Religulous

You would think being hogtied, blindfolded, and gagged would be a weekend of fun...but nay, 'tis not, especially when you think the safeword is 'banana' but it turns out there is no safeword. Outrageous, I know, but my captors were not out for fun; they were out for Christ. I was kidnapped and taken to...waitforit...Church...gasp...on a Sunday...yelp...for mass...ohgodwhy! Scarier than fiction, I tell you. As soon as they hauled me through the arches, I thought my skin would start to melt from eternal damnation. Fortunately I was given a chance at redemption. They removed my blindfold and shoved a white piece of paper in my face. The bold-face Helvetica at the top read 'A Spiritual Quiz.' "This is your last chance heretic!" snarled the gangly priest at the altar, laden in shadows and intrigue. I feverishly took the paper and answered as best I could. I'm the cram king, but sadly, no amount of last-minute-in-the-hallway-outside-the-classroom cramming could've prepped me for a quiz of this magnitude. Needless to say, I failed with flying colors. "Don't cross me," the priest muttered as he graded my piss poor paper. It was at that point, that by the good graces of determinism, karma, Kwaanza, and all things not Catholic, a busload of 12-year-old altar boys arrived, filtering into the church. I saw the distracted look of the priest, and I ran for dear life, escaping the clutches of organized religion. And I lived to tell the tale. I was saved.

And fortunately for you, dear reader, I snatched up my quiz before I ran away. I have provided it here for your approval:

A Spritual Quiz

1. Have you recently thanked Jesus for all He has done for you?

I recently sent him an e-card from someecards.com. It read “Thanks for informing me that my mailbox is over its size limit.” He hasn’t emailed me a response. I don’t think he appreciates it, Mister “I’m the Son of God and Savior to the world.” Can’t even send a ‘you’re welcome’ to us average Joes, huh?

2. Do you regularly say your morning and night prayers?

I pray to the porcelain god many a morning and night. Oh, Mr. Flushy…always there for me. [Note to self: when you’re lactarded and addicted to alcohol, white Russians are the best idea you’ve had since shaving your pimples to make them go away.]

3. Do you say a prayer of thanksgiving (Grace) before your meals?

“Rub a dub dub. Thanks for the grub. Yay god.”

4. Do you turn to Jesus in prayer when you are troubled or depressed?

Only if you call Zoloft “Jesus.”

5. Do you pray for friends and others who have serious problems?

No, I simply stop calling them friends.

6. If a person is having difficulties, do you encourage them to pray?

I encourage them to man up / woman up, and get over it! Illiteracy isn’t gonna fix itself.

7. When you visit a sick person, do you say a prayer with them?

Why would I visit a sick person? Gross. Now where did I put my ‘Outbreak’ full-body rubber suit?

8. Have you read the Bible during the past week?

No, sorry, I wasn’t in boys school detention or prison last week.

9. Do you contribute to your church and deserving charities?

My church is 6 inches high and made of legos. Just yesterday I gave it rotating seats, a retractable roof, and a lego batman priest. I’m considering taking it apart and making it into a spaceship. It can fly to the earth’s legorbit and explore the legozone. After the launch, I can look to the sky, shade my eyes with my hand, and say, "it's legone."

10. Does Jesus Christ occupy the number one place in your life?

No. This guy does:

“3, 2, 1…1, 2, 3…what the heck is bother me??” There isn't a single life experience he hasn't helped me through. You'll always be number one in my book, Big Guy...Got any cheeeese?

Eggroll and Two Dumplings...Huzzzahhh

I dedicate this to my teenage cuzin who complains to his dad that all the Asian girls go after white guys. Rock on, cuzin, rock on.

And to crossover guys all over the world, yes we can.



"like Dante Basco on old black shows"...Ashley Banks, I'm looking at you.

And the winner is...

...Eva Mendes, the mildly attractive actress from such Oscar-worthy films as Maid in Manhattan, The Cell, and The Wedding Planner...wait, what? Eva Mendes isn't in any of those movies? Who the hell is Eva Mendes then? Ah well, she's gonna get trounced by the Green M&M in the later rounds anyway. But in this first round matchmaker matchup, she narrowly squeaked by the perennial joke-butt Sarah Palin aka "Soon to be the most cliche Halloween costume of 2008." It seems that female voters really carried Eva across the finish line after having some strong throwup-in-mouth reactions to the competition:

D: ugh

eva mendes duuuuh

me: u dont want me to take one for the team?

D: well, no - because i'm your roommate

and it'd be weird to have her walking around the apt wearing only your dress shirt or something

me: good answer

whatabout only my dress pants
[apparently for D, it would not be weird to have Eva Mendes walking around in only my dress shirt...would it be weird if I were walking around in only Eva's dress shirt?]

L: uhhhhhhh

u made me throwup in my mouth

after that Palin pic

me: its messed up ur hormones

L: the palinator M: i'd go with eva mendez cause she's hot and has a brain

M: screw palin. dumb b***h

me: haha, thanks!

how do u know eva has a brain? M: compared to palin, ALMOST everyone else has one

Most of the male voters on the other hand went for the Alaskan Ice Queen with such comments as these:

M: You should date the Maverick. Maverick Maverick. Maverick!

me: haha

she'll like that i shoot from the hip

M: if she can stand up to big oil, can she stand up to big penis/make big penis stand up? [why does M know about my penis size? big is a very relative term anyway]

Despicable. Females just had different criteria:

B: i vote for eva. i saw her at friend of a farmer one time and shes very pretty in person

and i wanted her coat

[apparently women love friends of farmers...there's just something about tilling soil and planting seeds...]

So Eva advances. But how long can she last in this royal rumble of love? ForEva Eva, forEva Eva??

"the reminder" video

here's an important video i helped make with a half bottle of scotch, a roll of aluminum foil, and my two hand puppets Leopold and Dr. Octagon. shouties to filmmaker Corinne E. Manabat.

(it's better to watch in high def via youtube's own site. that way you can see all the details of Leopold's mouth...tongue hair!)

this just in...

i spotted a guy on the street today outfitted with Uggs, a brand of hideous female boots appropriately named after a groan. first the polar ice caps started to melt, then the economy hurtled toward oblivion, and now this. beware, tomorrow we'll be bombarded by a swarm of locusts, and next week, i'll pray for the souls of all you first-born children out there. it is truly the end of days.

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Who should I date?

Eva Mendes
Why I like her: She’s hot and I’m attracted to hot. She's still a rising star, not yet on the level of JLo or Angelina, so if I get with her now, down the road when we get into arguments I can always pull out the I-supported-your-career-when-you-were-a-nobody card. Dispute settled. And I for one prefer to be on equal footing with my romantic companion...my romanion, if you will. Power dynamics are cancer to a relationship, so it's good that Eva is clearly in my league. She's just a tad bit uglier. I can live with that.

OR

Sarah Palin
Why I like her: If it’s discovered that she’s having an affair with me, that’s just one more scandal to throw on top of her pile o’ screw-ups that is her burning blimp of a campaign. Imagine if polaroids of me in a moose suit licking the stilettos of her dominatrix outfit made it to the front page of the Times. Bye bye McShame. Hello Cougar Hall of Fame. I'd be taking one for the team. Barack, just call me Maverick cuz I'm your wingman.

Top 3 titles for our 'leaked' home-movie sex-tape:
“Cuntry First”
“Palin’s Poopergate Investigation”
“Tina Fey Does It with Asian Guy”

The Seat Slide-Over

Silver bells. Hear them ring. It’s Christmas time in the city... You just spent all afternoon trudging in the freezing rain, buying the best knockoff apparel for your family (because they’re worth it, and you spend 2/3 of your paycheck to live in an apartment built for Hobbits). Soaking wet and blisters on your feet, you lug the bags underground to the subway platform. Your Northfake is still dripping and leaves a urine trail in your wake. The A rumbles into the station. A million people deboard the train and trample you without concern. But at least you made it onto the train, finally dry and warm, with the promise of home only 23 stops away.

You’re effing tired (not to be confused with fucking Tired, as in Mr. Tired, the gap-toothed gentleman behind the counter at Gristedes; fucking him is a bad idea), and you need a seat. Low and behold, there’s only one left and it looks like you’re riding bitch. There’s a portly man lodged on one end of the seat bench, and a woman next to the pole-divider at the middle of the bench. You do a cost-benefit analysis, and decide you have to, so you nestle your little butt between them and give your cheeks a rest.

But now you got Grimace to your left, and he looks like he’s eating the Hamburglar. On your right is Old Woman Withers, who looks like layers of herself kept melting on top of each other until she was satisfied that she resembled Jabba the Hutt. She also smells like pure gasoline. And she keeps staring at you with her one eye. You’re huddled in between, trying to keep your knees together, your arms together, your shoulders together, so as to avoid physical contact with the Jello-giants next to you. But it’s pointless, the A train’s in hydraulics mode and is jerking forward the way Shattner talks. Each time it jerks, you get crushed worse than a sumo wrestler’s diaper.

At stop 13, Grimace gets up to leave. Despite being intoxicated by gasoline fumes and charred Big Macs, you recognize an opportunity when you see one. Without hesitation, you do the one thing you possibly can to redeem your humanity—you slide over to the left. And with that one simple seat change, you can breathe the crisp air again, you rediscover what it’s like to have space between your balls again, and you remember that freedom is a privilege in this world. Nevermind that the seat is warmer than a Dutch oven and covered in sesame seeds; it doesn’t matter. You’re free. That is the magic of the seat slide-over…keeping New Yorkers sane since 1883.

Going from riding bitch to sliding over to the best seat in the car (i.e. the end of the bench against the rail, so you’re assured that no one can sit next to you on at least one side of your body) is the American Dream realized. Best of all, you get to enjoy someone else’s discomfort as they’re forced to sit between Old Woman Withers and your fat bloated ass. (‘Milk was a bad idea!’)

But God forbid the bench was just recently scrubbed down and doesn’t have enough accumulated dust to make your slide-over smooth. Instead the friction between your butt and the seat makes it sound like your ass is erupting. Then again, what better way to prevent other passengers from plopping down next to you, then to clear the air with your derriere.

Take heed, however, that taking pleasure in other people’s pain will come back to haunt you. One of two things will happen as a consequence. Either A) it’ll be too late for you when you realize that you are now sitting in front of a subway map when someone does the lean-in-and-look on ya, and now you got some guy’s stubbled face 2 centimeters from your own. Or B)Lonely Planet doesn’t inform the tourist sitting to your right to do a seat slide-over once Old Woman Withers gets up, and now the anti-bath European is polluting your air space.

This brings us to Subway Rider Rule # 690: Never get high off your own supply…Woops! Wrong set of rules!...Always do a seat slide-over when the opportunity arises. It keeps the world in balance, and the universe aligned. The seat slide-over saves lives. It's what Chuck Norris would do...after killing the guy next to him with his fists.

And Subway Rider Fun Tip #106: Pretend to be the rider that forgets to seat slide-over. Then, when someone standing proceeds to sit down in the vacant spot, slide over there as fast as you possibly can, so that they end up sitting in your lap. Who ever said New Yorkers aren’t friendly? When the person looks at you in confusion and shock, smile and say “wakka wakka wakka!” for bonus points.

And the winner is...

…in a decisive and portentous (SAT word in the house!) first victory, the Green M&M! She devoured Ashley Banks, hit single and all. “Mannn, she’s weak….last week!” Despite support for Ashley on this blog’s droppings section from lawdamercy (who wisely pointed out that Banks is the human option, albeit fictional) and a whisper campaign against the Green M&M about her supposed lactose content (detrimental to this lactard blogger), the chocolate treat with eyes and legs lead the way with aggressive on-the-ground support. The people have spoken. And they say that I need a woman with a tough exterior (ever toss an M&M into the air and try to catch it with your mouth, only for it to crash into your teef like a kamikaze pilot on crack? Shit hurts meng) but also so sweet on the inside that she makes you say “Mm.” She also tastes good with ice cream.

Stay tuned for the next first round face-off for my affection (i.e. dating me for 2.5 months till I realize I’m not ready to be serious)!
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BREAKING NEWS: It has been discovered that the Green M&M only has 4 fingers on each hand (see campaign photo from previous entry for evidence). I dunno if I can date a woman with only 8 fingers! Which one's her ring finger?? Could she properly greet me at a Star Trek convention or would it just look like she's throwing up the shocker? Aww man.


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Romantic Possibilities Question of the Day

As an ever-maturing young man, I'm beginning to feel the desire for the sustained companionship of a young woman (give or take half my age + 7). I've carefully considered numerous candidates for whom I can fulfill the role of Boogie Beau. I think the most efficient way to narrow down my choices is to arrange an NCAA Tournament bracket of 64 eligible women and have them face off in pairs. Blog-readers may realize their electoral power by answering a simple question for each round of romance rivalry: Who should I date? Most votes (in the electoral college) wins.

In this first round, of these two candidates for cuddling, who should I date?

Ashley Banks

Why I like her: She can sing and looks hot in a Dippity Doo Dog uniform. Because I know I’m more manly than ex-bf Tevin Campbell. And she’s already dated Rufio at least twice. She’s definitely into the lumpia. (see the movie Fakin’ Da Funk if you don’t believe me) Plus the girl is mad rich and can bankroll my career as a professional man of leisure. “Fill banks like Phil Banks.”

OR

The Green M&M

Why I like her: She’s got great eyes and she’s made of chocolate. Let me repeat that in my best Joe-Biden-repeating-a-point voice: She’s made of chocolate.

And if anyone ever accused me of being racist, I could just tell them “Hey, I’m not racist. My girlfriend’s green…and made of chocolate.”

Facebook Etiquette Question of the Day

Would it be poor form to invite people to a funeral over facebook? How come evite doesn't have an option for 'wake' or 'cremation ceremony?' The RSVP options would be:

Yes, I'm ready to get lit.
Maybe, you should ASHk me later.
No, I'm already dead fool.

When my dad first told me he wanted to be cremated, I wondered what flavor of ice cream he would be best as. Probably something with nuts.

A Call for Change

We are in troubled times. We find ourselves in the midst of a global economic crisis, buttressed by wars without end, and heightened by a rapidly deteriorating environment. The stratifications between the rich and everyone else, the mainstream and the marginalized, and the first world and the third world are at their most ominous extremes. And yet we have the opportunity to change the course as the election for the American presidency draws near. Tonight we'll watch the two candidates, as that sense of urgency continues to teem from our depths and move us towards the ballot box. With such big decisions looming, I wanted to take a break from nonsensical humor and devote myself to a serious matter that warrants attention in these direst of times…What’s the deal with people bringing you something from their vacation abroad, only to rub your face in the fact that they went on vacation and you didn’t?

Seriously people, you go on vacation and you bring me back a memento…so I can remember something I have no memory of! All it’s gonna remind me of is the fact that I did not go on your beautiful trip. That’s just mean, dude.

“You woulda loved seeing this beach with the….and going to that outdoor….and eating those great….” Yeah, thanks, I get it. You did all these things I love…without me. That makes me feel wonderful.

And you may try to justify it by saying that you were thinking of me while you were away. In reality you were thinking of how much you could torment me by leaving me a reminder of YOUR trip, not mine. Stop trying to spread your happiness in my cave of despair. I know you’re just trying to set yourself up for that moment when you visit again 3 years from now, see the little Kremlin snowglobe on my desk, and say “Hey! I remember this! It’s from that time I was in Red Square! Oh that’s right, you weren’t there…”

Even worse than the little shot glass that says 'Jammin in Jamaica' or the 'I got Lei'd' novelty license plate is the postcard in the mail. It usually features a scenic locale, gorgeous architecture, beautiful women, and a message on the back that says “Wish you were here!” Translation: You aren’t here suckaaa, but I am! So malicious. The evil postcard is the lowest of the low because it’s a reminder of your vacation while you’re still enjoying it! At least with other stuff you give me in person, I know that your fun is over. But with the postcard, it’s like your fun is never gonna end. And while you’re out in the sun, inhaling foreign culture, and washing your ass in a bidet, I’m stuck picking up your dog’s poop with my plastic bagged hand, watering your stupid ficus, and visiting your grandma at the home, making her believe that I’m you. She’s a sweet lady but MAN is she handsy!

A harder slap to the face, I know no other. It’s like being a sidelined Jeremy Shockey while the Giants win the greatest Super Bowl ever. It’s like your best friend being married to Jessica Alba and telling you in explicit details what a freak in bed she is…and then showing you actual video of them doing the horizontal monkey mambo. It’s like when your mom mutilated your imaginary friend Mr. Magic-Bone in the garbage disposal because she didn’t realize he was only an inch tall and still standing on your plate, nibbling at your leftover chicken. The horror!...wait, that last one has nothing to do with anything. It’s just sad.

So the next time you’re touring the Great Pyramids atop a camel and you think to yourself, “gee whiz! Boogie B would love this!” please do not write me a postcard to brag or get me a false memento of your memory. Leave these tease-trinkets there. Instead, get stung by a scorpion. That I would gladly remember with fondness. Ass.

The Vice Presidential Debate Drinking Game aka Drink Till Palin Sounds Intelligent

Every time someone blurts out “man, she really looks like Tina Fey!” everyone yell “Lizzz Lemonnn” in your best Tracy Morgan impression and have a lemon drop shot.

Every time you have an impure thought about the MILFiest VP candidate of all time, make the sign of the cross over your wine glass and have a sip of the blood of Christ.

Every time Joe Biden mentions “Amtrak,” drink a shot with your party, one right after another, like a domino effect (or a waterfall or a train going round the bend). Before taking your shot, look your shot glass in the eyes and say “I choo-choo-choooose you!” Accompanying train-engineer fist pump is optional.

Every time Sarah Palin is quiet for far too long because she’s stumped by a question she can’t answer, the whole bar must have a moment of silence…for the last bit of Republican hope that just died.

Every time Sarah Palin mentions that John McCain chooses “Country First,” drink a redbull and take a dump in the nearest toilet. Then point at it and say, “Look, red [state] bullshit.”

Every time Sarah Palin defends her foreign policy experience by alluding to the proximity of Alaska to Russia and/or Canada, hug the person next to you and have a gulp of their drink. It doesn’t matter if you don’t really know them.

Every time Joe Biden makes a bad joke (e.g. “The only thing dumber than the McCain economic plan is your baby…..ewww….awkward turtle…”), do your best Fran Drescher cackle and sip your drink through your nose.

Every time someone says “pork barrel politics” or “earmarks,” buy a round of Blue Label Johnny Walker shots for the entire bar and put it on someone else’s tab. Go up to that person, pat them on the back, and say “Thanks taxpayer! Giggidy giggidy giggidy!”

Every time someone mentions the war in Iraq or Afghanistan, have a jaeger bomb or car bomb and try locating that country on a map. (If Sarah Palin mentions a war in Japan, have a sake bomb, slap your forehead, and yell “D’OH!”)

Every time Sarah Palin says John McCain showed leadership on the bailout plan for Wall Street, suspend all drinking activities and go directly to the office…until your co-workers tell you to go home ‘cuz you’re useless.

Every time Joe Biden says Barack Obama showed leadership on the bailout plan for Wall Street, write the bartender a $700 billion check. Don’t ask too many questions.

Every time a candidate invokes the word “change,” switch seats with someone and drink their drink…unless it was Sarah Palin who said it. In that case, pretend to switch seats with somebody, steal their money, and go back to your original seat and drink.

Every time you think to yourself that this is the stupidest shit I’ve ever seen, leave the bar immediately and book yourself a one-way ticket to Canada. (Note: If you don’t know where that is, just remember that it’s the place that shares a land-border with the state of Alaska.)