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..."

Everything You Need To Know About Men's Hair

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.

Punishment Style

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?

Is Too Much of a Good Thing Possible?

Tropicana Casinos: Second Class Jernts

"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.



The "Comission"

Poutine, You Son of a Bitch

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.

Cheating To Win

[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 Heart Alabama (Skip To 5:30 on the Video)

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 everyone in 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

Fat Guy, Skinny Jeans

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.

Ed Mac Gives Back. Cinco de Mayo Edition

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!

Your Boy on Obama

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.

Tel Aviv Nightlife

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.

Stuck on 99: The Pickup Line

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.

Remember When Bill Clinton Playing the Sax on Arsenio Was Considered Lowbrow?

Candidates cutting wrestling promos: The New Low

Cat'll Eat Your Face Bonus Material

Cat'll Eat Your Face Bonus Material

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"

Linguine With Bacon and Eggs: My Grail Quest

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.

You'll Die Alone and Your Cat'll Eat Your Face...

...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.

"Special" Street Theater

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.

How Chicks Cheat Without Their Friends Knowing

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.

You're welcome.

Guido Schandenfreude

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.

Remember Where You Came From

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 Myth Of The Cougar

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?

Crip Walking

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.

The Problem With Broads

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?

Teenage Tit Jobs: Just Say No

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.

Cringe Karaoke

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.

Nick Mackey or Vic Mackey?

From our Carolina correspondent:

"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."

"Legendary" is the New "Hero"

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.

'Tis the Season to Be a Sucker

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.

Secret Prisons and Watersports

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.

Gonna Be Outta the Country For a Minute

I may or may not update. I will eat falafel. Back on the 27th. Stay Awesome