[Best of the Web]: The Keys to my Kingdom

"To make matters worse, he had taken my place on the two-person couch, leaving me the distant, third-wheel chair, a full coffee table away from my prize.I wasn’t a math major in college, but I knew enough to be certain that the guy on the couch is 78% more likely to bang the girl than the loser on the chair. "

Read the full story.

[Best of the Web]: Daddy don't hit me

"She had on a glorious SMILF coat, her hair was in a ponytail, and she was wearing tight spandex pants. I took one last regretful look, thought about how pretty she was, and realized that Lydia probably wasn't going to like me anymore, divorce or no. [...] Reality hit full on. I was a 6'2" 230lbs ogre, covered in wood chips, still trying to catch the rest of my breath, in the middle of a throng of SMILFs who were laughing their asses off at my expense. There were no good-natured insults this time, like when I had told [another] story earlier. Their laughter was too powerful for words. Lydia laughed loudest of all. I opened my eyes, looked down, and sighed deeply."

Read the full story. It is hilarious. Really, Really.

You think I live in a shithole (Durham, NC). Think twice.

I was delighted to find a friend of mine (waves and wires) write a post about what Durham, that godforsaken town in no-man’s land North Carolina, has to offer. Sure thing, we don’t have your Guggenheims, Mets, and other tourist-catchers. Nor do we have a trashy red bridge, a phallic Empire State Building, or one of those shabby State Capitols that adore many American cities. But, and here it comes you fuckin’ geniuses: we have so much more. There are tons of things which make Durham one of the most attractive goddamn places to live. And I’m not talking about the slutty Duke-chicks that hunt the bars on Thursday and Friday nights on Main and 9th (although this can very well constitute a definite plus).

I am talking about the more profound things in life. Food and traffic jams. For the latter, there are practically none of these. Far are my days in the overcrowded subways in Frankfurt, Paris or New York. Far are the days when I got mad at some fat-assed bitch that couldn’t properly handle her car. Whenever you drive around in Durham county, you don't have to surrender your sanity. Okay, granted, there’s hell lot of green around here. Like totally too much. Forests cover certainly up to 95% of the country. But beside being gorgeous (at times – not so much like a hot blonde on the sidewalk, for sure, but not that bad either), it very effectively erases jams.
The second, certainly most important point in favor of ole’ fucking Durham (besides the insane great weather forecast) is the local food. Now for the junk food gourmet that I am, this is heaven. Heaven. I’ve got it all, and more I could ever have asked for. Pulled Pork Vinegar BBQ Sandwiches at my heart’s desire (and stroke, at some point); BBQ Spare Ribs by the Hog; Honey Chicken Wings that drip the sauce right along your fingers onto your pants; the Best Burgers in whole goddamn America with no less than a pound of meat, covered with everything green, yellow and red there is; Mexican food that would even make that other fag, Ricky Martin, blush (he’s not Mexican, is he?).
And you’ve got all of this and more at an average of less than 10 fuckin’ bucks. Yep, you got it right, ten bucks or less. Now, there’s no BBQ joint whatsoever in Boston or DC that could possibly beat that. Plus I got to eat on the terrace under the Carolina sunshine. Plus the chicks start to wear really, really short skirts starting late February. Plus, they are Southern girls – blonde, hot, and tremendously stupid.

Now if you’re not already packing and preparing to move down South, bro, than there’s something seriously wrong with you…

Quotes from an Asshole: Tucker Max on Gentlemen Clubs

"It is an almost universal rule of gentlemen's clubs that the cocktail waitresses are more fun to talk to, and more apt to fuck customers, than the strippers. They are not as pressed for time, so they will banter more. The limp-dicks that overtip the strippers usually don't tip the cocktail waitresses at all, so attention to a cocktail waitress will get you much further than attention to a stripper. [...]
The funniest thing is that they always think they are better than the strippers; in their mind there is a bright line separating them from the women who actually take their clothes off, thus it is usually much easier to get a cocktail waitress to go home with you. Strippers are jaded, abused, used-up; they hate men, and usually for good reason. The cocktail waitresses are far less defensive. They are so used to being ignored or looked through, that when you do pay attention to them, they respond to it. Read and learn fellas. "

Bankers make shit out of money

I’m not yet one more of those pathetic fuckers that come in the aftermath of the financial crisis to promulgate what everybody already knows: We are fucked. Nor am I an economist or a pundit that pokes around in the open wound to tell you just HOW BADLY fucked we really are.
I am not among those cheap folks. I was above that rat pack. I was a fucking banker.

I quit my job a full year before the financial crisis unfolded. Was I particularly smart? Did I see something others didn’t? Nahh. I was just blessed with infinite luck. I left the house while it just started cracking and smoking, and I left that goddamn house with a fat, fat check.

Now, I am not in the mood for a profound and diligent analysis of all the things that went wrong with the markets and the mortgages. You heard that crap before. I’ll give you a hands-on 101 why the system was rotten from the bottom up, not only from the top down.

What I know for a fact is the following:
* We were paid shitloads of money
* We were really, really paid shitloads of money
* The only way to maintain that flow was to poker.

And poker we did. Right out of business school, after an initial few months spent in various forms of traineeships, we were handed out blank checks and a tap on the butt: “go, get your meat”. We didn’t have years of industry experience, nor did we acquire the wisdom provided by decades of wisely managing rock solid assets such as bonds or treasury notes. We were simply given money and a license to make a killing. In pretty much any asset class. How could you then, possibly, expect the poorest of our class (junior bankers and financiers – still in the six figures) to go for the save assets? We wanted to make money, and we wanted that goddamn money now: That thousand dollar suit. Mine. Those 500 bucks shoes. Mine too. That fucking gorgeous hot blond at the bar. MINE. I tell you only so much: we were hungry, greedy, and horny. A bad, bad mixture.
That, my friends, is the 101 of the bubble. And it won’t stop anytime soon. In a year, two, or maybe even three, when the banks will be salvaged, when the roaring from DC will have vanished, banks will, once more, revert to the business schools to hire their hungry crowds of MBAs. And THE SHOW MUST GO ON.

There are only FOUR categories of people in the whole goddamn universe

Chuck Klosterman is my hero. I love Chuck Klosterman. He had the infinite wisdom to crack down the code of the universe, this whole goddamn fucked-up matter, into four simple categories of people. In his book "Killing yourself to Live", he explains that the world he saw as a 10th grade was one of "only four kinds of people [...]: girls you want to fuck, girls who are unfuckable, guys you want to kill, and guys who are generally okay".

As I reach my 27th year, I realize that the way I see (and categorize) my environment hasn't changed much since then. Indeed, babes are simply hot or not, and dudes are either fucking cool or driving me ape-shit. It isn't much more complex. And that's that.

But let me elaborate a little bit further. I certainly do believe these four broad categories set the framework. But within the brackets, you have the scales. Think for a moment. THE scales. Yep, most notably the Hotness Scale. So, if I have a girl in my "fuckable category", she has to be, to me, at LEAST a solid 7. I ain't screw nothing below a 7. A friend of mine, a road buddy, told me once he'd go as low as a shabby 5 (he said something about personality, but I didn't quite get that one). That's okay, that's his vision of the universe.
But for me, nah, nothing under a 7. Below that, the chick's unfuckable. But that doesn't mean she can't be a friend. Friendship's okay four three categories: girls who are fuckable, who are unfuckable, and cool dudes. The only exclusion, very obviously, are guys you want to smash their faces into the ground. For Dudes, though, there isn't such a thing as scaling. There are simply cool dudes you like more, and cool dudes you like less. And the rest are assholes: they make it right into the "I'd rather kill you". This bracket includes former and present bosses; most politicians; all your elementary, middle school, and most of your high school teachers; science college professors; Brad Pitt; your driving instructor; your girl-griend's ex.

Now what about all the people you just cross in the street? The "random folks"? Well, for them, you very obviously should have a fifth category, labelled "matter". Matter because they are not in your perceived reality: you don't acknowledge them - so they don't exist within your vision of the universe. Sounds annoying? Well, simply think of it as puppets - puppets that make your walk more pleasant. Or the clapping folks in the background of a live-record of Britney. Got it? So, in the end, it's not really a category of people, but it's an element, like air, water, earth, and that... last thing.

French tanks have six gears; they are all reverse

Paradoxically, though, France is "home to Earth's entire population of 62.7 million people, every single one of the planet's 427 cities, and all of its history, culture, and beauty, and France is the only country in the World.

Located directly in the center of the universe around which everything else evolves, the nation of France is the sole beacon of life and civilization in an otherwise empty void. Stretching from the globe's southermost point in Marseille to its northern tip in Paris, and extending all the way to the Far East, or Dijon, France is known troughout France for its streets, buildings, wine, and food, things that simply don't exist anywhere else.

The French have produced every great achievement in every field of endeavor in the history of mankind, including the sculptures of Michelangelo, the symphonies of Beethoven, and the writings of William Shakespeare. Today, this birthplace of art, aviation, democracy, coffee, man, Buddhism, socialism, raggae, John Wayne, pasta, karate, the American Revolution, arrogance, space exploration, the Nile River, and everything else that has ever come to pass, has earned its place as the finest, greatest, and best nation in all of France." (Source: Can't remember, sorry)

Amen.

Those fuckin' Brits

There’s this thing with British people. They are ugly. Tremendously ugly. And they speak with a funny fucked-up accent. I was blessed with such incredible wisdom while I was on a two hour correspondence at the airport of London Heathrow.

It struck me at the very moment I exited the plane. There were a few samples already at the gate's doors, and I thought “Uh, that’s tough” but as I progressed through the terminal, the occurrence of bad looking people didn’t decrease – at all. Brits are cheesy white people who turn bloody red under the sun. They have crooked or fat noses, small lips, and frog eyes. Female examples of that peculiar people dress like hookers and walk like prisoners. Their really, really fat bodies are squeezed into tiny skirts and too short tops – very much like German blood sausages.
But who could possibly blame them? They live on an island with nothing of interest whatsoever. Their queen is old and stubborn, their food is disgusting, fried to the limit and wrapped into newspaper, their humor is ordinary. They have truly, truly shitty weather. And, once more, they remain the ugliest people I have seen so far.
So why, for God’s sake, would anyone want to live on that fucked-up island? I have to admit, though, that I didn’t exactly cross the British border. The airport is as far as I went into the UK. But who could possibly blame me? After what I’ve seen at the airport, it would take an entire battalion to drag me outta there.

Tucker Max: Quote of an asshole

"Two girls call me close-minded. I tell them that they are so open-minded that their brains leaked out."

www.tuckermax.com

In Defence of fuckin' Cursing

The woman who's sitting close by while I'm editing this post is fuckin' bothering me. She keeps on talking and talking about her husband's shitty job at an accounting firm and the bullshit she's doing at the divinity school. Yark. And that jerk who's sitting with her listens quietly while I pull the trigger in my mind and shoot her a goddamn bullet in the head.
But let's not waste our precious time on that gal's trivialities. She's fat and ugly. And she looks like a goddamn horse. The introduction to this post is merely an illustration of the appropriate use of cuss words. I was indeed very touched (to say the least) by a recent article written in defense of cursing.
The troubling thing, according to the author, is that even the hardest hitting magazines draw back to censorship to get rid of such basic words as "fuck" and "shit". Even though they are commonly accepted and understood adjectives of the English language, an increasing number of media stay clear of their use. Talking about Darfur or Tibet, the use of the ford "fuckin'" to underlie the extent of the mess would not be usurpating the language. Nor would a "mothafucker" be inappropriate when one comes to describe Mugabe. Right? So why shall we, for God's fuckin' sake, work around those words when their use is so clearly fuckin' appropriate?
I have another exemple of a current life situation where a nicely placed curse might have releaved much of the tension. Things went a lil' bit sour with my girl yesterday. There, a "fuck, fuck, fuck" would have done a pretty awesome fuckin' job.
The author's "favorite example of prudery has to be when Men's Health — a magazine read entirely by people with penises — quoted Robin Williams explaining how to save a stand-up routine. If all else fails, he said, "go for the d—- joke." Can you believe that? A men's magazine afraid of the word dick." I cannot agree more with that statement. Goddamn it, we are dicks and jerks, so let's be candid about it, for once. I don't want to read an article about my fuckin' dick without the words "fuckin' awesome" used together.
So the author has elaborated a set of rules for the appropriate use of our language's most basic adjectives: "For instance, shit is an all-purpose word [you] should use [...] when failing an exam or watching a favorite team cost you $20 by blowing a huge lead. However, if you use lose more than $20, that's a fuck. If you're dealing with the IRS, that might be a shit or a fuck, depending on who did your taxes; if you're dealing with the FBI or ATF, that's always a fuck. Among other cuss words, asshole is good for the boss or moron coworkers or in-laws, but motherfucker should be reserved for more weighty situations, such as when a mugger shoots you even after you give him your wallet, or you realize you're slipping off the edge of the Grand Canyon as you back up for a family photo. I hear motherfucker invoked for the simplest of transgressions, such as a foul during a basketball game. No, no, no! "Fuck you" will suffice, or maybe "What the hell?" Motherfucker is a fairly serious accusation."


To read the article on Chiprowe: http://www.chiprowe.com/articles/swear.html

Homer Simpson and the embarrassing truth about Education

"How is education supposed to make me feel smarter? Besides, every time I learn something new, it pushes some old stuff out of my brain. Remember when I took that home winemaking course, and I forgot how to drive?" Homer Simpson