Archive for January, 2012

When Slang Becomes More Accepted Than The Original Meaning

If you’re curious what an actual douche bag (i.e. the acclaimed feminine hygiene product)  looks like, Google Images is not the best resource.


Waiting For The Subway

Nope… it’s not coming yet. Just standing here on the subway platform, minding my own business, listening to Nicki Minaj on repeat. You know, just a regular evening.

I always try to summon the train telepathically by obsessively checking to see if it’s coming. Like 2 or more times per minute. It’s really pitiful. After a while, I’ll just stare, all zombie-like, down the tunnel, trying to see if there’s any extra light coming through (like from a train or something). Nope. Shit. Just a minor hallucination… no big deal.

Okay, now it’s time for my pissed off, I-don’t-have-time-for-this grimace, accompanied by an overly loud exhalation. Nailed it. Now, everyone else in our general vicinity is aware of my frustration. But seriously, where the hell is the train?


This Guy Has The Biggest D*ck I’ve Ever Seen

Really, dude?  You’re supposed to be my friend.  You actually think that by coming over here and saying that to her, you’re helping me out?  We were having a great conversation about how I never take the top lid when I buy my morning coffee, and you have to come over and tell her that?  I think she actually liked me before you crept up on her, but now she probably just feels weird and dirty.

We both know I never do stupid shit like that to you.  When I see you talking to a lady at a bar, I walk over and act like a motherfuckin’ gentleman.  “Oh, pleasure to meet you Denise,” and then maybe I’ll kiss the back of her hand.  Perhaps I’ll give her an overly-enthusiastic hug, and I’ll hold it for 3 or 4 seconds too long and tell her what a great hugger she is. Those are kinds of things you’ll get from me.  So think about that next time you see me talking to a little blonde hottie, okay?  Don’t come over, even to say something complimentary about my genitalia.  Lemme just talk to the hottie.


Hookers These Days…

No thanks, I’m good.  U want grammar lesson?


Words I Realized: Vlitz

vlitz [vlits], n – a story that you begin to tell but realize, regrettably, about midway through, is not worthwhile and not going over well

This happens to me more often than I’d like. I start telling what I initially think is gonna be a riveting story about this time I was trying to make a train once in Penn Station (or some bullshit like that). Turns out to be WAY less interesting than it was in my head a minute ago. I can no longer enjoy telling it, and my complete lack of enthusiasm is making it even worse. The big question is: Should I still finish the story (halfheartedly) now that I realize it sucks, or should I just cut myself off immediately and spare everyone? I mean, I’m already like 60% of the way through. Giving up now is pretty weak… but then again, so is the story. Got it! I’ll just tell better stories. Done.

From the awkward smiles, I could tell that Elton and Cindy were growing tired of what turned out to be an epic vlitz regarding my recent visit to the supermarket.  


Special Thanks To Bryan Block for inspiring this idea.

One Of These Things Is Not Like The Other Ones…

Stop it.  Just stop it.  I’m saying no.  Nuh uh.  Get out of here with that, okay?  You’re embarrassing yourself.


Hey, It’s More Gentlemanly Than Using Your Hand

You think you know your husband well?  Well, do you have any idea what he’s doing when you two are walking and you see him do this?  You probably don’t look too much into it… you assume he’s just stretching his back or legs, but you are mistaken.  What he’s doing is actually a hands-free adjustment to his genitals.

Allow me to explain.   Your husband’s got a scrotum, right?  Well, that very scrotum will periodically stick to his inner thigh.  If he’s sitting comfortably with you on the sofa, watching The Bridges of Madison County, it’s not the worst thing in the world.  But if he’s walking, with every single stride he takes, his pouch will rock back and forth several inches, and this can be very distracting.

Some guys use the large step to disjoin; for others, the actual separation of the scrotum occurs with the gyration of the hips.  Above, I take a sort of hybrid approach – I loosen the sack with a wide initial step, and then I complete the detachment upon rotation of my hips.


Special Thanks To Corey Witt for staying current with trends in genitalia.

This Is How You Get The Party Started


They seriously sell this at my local pharmacy.  I love how the packaging provides absolutely no detail as to what the alleged benefit of this product is.  Maybe it’s one of those word-of-mouth type things.  Something you just have to know about.  Like a secret sandwich at a deli or something cooler than that.

Hey, look… it’s sourced from species around the world, whatever the hell that actually means.  Truth is, they can say anything they want on this box because they know I probably have no other shark cartilage to compare it to.

But this is, after all, a pretty outstanding deal.  100% more free?!  Oh boy, double the shark cartilage!  I hope Nature’s Bounty gets this stuff from the shark’s face… that’s where you get the best cartilage.  Right?  Right, guys?


It Looks To Me Like This Bodega Was a Vegetarian

I realized this is what it looks like when a bodega vomits in the street.


Words I Realized – Himyarn

Himyarn [him-yahrn], n plural himyarn – a pimple on a part of the body where pimples are not typically found

I’m confused by this, yet I am not.  Part of me is curious as to how I possibly fostered a full-sized zit on my thigh, while the other part of me wonders how slash why I don’t get pimples on my thigh on a more consistent basis.  I’m no scientist, but I’m pretty sure thighs have sweat glands.  If I’m not mistaken, but I am probably mistaken, that should be enough there to churn out a good six to seven thigh pimples for every two years.  And at my ripe old age, that means I should’ve had, oh, just about 175 thigh pimples by now.  But I can really only remember maybe four… so something’s not right here.

Orlando opted to wear jeans on the hot summer day to cover the swollen red himyarn on his kneecap, which was much to the dismay of Joyce, who frequently looked forward to such days when she could expect Orlando to be wearing short knickers to showcase his olive-skinned legs with those well-rounded hamstrings.

Wait, himyarn?? I don’t get it… Can you explain?


It Was Obvious He Was Gonna Break That Record All Season. So Obvious.

I realized some writers are a little gratuitous with their word choices.  Sproles “easily” beat Derrick Mason’s record of 2,690 combined yards by 6 total yards, or an average of 0.375 yards per week over the 16-game season.


Special Thanks To Craig Cohen for reading blogs by authors of various writing levels.

Disney And Al Pacino Lied To Me


Ever notice how, in general, godmothers and godfathers are COMPLETELY different, seemingly incompatible types of people?  The word “godfather” makes me picture a successful, sophisticated, ruthless gangster.  “Godmother,” on the other hand, conjures up images of a sweet old lady in a fairy tale, who probably makes children’s lives better with the wondrous power of magic and apple cider.

The marriage between a godmother and godfather must be quite difficult, requiring compromise and sacrifices from both of them throughout their lives.  Here are some key differences that likely create some cultural barriers between them at first:

 Godmother                    vs.                        Godfather

Makes dreams come true

Drug trafficking and prostitution

Has magical powers and a wand

Has no magical ability (or wand)

Hooded periwinkle shawl

Fine Italian 3-piece suit (black)

Brightens our day with a smile

Orders hits on his enemies

From a made-up land far, far away

Of Italian descent

Presumably, they work out the marital kinks after a year or two, and then it’s smooth sailing after that.  Good for them.


Ummmm… Hello?

Uhhhhhh… This is what I’m supposed to do, right?  I don’t see any knobs or foot pedals so I can only assume this is one of those automatic, sensor-operated jobs… but nothing seems to be happening.  I put my hand next to the sensor, I moved it a little further away.  I even performed the classic “walk-away-for-five-seconds-then-return-to-the-sink” maneuver.  Nothing.

How do I turn it on?  Am I supposed to be delivering a hand job to the faucet?  Is that what it wants me to do?  Cause I’m in a rush, so let me know if that’s what I should do.  If it is, I’ll just do it.  Would I be proud of that?  No, not particularly.  But my hands are soiled, and there don’t appear to be many other options.  And you already know that I have little sense of self worth.


Stop Lying



Who are you kidding?  Those aren’t “Nuts ‘n Snacks”; those are just nuts.  There is only one ingredient to this whole bag — nuts.  Might as well call it something cooler, like Nuts ‘n Angel Dust, if you’re just gonna lie about it anyway.


Words I Realized: Dunch

dunch [duhnch], n – a dirty, wrinkled, haggard dollar bill

Ugh, gross.  At least this one isn’t being held together by Scotch tape… although that ominous brown smear in the upper right corner is not a good sign.  Like a groner of US currency, the dunch is always undesirable.  It feels so devilishly exciting to dump one of these onto someone else, doesn’t it?  The vending machine was too picky to accept this nasty skeleton of a dollar, but the guy at the bodega took it during a transaction involving spearmint Orbit.  Not my problem anymore.

One dunch is acceptable, two is pushing it, but don’t you fucking dare give me three or more dunches in one sitting.  

Wait, dunch?? I don’t get it… Can you explain?


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