitely already owns at least a dozen pairs.

-I am thankful for the time I saw a guy at Cancun Cantina in a denim jacket with a cobra patch sewn onto the back. Why was I at Cancun Cantina? Your guess is as good as mine. The more important question is, where the hell does one procure such a fine garment? It was simultaneously the lamest and most awesome thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I plan to tell my grandchildren about it. Or someone’s grandchildren. It doesn’t really matter just so long as some damn kids hear of it.

-I am thankful that my mom was choosy enough to choose Jif for all my peanut butter needs growing up. Where would I be had she opted for that Skippy bullshit? I shudder to think about it.

By the powers vested in me by the Zuckerberg and my participation in this challenge, I nominate two more people. The rules: you MUST participate for 5 days saying what you are thankful for and also nominate two more people on each day. You must also burn a deck of tarot cards while dancing naked to Air Supply songs and– oh, wait. That’s something else. Just the things you’re grateful for and who you nominate, I guess. No need to thank me!




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