Because of Me and Grey Goose, Someone Was Able to Tell This Story
"Oh my God, you're not going to believe what happened last night. So we're getting into a cab and all of a sudden this big, tattooed guy with a wolf shirt on barges into the front seat and demands to be taken home. I like totally said "get out" but then he said he would pay for our ride; which was cool until he opened the window and threw up for the next 23 blocks. Who does that?"
I do that. I also learned a lesson: Free bottle service is a bad, bad idea. I'm no mixologist, and maybe I have too heavy of a pouring hand to be trusted to make my own drinks. I'm debating if I should just stick to beer or forget drinking altogether. It was that bad of a night. Sorry taxi chicks.
I can't resist pop economics books, they are one of my guilty pleasures. While Suze's stuff is pretty solid and grounded, this turkey Robert Kiyosaki and his Rich Dad empire tells you that saving and education mean fuck all--great for selling books to the broke and undereducated, but not much else.
Kiyosaki is a 'get rich by doing what I did' information pimp much like Carlton Sheets and my hero Tom Vu before him.
The Cliff's Note version of RDPD: Pay yourself first, you home is a liability-not an asset, saving is for losers, education isn't that important, buy real estate, be a landlord and then sell, but most importantly, buy Mr. Kiyosaki's ever expanding product line and you too can be rich. He is the author of over 20 books, has multiple DVD's and an online community where you can pay for even more info. Seems to me like his products made him rich more so than the lessons his 'Rich Dad' taught him.
Assuming you followed RK's advice over the last few years, I'd venture to bet that his mantra of real estate being the ultimate investment might have meant a Deliverance style fucking, sans lube to your bottom line with this awesome real estate market. Some jackasses snatched up those pre construction luxe condos in Vegas and Florida that are selling for pennies on the dollar after the downturn and over saturation and are now Broke Dad's.
Being rich to me isn't being some jerk's landlord, getting hassled about broken pipes and clogged toilets in the middle of the night. That's a fucking annoyance and not part of what I consider rich. Getting porcelain choppers and selling snake oil doesn't do it for me either, I like to be able to look in the mirror and think I'm not scamming the uninformed.
I wouldn't trade my college years for chasing the same foreclosure nickel that every swing dick in town is after. You don't get to bone nearly as many hot 20 year olds at deadbeat property auctions as you do on a college campus. One day you'll wake up and never be able to sleep with a 21 year old again, through no choice of your own.
Being rich to me is being able to do what you want in life without sweating it. Trip to Japan? Let's do it, a meal at your favorite restaurant without looking at the bill, never saying 'I have to stay in because I only have ______ for the week'. That shit is all attainable if you live within your means, save some dough and don't have kids. Common sense like that doesn't sell many books though.
Every Chick Loves to Dance, 'Cept for Private Dancers
Chicks dig dancing, Like really dig dancing--it's right up there with getting attention from dudes, being the prettiest girl in a room, cocaine and shoes. There is a very simple equation that proves this assertion: Girl + Music + Drink = Dancing. Chicks even like guys who dance more than guys who don't until they figure out that dancing guys like other dancing guys. Anyway, you get it: every girl loves to cut a rug.
Well...not every girl. It seems that the only women morally opposed to dancing are the ones that are actually paid to dance. Try to go to a bachelor party and have the 'dancers' that come to your place actually dance. They have no moral objection to dealing with a room full of dudes penis', but ask them to dance and they become shrinking violets.
Not every guy is a pay for sex type, but no one is really opposed to a naked chick dancing. This just happened at my friend's bachelor party. We were rocking out to some Foghat from the cheapest Sounds of the 70's CD Walgreen's had to offer, and the chicks stood there like statues, wanting nothing to do with what they were hired to do.
That wasn't even the first time I've been stung like this. I've been party to 3 separate sets of exotic dancers refusing to dance. WTF, it's like being a mail carrier and refusing to deliver letters but willing to give a beej or a handy instead. Be advised.
Seems like it happens every holiday season: a family warmly invites man's best friend into their home to share in the spirit of the season and then some Scrooge wants to give them back to the pound and tell the kids that they ran away. My wife is that Scrooge.
Just the day after Jesus' birthday was Tough Tim's bachelor party in Atlantic City. A good time was had by all except for my white t-shirt which made it look as if I got a lapdance from Aunt Flo or was a shy German porn star due to the fact that I spilled Disco Fry gravy all over myself. This tragic event spawned true love.
As my friends ridiculed me with chants of 'Homeless man, homeless man' down the boardwalk, I walked into a cheapo gift shop to replace my shirt and fell in love with my 3 little canine darlings. The most beautiful shirt God or a Laotian in a sweatshop was right in front of me and only ninety nine cents. I was so excited that I ran onto the boardwalk and changed my shirt, right motherfucking there...the cat calls were ear shattering. For the first time in my life I was truly happy; thanks to those 3 little doggies with the nonsensical message: "Beach Bums, Atlantic City."
I wore my special shirt to a New Year's Eve party and was the belle of the ball. Every chick wanted me, every guy wanted to be me. It was all to much for the missus. She hates the site of the dog shirt so much that she refuses to perform her wifely duties if I'm rocking it and looking cool. So I have to give it away. I gave 2 bags to Goodwill today, but I couldn't fathom seeing a real bum wearing the Beach Bums. This shirt needs a good, loving home with an owner and sig other that will truly understand it.
I like comedy. I really do. I'll watch any hacky standup do their thing on television; I'll even read books written by comedians (Norton, Leary, Lange). There is one truth in comedy and that is: black comedians are funnier. They're funnier because they are allowed to do race jokes and let's face it: race jokes are fucking hilarious. I know that the whole 'white people is craaaaazzzzzy' bit can become one-notish, but I'll still laugh at a black comic doing an impression of a black comic doing the Average White Chump voice.
I used to laugh at AWC's getting taken to task for being responsible, having good credit, paying bills, raking leaves, saving money, buying stock, trusting the police, having garage sales, swimming in the ocean, cavorting with dangerous animals, skiing and whatever else black people think white people do. I laughed until I realized I was one of them.
I, like millions of other Americans did the 'responsible' thing and took my financial advice from so called reputable sources like: my broker, fund managers, CNBC, Jim Cramer, The Wall Street Journal, ragingbull.com and any swinging dick with a stock tip. Because of this I'm fucked. Half of my money just up and vanished this year like Amelia Fucking Earhardt. I should have listened to Kat Williams instead.
Instead of stocks and mutual funds I should have bought a diamond encrusted chalice with my name on it or a fucking silly looking grill or the biggest rim ever made...even better a necklace with a big rim on it, because however tacky, that garbage will still have some value to someone. I could pawn it or sell it to a broke pimp which is more than I can say for my investments. Even if I invested half of my money in bottles of Moet champagne, I would have had fun watching it dwindle instead of sippin Mylanta and watching the ticker.
Next time you're in your sensible car, wearing your Dockers, on your way to a home you can afford, with your 401k and Roth IRA, don't snicker at the guy in the Escalade with the spinners and the obnoxious bass: he's got it figured out, you and I are the suckers.
I was talking with some friends about newly formed relationships and how to bullet proof them. To put it mildly, my friends have zero faith in female virtue. We discussed how the man must cheat first to ensure that her big emotional reveal won't sting that much when it inevitably happens down the line. So here's what I came up with:
Women want 3 things in a relationship:
1- They want your attention. They want you to make them feel sexy 2- They want security. Income is a good thing. 3- They want badassery. Badassery can range from dating someone with a different religious background or skin color to felony convictions and bodies under the floor boards; it just depends on an acceptable level of 'danger' for the broad in question.
The first 2 things are obvious and you should have them covered. It's time to focus on making her feel like a bad girl in a safe way. At some point early in the relationship you must have the three drink lesbian conversation. Make her feel comfy and dirty at the same time (booze helps) and then play the hypothetical (but not really) game of "would ya do her?" This gives you a feel for the type of chick she's into, which is important for some reason to women; guess it's that whole 'standards' thing.
Now that you have the info, get some champagne, Viagra and make it happen. Be like Indiana Jones and give her some adventure. If she's not down with the plan, kick that goodie gumdrop out of your life. If she's boring from the jump, it can only get worse.
For the life of me I can't put a year to the show. One would assume that the big hair and cheeseball makeup of the strippers automatically equals sometime in the 80's; but I'm not so sure. Some of the girls shave their hoohaa and have nipple piercings (but no tattoos) which would make them way ahead of the times in the 80's, so I lean towards early 90's, (not the mid 90's where every girl got a tramp stamp or now when strippers have more ink than bikers) but I'm still not convinced.
The early 90's might as well have been the 80's regardless of what VH1 and it's revisionist historical agenda will have you believe. I started high school in 1990 and people were rocking out to glam cock metal and didn't care who knew about their love of Trickster, Extreme and Firehouse. Straight people still thought they could get AIDS from other straight non IV drug users back then; could it have been more 80's?
People get all testy when I start spouting off about how everyone is a secret scumbag that can be corrupted into cheating (yep, you too.) They think I'm accusing them of doing something or shitting on their morals, but I'm just being an Honest Abe. I know people who are 'that guy': dudes who are banging other guy's fiancees and wives with alarming frequency. For every girls night out, some broad meets a stranger, hooks up, gets shellacked, then calls her husband up with a 'good night honey. I love you' before cleaning up.
Men will cheat when their girl becomes a sweatpants (regular Rocky 2 style sweats, not even a flattering in the ass tracksuit) bore and women will cheat because they need constant attention. There is a simple solution to maintaining a good relationship: treat your woman like she's the hottest piece in the world and really believe it. If you can't or won't, your relationship sucks and one of you could and should do better.
Even in the strongest of relationships, nostalgia and the ex factor can lead to some catting around. People are inclined to make justifications that it won't increase their partner number or that old gag about ex sex is like riding a bike; but the truth of the matter is that nearly everyone is still carrying a strong flame for someone they practiced making babies with in the past.
Once again men and women have completely different takes on the matter. Guys get all sorts of flack for supposedly thinking with their dicks, but it's always 'the one that got away' that they long for. Men are super sentimental about their favorite ex. Over the course of time she has transformed from a chick you broke up with to the most perfect, virtuous, flawless goddess that ever lived. I can't believe how many dudes have created this fantasy woman in their mind, based loosely on a failed relationship. They amplify whatever good their was and completely forget about the negatives. That's the bitch he'll throw it all away for.
Women and logic don't mix, ever. The person from their past that they want to fill 'em up is the wrongest motherfucker they ever dealt with. The dude who treated them like shit, cheated on them, banged their friends and or family members is the one they want. Chicks love scandalous shit and being with this jackass again turns them on something fierce. Unlike men, they aren't trying to throw their current relationship away for an unstable misfit, they'll just bang him and keep it their little secret.
Impolite Society's Official Presidential Endorsement
The criteria was pretty simple: what'cha gonna do for me? And only one candidate stepped up; his name: Barack Hussein Obama. Forget about distractions like POW camps, crazy reverends, experience, American troops in harms way, illegal immigration, shit for an economy, social security collapsing, hockey mom's that could get it after half a bottle of Jack, Biden's choppers, 'bomb bomb bomb bomb bomb Iran', abortion and all that other nonsense...the BHO is going to hand me $1200 of that Obama money and McCain isn't.
Here's how it works: People like you are the tax payers who pay my pension (thank you) and pay for all that government bullshit too. Under the Obama plan everyone will get a $1200 'tax rebate' check from Uncle Sam if they pay taxes like you people and even if they don't like me, bums, the unemployed, brokesters who don't make enough to be taxed on and the like. This is beautiful: a tax rebate for a non tax payer. I smell what Barack is cookin' and that's some change I can believe in.
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Those Bob Barker loving fucko's at the Game Show Network stopped airing Love Connection reruns, right in the middle of the 1986 season. I can't live without Whollery's gaudy Rolex, blue eyeshadow, guys with non-ironic mustaches and people who listed their occupation as 'clerk.' The GSN website even put Love Connection on the pay no mind list:
Your search found the following documents:
GSN Television:
Love Connection
If you did not find what you were looking for:
* Make sure all words are spelled correctly. * Try different keywords. * Try more general keywords. * Use the Site Map to find what you need.
Those GSN network execs really took a sleeping pill and a laxative at the same time with this decision.
When I was a kid my parents insisted on eating dinner at 5PM while all the other kids would eat like normal Americans at 6. This would drive me crazy. I'd feel like I was missing all kinds of good shit, but in reality it was just another hour of stickball or vandalism. The notion of 'missing out' on something is used to coerce people into doing shit they wouldn't otherwise do, and I'm tired of hearing about it.
I had no intention of going to my senior prom, but the 'you'll regret it later' brigade got to me and I rented a tux, went in on a limo with Blackford and Coughlin, brought the best looking date (hands down) and had one of the worst nights of my life. Instead of playing at the Ft. Hamilton battle of the bands with Indecision, Chokehold (Queens) and a host of other notables, I was pretending to be rich whilst breaking up with a chick (the really hot one), eating rubber chicken, not dancing and paying over a grand for the displeasure.
I got married really young and everyone warned me about all the great things I would be missing out on. I really regret missing out on that desperate loneliness, trolling bars for any port in the storm and the painful realization that no one cares about me. Great stuff.
Fuck graduation ceremonies, Spring Break, New Years Eve, $80k weddings and especially having kids. I'm really OK with missing out on spending all my time and money on a kid that'll put me in a home one day, looking at me as nothing more than a breath away from their inheritance. You can keep that shit. We'll continue to live like the gays; not the get married and adopt a black kid domesticated gays of today, but the ones who travel the world, had a great time and disposable income.
The Customer Service Kid: A Guide To Getting Shit Done
If all customer service reps were African-American women and all customers were me, the world would be a great place. If you need assistance and get some Indian calling himself 'Reginald', a white guy or a perky white girl on the phone, hang up and try again until you get a Sista on the line. Those other Jabroni's are a bunch of by the book stiffs who will waste time transferring you all over the world and are afraid to make a decision without consulting with their manager. Fuck that.
I call up and act like a gentleman with a problem in need of sympathy and action. For instance: I forgot to pay my cable bill for 4 months and my service just went out. I'll call up talking about having people over and the embarrassment that I'll be subjected to if I'm not showing the DeLaHoya fight as promised. The nice lady on the other end allows me to pay my bill and get the PPV while every other person working there would treat me like a culprit and not return my service for days, and forget about Pay Per View privileges.
There are certain phone numbers that 311 won't give you, unless you come at them the right way. They will not give you the number to the finance department (where you pay overdue tickets) if you tell them some car story; But if you start talking about being 3 months behind on your mortgage and finding out your name was on a list of people owed tax rebates, it just might get you the number.
I'm not just a star on the phone, I'm better face to face. You hang around the DMV like a fart in a phone booth, while I'm out of there in 5 minutes. I go to the one in Coney Island and upon arriving you will witness a Russian person and a clerk engaged in a heated, language-barriered screaming match....That's where I step in like Prince Charming. "Hey, just let the lady do her job. She doesn't need you screaming at her like this" etc. Now that the sitch is cooled down, she doesn't even check my number and I'm out like a champ.
Spread hummus on your hot dog bun to start Use a Morningstar dog; all others are inferior and for savages Boil, grill, pan fry, smack it up, flip it rub it down, whatever--cook it Dice some cilantro and raw Spanish onion. Mix and sprinkle generously over dog Top with Wasabi Mustard.
There are only a handful of things that I couldn't live without: coffee, food, water, xanax and above all: air conditioning. I dread the summer sun like Nosferatu. I hate being sweaty and get paranoid about smelling although I shower 2-3 times a day from June-September. So, I'm all about the AC....you get it.
Ever since Rich White Fucker raised the price of gas to near European levels, cabbies around NYC have been skimping on the AC in order to get a few more miles out of their tank before they get pump-raped again. I just can't take it anymore. I feel for you dude, but you've been roasting and ripening in a yellow sweatbox for a 12 hour shift and when I get in the back seat it feels and smells like someone locked me in a supermarket dumpster on a 100 degree day. I know some of that hot funk is going to get on me and my clothes and when I'm around friends I'm going to smell like cabbie pit and ass--and I can't live like this. See you in September.
So, I was in the library with all the bums and old people looking for something to read. The only problem was: i wasn't looking for a diet/exercise book and that's all they seem to have on the shelves these days. I could have picked one up and used it as an inspiration to drop a few pounds, but that would make for a crap blog. Instead, I figured that I'd outline a fat plan- the opposite of all this diet and exercise bunk. I went from fit to fat in 2 years and now you can too, if you follow my plan.
1- Quit Smoking: This is the most important thing a regular person wanting to become fat can do...more important than eating itself. If you are a non smoker I suggest you develop a 2 pack a day addiction, quit and get with my program. You'll be so pleased with yourself for kicking the habit that you'll feel entitled to treats, and since the average quitter gains 15-20lbs it's no big deal--think of your clean lungs while you're gorging yourself. After a few smoke free weeks, your sense of taste comes back with a vengeance and you'll enjoy the taste of food like never before.
2-Get Down With Fatty Meat: I've had an on again/off again relationship with vegetarianism for years and didn't become beefy without the beef. Quit being a malnourished hippy and enjoy things like sausage, lamb and pork. Grilled chicken sucks compared to a Philly cheese steak. You'll never want a bean burrito again after some proper carne asada
3- Liquid Calories: Any nutritionist worth their degree will tell dieters to eat, rather than drink their calories....well fuck that. Throw back a six pack a night to make certain that you will never have a six pack of your own.
4- Get Injured: Walk out into traffic or some shit and fuck your leg up bad enough that it makes physical activity nearly impossible for at least 6 months. If you require surgery, find your local butcher and get him to do it. Nothing put on the pounds like sitting on your ass and fucking around with crutches.
These 4 steps worked for me and they can for you too.
Every time I turn my television some broad is talking about eating some Bifidus Regularis Probiotic jive yogurt in order to take a better dump. We have Activia, DanActive, Yogourmet, Proviact and Yoplait's Yoptimal all competing for your hard earned constipated yogurt consuming dollars.
When did going number 2 become such a problem that eating bacterially fermented milk daily for 6 weeks became a reasonable solution? Couldn't a little fiber do the trick and spare us all from yet another dingbat droning on about her bowel issues.
2 hrs of sleep and off to Newark Liberty. "Drillbit Taylor" on the micro screen means that I get to finish reading 'American Vertigo'-- which is great news. In a world of bullshit job titles Bernard-Henri Levy is a good 'ol Philisophe and I dig what he does. Do you know what 118 degrees feels like? Serious shit, like a hairdryer on high right in your face. The shade isn't much better, it's like a hairdryer on medium.
Toby Keith has a place called "I Love This Bar and Grill" that serves fried bologna sandwiches, but it never happens. Vegas is Douche City, USA. The official uniform is head to toe Ed Hardy, a hat on sideways and cherub locks sticking out looking like Nick Hogan impersonators or the classier Affliction Guido fauxhawk look. This makes me ill. People pretending to be rich makes me even iller. Seems like every successful club/restaurant has a satellite in Vegas with assholes stepping over themselves to give the fat doorman a c-note for the opportunity to buy a $400 bottle of Grey Goose and mix their own drinks...fuck that.
My blackjack karma is good, but my hotel room sucks. The AC unit is weak as fuck and the beds have down comforters which means a feather in my throat and cartoon like snoring. Wolfgang Puck's MGM joint is the best in Vegas--Veg friendly too. Wifey's friend is a trooper: partying in Vegas one day after being diagnosed with a Guatemalan stomach parasite; fucking hardcore. I saw Mike Tyson in person and he's like 300lbs and looks nothing like my childhood idol.
I'm staying downtown in some grind joint next time. Those are my people, I don't need Michelin stars and South beach nightclubs. I want lounge singers, cowboy hats, fat people at the pool, sequins, 100 ounce margaritas, $5 table minimums, pregnant strippers, ill fitting suits, old cocktail waitresses, free shows that are worth every penny, karaoke singing and shady characters. That's my Vegas. I'll leave the strip for the rubes. 2 weeks after Amsterdam and Vegas ain't shit.
In every park and on every street in every town lurks the most no game having motherfucker with a gimmick in the world: The Doggie Douche. The DD is slightly worse than that caveman conversationalist known as 'dancing guy' in the world of picking up chicks. With his canine wingman in tow, the douche hits the streets hoping that some dopey broad will start cooing over his prop pet so he can be all Jack London and start in with the dog stories. Good 'ol Double D misinterprets chicks smiling because of his dog as interest in him and is quicker on the draw than Wild Bill to strike up a conversation about pedigrees, rescues or some other boring shit.
The real problem is this shit works sometimes. Granted, it works on the kind of women that would respond to a dude hollering out of a car window; but it still works for these schmucks. They should take the gimmickry one step further and borrow a baby from an unfit mother and play sensitive single dad instead of ever developing a personality.
Imagine getting a gigantic package in the mail, opening it with great anticipation and then the coming to the shocking realization that it's a male nude drawing with a farmer's tan. While you're imagining that, I lived it and so might one of you.
The Ass Art Back Story: We were in San Diego attempting to lessen the torture that is flying to Australia, drinking in a bar/local art dealership and mocking the nude surfer girl with tan lines piece. We found it so ridicufunny that we had our photo taken with it. Fast forward a year. Our doorman has us sign for the largest package (besides mine) of all time, from the ex boyfriend of my wife's friend in SD.
After the half hour it took to unwrap we stared suspiciously at this rather bizarre work of art. Why would he send us a painting of a man's ass? Was it a self portrait? ( He was in pretty good shape) What about us screams 'man ass'? We consulted with notable art critics such as the pot delivery guy, Vic Christopher and a Salvadoran cleaning lady and they too were baffled.
My girl was hesitant to bring this matter up with her friend, but had to get to the bottom of this. Her friend was as shocked as we were. She got the scoop and revealed that it was a clever take on the original tan line portrait that we adored, only we were to focused on the ass to notice the farmer's tan.
Our goal is to send this painting around the country to unsuspecting friends that will be as shocked as we were by it's arrival, with the hope that they too will send it to a friend and pay it forward.
The late 80's/early 90's were a rough time for the good old USA. The streets were filled with homeless people, teen girls were running away and getting pregnant at an alarming rate, there were more than 2000 murders a year in NYC alone and according to noted sociologist Evan Seinfeld "The majority of people are out to smoke crack."
A change had to be made. While most people bend over backwards crediting Giuliani, Bratton and an economic upturn; I stand firm with my belief that the little chip company with a message brought that change.
My corner deli offers no less than 17 different penis enhancement products, including the infamous Weekend Prince and Weekend King which have a special spot reserved behind the counter and not on the wall of chemically enhanced boners (pictured above.) There must be a huge market for such things because their selection has quadrupled in recent weeks. I have only witnessed 2 drunken art students from SVA purchase 'All Night Long" and a Puerto Rican couple slide 'Max Size' on the sly to the counter along with their Dutch and Pringles. Maybe there is a mad rush for the stuff late at night when there are no other customers to snicker and judge.
I'm pretty socially inept when it comes to certain situations, particularly when it comes to friends and their dates/spouses/goomada's. I have this knack for unintentionally mixing people up with a previous date or current spouse and making it uncomfortable and potentially volatile for all involved. Truth be told: most of you choose unremarkable people to interlock genitals with; people so devoid of personality and distinctive appearance that I wouldn't recognize them on America's Most Wanted. If you're fucking a friend of mine and reading this, don't get offended if I know your name and talk to you, I'm not talking about you.
Thanks to Myspace, this problem has lessened greatly. I can just go to a friend's page, check their top friends, look for cutesy messages and figure out who the new broad is, and more importantly, who she isn't. It's also a fantastic resource to find out who your ex's are banging and get a giant boost in self confidence. I'll know not to ask about what's-her-name if she got the boot from your top friends. Best of all: for my own personal satisfaction I can tell who's down with O.P.P, based on comments from opposite sex friends, who like Santa Claus are figments of childish imaginations.
Yesterday I had one of those "I wish I brought my fucking camera" moments. I was walking home on Broadway, just a block away from the World Trade Center site and there's a poster outside the subway steps of a preserved, beef jerky looking Chinese corpse advertising the Bodies exhibit. Maybe I'm a sensitive little tulip or whatnot, but advertising a dead body show a block away from a place that was full of the dead bodies of people I and most of you knew was unsettling to me.
Actually, the whole Bodies thing is unsettling to me. I went to the seaport exhibit opening night (my wife is important and I dig open bar events) and I found it to be completely revolting. It felt like attending an execution or a dog fight or spitting on the upside down body of Mussolini. It had the artistic value of pornography and was as educational as a TRUTH commercial: smoking is bad was all I got from it.
"CHICAGO (CBS) ? R. Kelly has been acquitted of child pornography charges that he appeared on a videotape having sex with a girl as young as 13 [and peeing on her].
The jury read the verdict shortly after 2 p.m. They cleared the R&B superstar of all 14 counts.
Kelly's Attorney Ed Genson said the defense team is "ecstatic." Kelly held his attorneys hands as the 14 not-guilty verdicts were read and tears rolled down his face.
Defense attorney Sam Adam Junior says all he heard from Kelly during that time was "Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus."
Minutes later, surrounded by bodyguards, Kelly left the courthouse without comment, with dozens of fans screaming and cheering as he climbed into a waiting SUV.
I guess Kelly has a personal relationship with the same Jesus who thinks it's alright for priests to molest kids. Disgrazia!
I wrote the following blog last October 2007 and I'm sorry that I gave you women as much credit as I initially did. Thanks a bunch for this candidate clusterfuck. It's your fault that we have to choose between Hussein and the Crazy Old Guy. Nice one dingbats!
Ladies, I beg of you, please put aside your socially conditioned cattiness towards other women and your impulse to screw over your fellow chick to make a guy happy next November. When you are in that voting booth, don't think of Hillary as a rival; think of her as the best of a bad lot and your next president.
Even if you are the most busted woman in the world, don't follow your instincts and hate on the woman. Trust me, your husband/boyfriend/fry cook at Denny's doesn't want to fuck Sen. Clinton even if she is prettier, richer and more powerful than you. You aren't in competition with her, some scumbag Republican is. I know it's hard, but say it to yourself 10 times and you might be able to think rationally.
There are more women than men in America, there are more registered women voters...it is up to you to not fuck this one up. If by chance the Republican propaganda machine scares you into thinking they are the ones that can protect your precious little babies and one of them slithers into the White House, the constitution should be altered to say fuck the 19th amendment and repeal women's suffrage.
I was walking home from Duke's and a thought popped into my head: 'It's 2008...how can people still be actively racist?' (I know, pretty original) and then I became distracted by what may have been the worst ass ever on a semi good looking girl. It was as if she took a coffee table book and stuffed it down the back of her pants before leaving her apartment. It's 2008....how can chicks still rock the flatty long ass?
I can hardly blame the ladies when there is a multi level conspiracy in place to make that ass disappear. It begins with fashion designers AKA The Ghey, who create clothing for girls who are built like little boys to be modeled by 15 year old malnourished Estonians and purchased by desperately single city gals who attempt to trade in their femininity via vomit and cocaine to mimic the Estonian's gay pleasing look.
Salt is then rubbed into the wound by Successful Douchebag; the object of Desperate Single Girl's affection. Successful Douchebag has one criteria for a woman: will his friends, family and colleagues approve of her? In his attempt to please all he fights against thousands of years of biology and chooses: skinny, sexless and blonde as his mate, figuring that will please, or at least be inoffensive to those around him.
Dudes who have to come home to a no hip drip every night are the reason why high priced escorts are in business. Banging a no-ass is about as fun as a sandpaper handjob. No man really wants that, they just don't want to be made fun of by their J. Crew slack wearing peers for spending time with an actual woman.
The real shame in the matter is that the chicks with the most feminine bodies have to choose from guys at the bottom of the social barrel as potential dates; making a complete mockery of the evolutionary process. The solution will come when women wake up one day and say 'fuck a magazine', eat some beans and rice and start doing heavy squats and lunges. Men will gladly follow
Red's: For Those Who Just Can't Live Without an Archie Bunker's Grandson Doll
I'm forever ranting against the 'good old days' that never really existed. I make it a point to be as anti-sentimental as possible, but a link to bigreds.com changed all that for the half hour I spent scrolling down a virtual memory lane. Seemingly everything from childhood looks like shit through adult eyes. The great big places you remember turn out to be depressingly small, the places where you spent time have been replaced by Walgreens and Shitmarts, you can't even stomach 5 minutes of the movies you revered the most--it's the natural progression of things. It all rings true except for Red's.
Red's is a dusty warehouse store near Kings Plaza in Brooklyn, containing everything from above ground pools and supplies, patio furniture, sheds and the most random selection of old and shitty (AKA collectable) toys ever assembled. For example check out this awesome Welcome Back Kotter Sweathogs Rock Guitar:
The real attraction was the guy who ran the place: Big Red. To put it kindly, Red was a gruff and impatient man who had no time for imbeciles. In child of the 1980's math: Messed up store + combustible grouchy owner= Hours of entertainment. Myself and my friend Vince would constantly try to get a rise out of the big man by asking about the latest Nintendo games like The Legend of Zelda, knowing full well that he wouldn't have it and would try to sell us a King Kong Bundy figure, then throw us out when we burst out laughing. We'd always ask him "Hey Red, what's on sale today?" to which he'd roboticly shout "everything is on sale at Red's" before realizing we were breaking balls and throw us out. We'd do anything in his store to fire him up: shoot hoops, throw footballs around and harass our friend Spiro who worked there.
It makes me really happy to see that Red's is going stronger than ever thanks to the internet, nostalgia and the fact that one man's trash is another man's treasure.
Red in 1946:
The Red We Knew:
THE LEGEND OF BIG RED
The saga is related from generation to generation. It is said BigRed started his collection when he was 6 years old, that was 1927.
Scouring bookstores and toystores from one side of town to the other, BigRed accumulated quite a collection for a young boy.
His father, a tailor, had a small shop on a substreet level. The shop was 10 feet by 8 feet. BigReds collection grew, using the dressing room from his fathers tailor shop to store his collection. Soon, his father had to give up the tailor business, the collection took up the whole shop.
It is said BigRed once had 100 copies of Superman #1, and sold them in the early 50's.
Legend has it that BigRed once had 50 copies of Playboy #1 and sold them in 1954.
BigRed's latest! The newest folklore is BigRed had 50 Beanie Babies Humphrey Camels and sold them for $4.99.
Well. BigRed did hold on to a few pieces of his collection and this site is dedicated to BigReds collection, which is now offering for sale exclusively on the internet for the first time ever.
Remember, the quantities are limited so choose wisely.
"June 9 (Bloomberg) -- More than one in four New Yorkers were infected with genital herpes, a sexually transmitted disease that can cause sores and increase the spread of HIV, as of 2004, according to the city's first measurement of the virus.
About 26 percent of New Yorkers carried the virus compared with the national average of 19 percent, the New York City Health Department said today in a statement. The rate was higher among women than men -- 36 percent versus 19 percent."
For all those people who long for the dirty old days of NYC: the seedy Times Square, the junkie town of Alphabet City, the days when out of state Whitey wouldn't be frolicking around Harlem, Bushwick and Bed-Stuy unless they were suicidal...you can bring some of the bad old days back by having sex with 3 local women; odds are you'll end up a spotted dick with a NY story.
My girl is on the same wavelength as I am. She's just like me, except: refined, successful, attractive and well liked. Anyway, we're walking down the street with her brother Tom and she spots a funny looking rock n' roller from earlier in the day. As everyone knows, nothing is funnier than an 'I don't give a fuck' metalhead not giving a fuck in public. Imagine if you will, a 6'5", 40 year old man wearing the "I'm a Virgin" shirt from above, tight white pants tucked into cowboy boots, rocking Jani Lane hair and a Lemmy 'stache, aggressively making out with a chick whilst sitting/getting Rogered by a sidewalk pole....The mere sight of such a human debacle might lead you to do as she did and take a reluctant Kamikaze dive off of the curb and sprain your little ankle too.
Did you ever wonder what happened to the really stupid people you went to high school with? What became of those guys who gave education the middle finger and dropped out of school? How did the mouth breathers turn out? Where are they now?
It doesn't take a Gary Spivey to figure this one out. A third of them fell by the wayside: drugs, drinking, crime, insanity, multiple bastard kids, suicide, motorcycle accidents and homelessness have taken them out of the picture. Another third went straight and got themselves a blue collar or white welfare (civil service) job. They put a couple of kids up in a chick that was pretty before the parasites popped out and talk about back yards, the price of gas, the fall of the American empire and the Yankees.
The other third are the most interesting, in the same way hemorrhoids are interesting. They weren't fucked up enough to totally drop out or willing to tell chicks at the bar that they actually work for a living so they went and became shit salesman. A real salesman is a facilitator; he brings a consumer and a product they actually want together. A shit salesman has a product that no one wants. He has to find a sucker to pay his commission. In short, he's the kind of creep we all can't stand.
Shit salesmen are the guys who tell everyone that they work on Wall St., but are nothing more than monkey tele-marketers pumping a piece of crap stock and hoping to swindle a pensioner out of their life savings. They are the fuckers who sell life insurance annuities at old age homes, lemons at the pre owned car lot. They reek of cologne and desperation, wear cheap dress clothes and are forever looking for the next big thing.
These dickbags jumped on the runaway real estate train a decade ago, but instead of speculating on pre-construction, flipping properties and investing in real estate sector stocks (things that would require money), they gravitated towards selling crap mortgages. We all know about the predatory lending crisis brought upon by greedy banks, ig'nant borrowers and shit salesmen, but not many people know about the Hard Money Loan racket.
A hard money loan is a specific type of asset-based loan financing in which a borrower receives funds secured by the value of a parcel of real estate. Hard money loans are typically issued at much higher interest rates than conventional commercial or residential property loans and are almost never issued by a commercial bank or other deposit institution. Hard money is similar to a bridge loan which usually has similar criteria for lending as well as cost to the borrowers. The primary difference is that a bridge loan often refers to a commercial property or investment property that may be in transition and does not yet qualify for traditional financing, whereas hard money often refers to not only an asset-based loan with a high interest rate, but possibly a distressed financial situation, such as arrears on the existing mortgage, or where bankruptcy and foreclosure proceedings are occurring.
Many hard money mortgages are made by private investors, generally in their local areas. Usually the credit score of the borrower is not important, as the loan is secured by the value of the collateral property. Typically, the maximum loan to value ratio is 65-70%. That is, if the property is worth $100,000, the lender would advance $65,000-70,000 against it. This low LTV provides added security for the lender, in case the borrower does not pay and they have to foreclose on the property.
That handsome fella above is Leonard "Pitbull" Rosen of PitbullMortgageSchool.com, a man who achieved some degree of success and now does the whole "Rich Dad"/Carlton Sheets..."Wanna make a million bucks? Buy my book, take my course" shit. The only difference is he calls his school something so completely ridiculous it makes Trump University and the Jimmy Hoffa School of Union Leadership look legit. While this may be good business for Rosen, ich don't think this is the best avenue for the shit salesmen who see a get-rich-quick scheme and the public at large. Like the rest of the top 10 universities as per the Princeton Review PBMS advertises on the asses of UFC fighters:
[Just imagine that instead of the classy "Condom Depot" add it said "Pitbull Mortgage School" on his ass. I'm far to impatient to Google image guys asses looking for a logo.]
Young Americans With Beards=The Terrorists Have Won
Rocking a beard is the facial hair equivalent of wearing stained sweatpants that reek of Swiss cheese everywhere you go. Unless you are some kind of Van Gogh, your greasy, hairy face is telling the world: "I have officially given up." This city is crawling with the tight jean Mujahadeen and the women who love them despite the Brillo kisses. Whenever I see a beard bro with a girl, part of me dies--The part that showers and brushes my teeth.
Maybe I'm jealous of the Hasid faces and their ability to display the effects of puberty proudly. I am unable to grow a full beard, which turns me into a hater of beards and hearty 'staches. But, even if I could, doesn't mean I should. You only get to be young once, why hide under a mask of hair?
I liked things better when beards were the sole domain of mountain men, religious fanatics, Kenny Rogers and Santa Claus. I can't even listen to a band if I know they are bearded. Unless you have a weak looking chin....shave that shit!
My fellow snot nosed, runny eyed pollen allerics, allow me to inform you what that dastardly super villain Mike Bloomberg is up to now. That evil SOB is trying to get well intentioned NY'ers to plant a million new trees in the city in order to make our lives a living hell-- forcing us to live a bubble boy, air conditioned existence; keeping the fresh air for his fancy, rich, Claritin peddling friends.
"What is MillionTreesNYC?
MillionTreesNYC, one of the 127 PlaNYC initiatives, is a citywide, public-private program with an ambitious goal: to plant and care for one million new trees across the City's five boroughs over the next decade. By planting one million trees, New York City can increase its urban forest—our most valuable environmental asset made up of street trees, park trees, and trees on public, private and commercial land—by an astounding 20%, while achieving the many quality-of-life benefits that come with planting trees."
What quality-of-life benefit? Rubbing my fucking eyes all summer long, sneezing like a happy jackass, being a human snot factory? Fuck that noise. Some of you Hippies are probably applauding this as some kind of gesture of environmental responsibility and you Neo-Brooklyn douches probably think It'll beautify your neighborhoods, but did you ever think about how selfish you are? What about the poor allergic people who have to live in fear of Bloomy and his Green Gestapo? This whole thing is racist against us and the worst thing to happen to NYC since the smoking ban.
go to milliontreesnyc.org and let them know that we don't need their stinking trees.
It's not a proper vacation if you don't accomplish the following:
1- Eat too much 2- Drink too much 3- Be near a body of water; natural or man made 4- Get a horrible sunburn 5- Have sex with a stranger
Considering the fact that I traveled with my wife, 4 out of 5 ain't bad.
I arrived at the airport breathing like Tony Soprano due to my awesome chest congestion. "The Bucket List" is an awful movie, anyone who doesn't hate it doesn't know what's good. Don't order the vegetarian meal on Continental International--it tastes like curried turd. Banana Hammocks. Every chick at the beach has a "Howard Stern Ass" (the kind of 80's, 'lil flattie that Stern and his cronies love.)
The water in Israel is undrinkable--it's salty and makes you more thirsty, even the bottled stuff is as they say 'rock water' or 'stone water' AKA mineral water. I'm dying of thirst and my piss looks like whiskey. Worst. Mexican. Ever. My sweetie ordered veggie fajitas and got an Asian stir fry, fried rice with peanut and cold black bean dip. The 'nachos' looked like the aftermath of an abortion over pizza chips covered in melted mozzarella. 280 Shekels for that shit and the story isn't even funny.
Life is good. Sitting on the beach at night, smoking a hookah, sipping Goldstar, lamenting the bad Mexi food with other Americans who had an even worse experience than us and watching the champions league final. Chelsea loses...Israel mourns. We watch Russian Celebrity Boxing on the Commie channel: Ballet dudes Vs. rappers, Wolfman actors vs chubby comedians: good times.
My baby says it's so hot she wishes someone would steal her organs, just for the ice bath afterwards. We walk the entire city and it's official: unless you are 17 and like techno, the nightlife sucks camel balls. Back to the Hookah beach bar. Beni Hadayag is the greatest restaurant ever. Their friend Calamari blows away any Italian joint I've ever been too. On the topic of Brooklyn Guineas mangling the beautiful and melodramatic Italian language (I think this one comes from my sister's boyfriend): They are in the process of ordering and he chooses 'calamari.'Douchebag waiter corrects him and says "galamad" to which her boyfriend responds "Do you call Pavarotti 'Pavarad" too?" I like that one
Everyone's grandmother makes the best food, but my grandmother-in-law is whatever word means better than the best. My father in law's band plays and I really dig it and so does everyone else. His solo's are clean and crisp. We all had fun.
They say the best trip to Amsterdam is the one you don't remember...but I don't smoke pot. My first time since 1997 and nothing really changed except the quality of my lodgings. From the Flying Pig hostel to the Golden Tulip is quite a leap. Whores in windows, Charlie boys, weed and space cakes, blah, blah, blah. The pancakes are the real attraction.
For you dopes who don't know the greatness that is the Eurovision Song Contest; learn something courtesy of Wiki:
"The Eurovision Song Contest (French: Concours Eurovision de la Chanson)[1] is an annual competition held among active member countries of the European Broadcasting Union (EBU).
Each member country submits a song to be performed on live television and then casts votes for the other countries' songs to determine the most popular song in the competition. Each country participates via one of their national EBU-member television stations, whose task it is to select a singer and a song to represent their country in the international competition.
Each country must submit one song to represent them in any given year they participate. The only exception to this was when each country submitted two songs in the inaugural Contest. There is a rule which forbids any song being entered which has been previously commercially released or broadcast in public before a certain date relative to the Contest in question.[21] The purpose of this rule is to ensure that only new songs are entered into the Contest, and not existing successful songs of years gone by, which might give a country an unfair advantage because the song is already known and popular.
Countries may select their songs by any means they wish: whether it be an internal decision made by the participating broadcaster, or a public contest which allows the country's public to televote between several songs. The EBU encourages broadcasters to use the public competition format, as this generates more publicity for the Contest. These public selections are known as national finals.
Some countries' national finals are as big as or bigger than the international Eurovision Song Contest itself, involving many songs being submitted to national public semi-finals. The Swedish national final, Melodifestivalen (literally, "The Melody Festival") includes 32 songs being performed over four semi-finals, played to huge audiences in arenas around the country, before the final show in Stockholm. This has become the highest-rated programme of the year in Sweden by TV audience figures.[22] In Spain, the reality show Operación Triunfo was inaugurated in 2002; the winners of the first three seasons proceeded to represent the country at Eurovision.[23]
Whichever method is used to select the entry, the song's details must be finalised and submitted to the EBU before a deadline some weeks before the international Contest.
On the Monday evening of Eurovision Week, a Mayor's Reception is traditionally held, where the city administration hosts a celebration that Eurovision has come to their city. This is usually held in a grand municipally-owned location in the city centre. All delegations are invited, and the party is usually accompanied by live music, complimentary food and drink and—in recent years—fireworks.[30]
After the semi-final and grand final there are after-show parties, held either in a facility in the venue complex or in another suitable location within the city.
A Euroclub is held every night of the week; a Eurovision-themed nightclub, to which all accredited personnel are invited.[31]
During the week many delegations have traditionally hosted their own parties in addition to the officially-sponsored ones. However, in the new millennium the trend has been for the national delegations to centralise their activity and hold their celebrations in the Euroclub.[30]
Countries
Ireland holds the record for the most number of wins, having won the Contest seven times—including three times in a row in the mid 1990s. In joint second place with five wins each are France, Luxembourg and the United Kingdom. The United Kingdom holds the best record at the Contest in terms of average scoreboard position; having finished in the top two in 20 out of 53 Contests (1956–2008).
The early years of the Contest saw many wins for "traditional" Eurovision countries: France, the Netherlands and Luxembourg. However, the success of these countries has declined in recent decades: the Netherlands last won in 1975; France in 1977; and Luxembourg in 1983. The last time Luxembourg entered the Contest was in 1993.
The first years of the 21st century produced a spate of first-time winners, from both "new" Eurovision countries, and old-timers who had entered for many years without a win. Every year from 2001 to 2008 resulted in a country winning for the first time. The 2006 winner was Finland, which finally won after having entered the Contest for 45 years. Ukraine on the other hand did not have to wait so long, winning with their second entry in 2004. Serbia won the very first year it entered as an independent state, in 2007.
As of 2008, the country which has entered the longest with no wins to their name is Portugal. They started entering in 1964, and are still awaiting their first win.
Criticisms
The Contest has been the subject of criticism regarding both its musical content and the perception that it is more about politics than it is about music[44][45].
Musical style and presentation
Because the songs are playing to such a diverse international audience with diverse musical tastes, and that countries want to be able to appeal to as many people as possible to gain votes, the majority of the songs historically have been middle-of-the-road pop. Deviations from this formula have rarely achieved success, leading to criticism that the music in the Contest is old-fashioned, and "bubblegum pop".[46] This well-established pattern, however, was notably broken in 2006 with Finnish hard rock band Lordi's landslide victory. As it is a visual show, many performances attempt to attract the attention of the voters through means other than the music, which sometimes leads to bizarre onstage gimmicks.
Political and national voting
The Contest has long been perceived as political in some sense, where judges—and now televoters—allocate points based on their nation's political relationship to the other countries, rather than on the “musical value” of the songs.[47] An analysis of voting patterns does indeed show that certain countries tend to favour certain other countries with which they are politically aligned.[48], or they are the same nation. The most extreme example of this is between Greece and Cyprus, which have awarded each other the maximal 12 points every single time since televoting was introduced in 1998.
Over the past few years, an increasing number of winners has been drawn from Central and Eastern Europe. However it is the bigger Western European countries like the United Kingdom, Germany, Spain and France (known as the "Big Four" – see above) that provide larger than average funding. Italy has dropped out of the contest now for some years for a mix of reasons related to funding, politics and artistic value.
Defenders of the contest argue that the reason certain countries allocate disproportionately high points to others is because the people of those countries share similar musical tastes and cultures[49] and speak similar languages, and are therefore more likely to appreciate each other's music. For example, Greece and Cyprus have frequently awarded each other maximum points. Some argue this is because both countries share the same music industry and language; artists popular in one country tend to be popular in the other. Many Eastern European countries also have large populations of people who are native to neighbouring countries and will therefore vote for their home country. 2008 results: Block voting favours countries in the Balkans, Scandinavia, Baltic region and the former Soviet states 2008 results: Block voting favours countries in the Balkans, Scandinavia, Baltic region and the former Soviet states
Some “Big Four” TV commentators are open critics of political voting, such as Germany's Peter Urban and the UK's Terry Wogan (a long standing commentator for the BBC). For example, in 2003, when the United Kingdom's entry by Jemini scored no points, Wogan said that this was due to a combination of the poor quality of the song, but also due to the country's lack of popularity after it entered into the Iraq war. He said that, "I think the UK is suffering from post-Iraq backlash."[50] Between 1998 and 2008, the UK has finished in the top 10 once and outside the top 20 four times.[51] Wogan has also commented that most western European countries now find it hard to win the contest, due to the increasing numbers of central and eastern European countries. In the 2008 Contest, Russia won the vote, but Wogan claimed that, "Russia were going to be the political winners from the beginning."[51] Two of the big four countries, the United Kingdom and Germany, came joint last – but alongside the eastern European country Poland, all with 14 points each. France and Spain also appeared in the bottom ten entries.[42] These concerns by commentators have been confirmed by several academic papers showing that "block voting" from eastern, Balkan, Baltic and Nordic countries has almost removed any chance of seeing a western country win the competition (see Voting at the Eurovision Song Contest). The results of 2008 confirms the "block voting" phenomenon. Svante Stockselius. head of the Eurovision Song Contest, admitted that poor scores for western European countires could be due to other countries voting against them.[42]
Purple Drank: Why Dirty South Rap is Slow and Retardo
I never had the stomach for Southern Hip Hop. I blamed it's slow mumbled verses on everything from the heat and humidity to greasy food and the semi-literate repetitive hooks on crappy schools in the Southern US. Because of my overt whiteishness I had no clue that Codeine cough syrup was to blame for this 8 year musical abortion.
PURPLE DRANK From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia • Purple Drank is a slang term for a recreational drug popular in the hip-hop community of the Southern United States. Its main ingredient is prescription-strength cough syrup containing codeine and promethazine.[1]
The purplish hue of Purple Drank comes from dyes in the cough syrup. Recently, the term has expanded to cover mixtures including over-the-counter cough syrup. There are numerous other slang terms for Purple Drank, including Sizzurp, Lean,[ Syrup, Drank, Barre, Purple jelly, and Purple stuff,.
History
Houston, Texas producer DJ Screw first popularized the concoction, which is widely attributed as a source of inspiration for the "chopped & screwed" style of hip hop music. Originally, the active ingredient of "Syrup" was cough syrup containing promethazine and codeine. The concoction first gained popularity in the underground Houston, Texas rap scene and later spread to other southern states. Its use has spread to other parts of the United States and world.
In June of 2000, everyone's favorite exuberant Oscar winners Three 6 Mafia's single "Sippin On Some Sizzurp," featuring UGK and Project Pat brought the term "purple stuff" to a nationwide audience.
In 2004, the University of Texas found that 8.3% of secondary school students in Texas had taken codeine syrup to get high. The Drug Enforcement Administration reports "busts" involving syrup across the Southern United States, particularly in Texas and Florida.
In addition to its popularization in the music of DJ Screw and Three 6 Mafia, the mixture has been referenced in lyrics of other rappers. It is the subject of UGK's "Sippin and Spinnin" and "Purple Drank", as well as tracks by Big Moe, Paul Wall, Mike Jones, T.I., Lil' Flip, Lil' Wayne, Three Six Mafia, Project Pat,Chamillionaire, Slim Thug, Fat Pat, Frayser Boy and Z-Ro, Trae.
Paul Wall is a well known user of the mixture. In a flow freestyle featuring Lil Keke he states that he is, "High as a kite on cloud nine, I'm leanin' tough and movin' slow. I'm fightin' sleep and dozin' off, sippin' this stuff to cure my cough, I can't think my mind is blank, pardon me but I'm throwed off."
New Orleans rapper Lil' Wayne frequently mentions drinking purple drank. In the Duffle Bag Boy music video he can be seen holding a Styrofoam cup with "RIP DJ Screw" written on it. In an interview with XXL, Wayne stated that he drank the syrup daily.
Notable deaths from use
Purple drank is confirmed or suspected to have caused the deaths of several prominent users. Respiratory depression is a potentially serious or fatal adverse drug reaction associated with the use of codeine. This depression is dose-related and is the mechanism for the potentially fatal consequences of overdose: respiratory or cardiac arrest.
DJ Screw, who popularized the codeine-based drink, died of a suspected codeine-alcohol overdose on November 15, 2000, several months after the video to Three 6 Mafia's single debuted.
Big Moe, a DJ Screw protege whose albums City of Syrup and World were based on the drink, died at age 33 on October 14, 2007 after suffering a heart attack one week earlier that left him in a coma.
Widely influential Port Arthur, Texas, rapper Pimp C was found dead on December 4, 2007, at the Mondrian Hotel in West Hollywood, California. The Los Angeles County Coroner's office reported that the rapper's death was "due to promethazine/codeine effects..."
There is nothing simpler in this world than a man getting a haircut. Although that is clearly the case, the estromen are trying to muck up yet another masculine truth. A fella should never, ever go to someone who lists their occupation as a "hair stylist." Hair stylists are great for 2 things: dating and doing women's hair, that's it. I'll take it one step further and say that a woman's hand shouldn't touch a man's head with the intent of removing or shaping his hair.
Men go to barbers. The ideal barber is an off the boat Italian gentleman who emigrated in the early 60's and was profoundly influenced by the styles of that time. Since old school Italian barbers are a dying breed, the new crop of Georgians (Soviet, not hick) are the next best thing. You should choose the guy who is going to shave the back of your neck and around the ear based on his accent. If he has a firm grasp of English, get to steppin and find yourself an immigrant. Once you find him, don't get all lippy with the directions, he knows what to do and isn't going to pay attention to you anyway.
Under no circumstances should a man ever wash your hair for you-- that's creepy and should be done at home, not the place you are getting your hair cut. Ideally, you'll be the youngest client in the shop and some of the magazines laying around should be older than you. If Clubman Talc is on the shelf and Sinatra's on the radio, you know you're in the right place.
Now that you understand the who, it's time for the what. There are only 4 acceptable haircuts for a man...That's it; 4 and only 4. Anything else and you should pee sitting down.
THE YOUNG ELVIS
The classic "I know what's good" hairstyle. Every man should rock the Elvis, but not every guy can, due to time, patience and hairgrease restrictions. And let's face it, not everyone is cool enough to wear the hair crown on their head.
THE LUGOSI
Some call it the Dracula, some call it the Goodfella, some even call it the Valentino, but you can't go wrong with a classic slick back. It's user friendly (just comb backwards) and chicks have historically dug it.
THE GOLGO 13
If you insist on keeping your hair short and neat, at least do it with some style and grow your sideburns out. All I really know about Golgo 13 is that it was the hardest Nintendo game ever. Fortunately, the best blog ever: Gotham City Insider can tell you all you wanted to know about Golgo 13
THE SINEAD
A must for the man with thinning hair. Fuck the horseshoe, the comb over and the St. Anthony...shave that shit.
I'm pretty old school when it comes to fashion. I wholeheartedly agree with the French that clothing for fat people should be hideous enough to shame them into losing weight in order to dress like a human being again. Since I'm a chubster living in the land of the fat and home of the Big Mac, things have taken a weird turn lately at the fat guy store. Instead of every shirt looking like a curtain, they look like triple sized versions of what you'd expect to see in a regular store.
Fuck that shit. If I'm too fucked up to fit into an XL, I deserve to look like a jerk. I not going to Old Navy and play the vanity sizing game (where their size XL looks like it was made by Omar the tent maker) to feel less slobbish, I'm not going to the Fat Guy store to commiserate, I go to the Burlington Coat Factory.
So that's what I did today to punish/motivate myself. I bought 3 hideous shirts in size XXL for $15 each. I will faithfully wear my Ecko polo shirts this summer like a jackass until I can go back to being the Hollywood Fashionplate I used to be. Preppy fat guy...What? What?
"ATLANTIC CITY, N.J. (May 6) - The owner of Tropicana casinos in Atlantic City and Las Vegas has filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection, nearly five months after New Jersey regulators stripped the Tropicana Casino and Resort of its license.
Over the past year, Tropicana has faced a series of setbacks. In December, the New Jersey Casino Control Commission said that the company was incapable of running the "first-class operation" required by state law. And nearly five months ago, the Tropicana in Atlantic City was stripped of its casino license, touching off a funding crisis."
As a recreational gambler and casino hanger outer this annoys me, but as a vice investor, it really burns my ass. Do Joey Bagadonuts and Johnny ChickenCutlet work for the NJCC? Seriously, the inability to run "a first-class operation" reeks of someone not getting an envelope and a comp dinner at Carmine's. What kind of official charge is that. It sounds like they are overseeing the San Genarro Feast,not billions in casino money. Truth be told, the Trop is the second best casino in A.C. right behind the Borgata (parent co. Boyd Gaming.) Why grind joints like the Claridge are allowed to do business under this fugazi regime and not the Trop is beyond me.
I've been following the Poutine hype on some of the NYC foodie blogs and I kind of got sucked in. Apparently it's only available at Pommes Frites and some Canadian gastropub on the west side. The glowing reviews led me to walk 10 blocks and give what I believed to be glorified Disco Fries a try....Best thing ever might just be an understatement as to how redickulo this magical concoction is. A solid contender for best late night drunk food, right up there with empenada's from La Isla (14th and B) and ahead of Moaz falafel.
Wiki Say: Poutine (Quebec French pronunciation putsɪn (help·info)) is a dish consisting of French fries topped with fresh cheese curds, covered with brown BBQ chicken gravy and sometimes other additional ingredients. [1] The freshness of the curds is important as it makes them soft in the warm fries, without completely melting. It is a quintessential Canadian comfort food, especially but not exclusively among Québécois.
Poutine is a fast food staple in Canada; it is sold by many fast food chains (such as New York Fries and Harvey's) in the provinces, in small diners and pubs, as well as by roadside "poutine trucks" and "fries stands," commonly known as "casse-croûtes" in Quebec. International chains like McDonald's,[2] A&W,[3] KFC and Burger King[4] also sell mass-produced poutine across Canada, especially in Quebec. Popular Quebec restaurants that serve poutine include Chez Ashton (Quebec City), La Banquise (Montreal), Lafleur Restaurants, La Belle Province, Le Petit Québec and Dic Ann's Hamburgers. Along with fries and pizza, poutine is a very common dish sold and eaten in high school cafeterias in Ontario, Quebec and Manitoba. It is also a very popular meal at ski resorts.
[I try my best to avoid writing about past relationships, because being married can really get in the way of doling out experience based dating advice. I'll make an exception in this case because this was the Genesis of my awesomeness. Awesomeness that will one day lead to the brilliantly titled "A Rail Off a Stripper's Ass Still Smells Like Coolie."]
Infidelity in the confines of a monogamous relationship is recognized as the ultimate dealbreaker for anyone with the slightest bit of self esteem. At least that was the way I thought, until it happened to me. In reality, the best thing to ever happen to my sex life was the moment my long term ex admitted to cheating on me. Prior to that revelation I was a sucker who bought into the whole fidelity fairy tale. When she first hit me with the news, I was devastated; then at the bottom of a bottle of Jameson, I had a revelation.
My precious little angel was wracked with guilt after admitting to fooling around with a good friend of mine. She reeked of desperation as she saw our relationship crumble due to her lack of moral virtue. I could tell that she would do anything in her power to make things right with me, anything. After a week away I came home and we had makeup sex. It’s wasn’t the bland and vanilla (not French vanilla or Breyer’s double churned or even vanilla bean but plain old store brand vanilla) sex I was used to; she was fucking like a porn star to get me back in her good graces, and it was working; but how far could I push the envelope?
Two weeks after she dropped the bomb on me I was in the middle of a three way with her and a friend of hers that I had wanted to fuck forever. None of this would have been possible without her cheating and attempting to transform into the ‘perfect’ girlfriend. This could get any better; or could it?
I took things a step further after rationalizing that I had a “free pass” to hook up because she crossed the infidelity threshold first. My revenge seeking roving eye led to quite a few guilt free encounters. Picking up chicks became much easier, knowing that if I failed I still had a plan B waiting at home for me in the form of my cheater chick. I’d approach the best looking girls with all the confidence in the world because I didn’t have the desperation of a single person, I could take it or leave it. Sometimes I’d even wear a fake wedding ring to pick up a married chick. I had the best of both worlds: chicks on the side and my lady still playing good girl at home.
Face the fact...Everybody cheats, It’s part of life, you all did it and it has been done to you whether you know it or not. Women do it to feel pretty or get attention and men have planting the flag in different places programmed into their DNA, you just can't beat nature, so you might as well accept it. Why wait 15 years until she cheats and you’re too old to pick up 21 year olds. Cheat early, cheat often. Be first or be worse.
I Knew Hogan Was A Creep Way Back When (Repost from Dec. 13 2006)
Dear Hulk Hogan,
In 1983 you forever changed my life with just one pushup, the pushup that shocked the world and broke the Iron Sheik's dreaded Camel Clutch for the first time ever.Not only did you bring the title back to the good old U.S of Fuckin' A, you laid waste to every cold war era nefarious America hating foreigner; sometimes going as far as using their pinko flag to shine your size 16 yellow boots or simulating wiping your firm buttocks with it….Great stuff.
I lived my life by the Three Demandments of Hulkamania: I trained, I said my prayers and by God I ate my vitamins.I cared so much about you that when King Kong Bundy broke your ribs with 3 consecutive Avalanches I sent a 'Get Well Hulkster" card.Even though you didn't write back I bought a ticket to the greatest film of the 80's No Holds Barred and still to this day quote you when I smell something foul by letting everyonein my vicinity know that "I Smell Dooooookie."
When you released an album I camped outside the record store and purchased 3 copies just in case I wore the other 2 out.I know every lyric and I'll admit to crying just like the time Andre the Giant ripped the Crucifix off your neck… You used to tear your shirt and you certainly tore out my heart with the beauty of your words.
I missed out on lots of sex because of you.I was hooking up with a chick in college and she broke it off because I picked up some 40's and invited her over to watch you take on Arn Anderson on Monday Nitro and she realized I was a loser.My insistence on playing Hulk Hogan and the Wrestling Boot Band's music also caused some friction with the ladies.I grew a handlebar mustache to be more like you and that is straight up girl repellant.
I could seriously go on forever with Hulk-A-Moments, but I have to be a party pooper and wag my finger to indicate 'no' to you Mr. Bollea.There is not a soul alive that was more excited about the show Hogan Knows Best…..until I saw the awful truth with my own eyes.The interaction between you and that daughter that looks exactly like you sans 'stache was creepier than the idea of Gary Glitter babysitting.
I understand fathers being protective, but you take cock blocking to a new level.Intimidating every single gentleman suitor, going crazy about male strippers at her birthday party, GPSing her car and calling every second she is on a date all add up to one thing….You are the ultimate egomaniac and want the singing version of you in a dress in a way you shouldn't want your offspring (I.E. You want to bang your daughter.)I was with you when you turned heel and called the fans a bunch of pukes, I even took your side and thought that the Miss Elizabeth ass grab was unintentional, but this is crossing the line.I can't bring myself to watch Hogan Knows Incest anymore.The world just lost another Hulkamaniac, I turned my card in brother
I hate guys who can pull off skinny jeans in the same manner that you hate the person who is currently nailing the ex that you still pine over and wish you could be with; we're both jealous wannabees. I was happy for a minute yesterday when I fit into a few pairs of vintage Levi's that I had to hide in the back of my closet after I quit smoking and turned into a fat turd. Then I saw a pair of Seven skinny jeans (a bargain at any price) that I used to wear not to long ago. I fondly remembered the last time I wore them at my boy's bachelor party and got made fun of for wearing Joey Ramone pants. I felt like things could be OK again and if I keep up with the Beach Bum Diet (like South Beach but with light beer added in) and stick with the gym...Then it all came crashing down. I realized that the friend whose party it was is now getting divorced and has a nearly 2 year old child--Fuck me, that was a long time and many burritos ago. I pulled the jeans out, tried in vain to sausage my leg into them and shed a single tear ala an Italian American actor playing a Native American looking at the white man's litter.
To make matters worse I had to get my birth certificate from my mother to renew my Irish passport and while going through my papers she hits me with this gem: "You know you used to be pretty good looking when you were younger, I'm looking at your old passport from when you were 20, and you looked different." I try to convince her that 31 is still young and she's having none of it. "We all change when we get older, it's alright." So much for my mom thinks I'm a catch. It's over Johnny. No aspirations of skinny jeans anymore, my future is Casual Male XL and elastic waisted 'jeans' with a stained Big Dog T-shirt...I might as well start wearing a fanny pack and stop showering.
For as long as I can remember I've been talking about this business plan of mine where I would be a sign/menu/promotional material maker for immigrants who want their piece of the American dream by owning a small business, but can't yet grasp Engrish. Although it would deprive me of endless unintentional comedy, the public good outweighs the funny. On one of our first dates, my girl told me that if she won the lotto, she'd start a charity and go around fixing fucked up "Good Lak" style broken English signs and be a copy editor for menus across the city. I liked that idea so much I married her.
So a little while ago I'm in my local deli getting Mexican Dynamite coffee and I notice that my boys fucked up the sign in a funny way. The NY Lotto has a tag line of "Hey, you never know" (this is important to the story) and in their zeal to attract more customers for the $185 million dollar MegaMillions jackpot, Jose and Diego put up a home made sign advertising their wares. Unfortunately, their grasp of marketing was just slightly worse than their English. Their genius promotional tool: "Mega Million $185 million. You will never know." At first I chuckled at the thought of an evil shopkeeper refusing to let the lotto addicts know if they had a winner, but I had to help my boys. So I did the good deed and rewrote their sign, patted myself on the back for fulfilling a lifelong dream and walked away with a net profit of one Cafe Bustelo AKA Cafe BurntAss-O.
My Girl After Finding Out That A BeatBoxer Was Performing at a Show We Were Going to
"Ugh, Djinn is going to be there and they have a beat boxer. I wish he would just shut his stupid noise mouth, this ruins the whole thing for me. Why do people like it when someone uses their mouth as an instrument so much? 4 Police Academy movies and that stupid "Don't Worry, Be Happy" enough!
A writer for the NY Times was looking for people's opinions on BHO and naturally mine was their favorite. I don't know if it'll end up in print, but here goes:
I'm thoroughly unimpressed with Obama as a candidate. I know that I should be inspired, united and moved by him, but I'm missing out on what others find so appealing, kind of the same way I feel about "The Office" (American or English versions.)
Apart from having a cool name, wanting to double the capital gains tax, mimicking The Rock's pattern of speech, being related to Dick Cheney and Brad Pitt and endlessly talking about 'change', he's got nothing. If a Senator named Chadwick Bentley whose ancestors came over on the Mayflower and had the same 'qualifications' ran the same campaign he wouldn't have made it past Iowa. He's as electable as Mondale, so naturally the Democrats will make him their man and we'll get 4 more years.
I have a new term for something that is talked up to no end and turns out to be a crushing letdown: Tel Aviv Nightlife. I'm usually with Chuck D when someone is zealously recommending anything in order to avoid disappointment. Even with my reservations, I find that I am able to find something redeeming in almost any hype job, with one notable exception: Tel Aviv Nightlife.
I learned to take everything Israeli's say with a grain of salt. To hear them tell it, the seaside city of Tel Aviv suddenly turns into Ibiza crossed with Vegas when the sun goes down. My experience was something vastly different. On our first visit we went into some place that unbeknownst to us was the 'cool' rock club, there were 7 people there including myself, my wife and my brother in law; we listened to Hendrix and talked about New Jersey with the bartender---Rock on. We were scolded for going out so early--Israeli's don't go out until midnight, we were told.
Armed with A Time Out T.A. we picked an ultra lounge, arrived well after the clock struck 12 and it was a half empty jazz club that served dangerously undercooked chicken kebabs. Undeterred, we went to the #1 rated bar: Mikes- an awful American-British sports bar across the street from the U.S. embassy where some curly haired creep kept telling me how beautiful my wife is and couldn't figure out why she was with an unclean Gentile like me. Anyway, we were informed that it was the wrong night and anywhere on Friday was going to be crazier than a foam party at Plato's Retreat.
Friday night on Allenby St. was like Mardi Gras...minus the people, fun, drinking and tits, seriously, some grouchy Russian bouncer tried to charge my girl a prohibitive entry fee to keep her out of a strip club. Now the excuse turned to the wrong time of year, but there's an Irish pub we should check out that was imported brick by brick from Wexford--Fuck me!
So, we're going back in 2 weeks and things aren't looking too promising. We found a goth club, but the website is in Russian and a Goth-Fetish night that features regular ass Shikira looking chicks domming it up; a good thing, just not our thing. Coming up empty on any rockabilly or garage rock nights...Hello Mike's.
I guess nothing ever lives up to the hype except a slice of DiFara Pizza, sipping champagne and watching the sun set on the pacific with someone you love and looking down and seeing 2 chicks doing an impression of sharing a nice corn on the cob.
Apart from Prada coke straws, chicks like nothing more than feeling special. Buy her a ring garnished with 10k worth of dead Africans and she's on walking on air until the next event in the princess progression. Unfortunately, all women won't get the ring, parties and attention that comes with that shit show. What to do about the lonely, yet attractive girl at the bar? How do you make the day she met you stand out in her boring life?
I have a theoretical long con/pickup scheme that hasn't been field tested, but I'm pretty sure is as good as my dozens of other 'tardish gambits. It's called 99 Problems and it goes like this: You're talking to a regular ol' barslut and feel like jazzing up the 'What's your name and what do you do?' bullshit that starts 8 out of 10 stupid people relationships. If you're pretty sure the chick you're chatting up wants to hang out with you for a good time, not a long time, start telling her about your recent 'struggles'.
Since you hooked up with girl number 99, you haven't had any action in months. You are in a worse funk than when Gary Carter was chasing his 300th homerun (that shit took forever), you can't hit triple digits to save your life because you want number 100 to be remarkably good looking and therefore memorable. FYI, Women react to words like 'stunning' and 'beautiful' much more than 'hot'; which they hear from bums and grown up frat men on a daily basis.
She's going to rightfully assume that you are judging her as a potential candidate for your centennial conquest and start revealing gems about herself in order to upsell. Women will always revert to upselling when you take a power position; taking them out of their comfort zone of being able to get any man by virtue of having a vagina. After a few drinks it should be hook, line and sinker. You established yourself as the experienced good time Charlie and she'll be coming home with you looking for that elusive adventure. It wouldn't hurt to have some streamers, confetti and balloons at the ready once the deed is done...it'll make for a better story when she's telling her friends about the wild night she had.
So after all that slamming of Guys/girls night out I did yesterday, I forgot a large part of my point, which tends to happen to me often because I drink. The number one reason why I'll never be part of the He Man Woman Haters' Guy's Only cum on a cracker club is that I'm an optimist. I have this notion, although it has never, ever, ever happened to me before that if the stars are aligned right and the alcohol hits at the precisely right time, that I'll be able to swing a three way. My chick is kind of a chick magnet and has a low tolerance for booze which is a hell of a good start. All I need to do is get her drunk enough to think it's a good idea and find a girl who doesn't find me physically revolting; which isn't that easy of a task. So although I have a better chance of talking to a burning bush, I keep hope alive like Jesse Jackson and there is no hetero hope of a three way when hanging out with your boys. What are you going to do: call your girl at home in her pajamas and no makeup telling her that you're bringing over this wildcard broad you just met? Fat chance of something like that working.
The other thing I neglected was in reference to the unloved portion of my blog. I wanted to voice my annoyance at people who consider a pet their best friend. That shit drives me up a wall--make a fucking friend that wasn't bred into retardation over generations to be dependent on you who will eat your face when you die....My best friend won't. And I really wanted to use the word "Cat'll"
I've heard the whispers about how in certain Italian restaurants, if you know the right person, they can make the non menu culinary gold standard: Linguine with Bacon and Eggs. My sources are from different walks of life and wouldn't know eachother in a million years, but they know a guy who knows a girl who ordered the urban legend on a plate and delighted in it. As of this writing, I have come up empty in my quest, save for puzzled looks and outright denials. Google knows of no such thing. Next stop Coney Island, where I'll follow my most promising lead. Will keep you posted.
...If you're into Girls/Guys night out. If single sex nights out are your thing, I regret to inform you that you are unloved. There is nothing inherently wrong with hanging out with the guys or the girls, but when you insist on behaving like a Muslim all the time, it tells the world that the other side of your bed is as cold Newfoundland in January.
I happen to enjoy the company of the woman I married and don't really want to waste valuable weekend time spent apart because someone jerk objects to people being happy when they aren't. Guys Night's in the traditional sense consists of bullshit parlor games like darts and pool and drinking 'till the point of 'I love you man." Obviously I don't roll with fools like that and when I'm with my wife I'm exactly the same as when she's not with me because I'm not pretending to be anything other than what I am and she seems to dig me that way. So many guys have to 'watch themselves' when their girl is around and I wish Don Corleone would smack their faces like he did to Johnny Fontaine and remind them that they have a set of balls between their legs and to cut the shit.
I have no problem with independent activities. If she wants to see an awful movie or go to some Gothic Bellydance reeking of armpit event, she has friends that will gladly go with her and spare me. Likewise, if a sporting event or an Irish pub is on the agenda, she'll find something-anything else to do. All I'll say about girls nights out is that it's codeword for making out with strangers, but getting cockblocked by your less attractive friends if you want to go any further.
Next time you insist on a single sex night out, take a good look in the mirror and try to figure out just what it is that's preventing another person from truly caring about you. Then fix that problem and let go of the jealousy...you'll be much happier that way.
I somehow managed to pull a muscle in my back while drinking coffee yesterday. I'm not actually sure if it's a pulled muscle or a pinched nerve, but it's one of those back things that come around once in a blue and feel like Chinese torture. Who the fuck hurts their back drinking coffee? This is a new low, even for me. I feel like someone is jabbing my spine with a hot poker every time I move. I have taken a handfull of Alleve, numerous hot showers, marathon sessions with the Hitachi Magic Wand, one of those Icy Hot patches that Shaq shills on TV and all the massages my lady's poor little hands could stand...and it still kills.
I woke up this morning like a fucking stiff again, walking around like a pretzel (if a pretzel winced in pain from the slightest movement) and then the cleaning lady came. As is the case every time the cleaning lady is doing her thing, my bowels get the Bat signal and start doing me wrong. For some God awful reason I have to drop a massive deuce whenever the cleaning lady comes. I would never dream of blowing up my own toilet and getting made for the mad bomber, so I'm forced to do one of my least favorite things in the world every other Tuesday morning: shit somewhere other than my apartment.
Fortunately, my building has a toilet next to the laundry room in the basement. Unfortunately, it's either always occupied or locked. So now I'm in the street like a vagabond and decide that a massage at the Qi Gong place on 29th (which is totally legit as per my blog about the Undercover Rub n' Tugger) would be just the ticket for my back, because Asians understand energy or something--that was my thinking at the time. I figured I could hold it in until after the massage and use the bathroom at my bank. If I could walk around the Met for 2 hours stomach a-churnin' while wifey is looking at costumes and I'm thinking about toilets, I could survive a 20 minute massage.
On my way there I have to pass through the Skel minefield that is Second avenue in the 20's. I walk by the usual Methadonians, project dwellers and Bellevue outpatients and something so outrageous was going on that it stood out in this sea of human refuse. An older retarded guy was bullying a younger one. I hate bullies, but I didn't know how to address this particular case and walked on by. Of course the massage place is closed and I'm forced to run the gauntlet of suck on my way back home. The Special Olympics of bullying is still going on and I have to do something. Right?
Stupid me gets in the middle of this debacle thinking these 2 tards are just going to go their seperate ways. That wasn't the case. The bully tard directs his anger towards me. I now realize something awful: My back pain is making physically incapable of defending myself, my right leg is still in recovery and there is a very real possibility that an angry dude full of tard strength is going to kick my ass in front of a bunch of bums and I might have an accident to put a cherry on top of this shit sundae. I'm in a cold sweat now. This can't be happening.
Luckily, I was able to outsmart the bully and defuse his anger to the point that he started bothering me, trying to explain that "Mistah, Mistah, he started it." I vow that from now on the possibility of me having my worst day ever will never hinge on the whim of a mentally handicapable man ever again. If being a Good Samaritan entails a silly looking fight and pant shitting, it isn't for me.
Cheating is like AIDS; we know that shit's out there somewhere, but we don't know anyone who has/does it, right? Every guy I know thinks their girl is a gumdrop who doesn't even look at other men and every chick I know thinks their friends are a bunch of Tammy Wynette's who would never even consider straying. That's cool and all, but it's just not realistic. Unlike men, women keep their ep's a secret, even from their closest friends.
If a girl confides in a friend that she drunkenly made out with a stranger behind her guy's back, she's feeling really guilty about going full boat and only tells a portion of the story to get it off her chest and relieve some of her internal strife. She says that she 'got a number', she sucked a cock; says she 'flirted', she made out--That's how that works.
Here's how these Houdini's get dicked up without anyone knowing: They have a few too many and meet a guy on a harmless girls night out, ask for a number, go 'home' with the girls and then send out the 3AM text message to the dude they just met. I have seen this play out so many times it's almost if all women share the same brain.
Cock blocking friends be damned; your girl is getting it despite your best efforts to protect her. She just waits until you're home in bed and then does her dirty stuff. Idiot boyfriend thinks his angel was with you and as far as you know she was. It's actually a pretty brilliant strategy; Kudo's ladies.
Hate to break it to you fellas: You don't just have to worry about vacations and out of state justifications anymore; she's getting it every time she leaves your sight. I only know this because I have better looking friends than you.
I hate when bad things happen to other people. I derive no pleasure in the misery of others except for when those others are from the most comical of subcultures: The Guido. When bad things happen to Guido's, I laugh. Not because I hate Guido's, but because of the drama that is sure to ensue. There is no group in the world that is more vain and concerned with other people's opinions than the American Guido, and God love them for it.
I'd love to create a television program like Punk'd, but where only Guido's were antagonized. It could provide enough entertainment for a 24 hour network. "Guido Overreaction" would rule the airwaves. Watch the following clip from "Kitchen Nightmares" and see if you're feeling me:
Imagine the hilarity when Joey, a groom to be meets Angela's ex "LeRoy" just hours before their wedding? Or what about the 'disrespect' of getting a restaurant table next to the bathroom, while members of various other races are getting prime seating? Watch Nicky 10 Pumps flip out when he learns that the Limo for his bachelor party isn't coming. Have Guidette, Gina's wedding planner fuck up small things during her 'special day.' I could go on but you should check out Tommy Cheezbawlz.
Of all the trite phrases in the English language, none make my skin crawl more than "remember where you came from." I'm not entirely certain as to what it means or why it's mindlessly repeated so many times by people who should by all means forget where they came from and join the civilized world. I've always assumed that it's the broke ass response to that thing old money rich folk do like: "but you're a Cadbury and a Cadbury would never behave that way". It's a way to make sure you never get too far ahead of yourself and actually accomplish something beyond that of your former peers.
I have no problem remembering where I came from. It's a tiny neighborhood nestled in the armpit of Brooklyn called Marine Park; where aspirations are so low it's almost laughable. There are very few places on Earth where mediocrity is worshiped more than good old Marine Park. I'm lucky I suppose because I won the Marine Park lottery; not once, but twice. In a place where a civil service job is viewed as the ultimate life has to offer, I not only passed the written test, but the criminal background check and drug test that disqualifies so many of the bagel store lifers that call M.P. home. The only thing better than the rock star life of a civil servant is if you're lucky enough to hit that mega million power ball number and get hurt on the job so badly that you can't continue any longer and collect the vaunted 3/4 pension...Hooray for me.
Successful people never say "remember where you came from." It's purely the domain of the rung right above the bottom. People who grow up real hard like my dad, that douche who wrote Angela's Ashes or a Ghanaian cab driver never want their children to experience what they did, the want the next generation to live under better circumstances. Poor upbringings are a driving force for people who succeed in a desperate attempt to get the fuck out of the place that is trapping them.
No one has any control of where they are plopped out and therefore come from. I take no pride in the things in life that I have no control over, I don't know why anyone does.
The notion that a woman reaches her sexual peak somewhere around midlife is as oxymoronic as calling a stupid, underachieving child ‘special.’ I’m all for being nice to old bags at a time in their lives that they need the pick-me-up, but the whole notion of older broads as sexual dynamos, teachers of the art of lovemaking, ravenous Cougars or anything other than consumers of KY and Ensure is as silly a jazz hands.
I’ll freely admit that I have zero experience with older women because even before I was married I had something called options and didn’t have to settle for a dry prune with veiny sandpaper hands. But I’m a professional noticer and that’s good enough for you.
It all boils down to confidence and experience, and older women have as much of both as they do wrinkles. An experienced confident woman is a lousy lay. She’s done it all and seen it all and isn’t going to jump through hoops to please you with the hope that you’ll like her or pay more attention to her as a result of her willingness. Mature women are selfish like that and want to make it about them and their experience as much as yours. They see sex as a mutually enjoyable experience and expect the man to TCB. Who needs all that aggravation?
As much as older gals know who they are as a person, they are acutely aware of the cruelty of Father Time. Try having an older girlfriend and suggesting that the two of you hole a younger bar slut. She’ll never be down for that type of business because of the stark contrast between her and a woman almost half her age. That’s nothing more than a built in cockblock against extra curriculars, ensuring that your only option is a dry old sandwich and will always lack mayo.
Chicks in their early 20’s by contrast are down for whatever, because life hasn’t crushed their sense of adventure yet. Unfortunately, you have to communicate (or attempt to) with them. How many times can you say “Your professor is wrong, you totally deserved an A” or “Yeah, your boss is a jerk, right, uh huh, yep, work is hard” before hanging yourself?
For as long as I can remember I have been vaguely associated with some goofy subcuture or other. I was born into the ugly kids fraternity and was forced to seek out the Metal/Hardcore/Punk/Goth/Rockabilly/Tattooed shit of my youth that I still reek of today. I say it all the time: “Pretty girls don’t have to choose punk rock for a reason.” Loserdom is much more palatable when surrounded by likeminded individuals. If I’m stuck on a the tarmac for hours and forced into conversation to preserve my sanity, I’ll likely choose someone wearing the uniform or preferably the reformed version of the uniform instead of the dickus reading the latest Tom Clancy diarrhea. Every subculture is a lifeStyle, an instant rapport, a Masons for outcasts, a Howyadoin without having to mention the weather.
The idea of being an adult and belonging to a particular tribe or labeling yourself is wackalicious; but at the end of the day you’re either square or not, depending on which little in-group you belong to. I can say without the slightest bit of pride that I am a card carrying member of a new group; one which required nothing as distasteful as scene hopping—just a knee surgery done by Sweeny Todd.
2 months on crutches and the past few weeks with a cane have opened new doors for your boy. It’s not the chubby girls with Bettie bangs or young dudes with Social Distortion shirts and the pompadour starter kit giving me the head nod anymore…It’s a bunch of fucking gimps.
The handicapable community has openly embraced me since December. Living next door to a methadone clinic is normally charming in a zombie/people watching manner, but now the methadonians are trying to sell me shit, because I, like many of them, hobble around looking like a bum. What is it with junkies and canes? Why do they go hand in hand like black dudes and fat blondes? I suppose I should be honored by their acceptance. They don’t even bother trying to conceal their hand to hand street deals when I walk by, to them I’m in the group. I even buy lotto tickets now.
Now when I walk down 23rd street and get some waves from the Bellevue escapees, maybe a sign language “hello” from the kids at the deaf school, a pound at United Cerebral Palsy and maybe if I’m really lucky, an offer to hop on the Access A Ride bus. Living the dream ain’t so bad.
I had an epiphany of sorts yesterday concerning the fundamental difference between men and women. I remembered a friend talking about being lazy and peeing lady style (sitting down), then I thought about the fact that women are superior academically to men; they earn more college degrees and make less money, graduate H.S. at much higher rates, are more likely to cheat on their spouses and if in a lesbian relationship, have little to no sex. After my 5 second mental bounce around during a commercial break it hit me: Chicks are fucked up because they compare themselves to models, actresses and celebrities, whereas dudes understand that they aren't in competition with famous people.
Due to schoolyard culture, boys learn where they stand in the pecking order at a very early age. There is always one kid that can kick everyone else's ass, is a better athlete, runs faster, is smarter, is funnier, is more popular etc. While all this is being cemented in the minds of boys, little girls are reading about fucking Cinderella being rescued from mean bitches by a prince, leading to a dreamworld that they will never leave.
Guys understand that in the real world the nerd never beats up the bully, the fat kid who gets picked on never hits the game winning buzzer beater... putting the stake in the heart of Central Valley High that gets the homecoming queen's attention, ultimately removing the burden of his virginity. That's some movie shit and we see it as just that.
Women seem to live a life in suspended disbelief. They are forever imagining that they'll turn into a swan over summer vacation and be the coolest, prettiest, most popular girl in school come September. I can understand kids and teens feeling this way, but even with grown ass broads it never stops.
Ladies, please realize something: If you happen to lose 20 pounds, you are still going to be you, only 20 pounds lighter on the scale; that's all. The whole fucking world isn't going to change, you aren't going to live happily ever after. Understand that models are paid to look attractive, that's their job. If your boyfriend thinks that some famous bitch looks good, then she's doing her job well, don't get mad at him for noticing. And when the fuck did you think the competition between you and Paris Hilton began? All the stylists, bulimia and great clothes in the world aren't going to change the fact that the people who fucked to make her are better looking than the people who fucked to make you. Stop being a jealous gaylordess; your man isn't going to leave you for her, because he knows he can't get her--remember that reality bit?
Please do a blog on young teenage chicks who get breast implants. I find this subject fascinating. Why do they do it? What kind of life are they looking for?
Villiam Palladine
I’m a sucker for requests and big tits, so here goes. Last year, 3,841 women 18 or younger underwent breast augmentation, a 24-percent jump from 3,095 in 2002, which represents a 19-percent increase from 2,596 in 2001, according to the American Society of Plastic Surgeons. The majority of these tits were given as a gift either for high school graduation or a really fucking creepy Sweet 16 present from dear old dad.
I’ll start with the painfully obvious: If you are a teenage girl and your dad is sporting for your implants, one of 3 things is going on:
1- He is touching you in the no-no spot and has been for some time. 2- He’s thinking about you when he’s banging your mom. 3- You are part of his spank bank.
No father in the world wants his daughter to flaunt herself as a sex object to the world around her. Father’s are by nature protective of their daughters. Any motherfucker gleefully buying bolt on’s is a creep.
Do you know anyone who got tattooed before they were 21? If you do chances are they got some wack ass work done and do their best to cover it up when they reach a sensible age. The majority of teenagers are functioning retards who act on impulse--incapable of making long term decisions about their bodies, except for abortions (I have to say that, right?)
Members of Generation Superstar can’t keep anything to themselves. The first thing an 18 year old desperate for attention is going to do after she gets her falsies is flash everyone she knows or send cell phone pics, which will invariably end up on the internet, which will lead to tears, embarrassment and daddy’s consolation—another result of immature individuals making grown up decisions.
It’s a widely known fact that women would much rather be attractive than smart. Our society is fucked and the majority of chicks got bent over. So, some 19 year old gets implants so she can feel hot and get noticed and at first it works. She gets better tips at her part time job waiting tables or whatever and gets asked out by more guys than ever. Just like a fat girl who lost a lot of weight, she fully embraces her new big tits and the power she gets from them—all the while alienating jealous long time friends and the boyfriend who was around when she was Flatty Patty. She bangs around until she feels good about herself and then what?
One day she wakes up and realizes that there aren’t too many female doctors or judges with porn star tits. In fact her decision to look cartoonish has limited her employment opportunities. She finds it hard to be taken seriously in the real world and is stuck at Hooters or jumping out of a cake.
Cosmetic surgery is some serious shit, especially for young chicks. They should only get a nose job if their beak is making them ugly and costing them opportunities (ugly people rarely get the job.) Leave the oversexualization to the glorified coke whores you read about in Us Weekly. At the very least wait until age starts to ravage your looks and then consider surgery with an adult mind.
I wish I was rich like Mike Bloomberg so I too could pour millions of dollars into a mayoral campaign, become the mayor and then change all the things about the city that annoyed me. Bloomy is a zealous ex smoker and forced his bogus second hand smoke agenda on the city and now you are forced to see what people really look like in smoke free bars; making that 2AM girl Miss Closing Time. I'm an ex smoker but my beef isn't smoking. I would like to rid the city of cornball singalongs that make me feel embarrassed for the singer.
The leader of the pack as far as most vile offenders are concerned is that silly little ditty "The Humpty Dance." There is something about that song that turns perfectly reasonable people into the worst form of rap along douches who bust out the infamous stiff as starch white hip hop dance whenever it's played at a party or club. They can't help themselves; they're a bunch of rapping fools and they don't care who knows about it. This phenomenon causes me great pain. I have to look away, my face turns red and I am ashamed to be around this person, I have a knot in my stomach and feel as if I need to throw up.
There offenders can't help themselves, only strict litigation and harsh punishment can put a stop to this madness. By no means am I singling out Digital Underground; they are merely the peak of the shit heap. If I had my way no one would ever bop around proclaiming that they are "not internationally known/but known to rock the microphone" unless their name was Rob Base. Boring bar hags and fat bridesmaids would think twice about joining arms and singing along to 'Brown Eyed Girl" and that damn song from Grease if I lived in Gracie Mansion.
"We are so lucky in Charlotte, NC. We got a new sheriff in town. He won on the platform "It's Time Charlotte had a Black Sheriff". He is very qualified for the position. He is a former law enforcement officer and he is black.
However there are a few small glitches. He quit the police force while he was being investigated by Internal Affairs for stealing over $16,000 from the department. He also ran up $370,000 in student loans and other non-secured debt and filed Bankruptcy (he cant manage his personnal finances so we should let him run a multi-million dollar budget). He claimed under oath that he lived in Alamance County yet voted as a resident of Mecklenburg county (voting in a county you dont live in is a Felony, as is lying on Federal Bankruptcy forms). He claimed to be single with no kids and it was found out that he is married but living with another woman and has a 10 yr old son with his wife. He also failed the background check so he has to post a large secured bond in order to get the job. He will be the Sheriff but wouldn't be accepted to even apply to the Police Academy, let alone be a Deputy.
So other than the fact that he is a felon who cant manage his own finances and wouldn't qualify to be a janitor in the jail, he is the best man for the job. Congratulations Nick Mackey."
I used to rant and rant about the word 'respect' and the fact that idiots have misused it to the point where it had become the most meaningless word in the English language. For awhile anyone who worked for the city making shit money was given an 'atta boy and called a 'hero' and that was annoying as all fuck. But nothing comes close to the flagrant misuse of the term 'Legendary.'
Any lump of DNA with half a pulse and the slightest bit of media attention is referred to as 'legendary.' Omorosa is a legendary reality show contestant, Danny Bonnaduce is a legendary TV icon, VH1 reunited the legendary band Vixen...I shit you not, someone that was paid to talk actually said those things. It's like how anyone who gets their picture taken with clothes on is a 'supermodel' and any attention whore who posts a naked picture that no one wants to see is now a 'porn star.' Nobody earns shit and there is no standard anymore. I know that this isn't a matter of life and death, but sometimes I just have to point out stupidity that gives me a rash.
I feel bad for poor bastards with dopey girlfriends who are holding their dopey breath waiting for a dopey $15,000 ring to put on their pudgy little finger; throwing their lives away in order to steal the Christmas spotlight from everyone else and run around living out some silly princess for a day fantasy. Merry Christmas schmuck--you spent 3 months salary on some shiny dead Africans for the pleasure of fucking some mediocre broad and only that mediocre broad for the rest of your life. I get the part about the gift for her; but what the fuck did you get out of this crappy deal?
It's bad enough that Valentine's Day exists to emasculate men, now the balls in a vice grip has been extended to Jesus' Birthday. This country is full of sad sacks working 16 hours a day to save up for a shiny caveman trinket to give their girl an iced Christmas because they think it's 'the right thing to do' Fuck the right thing, do your own thing.
Engagement rings are the world's worst investment. Your pocket takes a hit, then you have to listen to inane wedding planning for a year and then shell our 150 bucks a plate for rubber chicken and the highlight of the wedding night is your touchy uncle Dickbag getting drunk and dancing like a fool. If I'm going to shell out 3 months gross because there is a figurative gun to my head, then my girl better be cooking 4 star meals and bringing a new chick home every night to justify the cost.
There is something about post knee surgery recovery that just makes you want to pop a pain pill, put your leg up and watch some mindless television. I find cable news stations to be somewhere between pro wrestling and Girls Gone Wild infomercials as far as educational value (wrestling taught me what a Samoan is) is concerned, so it's perfect for time wasting.
So apparently a big shot with the CIA edited some questionable interrogation footage out a a video where a terrorist gave up a plot to do some bad shit in America and politicians and pundits are all kinds of riled up about this Jack Bauer business. What a tremendous revelation: The CIA used 35 seconds of waterboarding on some sand savage to thwart a future terror attack. Call me crazy, but isn't that the kind of shit the CIA should be doing? 6 years after 9/11 and finally some proof that our government is getting it right.
I get it, waterboarding sucks and should be classified as torture. Making someone feel as if they are drowning to get information out of them is pretty awful, but look at things in perspective--it's not quite as bad as burning alive/being crushed after a building is bombed by some shitheads that take fairy tales too seriously.
I'm thrilled that life is imitating art and the agency is doing the type of shit they do in the movies minus the hornrims. We can finally have some legitimate faith in our institutions. I hope they are opening a new Gitmo every day in a country that hates us as a double fuck you. Thank you CIA for keeping it real in a fake ass world.
For you non NY'ers: Wo Hop is a 24 hr Chinese restaurant in a basement that is frequented by Guido's, cops, garbage men, actors that you've never heard of, models no one wants to look at, cokeheads, Guido's who call it "Wo Hop's", tourists, wannabe Soprano's and all types of motherfuckers who want to keep the party going when the bars close. The food is deliciously greasy, the beer is cheap and between 3 and 6 AM there are tons of hijinks and tomfoolery.
Truth be told, the food is secondary to the scene and street theater that ensues. You hardly ever see a Chinese person eating there and it's in the middle of Chinatown, so that has to tell you they are serving straight stupid round eye fare. The documentary film "Wo Hop" (available @ vicchristopher.com) does the place more justice than I ever can with words.
Radio DJ's Opie and Anthony have this played out W.O.W. (Whip 'em Out Wednesday) concept where a girl who listens to their show (there are like 3) gets her tits out when she see a fat slob driving around with a WOW bumper sticker on Wednesdays; get it? Wo Hop has a similar flashing program except they will gladly give the attention whore a free t shirt (valued at $5US) for showing her banana slopes. You would think that this would never work, but my boys "James Giordano" and "Mario" have taken the art of picking up dumb tourist chicks willing to show baby feeders for a t-shirt to a level far beyond comprehension. The waiters and cooks all come pouring into the 'dining room', the crowd cheers loudly, the chick flashes, the waiters and cooks see live boobies and have spanking material for a month. Everyone is a winner.
I'm Often Accused of Putting My Foot in My Mouth; Try Someone Else's Here:
The Viking blog has been up for about 2 hrs and I'm hit up with phone calls and emails, so I guess you dig this sort of investigative reporting. I figured I'd put my fetishist friends on to something they may or may not know about because the perv community has given me a nice uptick in page views. Thank you and please enjoy The Foot Worship Palace
Just what is a foot worship palace you ask?
"Within minutes you can have a beautiful girl come over to your home, office or hotel in New York City or maybe you go over her place, so you can take off her shoes, and look at, massage, smell, kiss and lick her sexy feet!
You will get the opportunity to be at the feet of delicious young college girls, sexy secretaries (doubtful), hot dominatrix’s, gorgeous fashion models (without a doubt blowing off a Prada, shoot to work at the FWP) amazing foot fetish models from the internet, and even the really cute girl next door types (the girl who lives next door to me is busted), who's feet you always wanted to worship but never knew how. Here is your chance to live out all of your secret foot fantasies. No strings attached!
You don't have to date them, and get to know them, while guessing whether or not her feet are nice, or whether you will ever get to her feet or not.... We have taken all the guess work out of it for you! All you have to do now is call a girl over to your place..... sit back..... relax..... take a deep breath..... and enjoy some of the sexiest soles on your face..... and all over your body."
The dude behind the palace is also a Foot Worship party promoter. Shekitowwt:
"HOW THEY WORK
The events are set up so that we will have at least 40 beautiful models offering their feet to You for worship. We keep the ratio very tight, so that we always have at least one hot girl To guy. Usually we try to have more girls that guys at the events. That is why the guys are Going to be strictly limited to 35. No more than 35 guys will ever be allowed at an event. But we will allow as many as 45 girls to a party.
So you will enter a very exclusive location in New York City. We have our favorites, but we like to switch up spots every now and then for variety. You will feel the luxury before you even step foot in the building (awesome). You will walk along the marble floors headed up to you sexiest fantasy world. The elevator doors open, and you enter the party. You will be greeted by one of our lovely door girls who will be baring her sexy toes to get your anticipation higher.
You will then enter and you jaw will drop and you pants will bulge. You will see some of the most upscale environments, and some of the hottest girls you will ever see in person. There will be complimentary top shelf bar for you to enjoy and loosen up. Have a few drinks, enjoy the scene, and when the urge becomes unbearable… just walk up to the girl or girls that rock you world, and start talking to them. When you can bear it no more, ask them to do a session with you. They will then escort you to an area where you can relax and enjoy your session. You can indulge in their feet right away… or you can have them tease you with them. You can have them walk all over you… or you can have them control you with their soles. Whatever your fetish fantasy is, you can live it out here.
Party Time!!!!
You will offer $20 for every 10 minutes to the model that you indulge with. You can go as little or as long as you want. The parties go all night so you can stay as long as you want and indulge in as many of your fantasies as you want. You can stay all night, or do a few sessions and leave. It’s a very laid back, comfortable and loving environment. There is no drama or attitude. Of course the only exception would be is if you want your model of choice to dominate you and be an arrogant Goddess while you grovel as a slave under her feet.
The organization is superb, and we have created a science to offering foot worship parties Where you can truly be free and live your fantasies like you've never imagined possible."
This could be you, but if you were this old we probably wouldn't hang out much
I hope that was informative for guys with boring girlfriends or those of you who didn't know places like this existed. Isn't it kind of gross to think that just a few minutes before some other dude was slobbering on some chicks foot that you are now slobbering on and are de facto making out with that guy via her foot?
Viking Resort: Fantasy Island or Loser's Paradise?
I'm a firm believer that if you go on vacation and fail to get laid, it wasn't a vacation at all-- just a waste of money someplace else. In my mind that extends to single people hooking up or spending QT with your sig other. I never thought that it could be a 'sure thing' where you picked a good-as-trafficked broad and had a beachy keen vacation and paid a service for your 'companionship', I had also never heard of the Viking Resort.
A little bit about Whore Heaven from the source:
"Are you there yet?
Upon arrival at our splendid villa, you and your friends are greeted by an extraordinary welcoming party. A stunning array of attractive, sensual women, selectively picked from the most exotic regions of the world.
These beautiful girls, who are between 18 and 26 years of age, exhibit only the finest qualities that we feel our clients have come to appreciate in the past.
This initial private gathering gives you the opportunity to become very well acquainted with all of our lovely ladies who eagerly await to be the ones chosen to accompany you on your Viking Escape.
Viking's Villa
A lush retreat of private elegance and breathtaking beauty with dramatic ocean views, private beach, and a spectacular pool and Jacuzzi. Our Villa's dramatic setting is pure "sin-sational" pleasure. Our hideaway comes with an array of James Bond style girls from exotic countries like Russia and Brazil, to mention just a few.
With champagne flowing and a variety of exquisite meals prepared by your own award winning chef, it just doesn't get any better than this.
Personal Companions Once chosen, your fantasy girl(s) will serve as the perfect compliment to what promises to be an unforgettable stay at "Viking's Resort". Whatever your background, we think you'll agree that there comes a time in life when one should reap the benefits of hard work and sacrifice, when one should take time to enjoy the pleasures so richly deserved. At "Viking's Resort" our clients are King, no work - no worry, just pure bodily pleasure.
Imagine the fun and excitement of being accompanied by beautiful girls in an exotic and tropical environment. Traveling alone doesn't necessarily mean being alone anymore. Lying around the pool in the shade of a coconut tree, your smiling companion brings you your favorite drink while you let your mind wander."
Ok, I now know that I'm not nearly old enough, fat enough or desperate enough for something like this to appeal to me in the least. Let's pretend for a moment that I was interested. In the words of Solomon King "How much does it cost ya":
Viking's Standard Package
Individual reservations for 4 days and 3 nights are $3,900 and include:
The company of the companions for 4 days and 3 nights Accommodation in a Standard guest room All meals and drinks served at the villa Complimentary spa services Transportation to and from the local airport VIP reception at the airport upon arrival Welcome Cocktail Party Our Standard rooms are air-conditioned and are located on our resort grounds adjacent to the main Executive villa. The Standard villa offers a more tranquil setting and is set back from the activities at the main villa. It is the perfect package for individuals, those who prefer a little more privacy, or would like to relax in peace and quiet away from the main villa.
The above fare covers ALL ADULT ENTERTAINMENT (there are no hidden charges)!
Now Lets Class it up a bit and see what a king in the castle splurge on:
Viking's Ultimate Fantasy Package Sometimes perfection is just not enough. For those gentlemen that want to experience the most exclusive vacation possible, an unsurpassed level of luxury and the absolute best of Viking's, we have designed the Ultimate Fantasy Package just for YOU!
Individual reservations for 4 days and 3 nights are $7,900 and include: Two girls for each night of your entire stay Pre-selection of your favorite girls for the first night of your stay and/or "first pick" of your favorite girl or girls at the Welcome Cocktail Party. The company of the companions for 4 days and 3 nights Accommodation in a VIP Suite All meals and drinks served at the villa Complimentary spa services Transportation to and from the local airport VIP reception at the airport upon arrival Welcome Cocktail Party Lifetime membership to our 'members only' section of the website Guests on our Ultimate Fantasy Package will be guaranteed one of our luxurious VIP suites, where you will find all of the comfort and luxury of a 5-star hotel, with four-poster King beds, a heavenly sleeping experience with fine Egyptian cotton linens and rich bedding, Frette towels and bath robes, twice daily housekeeping service, complimentary laundry, a full range of toiletries wrapped in a gift bag with fine soaps, shampoo, conditioner, and body lotion by L'Occitane.
Each VIP Suite includes an ocean view, a private sitting room, in-room bar, Bose� Wave� Radio CD system and iPod compatible player, and an upgraded bath to include either a personal Jacuzzi tub or large dual showers (you pick whether you want to take a bath or a shower with your companions!) The above fare covers ALL ADULT ENTERTAINMENT (there are no hidden charges)!
body lotion by L'Occitane and a wave radio totally worth 8 grand plus $100 service fee per night; right?
Wiki Say What: "Kings Plaza is a shopping center located within the Marine Park/Mill Basin section of Brooklyn, which opened in 1970. Originally consisting of the now defunct Alexander's, as well as Macy's department store chains, it began to operate a branch of Sears in 1997, and underwent extensive renovations in 2001. Most recently Kings Plaza closed the Waldenbooks book store, Suncoast videos and Sam Goody music store. The Banana Republic store was closed, and changed into a children's clothing store named 99 Cent Kidz recently and a beanpie and Muslim oil outlet was added to Kings Plaza. With approximately 4,200 jobs in retail services and over 120 individual stores, Kings Plaza is the largest such shopping center within the borough of Brooklyn.
It is home to the world's first Sbarro pizza outlet. (thanks for that one)
Although crime has been reduced significantly within New York City, the neighborhood surrounding Kings Plaza has been a frequent source of concern, with many robberies occurring within and around the shopping center's location in years past (Marine Park on the map for something...what what). This perception was noted on an episode of The Sopranos where an aborted hit Tony Soprano had ordered on a rival boss was scheduled to occur in the parking lot of Kings Plaza."
Yeah that all sounds nice, but the place is a dump. Everything is depressingly beige and it smells like feet and Doritos in there. KP is home to the hardest working mall security in the business who are always chasing packs of crooks who steal from Wilson's leather by using shock and awe tactics and then run in a full sprint 10 different ways. The police were called so many times that mall security became special patrolmen to process their own arrests and let the cops go back to doing cop things.
I has robbed of a Starter hat in 1990 by a white trash mob right in front of a security mustache and he didn't do shit about it. My friends were arrested for defending themselves and the mall patrons cheered the sight of 3 white kids in cuffs like O.J. was acquitted. Someone was always farting in Alexanders (a glorified Conway if you ask me) and I was glad when it closed down. If you make it out of the mall in one piece, rest assured that one of the 5 zillion dollar vans zipping around outside will do their best to run you over when you leave the Plaza.
Of all the crappy things about Kings Plaza, the movie theater/riot center is far and away the worst. Roaches run amok, I saw one crawl into the hair of a woman who was resting her head against the wall. The place is never cleaned and your feet will be completely stuck to the floor. You'd better go for something subtitled because there is no way you'll be able to hear anything with all the audience participation/yelling at the screen going on. And if you are really lucky or buy a ticket to the wrong movie you can witness all hell breaking loose. Good times
The Ball Hair Trimmer That Defies the Laws of Physics
I have had the same Norelco T4000 beard and mustache trimmer since Christmas Day 1998. A lot has changed since them; the president was apologizing for getting a blowjob from a fat girl instead of waging and threatening unpopular wars and Britney was full on spank bank material, but one thing that hasn't changed is the battery in my trimmer.
Countless sideburns have been sculpted and fire crotches avoided with the help of my trusty trimmer. I even shaved the pits a few times but could never get used to the burn. The amazing thing is not my spectacular grooming, but the fact that the same 2 Kodak alkaline batteries have been powering this thing for 9 years. It's a Goddamn miracle. I am perfectly willing to be the unpaid spokesman for Norelco T4000 or Kodak batteries because this is more major then the Virgin of Guadalupe appearing on a tortilla.
A fancy, beauty editor friend gave me this newfangled Conair rechargeable trimmer with all kinds of bells, whistles and electronic settings. I charged that bitch up and used it twice before it lost it's charge. Bullshit. I'm sticking with the old school magic trimmer.
The only Con Air for me is the one starring Nick Cage.
So you are walking along on your merry way when all of a sudden the sky opens up and starts pissing rain. You're no boy scout and are totally unprepared for this change in weather. You run to the first deli/corner store/bodega/whatever and try to buy an umbrella. If it's not a dirty shit shack, chances are its run by Koreans and chances are you're fucked if you want an umbrella.
I'm not quite sure where Korean stores get their umbrellas, but they are consistently terrible. Give me an 'Amen" if the following has ever happened to you: You purchase your umbrella, open it up and leave the store. 10 feet from the shop the umbrella breaks beyond the point of use. You return to the store and explain what happened in an attempt to exchange the broken umbrella for a working one. Your pathetic tale falls on deaf ears and dude behind the counter starts yelling at you to leave. You get loud back and then all of a sudden 3 more Koreans come out of the back when they hear voices getting loud and chase you out or if you are black chase you out with sticks and brooms.
Not OK USA
I'm not hating on Koreans; I actually dig 'em being that I too have a disproportionately large head. Korean deli owners have balls the size of grapefruits; they'll open a store in the middle of the ghetto and chase a guy who stole a pack of gum a mile before letting someone get over on them. But the umbrella scam has got to go. I will not suffer in silence anymore, this Kim Jong Illness has got to stop.
My main man got hitched and being the industrious groomsmen that we are, we couldn't let a perfectly good rental tuxedo go to waste. For $135 we figured we had better get another day out of those things before we returned them, so a trip to Atlantic City was the obvious choice. Fully tux'ed with our chicks wearing cocktail dresses I devised the ultimate pickup scam: The Poor Groom left at the alter.
The con goes like this. Get a single guy friend and dress him a disheveled tuxedo, give him 1 bottle of champagne for each hand and a sad-sack, my puppy just died look on his face. Your group should walk behind him in their formal attire, making it obvious as to what is going on. Invariably a bunch of women will approach and inquire as to who got married. This is the story. The groom was madly in love with his bride to be despite some problems she had. He is a sensitive and understanding guy who figured their love would prevail and things would work out. He should allude to another guy being in the picture. Long story short, she doesn't show up to the wedding, he calls and calls and she doesn't pick up her phone. Finally she calls him to tell him that the wedding is off and she is in love with another man. His heart is broken and his friends decide to take him out to try to cheer him up.
This is practically foolproof. A vulnerable yet stable Prince Charming groom is as appealing to women as a dude handing out free Jimmy Choo's and a fat line of coke. Needless to say girls were trampling all over each other to talk to my boy like fat people at a WalMart Christmas sale. God, I'm truly brilliant and very pleased with myself for thinking of such a thing. I should teach a class at the learning annex.
I was doomed from the start. I was a miracle baby in the worst possible sense. Somehow that god dammed recessive red hair gene was able to defy all probability and begin the conspiracy to make my life suck as soon as I popped out as a Ginger Ninja. School began and I would always get into trouble with my teachers for doing the same shit the other kids were because I stuck out like a sore thumb that was bashed with a hammer and turned a hideous shade of red. When the most important social aspect of elementary school life is fitting in, being as conspicuous as a black man at a Klan rally wasn't something that worked in my favor.
I had a chance at a fresh start in junior high but the conspiracy upped the ante. My height shot up a foot that summer and my nose grew like I was a lying ass Pinocchio. My mother would assure me that one day I would grow into my nose; well intentioned but hardly comforting. After a lifetime of Ralph Malph's and Bozo the Clown's, I finally found a role model, the world's first cool redhead: Axl Rose. I started to grow my hair long figuring if it worked for him, it might work for me. The awesome texture of my hair gave the appearance of a bunch of Brillo pads used to clean a bloody crime scene attached to my head. To ensure that I blew the competition out of the water for biggest walking freak show, braces were added into the equation as the cruel cherry on top.
Everybody was hooking up in high school. Fat kids, pimply kids, guys with hairy backs, guys without pubes, guys with cheesy mustaches, everybody but me. I'd pray to God every night: "please don't let me die a virgin." Sadly, the architect of the conspiracy didn't listen, he hated me too. I tried every single haircut you see a picture of on the barbershop wall and they all let me down. I was funny, I had great taste in music, I was well read; none of that shit matters when you're rocking a carrot top.
Adulthood is even worse. Who can take a grown man with red hair seriously? Your dating options are severely handicapped. No woman in her right mind is looking for tall, red and freckly. It's hard enough for a normal guy to get a girl to like him, for a redhead it's like trying to climb Everest barefoot.
Now ain't this some bullshit? If I was born in 2100 I wouldn't have to live my life looking like Rocky Dennis:
"If predictions by the Oxford Hair Foundation come to pass, the number of natural redheads everywhere will continue to dwindle until there are none left by the year 2100.
The reason, according to scientists at the independent institute in England, which studies all sorts of hair problems, is that just 4 percent of the world's population carries the red-hair gene. The gene is recessive and therefore diluted when carriers produce children with people who have the dominant brown-hair gene."
No one likes flame headed men, ginger chicks have their appeal to some, but the fact is that in a study of over 1000 women red headed men beat out albino's by the slightest of margins and avoided being the least attractive. I guess there is hope because Whitey's have it worse.
More things that suck: -It takes 20% more anesthesia to put a copper top under -The Japanese beat readheaded POW's the worst during WW2, because they were small penis having haters.
Films and television programmes typically portray school bullies as having red hair, based on the stereotype that redheads are more temperamental, and thus allowing the audience to identify the bully faster by their hair color; examples are the O'Doyle family in the movie Billy Madison and Scut Farkus in A Christmas Story. However, children with red hair are often themselves targeted by bullies; "Somebody with ginger hair will stand out from the crowd," says anti-bullying expert Louise Burfitt-Dons.
"Gingerism" has been compared to racism, although this is widely disputed and bodies such as the UK Commission for Racial Equality do not monitor cases of discrimination and hate crimes against redheads. Prince Harry was bullied at school because of his red hair. a family in Newcastle upon Tyne, England, was forced to move twice after being targeted for abuse and hate crime on account of their red hair; and in 2003, a 20 year old was stabbed in the back for "being ginger."
Crusty Seamen are always chatting me up because of the nautical superstition: "Avoid people with red hair when going to the ship to begin a journey. Red heads bring bad luck to a ship, which can be averted if you speak to the red-head before they speak to you." Africans (all of them) think red hair is bad luck and when they see you they tell their children "Don't look at it" in fear of catching the devil.
This Doesn't Bode Well For Ini 'The Lyrical Gangsta' Kamoze
A 23-year-old Heathrow Airport worker who called herself the "Lyrical Terrorist" has become the first woman to be convicted under new terrorism legislation. Malik wrote poems entitled How To Behead and The Living Martyrs and stocked a "library" of documents useful to terrorists, the Old Bailey heard. The court heard she wrote on the back of a receipt from the shop: "The desire within me increases every day to go for martyrdom." Jonathan Sharp, prosecuting, told a jury that Malik liked to be known as the "Lyrical Terrorist" or "a stranger awaiting martyrdom".
So what does this mean for the Hotstepper? The poor bastard might as well turn himself into the local police station because of these damning lyrics:
Here comes the hotstepper, murderer I'm the lyrical gangster, murderer Excuse me mister officer, murderer Still love you like that, murderer Extraordinary, juice like a strawberry Money to burn baby, all of the time Cut to fade is me, fade to cut is she Come juggle with me, I say everytime Here comes the hotstepper, murderer I'm the lyrical gangster, murderer Dial emergency number, murderer Still love you like that, murderer Nah, na na na nah... it's how we do it man Nah, na na na nah... Start like a jackrabbit, finish in front of it On the night is jack , that's it, understand? I'm the daddy of the mack daddy His are left in gold, maybe Ain't no homie gonna play me, top celebrity man Murderer, I'm the lyrical gangster, murderer Excuse me mister officer, murderer Still love you like that, murderer No no we don't die, yes we mul-ti-ply Anyone test will hear the fat lady sing Act like you know, G go, I know what Bo don't know Touch them up and go, uh-oh
The Russian Marriage: Not Just a Mail Order Bride Scam Anymore
I know lots of married men, but probably only three who I would be comfortable classifying as "happily married." It's a shame, but a reality nevertheless. People get into relationships because it's comfortable and then find themselves detesting their spouse because things became too comfortable and now they are stuck with a roommate instead of a lover.
In response to this dilemma I wrote a blog about "The Henry Hill", where I extolled the virtues of having a Rossi/Friday Night Girlfriend of your very own to bring some spice to an otherwise boring life. In retrospect, I would disagree with myself. Managing two relationships is an awful idea and will just make an already miserable person worse. My boy Roman read the blog and offered up a solution that made much more sense: A Russian Marriage.
Being that I will never let the truth get in the way of a good story, I will take Roman's word at face value. It goes like this: Due to the fact that there are so many more women than men in Russia, chicks have to be willing to go the extra mile to keep their fella coming home to them. A Russian wife will knowingly allow her husband to sleep with one woman per year for every year of their marriage as long as he makes sure to uphold his end of this unspoken agreement by never bringing it up. Guiltless cheating...brilliant.
The beauty of America is we can take things from other cultures like Hot Dogs and Tacos and make them our own. Why not poach the one slip up a year free pass and make it part of wedding vows? It would literally save millions of marriages and put divorce attorney's out of business. People are able to put up with a lot more shit if they know that a payoff is coming around the corner. This could really work as long as women don't get any ideas about being equals and having it apply to them too.
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World were based on the drink, died at age 33 on October 14, 2007 after suffering a heart attack one week earlier that left him in a coma.
