Monday, September 17, 2007
September 1, 2007
Dear Anonymous Care Package Donor,
I just wanted to thank you for the package you sent me the other day. The Danielle Steel novels were much appreciated. How did you know I was such a big fan of hers?! The soap that you stole from the Holiday Inn was also a big hit. It not only lasted me for at least a couple of good showers, but also simultaneously reminded me of places I can’t visit for the next 15 months. The Newsweek magazines which pre-date my current deployment were very intriguing. I never tire reading about the ’04 presidential election. And movies too?? Well at least the DVD bonus feature discs were some of my favorite titles. Maybe after you send the next box, I’ll get to enjoy the actual movie. Heads up play on the disposable Bic Razors. Now I can add shaving to the list of daily risks I might encounter. It’s nice to know that someone back home supports my efforts to defend Iraq’s, I mean America’s freedom. Nothing says “I support the troops” more than a boxful of crap. That yellow ribbon magnet has never looked better on your SUV.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Goddamn Japanese scientists. They just can't leave well enough alone.
Men are like shoes. The shoes that you absolutely loved during your high school years you eventually outgrow, and sooner or later dump. Years later, you look back and say to yourself, “What the fuck was I thinking?” Some shoes hurt you immediately. As soon as you try them on for size you cringe with pain. There are shoes that you’ve invested so much in that you decide to live with the torture. You put up with agony, until one day, you decide that your heart and sole can’t take it any longer. You walk away, barefoot and happy. If you’re lucky, you’ll find a keeper. The perfect shoe that will remain so, at least in your eyes, until death do you part. These are the quality ones that lasts a lifetime. The ones that you love so much you won’t ever throw them out no matter how old and worn out they’ve become.
If men are like shoes, then 1906 is like a shoe closet. You have,
There’s Nate, the limited edition, very expensive sneakers (just ask Kristi) --- the Fukijama of Michigan, if you will. These sneakers are quick to jump on you for your lame remarks and run you out of town for your stupid actions. The Holy Grail of footwear that is too cool for school and too legit to quit (again, ask Kristi). A shoe of this caliber is worth the sugar.
If boots are made for walking, then one of these days Alec Gross is gonna walk all over you. Once you discover the greatness and spectacular qualities of boots, you’ll absolutely love them. Boots are of a distinctive style that footwear fashionistas admire for their flair and appreciate for their beauty. If you own a pair, you’re like a cowboy at dawn, a soldier at
Tom, of course, is the flashy 3½-inch stilettos. The shoes that scream, “Look at me!!!” and “I need attention!!!” The ones that you’re wearing when strangers stop you on the street and ask, “Super cute but aren’t they painful?” Heals that you wear on special occasions when you want the spotlight, but not too often because you can only handle such ostentation in small doses. They’re definitely the shoes of choice when you want to have a really good time.
1906 is the shoe closet where you throw all your different pairs of shoes and get this great eclectic footwear collection. Whatever their drawbacks may be, whether they’re dirty, or smelly, or loud, they’re definitely all keepers.
What shoes do prominent members of pop culture remind you of? Dick Cheney an Army Boot (rigid and militant, no sense of humor or room for comfort) - John Bobbit a pair of High Tops without any laces (Look masculine but without the proper equipment to do the job) Or what types of shoes do you fancy yourself as being? Leave a comment making some footwear comparisons of your own…
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Obviously, ESPN’s new breed of shit throwing monkey’s are in heaven this summer with Vick, Bonds and Donaghy immovable from the headlines. I suppose these stories are somewhat important, but honestly I can’t take it anymore. According to reports “Atlanta Falcons owner Arthur Blank must factor protests from PETA and the negative publicity generated by them when considering disciplinary action against Vick.” Protests from PETA? Have I lost my fucking mind? These are the same people we tell to go fuck themselves when they block the sidewalk in front of Nordstrom’s. Remind me again of the public response to PETA’s ongoing crusade to “free” live mascots from their domesticated prisons. Last time I checked, Uga was still wearing a sweater and licking his own balls. Go save an Elephant bitches!
I concede that the destructive behavior of athletes and referees warrants some attention, but the media chooses to shove this stuff down the consumer’s throat until we choke, cough and vomit blood. I thought it would be in ESPNs best interest to protect athletes, after all, who will Skip “I was born with a Vulva” Bayless condemn when every black athlete is banished to attend classes at his “Nurture Your Vagina” detention center? Skippy is the only employee I’ve ever heard of who’s allowed to trash his own company’s product incessantly and still keep his job.
I can’t understand, is it ESPN’s goal to destroy every sport, to make me feel guilty about cheering for 756 or hoping that Vick stays out of jail? My generation – the current “it” generation and advertising’s target demographic – just wants the chance to experience a little bit of greatness. Instead, these bitter old media dinosaurs attack the morals, flair and attitude of their successors and diminish all of our accomplishments:
“Eighty points? What a ball hog. There will only be one Jordan.”
“How I long for the glory days, when white Americans could actually dribble the ball.”
“I’m so fucking old; I can’t make new memories, everything I see today is inherently shittier then when I had a functional brain.”
SportsCenter anchors and contributors have turned into the most predictably cliché group of American employees. Seriously, Mark Cuban has a better chance of being rejected at a whorehouse than an ESPN viewer has of making it one day without hearing drone Stuart Scott say “He’s straight ill wit it.”
That’s right; the sex workers of America have more backbone, integrity and balls than the newsroom in Bristol. By the way, I’m putting the over/under at two years for Ryan Seacrest becoming ESPN’s highest paid employee – in addition to his daily fluffing responsibilities (carried over contractually from his current job), he will replace Mr. Scott as the “edgy, almost black” anchor on ESPN.
This tirade could continue at infinitum, raising questions like why doesn’t the reputation of the Screen Actor’s Guild suffer when Lindsey Lohan is photographed snorting coke out of Nick Nolte’s shitter? Or what might happen if the media spent as much time investigating the crimes of our current Presidential Administration as they do on Pacman’s botched Rain Dance?
I shall call it a sanctuary for positive sports energy; a place to rival to ESPN’s constant hate mongering, where true fans can honor their heroes and ignore their human flaws.
Here are some classic clips to remind the true believers just how enjoyable sports can be:
The Big Unit has Kills
Sunday, July 22, 2007
It is this glorious piece of legislation that we celebrate every April 20th. People around the country, often times not even knowing what it is that’s compelling them to celebrate, nonetheless fully indulge in commemoration.
This past Third Force Act Day I found myself in
Work was the only reasonable explanation I can have for being in
I was ready to began my odyssey, or pilgrimage if you will, to go to the place where the Third Force Act (a.k.a. the Ku Klux Klan Act) had been passed by a brave new Congress.
But first, after I was done working, I had to take in the sights of
I found a decent place to walk, where I’d be away from people and could park the ride, and took a walk. I walked through a parking lot, between a fence and over a bridge across a creek.
There was another factory on the other side of the creek. I stopped on the foot bridge and took in the sights of the running water. There was an abandoned ATV four-wheeler lodged in the side of the embankment on the left, a shopping cart on the right and what appeared to be an oily substance throughout the creek.
But I chilled.
Then I saw a car – it was two girls in a ride. I thought perhaps they were out celebrating Third Force Act Day too…They were chillin…I figured after awhile I ought to hit the road…so that’s what I did.
As I began walking back across the bridge, a man started walking from the factory on the other side of the creek towards the bridge…guess he was coming to enjoy the sites of abandoned ATV’s and shopping carts.
I found my car and made my way to the parking garage, where the parking attendant had a dent in the middle of his upper lip. (It reminded me of that girl’s lip in Kill Bill II when Uma goes to
Whatever, got my money back went to the car to chill…train wasn’t coming until 6:35 PM. It was about 6…I enjoyed some music, celebrating Congressional action against the KKK.
Drank some beer, ate a few appetizers and hit the road. I was near appropriately lit before the train ride. Luckily they sell Heineken on Amtrak, I could finish the job.
It was a 10-hour train ride…or maybe 9…whatever the case I was on that train for a damn long time, and didn’t sleep for more than 3 hours at a time, so from my perspective it wasn’t technically a new day when I finally arrived at the
I was greeted at the Metro stop at about 7:30 AM by Vogel, who was still rocking his threads from the night before. He’d had a rough night of boozing, but he made it…so at least I wasn’t stranded in
I entered 1906...it was like a beacon of light at the end of the tunnel. I had left my bed in
So I was beat, caught about another 2 hours at 1906…so I guess by the time I woke up at noon I’d had about 7 hours…but I was not ready for the madness to ensue.
I’d never been to a rugby match before. I had no idea what I was in for.
Granted I brought some of it on myself, no one forced me to accept the outstretched icy cold Bud Light, that had water dripping off it…it was hot, about 90 degrees. Hot. I accepted the beer and I drank.
Not just one, but no more than 12. Somewhere in between.
After the rugby match, it seems to be a custom to go to the bar, where a strange game is played…a game involving a golf ball and pitchers of beer. I don’t think I ever figured the game out, except that it involved being required to drink pitchers of beer if you happen to hold the pitcher with the golf ball…or something…
I was about half in the bag before entering the bar, so I think that I was easily susceptible to trickery involved in such silly games. But I drank, like a champ. Smashed about two pitchers of beer…something like that. It was a lot.
I was pretty well wrecked by the time I left the bar…it was maybe 4 PM.
But the night was not over, sleep would not be had as of yet. Keep in mind that because I hadn’t slept for more than 3 hours at a time, I considered this to still be the day before – therefore I could justify such excessive drinking due to the fact that I was still celebrating Third Force Act Day.
There was a party to go to.
After food, shower and other attempts to sober up we prepared for departure to the party.
We made it to the party…and drank more. Don’t remember preciously what I drank. There was tequila involved, perhaps in a margarita…then also maybe some shots. I’m a little unclear about this. I do remember sitting down on the couch, there was tiered seating in front of me, it was a crazy living room. I thought to rest my eyes.
I’m not exactly sure how many hours later it was that I woke up, but I woke up. I just opened my eyes, there were two guys sitting there, and I stood up, stumbled, in a dazed fashion towards the kitchen and found a beer. Walked outside and there was Vogel. He looked at me like I’d risen from the dead, which I guess in some ways I had.
I’d say that falling asleep on the couch at the party marked the end of my April 20th celebration…and although I’d traveled through nine states, I made it to
Friday, July 6, 2007
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Monday, July 2, 2007
Here is the picture I would like to paint for you before actually hearing the fruits of my labor. A large sunburned man walks into class twenty minutes late. It is obvious he has been drinking, and his odor only solidifies this fact. He apologizes for being late, sits down and waits for his turn to record a podcast for a class assignment. After being awoken from a quick 5 minute nap, he enters the recording booth. After about 10 minutes, and what must have been at least 5 different takes, he exits the recording booth with a drunken grin on his face. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mr. McNutt's first and only podcast.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Voting 5 to 4, the court, in an opinion by Chief Justice John G. Roberts Jr., invalidated programs in Seattle and metropolitan Louisville, Ky., that sought to maintain school-by-school diversity by limiting transfers on the basis of race or using race as a “tiebreaker” for admission to particular schools.
Both programs had been upheld by lower federal courts and were similar to plans in place in hundreds of school districts around the country. Chief Justice Roberts said such programs were “directed only to racial balance, pure and simple,” a goal he said was forbidden by the Constitution’s guarantee of equal protection. "
Monday, June 25, 2007
Notable Square Peg --> Round Hole scenarios (aka these things don’t mesh and will remain estranged until merciful death):
Al --> himself
Nate --> sobriety
Baby Gorilla --> not, un, anti - jugglin'
Tom --> vagina
…And Beyond (our outside contributors and readers)
Ti-May--> military ban on masturbation (see previous blog post)
Paul Simon --> Art Garfunkel
Brad --> Caps (see drinking game of the week)
K. Lee --> Mud Creek & Albert Pujols
Robbie --> Our Nation’s Capital & writing a blog entry
Joseph --> Fun
Dave --> Sundown
Tranny --> Men who aren’t gay
Laura --> Chest hair
Steven C --> An unkind word
…And Way Beyond (outsiders that we like to make fun of)
Naked Within --> Gay Without & a dog
Dane Cook --> A joke
R. Kelly, U1 & She who shall remain nameless --> Bladder control
George Bush --> Recognizable brain activity
Mel Gibson --> Alec Gross and people of his ilk
I don’t want to take all the easy ones so I’ll stop there. Readers may add new names to the list or new qualities to existing members. If you post them in comments section, I will add them to this working entry.
Greetings from the fucking cradle of civilization...
Let me first briefly state that this guest spot on the 1906 blog is an honor in the truest sense of the word.
Although I won’t claim to be stuck in the most dangerous part of
About a week ago I was hanging in the building where my soldiers live. This building also happens to house some staff officers with whom I’ve become good friends. I often make it a point to swing by and see my buddies whenever I’m at the building checking on the soldiers. Following an evening patrol, the platoon decided to grill some meat and not get toasted off some non-alcoholic Beck’s. After downing a lot of wieners (HAHA get it! Obvious gay reference even though I can’t be openly homosexual in the Army!) I went over to see my buddies and watch an episode of Weeds for a little while. I left their room after a good half hour or so to get my radio that I had left in one of the Joe’s rooms. Apparently they had been listening to our old commander shitting himself on the radio, so we all mocked him for a bit, then I said my goodbyes and went back to DVD watching. When I returned to their room, my friends seemed a bit distraught and quickly told me that the new chaplain (who I forgot to mention also lives in the building) had been inquiring as to why a Playboy was in one of the bathrooms. As a brief background, pornography, alcohol, and sex are banned here. This, I think over a continuous period of 15 months, is a reasonable requirement of young men in their early twenties. Well, our unit’s new man of God proceeds to tell my friends he wants to take punitive actions against the culprit who would dare own such filth and who probably even masturbated to it.
This warning from my friends irritates me for two reasons. One, the chaplain is going around making substantial threats against my guys without consulting me, as is protocol being that I am in their immediate chain of command. Two, he’s fussing about Playboy? Come on, man. I don’t think anyone has been busted for having a Playboy since 4th grade. I sure hope the chaplain never inspects my laptop’s “C” drive. Third, who jerks it to Playboy anymore? Whacking to Playboy is equivalent to getting drunk off a six-pack of Smirnoff Ice. It’s for beginners only.
Since he is new to the unit, I feel that this might be the appropriate time to go introduce myself. At first, I try the nice guy approach and tell him that I am sorry if he felt offended by the dirty mag and that I will tell my platoon to keep their reading material in their room. I thought that this was an appropriate and reasonable offer, but I was apparently wrong. It seems our new chaplain was the kind of guy who used to tell on himself in grade school. He jumps on his soapbox and tells me that as chaplain his duty is to set the “ethical climate” in the unit and looking at boobs detracts from that goal. Wrong chaplain!! Your job is to plan golf tournaments, listen to people’s bullshit problems, and make us feel awkward when we swear around you. You’re not a real officer. You don’t bust balls.
My reasoning with him is of no use. I tell him these guys got enough to deal with. They don’t need to have the worry that someone in their own unit is out to get them. This line of argument proves futile and he counters me with the fact that some Iraqi national who does maintenance in the building might get offended. He is again wrong on multiple counts. It’s a myth that these people are too religious for porn. They like porn as much as the rest of the world. They just prefer it involve goats. And finally, last I checked, we were doing enough for this hell hole. Why celebrate one birthday in
Needless to say, the first and probably last conversation between me and the chaplain ended less than amicably. It’s pretty cold when we pass each other outside. But that’s okay. I don’t think God likes that guy either. It’s sad that my platoon and I have to worry about mortar attacks and roadside bombs. Now we have an addition to the list of what to avoid: the chaplain folks, the fucking chaplain. Enjoy life, people.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Humbly following the words of the legendary Omar Little: “a man got to have a code” - I’ve established several notable rules to guide my life. Not the least important of which is:
Life Rule 12-C) When an event features a baby-gorilla sized woman in an “Eric the Red” Helmet, belting out sounds unheard to even Wilt “1,000” – you best suit up.
Throughout history, Opera has provided a haven for large women. There they control the crowd, own the stage and bask in the glory of their tremendous soft pallet. Fortunately, the stage isn’t the only place large women can attract a crowd. Plus-sized divas are more than welcome at 1906’s parties and in my experience they generally come with a noble calling. Their mission is submission - their method: suffocation. When I see a pair of basketball sized tigos smothering a drunken imp, I know everyone’s in for a good time. Not for nothing, but the emerging prevalence of hip-hop culture has afforded plus-sized women a cult following; the same can’t be said for tiny little elf-men. Obviously, heavyset women aren’t required to put on a spectacle but everyone in 1906 has come to party and big girls are encouraged to get down too.
While conversation is surely an acceptable social lubricant, reclining in the corner with your immediate social circle hardly qualifies. As host of a party, you’re required to not only provide a haven for juvenile behavior, but exude inspiration that forces attendees to ask the question “how do I be like Him?”
It’s not enough that guests politely step out of their comfort zones, people must knock them bitches down with a sledgehammer, proclaiming “you’re done, son”:
- The debutante desperate to let her hair down, must pound a car bomb with the prematurely balding intellectual.
- The closeted meatgazer, in need of an inconspicuous thimble-spindle, has an obligation to approach the Hip-Hop Flatly shaking his ass for those too polite to flee from anal warts.
- At the very least, the out-of-touch whiteboy must spit the lyrics, line for line of Whoomp! There It Is and Regulators. Mount up!
Furthermore, it’s entirely pointless to create a buzz around an event and invite a boatload of honored guests, only to proclaim the spot “overcrowded” when an unaccompanied minor spills red wine on your carpet.
So what if a braggadocios neighborhood kid who’s buzzing like Courtney Love and sporting the “I got kills teardrop tattoo” wanders in uninvited? Shit, give that mothafucka a beer. Big deal if he wasn’t built to handle binge drinking Big-10 alumni style. It’s entertaining to see four beers go down as three too many and watch the punk develop delusions of Stringer Bell.
It falls on the host(s) to provide their party with a vibe. For five hours +, the host gets to be Moses guiding the flock through beer filled estuaries and parted seas of Irish whiskey. Next time your invitations go out, send them with reckless abandon. Prepare for a mess, a fucked toilet or two and definitely expect several passed out mopes populating the living room floor.
In conclusion, when throwing a party, Johnny Drama should not serve as the model he’s proven to be through countless other life situations.*
* Watch Entourage this Sunday for further explanation of Drama’s hosting failures. Also come back to this blog (sometime in the future) to read the 1906 take on the hilarity of Entourage.
Sometimes people read the last page of the book before they start it, so why don't I just begin this story with the ending. Definition of classy: Sitting in your OB-GYN's waiting room, wearing what you wore the day before, praying to God they aren't going to test your blood sample for blood alcohol level, and you're they're for an AIDS test and full STD scan.
Yes, that was me. This morning. Full story:
So sweet Brittany invited me to her law firm's summer associate happy hour last night. A Tuesday night, I have a long week of work still ahead of me so I am thinking this will consist of me and Brittany having a couple drinks, meeting her fellow co-workers, and then probably having a lovely dinner with her and Jeff. Sounds like a good night, it’s better than sitting at home watching my old Sex and the City DVDs. Did my presumptuous plans of a quiet peaceful evening take place?
Not exactly….First of all, here is a secret for you ladies: the law firm young associate happy hour is a freaking gold mine for young Chicago ladies. You need to immediately hit up this circuit. Why you might ask? For the following reasons:
1) Free Drinks - they literally feed you beers.
2) Hot Law Students and Lawyers
3) Ugly Girls- except for Brittany and I - hottest girls there BY FAR - and she's taken, so works splendidly well for me - instant wing man.
Side Note: We need to coordinate and put together a calendar of these type of law firm happy hours. If we want the type of man who can and will treat us like the princesses we are then we need to develop a Chicago Summer Associate Happy Hour Crashing League (CSAHHCL). Let’s talk!
So, at this oasis of sugar daddies, I ended up chatting with a very, very cute young lawyer named Brian. He's 29, a graduate of U Chicago and Duke, and very cute. Did I mention he's really cute? He asked for my number earlier in the evening, and we parted conversational ways, but then, lo and behold, he ended up sitting next to me and basically we spent the rest of the night drinking, dancing, and doing shots by the bar. We left at 11, although in my drunken mind I thought it was 3 am. A short cab ride later he some how duped me into coming back to the condo he owns. So fast-forward this morning, he has to be at work at 10, I have a prescheduled doctor's appointment at 10:45 blocks from his office (and close to his condo). How's this for an image? Walking last night's hook up to work. When you get to the Starbucks by his office you grab some coffee and say good-bye. You have the awkward discussion of doing something next week (although you don't really believe he's actually going to call you). He hugs you, kisses your cheek, says, "It was nice to see you." and then goes, "Wait, I guess I should say nice to meet you."
I'm walking around Starbucks like a hooker, still drunk, and talking to Miss Johnson. Get to the doctor, and oh my god; I am praying they do not test my blood alcohol level. Also, I feel like the biggest whore ANYWAY for getting an AIDS test and STD scan, (I seriously wanted to scream at the doctors and nurses - I don't sleep around! My ex-boyfriend cheated on me with some college whore!), combined with going home with someone I met the night before (I guess my timing was good this way I could kill two birds with one stone).
Drinks at the happy hour: $0
Cab ride home with hot rich lawyer: $0
Morning after coffee from Starbucks; $0
Ending up at the OB-GYN’s office for an AIDS test and STD scan in your clothes from the night before after going home with a different guy than the one who was the reason for the doctor’s visit in the first place:
AD. Its such a funny little acronym. Now my Latin is a little rusty, but I believe AD stands for Anno Domini. For the less educated it means After Death, which makes absolutely no sense, unless Jesus died at birth... idiots. Anno Domini is translated into our language, English, as "In the year of our lord". That makes more sense doesn't it? Now that we understand the meaning of Anno Domini, I can more clearly convey to you the epic (as in Planet Earth epic) discovery I made the other night while stumbling home from the bars.
When ones mind is inebriated, he sees and processes things in a totally different light. Sometimes that light can become holy, and revelations are made. On my walk home, I passed by a church. A church I had passed by many times before. I don't know if it was the 100 ounces of Banana Mad Dog 20/20 circulating through my system or a call from an even higher power (I know its hard to think of something more powerful than Banana Mad Dog 20/20), but I noticed something on this Church's sign. It said, "Celebrating 94 years of God". I was dumbstruck. My whole life changed in an instant. Questions flashed through my head. What year does that make this? Was my Grandfather born Before the Common Era (BCE for the idiots)? Is God still alive and living in Florida? What time is it? 4:30 anti meridian (am, guys)... fuck I have to work tomorrow. How did I get so drunk? Wait, God is only 94 years old? I am freaking out.
So I went home and did some research... well first I got on a calculator and did some quick math; 2007-94= 1913. 1913? Could this be the true 0 Anno Domini? I then Googled: "1913 the year of our lord". Nothing. So I decided to find out more about the year itself. My tired and hazy toxic banana induced eyes scanned my screen for answers. It all began on Wednesday, January 1st... 1913. Wikipedia describes the year 1913, as common. The year our lord and savior was born is hardly "common" don't you think? It is for this reason that I no longer believe Wikipedia to be a trustworthy source. Woodrow Wilson was our leader in the political sense, I wonder if he knew a prolific spiritual leader was born during his tenure ship as president.
In 1913, the New York Giants fought a wily Philadelphia Athletics team in the World Series. The Giants had just come off yet another pennant win, and the Athletics were hungry newcomers to the big show. For the third straight year, much like the Bills and Broncos of the 90's, the Giants fell short of a World Series ring. There was much celebrating in Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love. God likes brotherly love, and probably had something to do with their upset. Across the Pacific in Australia, the Wallies began construction of their new capitol, Canberra. Because the criminals could not decide on Melbourne or Sydney as the capitol city, they compromised and made boring Canberra which is located smack in between the two larger cities. Only God's divine intervention could get these convicts to actually come to an agreement on something. Moving over to the Balkan states, freezing weather stopped everything, except the massively popular production of straw hats, which were selling like hotcakes in the almost Soviet Russia. Why straw hats you ask? My answer to you would be, only God knows. Back in the states, a great civil rights hero, Harriet Tubman, passed away of pneumonia. It was ironic that a new hero would be born that very same year... God. 1913 was also the 50th anniversary of the Battle of Gettysburg. God's birth would bring peace to the world... until World War I began a year later. But I don't blame God, he was only one year old. An infant cant stop Fascists. One last final miracle that occured in 1913, or as I now call it 0 Anno Domini Novus ( the New year of our lord). In an amazing display of compassion and humanity between two bitter rivals, Italy returned Da Vinci's Mona Lisa to its rightful owner, France. Only God could have fashioned such a fine example of camaraderie between two countries on the cusp of battle.
Yes, some may say the sign could have been a simple misprint. Some say that it is obvious that the church meant to say "Celebrating 94 years of worshiping God", commemorating the fact that the church opened in 1913. Yet, I choose to believe otherwise. I will leave it up to you, the readers, to decide for yourselves. My life will never be the same, but that's between me and the wisdom 94 years has given God.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
This is what one reader had to say about this technique:
“I have enjoyed it on many occasions and on many road trips. I find it best when driving on a more rural road as less traffic allows the driver a more relaxed pleasure. For better or worse, you can ejaculate before arriving at your destination; thereby ameliorating the need to jerk off in your buddy’s shower after you don’t pull. (see supra “To lube or not to lube”, May 31, 2007). Moreover, it provides the perfect opportunity to get those frustrations out after you didn’t pull, slept on your buddy’s floor and pissed yourself.”
Let’s be honest fellas, we all know exactly what frustrations he is talking about.
Add A Little Excitement: Breaks up the monotony of long trips
No Need For No-Doz: Wakes you up when you’re falling asleep at the wheel
Resume Builder: Makes you a more marketable employee by improving your multi-tasking skills
Helping Hand (Or Otherwise): Can be a team sport
Milk Me: Innate danger increases adrenaline flow which betters the experience with an effect similar to that of prostate manipulation
Kinky: If you are in to voyeurism passing trucks, vans, and SUVs get a front row seat to your self-exploration
Danger: Possibility of wrecking your car
Umm, I Hit A Deer?!?: Tough to explain to the police officer that your reckless driving resulted from you masturbating while driving
A Mess to Be Made: Difficult to clean up errant shots which are more likely than usual due to your split attention on the road and on your "vehicle"(however, if this is the return portion of your road trip, you can use dirty clothing)
Double Danger: Using visual stimulation further decreases your focus on the road
Creep Factor: Even if you are into voyeurism, creepy truckers who haven’t smelled a woman in atleast 2 months are watching you- that can be an awkward realization upon hearing their horn honk
This score is a range from 2 to 4 Palms (out of 5). 2 Palms because it is hard to fully appreciate the experience since there is so much going on: stearing, touching, breaking, moaning, honking, singing, dancing, flatulating, poking, bruising, etc.. . This gets 4 Palms when teamwork is involved- no explanation necessary.
PS- I suggest not trying this while on 95 driving southbound through Richmond- Let’s just leave it at that….
Monday, June 18, 2007
Hamilton, Ham, Hammy, Hamil, Hambone, Bone, Boner, Bones, Bones St. Fuillien, Schmoner, Schmamilton, Schmamil, Camel, Mamel, Mamilton, Mamwhich, Hamwhich, Spamwhich, Spamilton, Sequoia, Baby Gorilla, Baby G's, Baby-illa, Amy Good Gorilla, Amy, The Clan McNaughton, McNutt, McNutter, McNutter-Butter, MacNutt, Mr. MacNutt, Mr. Mac, Dese Nutts, McMamilton, McBones, McBoner, Magnuson, Magnus, Maximus MacNutt, Frank Hamilton McNutt IV
Friday, June 15, 2007
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Where have you gone?
Oh Jerry Falwell?
Have we done something wrong?
All the dancers on Stonewall Street
Well, they haven’t gone away
We’ve thrown all our bibles
But those fags are all still gay
They hold youth recruitment meetings
At the YMCA
And at the starbucks they serve coffee
Soy milk latte, hazelnut and AIDS
No, all the cocksuckers on Stonewall Street
They haven’t gone away
Oh Jerry Falwell?
Where have you gone?
Oh Jerry Falwell?
Have we done something wrong?
I checked out my basement
Found it crawling with the Jews
Despite all our donations
They still run the liberal news
Why won’t they return to Israel
So the lord can be renewed?
Abortionists and lawyers
They’re members of the ACLU
Yeah, despite all our donations
This place is crawling still with Jews
Oh Jerry Falwell?
Where have you gone?
Oh Jerry Falwell?
Have we done something wrong?
Well, the Negroes they still dance and sing
And we all clap our hands
It’s funny when they use big ole words
They can’t possibly understand
But despite our gerrymandering
Their votes can count like a white man’s
But their dirty streets and cracked out kids
Keep them from miscegenatin’ the heartland
Oh, the Negroes they still dance and sing
Polluting Jesus’ land
Oh Jerry Falwell?
Where have you gone?
Oh Jerry Falwell?
Have we done something wrong?
Now them tiajuana mamas
Flow like tequila cross the sand
Like cock-a-roaches they show up
In every crack and crevice in this land
With their beep-boop-bop-boop spainish talk
And their virgin mary scams
They’re taking all America's jobs
And hospital bed pans
We’ll build a wall, electrify a fence
Collars round their necks and hands
And send ‘em back to mexico’s slums
Like tequila cross the sand
Oh Jerry Falwell?
Where have you gone?
Oh Jerry Falwell?
Have we done something wrong?
And them Musselmans, them turban heads
Lord knows they’re not to blame
Their dirty bombs and training camps
All in Muhammed’s name
The unwitting sword in our Lord’s hand
They do his work without complaint
Their acts Retribution
For all our sinful ways
Atheists and abortionists
Evolutionists and Gays
Oh those Musselmans, those turban heads
Jesus knows they’re not to blame
Oh Jerry Falwell
We miss you now you’re gone
Your words rang like truth throughout the land
Like a mocking bird’s sweet song
Oh Jerry Falwell
How will we stand?
With Robertson, Haggard and Our Man Billy Graham
Oh Jerry Falwell, Jerry Falwell
We’ll still save God’s land!
Monday, June 4, 2007
Caps remains altogether a special breed of drinking game; a competitive player must employ the Novocain-like end-over-end throwing technique and hone their game with hours of practice. Additionally, if you don’t have a beer gut – or haven’t unknowingly pissed on room full of people - you probably aren’t ready to handle the rigorous drinking aspects of the game.
The aforementioned combination of hand-eye coordination and beer-guzzling prowess makes the game uniquely competitive and has inspired the establishment of the Mid-Michigan Caps Circuit (MMCC) and the annual East Lansing Caps Championship (ELCC). June 2, 2007 marked the 2nd annual ELCC and ringers flocked to EL from places as far as Frisco, DC and Louisville.
The festivities kicked off with a pre-tournament BBQ and Chef Kelly strategically cleared the house with some fierce Habenero sautéing. Once the air’s toxicity level had returned to breathable, the brackets were graphically constructed, teams united, and seedings drawn. With a total of 10 teams, the competition was stacked; forcing two play-in games. In one such game we had our first taste of semi-drama: trailing 9-2 – Future Hos Wifey (FHW) still hadn’t made a shot. According to the tournament rules (see attached) this transgression must be paid in the form of a naked run through the host neighborhood. The House was abuzz with the thought of pre-bridal titties floppin’. Sadly, the boners were halted as FHW stepped up and drilled the biggest shot of her adult life. However, FHW and Mr. Reddy proved to be an ill-fated team when they allowed 10 straight points in their next game. Celebrations occurred, chants were created, and once again chubbies sprouted up like spring lilies. Alas, those chubbies were twice thwarted when Husband-to-be Hos – fearing for the safety of FHW – defined the term “man” and bore her cross. Hos joined Mr. Reddy in the traditional tube-sock garb and together they made magical nude poetry complete with high-knee gallops around the light pole (unfortunately you will not see pictures of this on the Internet - I've seen them but you wont).
Hos’ chivalry proved to bring him great Karma, as he and his partner J (the physical embodiment of Tyler Hansborough, with the spirit of John Starks) tore through the competition. On the ropes only once – in the semifinals, Hos ended Byrd’s threat of a game winner with a double, and J Starks came through with some subsequent daggers of his own.
The finals proved to be a snooze fest as an overmatched Sammy and Barsie played from behind, never causing a stir. Money was paid out ($120 each for the winning team) and increasingly expensive cash games became the new mode of competitive expression.
By this time, two kegs lay empty and only the true heavyweights remained. Dubs and Nate (donning a sick Ken Griffey Jr. batting jersey), still reeling from an embarrassing premature tournament exit, evoked the power of Indigo Montoya calling on father to “guide their swords”. After forcing Kenney to join Reddy and Hos in the annals of tournament naked runs, Dubs and Nate built a steam of momentum and stayed steadily rollin’ rocks. In the end, Dubs and Nate left casa de Hosler with a combined $670 (including all of the tournament winnings) from Sammy, Kenney, Byrd, J and Hos.
The oft ridiculed uber-team lost the tournament but in the end they won at life. Until next year…
*Stay tuned to see these featured in our Drinking Game of the Week column.
Dear Century Regional Detention Facility,
I am writing this letter in the interest of the Adult Film Industry. We have excitedly been awaiting the incarceration of Paris Hilton. As we all know, the hotel heiress has already exploded onto the voyeur scene in several home videos that have entertained millions of viewers VIA the Internet and bootleg DVDs. Ms. Hilton has an awesome star power, and many fans await her next big release. With your help, we hope to produce the first in an awesome new genre of adult films... Porn-reality. As Ms. Hilton has unknowingly already "burst" onto this very new and exciting scene, we have a feeling she will be more than willing to partake in this piece of history. What if she does not hop on board you ask? She is in jail, who cares. The true reality of this situation is Ms. Hilton WILL need some form of sexual sustenance while she serves out her time, and WILL fall under the seductive spells of a burly prison guard who goes buy the "pen name" of Handsome B Wonderful. It will be a riveting story line with "hot" blow jobs abound.
I wanted to give you a couple ideas we have been shooting around the production room.
A Basic overview
Ms. Hilton is nervous. She is now in Prison. Voice over of interviews which will be taken afterwards will express how nervous she really was. Ms Hilton will then comment that being nervous is one of her biggest turn ons. She is waiting for her daily visit from Larry Diggs, the burly guard that brings breakfast to her cell. The way his big arms dwarf the bowl of cereal and glass of orange juice makes her quite squeamish, if you catch my drift. This relationship will then blossom into a beautiful mesh of reality and fantasy... "Hot" fantasy.
How do you write a script to reality you ask? We simply put the pieces in place which are necessary for certain transgressions to occur. We all know Ms. Hilton's character will crumble under the prospect of big press and endless droves of fans showering her with attention. There are other ways we can assure her cooperation in the form of "forget me nows", a special drug mostly utilized in the illusions business. Yet, I feel Ms. Hilton will not be the issue in all of this. We are more concerned with you as a prison's reaction. As we say in the porn industry, any press is good press right? So you allowed the filming of a reality porn show staring the heiress to the Hilton fortune. Worse things have been happened. The Holocaust for example. When people question you about your decision to go along with the project, just mention all the poor souls at Virginia Tech. Tell them we should be more worried about gun control, and then talk about the over crowding problems we are experiencing in today's prison system, because so many people are shooting and killing each other for no reason with weapons which are too easily acquired. That will fix it, and the reporters will praise you for your humanity.
I hope this letter has been both intriguing and convincing. You are on the cusp of an historical event. Hop on and ride it hard.
I remain the same.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Over the years, new techniques have been created in an attempt to improve and better the experience. From heated bologna slices to a bottle of Lubriderm, I am beginning a weekly column examining the pros and cons of some more and less common ways of scratching that ever-present orgasmic itch. My examination centers around male masturbation techniques. For any members of the opposite sex reading this, please e-mail us at email@example.com with your input on techniques for your specific equipment.
The first technique I will examine is shower masturbation AKA: The Shower-Stroke
Time-Saver: You are multi-tasking, cleaning your external self and cleaning out the pipe-work all at the same time.
Easy Clean Up: No worries about errant shots getting away from you. A shower is a contained environment constantly being flushed out with water.
Privacy: Unless you have a prior issue with people barging in on you in the shower, you should be guaranteed privacy to allow you to focus on the task at hand (pun intended)
Standing Up: Uncomfortable and down right dangerous. It could be very easy to slip due to the violent thrashing movements taking place. How embarrassing would it be to explain that black-eye or broken arm to your friends and co-workers?
Congelation: Upon contact with the water your sexual explosion hardens into a gel-like substance that can be difficult to detect and completely get rid of. Often, it is only after drying off or getting fully dressed that you notice the patch of sticky skin just above your kneecap.
3 Palms (out of 5)- The time saving and privacy qualities of this technique are impossible to overlook. A little bit of forethought in the form of a bath mat and body awareness can negate the dangers of standing up and lessen the likelihood of an embarrassing gel mass on your forearm during the early morning board meeting.
My response was: "Dane Cook is the most worthless anti-comedian ever. ever." and I stand by that assertion. but the following sure makes a compelling argument...
I am black. It is official. Working in the DC school system has officially done to me what gallons of bleach and thousands of nose lifts have done for Michael Jackson... the complete transformation of ones race. I have assimilated into another culture, a culture where Myspace and Go Go music stand tall. 16 year old DC kids and I have found a common ground. I wanted to share this fact with everyone, and let you all know that I am here if you have any questions on the meaning of yun, steal, keel, or my favorite, roller. The following is a segment written by one of my favorite students. Stephon Hooks is a great kid. He has a great sense of humor, and where he lacks in actual conventional intelligence he excells in his gift of gab. The picture is of some of my students. Stephon is the tall guy with the ball. His testimonial proves that I am in fact a black man living in a white man's world.
Mr. Mac By: Stephon Hooks
Mr . McNutt is the most unfair man in this school. I wish he just go back to the south where he came from. I wish he would go back to the sand box that he came from, and play with his toy cars or go get him a happy meal or some thing. I just wish he would go away far away. Mr Mac as they call him as far as I know he can go back and play "rub on me" with his butt buddys . THE END NO NO NO NO MAC... THAT MY NIGGA. I FUCK WIT HIM. HE IS A GOOD MAN AND A STAND UP ONE. I CAN SAY THAT MAC IS THE ONLY WHITE MAN IN THIS SCHOOL THAT I CAN CALL BLACK. I FUCKS WIT HIM, AND ANY BODY THATS COOL WITH HIM IS COOL WITH ME.
FROM HIS MAN 100 GRAND
Anonymous P.S. yes I am black. EST BANGERZ 4LIFE
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
I wont stop until I give you meteor showers