Wednesday, May 24, 2017

The Bachelorette: Breaking Down the Micropeens

I do not talk about this man once in this post. Not once. 

A chick I know recently had her heart ripped out, stepped all over and thrown against a refrigerator. In the months since her ex-boyf broke up with her, she has contemplated sui, experimented with essential oils and downloaded various sex apps on her telephone.

She now has three rules when it comes to dating:

1. No cats
2. No Samsung Galaxies
3. No micropenises

Sadly, the producers of The Bachelorette do not have the same set of standards. This season, they chose to cast the biggest bunch of bozos we've ever seen on this show (including one guy who wore a #vest).

So, even though the only thing I hate more than this TV show is this blog, I figured I'd rank these new contestants based on the size of their micro peens. Because if there's one thing in this world I know about, it's other men's dicks.

Let's rank them from macro to micro, starting with:

Fred (legit hammer cock)

Real one.

I don't care how many brothers Josiah had to cut down from trees, nothing can be more traumatizing than growing up with the name Fred. What an amazing, hilarious thing to call a person. Dogs are named Fred. Car mechanics are named Fred. Fred Flintstone is named Fred. I can guarantee that Fred has a huge, huge dick. I know this because he is black.


Literally Every Other Black Guy (totally normal-sized peens for black guys)

Hi guys. 

Three hundred years of persecution. Thousands upon thousands of dope dance moves. And six full seasons of Martin. Yet, all it took was 20 minutes of this show to shatter my lifelong belief that black people are naturally cool.

The guy who kept licking his lips? Nope. Could not handle him. The grown man who calls himself Diggy? Stop it. I liked Larry the wrestler. And the dude who constantly talked shit. But even Josiah -- and yes, very sad, very very sad about Josiah -- but dude, you don't need to tell us your whole life story on day one. Save a little something for next week. Save a little something for when you're about to be sent home. And after all that, after that judge gave you a second chance and saved your life and steered you away from a life of crime... you went and became a lawyer?

My friend Kenny Rosenbaum is a lawyer. There's nothing special about being a lawyer. Lawyers wear shirts, with buttons, and go to work and be boring. I thought Josiah was gonna say that he went on to do something that actually mattered. Like started a nonprofit for the homeless. Or resurrected the civil rights movement. Or played small forward for the Pistons. But no, he's just another stiff who wears slacks. Nice guy though. As is Kenny Rosenbaum. If you're reading this Kenny, hi Kenny.

Rachel's Dog (dog dick)

Nice doggie.

This dog definitely has a dog dick. I can tell because he is a dog.

Also, ABC dedicated three separate segments to a guy named Jamey, but only gave Ruffles 15 seconds of airtime? Unacceptable.


Guy Who Wore a Fireman Outfit (slightly above average sized dork)

I hate writing this blog so so much.

I'm sorry, anyone who has the confidence to wear a double-breasted fireman suit must be packing heat. Because I have never, not once, not ever ever ever, met a cool fireman. I know that people think they exist. I've seen the shirtless calendars. I remember after 9/11 when the NYFD guys were going on Ellen's show and being all brave and stuff. But firemen, EMTs, dudes who are into anime, bloggers: all 100%, USA-grade, certifiable micropeens.


The Colombian Guy (cold, refrigerated, pre-cooked hot dog)

You can almost feel how cold and wet that dog is from the pic, can't you?

I appreciate this guy going on national television and taking his tongue and touching it against a black woman's tongue, but anyone who acts that aggressively must be overcompensating for something. This man is nothing special. Also, when kisses Rachel on the cheek he makes a stupid "mwah" sound and my wife can't stand when people do that and I support her in every way possible so I officially LOATHE him.


Whablammo Guy (Mike and Ike)

What is that right-shoulder lean/dip move?
And why are those Mike and Ike's so blurry?
And why would I possibly care?

Obviously I hated this guy, but I also didn't hate him. But I hated him. But I also didn't. But I did.  Like, I want him to be murdered, but I don't hate him. But I do. My wife had to walk out of the room when he came on screen. I kinda liked him. But I still want him to die the most horrific painful death imaginable.


Blake the Physical Trainer who Claims to Have a Golden Dick (Combo)

I can't.

Somehow, this dude was more embarrassing than the Whablam guy.

Quick side note: You can totally tell when I've had enough of writing this stuff, because it just becomes one-line answer-city. Let it be known, you are now entering one-line-answer city.

Another side note: Update on my boner potion that I'm taking. For those of you who didn't read my last post, my friend Guitar Jr. recently sent me some boner potion that is supposed to be "The Viagra of the Amazon." I am currently on Day 4 of taking the potion (three times a day) and I miiiiiiiiight be starting to feel the effects. Not that I'm walking around all day with a full-fledged jackhammer, but I did wake up this morning harder than Chinese arithmetic. So I've got that goin' for me.

Now back to your regularly scheduled blorg post.

Jonathan the Tickle Monster (Tic Tac)

I've never.

Clearly this guy is on the spectsh, right?

I am not a violent person (mainly because I have zero muscle tone on my body), but if a grown man were to ever have me close my eyes, stick my hands out and then tickle my rib cage, I would slug him in the face with a stapler. This man is certifiable.


Chris Harrison (slimy, shriveled-up mushroom)

Google image search: "Soggy, Wet Mushroom"

At one point in the show on the show on Monday, Chris Harrison referred to After the Final Rose as "AFR."


Guy who told Rachel "I wanna go black and never go back" (inverted turtle head that literally sits inside his own asshole)


Yo. Fuck this guy.





This song, entitled "Coffee," is a certified banger. When I played it for my friend, Hart (and keep in mind, the hook goes "black coffee no sugar no cream black coffee no sugar no cream"), he thought it was actually about coffee. Turns out it's not. Take a listen and see if you can find the deeper meaning. Hint: It's about having sex with a black man. 

See you next week. 

Maybe.

Thursday, May 18, 2017

Mommy Dead and Dearest: Wooooooooooooo, Dusty!

Wowzers bowzers.

There's not many things in this world that deserve a "wowzers bowzers."

The view from Macchu Picchu? Wowzers bowzers.

Those hot breakfast scrambles that come in an iron skillet with biscuits and gravy and full-throttle, level-19 diarrhea? Wowzers bowzers.

Kim Jong-un's haircut?

I'll take "Wow Bow" for 800, Alex. 

But now you can add a new wow bow to the list: Mommy Dead and Dearest, HBO's latest documentary about a sick, sick, sick mother who keeps her daughter captive until her daughter finds an autistic pervert to slit her throat. This story, my friend, is a certifiable wowzers bowzers.

Honestly the whole thing is just gut wrenching. And horrible. And downright bonkers. With so many bonkers characters and so many bonkers moments that a good portion of the bonkersness gets lost in the bonks because you're so busy freaking out about the bonks. They could've made an entire documentary just on Gypsy Rose's dad's hats.

So seeing that you probably missed out on some bonks while you were bonking out, let's go over some of the other wowzers bowzers that didn't get nearly enough attention in the doc.

Such as:

Oh, hello. 

CAPTAIN UPPER CHEEK TATTOO

I absolutely loved Dee Dee's nephew, or cousin, or whoever he was--you know, the former lead singer of Seether. What was he? A welder? I didn't even know welding was still a profession.

Although to be honest, I couldn't get over the fact that he was wearing that stupid winter hat during his interview. I figured he was probably bald and/or trying to get a VH1 reality dating show, but turns out he has a nice full head of hair. I found him on the 'Gram. He also happens to be one of those fitness dudes who cares way too much about his bod. Check out his Instagram page; lots of pics of him with his shirt off, and also this picture of his super boring breakfast.

Underscore Kim Underscore Broussard likes it. 


OHHHHH, NICHOLAS GODEJOHN. 
WHAT A WEIRD, WEIRD LAST NAME.

And then of course there's Nicholas Godejohn, you know, the guy who slashed Dee Dee's throat and said he might want to rape her, but no no no he's not into necrophilia, not at all, he wouldn't rub his dork on a dead woman's body, never, never, but he would masturbate in a McDonald's for NINE STRAIGHT HOURS.

How is that even possible?

You gotta think that after, oh, I dunno, four minutes? someone woulda said SOMETHIN'. And by the  eight-minute mark, someone would've thrown a Filet 'o Fish at him. Maybe, mayyyyyyyyybe, if he was quietly JACKING HIS DORK RIGHT OFF HIS BODY, with some sort of ball gag in his mouth to muzzle his grunts, he coulda slid under the radar for, oh, I dunno, 11 minutes? But nine hours?! How is that even fun?

In somewhat related/not that related news, my buddy Guitar Jr. recently got wayyyyyyyyy into essential oils, and gave me some sort of organic aphrodisiac potion that's supposed to help your boners. Not that I need help with my boners, I mean, I can still get a bone job, I can, I totally can, I will go to any McDonald's right now and get a full-fledged bone job, but it's just that, you know, when you turn 40 (and yes, ugh, I recently turned 40), your bone jobs aren't quite the bone jobs they once were. Sure, sure, they still bone okay, but they don't quite bone out like they did when you were 19. That being said, I have yet to try the bone job potion because I'm scared I might break my bone. To be continued, I guess.

Amazing that this could be the second creepiest dude at your local McDawgs.


GYPSY ROSE'S SINGING? 
WOOF. 

Back to the Gypsinator. I know. I know. It's ridiculously sad that Gypsy Rose was being treated for cancer without actually having cancer, but her singing performance at that cancer charity benefit was downright shitty. I'm guessing she was trying to sing that shitty because her mother told her to sing that shitty, but that singing was really, really shitty.

But regardless of how shitty she sang, how did she (and Dee Dee) get by all those doctors? That's the scariest part of this whole thing (even scarier than that pic of Gypsy Rose licking a knife, which, you gotta admit, was kinda hot?), that doctors can be so stupid.

My wife (who is real) gets very upset when I make fun of doctors, because her mother, father, brother and stater-in-law are all docs, but a lot of doctors (and people) are just plain ole fucking idiots. How they managed to let Gypsy Rose slip through the cracks--so, so sad. And I understand that Dee Dee was a master manipulator, but still. Ugh.

I couldn't find a picture of Gypsy Rose singing,
so here is a picture of her stepmom's all-white New Balances instead. 


DEE DEE'S STEPMOM? 
AMAZING. 

But maybe the most bonkers storyline that slipped under the radar involved Dee Dee's stepmom. You know, the old ass lady with the all-white New Balances who might've been from Louisiana, but also very well could've been from some former country in the Eastern Bloc. Anyway, how about the fact that Dee Dee tried to kill her by feeding her ROUNDUP?!

What does that even mean?

She sprayed Roundup into her Cream of Wheat?

I mean, I'm all for pulling a prank from time to time. In college, I filled up my friend Noodle's Brita with salt and waited under his bed to watch him drink it, and after he took one sip and almost barfed all over the place I felt so bad that I immediately popped out and apologized. He ended up beating the shit out of me and pulling my pants down in front of pretttttttttyyyyy much every chick in our entire dorm. Lucky for me, I could still pull off a somewhat respectable bone job at the time.

Anyway, pretty good documentary.

I recommend it.






Moving on, The Bachelorette starts this Monday and I do not not not want to watch or blog about it. But many of my readers (three) asked me to, so maybe I will (I won't). I mean, I have written (on just this blog alone) over ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY posts about that stupid sexxxual game show. I just can't anymore. But I might. Anyway, I went to Dollywood last week. Here's a picture of Dolly Parton with Kermit the Frog.


Monday, March 13, 2017

Observations While Eating Pancakes on a Random Tuesday in a South Philly Diner

This is a picture of pancakes because this article
has something to do with pancakes. 


I used to work with this guy named Brad, and he's exactly the type of Brad that you think he'd Brad.

He drank Muscle Milk. And put paste his hair. And one time when we were out to lunch he called a waitress "doll" when he asked her for more oyster crackers. I was mortified. By the time the young lady had brought Brad his crackers, I had crawled under the table, crab-walked out of the restaurant and put in my two-weeks notice back at the office.

You see, there are very few people in this world who can pull off calling someone "doll". One is my Aunt Frayda (who is not my real aunt). Another is Don Draper (who is not a real person). And then there are waitresses in South Philly diners, the type of women who not only smoke a pack of Newports a day, but probably eat them.

This was not my waitress but it might as well have been.

As I stopped into a South Philly diner last week, I was greeted by one of those waitressesDonna, dark-haired woman with even darker mascara who might've served in Vietnam.

"Just the one today, Doll?" Donna asked me.

"Yep," I said as I nodded by head, even though I'm now realizing that saying "yep" and nodding your head are basically doing the same thing.

"Sit anywhere you'd like, Hun."

"Thank you terrifying woman," I said.

And so I did, grabbing one of those big ole booths with the long leather seats. The kind of booths where you need to slide on in, like getting into the front bench seat of a 1963 Buick Skylark, not that I've ever been in a 1963 Buick Skylark, or even know what a Buick Skylark is, but it just seemed like the right analogy here so let's just go with it. 

Immediately after sitting down, another waitress (who was wearing Skechers Shape-ups) came over to me and also asked, "Just the one today, Doll?"

This question somehow stung a bit more than the first time it was asked. Possibly because this new waitress spoke in a much louder tone so everyone in the place could hear her. But then again, who cares, there's nothing wrong with eating alone. Plus, there were only like three other people eating in the restaurant, and two of them were over the age of 90 and possibly dead. Regardless, I nodded and she gave me a menu. It was 86 pages long.

I obviously didn't need a menu. No one who goes to a diner needs a menu. They're all the same, and have everything you'd ever want to eat: omelettes, veal parmesan, raisins. Besides, I had come for pancakes, and planned to get whatever version of the Hungry Man's Special that this diner offered (they offered 12). So I put my menu down and took a look around. Donna was playing pinball. 

Over the speakers, Billy Joel was playing on the radio because every time anyone has ever eaten in a diner Billy Joel has played on the radio. In fact, after the Billy Joel song ended ("Only the Good Die Young"), another Billy Joel song came on ("It's Still Rock n Roll to Me"). I'm not lying. I know that I have a tendency to lie a lot, especially in this blog, and I even lied in the first paragraph about Brad being named Brad. His real name is Josh. I just called him Brad because I didn't want to hurt the real Josh's feelings if he ever read this post. But I know that Josh isn't much of a reader, so I doubt that he'd even read this far down anyway. Either way, Josh is actually a really nice guy, and a good friend, and he probably loves Billy Joel. As does my Aunt Frayda and literally every other Jewish person you will ever meet.

The rest of the diner looked pretty normal. There was a counter. And a bunch of booths. And people who looked like they were going through serious bouts of depression. I felt right at home. 


This is a picture of a diner. 

The pancakes and eggs and sausage and bacon were all pretty ordinary (in that they were fantastic). I gobbled it up quick and drank a cup of coffee and took notes for this post that said things like "whipped butter is bout dat LYFE." But I did see something that I'd never seen before in my 39 years on this earth: a man eating two bowls of soup.

He didn't eat them at the same time, that would be ridiculous. But he still ate two bowls (which is somehow almost as ridiculous). After he finished his first bowl (pea soup, I believe), he simply slid his bowl over to the waitress and said, "Give me another."

Such confidence. 

Such rudeness! 

But such confidence!

Who eats two bowls of soup?! This guy apparently, who proceeded to slurp up his second bowl while yelling at a woman on his cellphone. He kept telling her, "Damn girl you must be pregnant because you don't normally act like this." As of the writing of this article, it is unclear if he or she is still alive. 

As I sat there in awe—at both the fact that a man would eat two bowls of soup AND talk to a pregnant woman that way—I suddenly felt a rumble bumble in my stomach. I took a deep breath, shoved some more pancakes into my fat slut mouth, and tried to ignore it. Then I felt another rumble. And another. Then I prayed to Jesus. I was going to shit my pants.

I looked around for my waitress to get my check, but she was nowhere to be found. I figured maybe she was sitting in the back enjoying a nice warm bowl of raisins. After around 15 seconds, and seven more rumbles, and sweating through my entire shirt, I got up to try and find her. We had a crisis on our hands. And potentially in my pants.

As I walked up to the counter, searching for someone, anyone, good god where are these people, and who the hell eats pea soup, I was pretty much shuffling around the place like James Brown. Then finally, my beautiful disgusting rough wonderful waitress walked out of the kitchen.

"Oh hey!" I yelled, voice cracking, waving nine dollars in the air. "Is it possible to get my check?"

"Nope, not possible," she said with a sarcastic smile, clearly unaware that at any moment I might blow the doors off the entire block. 

I fake laughed and threw a wad of bills at her. No idea how much I threw. Could've been $20. Could've been six. I can't even believe I was carrying cash. But I just chucked it as far as I could and duck-waddled to the nearest bathroom. It was occupied, obviously, so I grabbed a fork off a nearby table and smashed it into my shin. Then I thought about using the ladies room. Then I decided to use the ladies room. Then I got scared to use the ladies room and power-walked five city blocks back to my office where I had a full-blown seizure in an elevator before I destroyed the industrial strength plumbing in my building.

Not really sure what the point of this whole story is. 

I think maybe it's that pancakes are delicious—and that you need to seriously reevaluate the type of things you're reading on the internet.

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Songs by Black People that are Way Better than Songs by White People: "Why I Love You" by MAJOR

There's a lot goin' on with that collar. 

If you don't know MAJOR, you better ask somebody. Preferably a black person, because I asked around 12 different white people if they had ever heard of him and none of them had. But then I asked the one black chick I work with, Brenda, if she had heard of MAJOR and she was like, "Fuck yeah, Evan!" and then she was like, "How you know him?" and I was like, "C'mon Brenda, I'm a muthafuckin starboy," and then she gave me a pound and called me her "Black Jew" which is BY FAR the greatest nickname anyone has ever given memuch better than "Mr. Mouthbreather" (given to me by my wife) and "Captain Fuck" (also given to me by my wife).

MAJOR's debut single, "Why I Love You," is some real, grown-up type shit. Nothing like that hashtag millennial JuJu on that beat type shit, or that thirty-something Michael Buble sipping on that rooibus tea type shitI'm talking real, sweet, sensual, I'm gonna put a baby inside your vagina and then help you raise that baby and also show up to his soccer games and clarinet recitals and later go to couples therapy with you and work on being more present and communicating better and LISTENING, truly listening, and taking in what you're saying and not just nodding and smiling but really learning how to accept your answers at face value and not think that you have some sort of hidden agenda type shit.

Listen to the song here.



MAJOR (and yes his name is really written in all caps, in fact it's actually spelled with a period at the end too, like this: "MAJOR." but I left the period out of this post because my readers (all six of them) tend to read at a fourth grade level and I can't imagine they'd be able to follow a post with random periods thrown into the middle of sentences) (in fact I'm guessing that most of them are just skimming at this point or have moved onto boingboing.net).

MAJOR's real name is really Major (his mom wanted him to make an IMPACT, and he is). "Why I Love You" was the first single off his debut album, and it went to #12 on Billboard's R&B charts. He's also got another banger, "Keep On", and recently sang at the Soul Train Music Awards and yes the Soul Train Music Awards are still a thing. Patti LaBelle also covered the song at a recent concert of hers and yes Patti LaBelle is still a thing. Major sounds a little like John Legj and a little like Stevie Wonder and absolutely nothing like Patti LaBelle who is very old (and lovely!).

Omg close the drapes it's so goddamn sunny are you serious with that?

If I have one critique of the songand it's not even the song really, it's the videoit's the way it starts: with MAJOR waking up some chick from a deep slumber by pushing her hair out of her face. I once tried to wake up my wife to tell her that we were an hour and a half late for a flight and that I knew she was cheating on me because there was another man sleeping next to her and she spit her mouthguard in my face (even though that she finds it very soothing and comforting to wear). Plus, the all-marble bathroom in this video is wayyyyyyyyyy bigger than any normal person's bathroom, and MAJOR only has 4,061 Twitter followers so I can't imagine he's really living dat marble bathroom lyfe. Still, dope ass song. Bomb ass video. And I highly recommend getting a mouthguard to sleep with if you grind your teeth like my very real and not made-up wife.

All right, you've heard enough from me.

Let's hear from some real black people now, courtesy of the always absolutely fucking incredible YouTube comments sectsh:




Good point, lee yoojin.




Pretty sure Misty Cotton is the first person to throw an "ing" at the end of JK.




Oookkaaaayyyyy, Nesha.

And RIP to Nesha's boyf!

Sad!

--------------------------------------

If you're interested in learning about another song by a black person that's way better than any song by a white person, check out my post about Ciara's "Ride" here. Or don't. I don't give a shit. I really, really don't give a shit.