Friday, March 31, 2006

The $40 Rule is Easy to Keep When you Only Have $40

Tom Leykis, perhaps my greatest influence, often speaks of the The $40 Rule. This rule, for those who are too lazy to follow my link, states that a man should pay no more than $40 on a date for him and his date combined. Actually, she should be the one paying. Impossible, you say? Go to dinner at Macaroni Grill, don’t get drinks, an appetizer, or dessert, and you will find that you may even have enough left over for condoms on the way home. The trick, says Leykis, is ordering first and eating beforehand. This way you will not be hungry, and most likely not order much more than a bowl of soup. And we all know no woman will order more food than you that is not a complete pig. And if she is a complete pig, you really shouldn’t be on a date with her in the first place. The point is, if she really likes you, and is not just using you for food, drinks and whatever else you decide to buy her, it won’t really matter where or what you are eating, but that you are spending time together. Call it cheap, I say it’s looking for deeper meaning.

For years, I stuck to this rule like glue. I was damn good at it, and I took such pride in telling people how I never blew money on women. Actually, it was usually the other way around. Recently, a funny thing happened. I got this crazy thing called “expendable income.” And I realized, it is really easy to stick to the $40 rule when you are constantly flat fucking broke. But when your bank account is regularly in the four figures it becomes much more difficult to not start blowing cash on a date. Considering that I regularly spend $85 on a night out on myself, limiting myself to $40 for two people is becoming impossible. It’s kind of like the unattractive poor guy saying he’d never cheat on his wife. Sure, its easy when you never have the opportunity. Lets see what happens when you win the lotto.

The last few dates I have been on I have lost track of how much money I spent. This was not in a vain attempt to impress the girl, jbut rather in an attempt to keep myself entertained. And by entertained, I mean drunk. Perhaps this is because I am dating boring women, or perhaps it is because I have a much more carefree spending attitude than I did previously. But any way you cut it, the $40 rule has gone completely by the wayside.

So I apologize to Father Leykis, I have strayed form the path. My date spending is almost as out of control as my non-date spending, and it needs to be reeled in. The funny thing is, when I have gone out with a girl I really liked, I haven’t spent as much. Maybe I am more concerned with finding out if she really likes me, or perhaps I just don’t feel the need to order that fifth Jack and Coke to get myself through the evening. I’m not sure. I do know this, though: the next date I go on, I am bringing $40 in cash and no cards. Okay, maybe a gas card but that’s it. Because if a lady can’t appreciate me without being plied with alcohol or wooed with a fancy meal, she probably isn’t worth my time anyway.

Believe it or not, despite what I may go on and on about on this blog, if I am going to bother taking a girl on a date, it means I probably like her and enjoy her company. If I want to find a random girl to sleep with, I will stick to going out in groups and finding someone to take home. When it comes to actual dates, it is not ALL about sex. ALL about sex. If we get to date three and it ain’t happening, I figure I am probably being used for burgers at chain restaurants and no further plans are made. Because I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to Rule #2.

Thursday, March 30, 2006

UltraFest 2006: SOMEBODY Listens to Techno

UltraFest. Never heard of it? Of course you haven’t. Because unless you spend countless hours perusing the Dance/Electronica or “techno’ sections of your local Best Buy, this annual event seems to be nothing more than a collection of guys with German names playing records. And, admittedly, if you were not familiar with the world of club music, that is pretty much what it would look like. Well, that, and one of the biggest freak shows this side the “Love Parade.” Known simply as Ultra to most of the super-cool, in-the-know types, this event features more or less every big name DJ in the world playing in Miami’s Bayfront Park as the culminating event of the Winter Music Conference. I would list off a few of the big names, but again, it would more than likely elicit nothing more than a response of “Who?” from 98% of the people reading this. But even if you are not a fan of Meat Katie, Armand Van Helden or Carl Cox, there are still plenty of things to entertain you during this 12-hour extravaganza.

The funny thing about electronic music (and can we please stop calling it all “techno?” Seriously) is that for some reason it seems to invite a larger-than average number of freaks. And by freaks, I mean people on drugs. You don’t often go out in the middle of the day and see a group of grown women all wearing pacifiers for no apparent reason, now do you? Nor do you go out in the middle of the night and see 20,000 people all wearing sunglasses. I would like to think this is some sort of fashion statement, or that everybody was just too lazy to take them off after the sun went down, but something tells me this may not be the case. I think the girls wearing the skin-tight wife-beaters with “Roll with Me” printed on the front pretty much summarized it all. Either that or the guy with the blow up doll glued to his crotch.

Of course, one nice side effect of tens of thousands of people all feeling “Euphoric” at the same time is that it becomes very hard to get into a fight. You ever go into a bar and you bump into a guy and he acts like you just punched his mother in the nose? Well, at Ultra, you could probably walk up to the same guy’s mother, punch her in the nose, and his response would be something along the lines of “Hey, man, that’s cool. She hadn’t been punched in a while. She really needed that. Thanks.” Oddly enough, some guys like it when you bump into them at Ultra, but I try to avoid that. And for the ladies, you know when you go to regular clubs where guys are intoxicating themselves with traditional substances like, you know, liquor, and they get all stupid and try to grind on your ass for no particular reason? Not the case at Ultra. Most guys at Ultra seem to like to stand in one place and stare at the DJ booth, thoroughly convinced that the strobe lights and lasers are somehow spelling out the meaning of life in Morse code. And if they are not entranced by the visual effects, they are entranced by their own dancing as they have what appears to be an upright epileptic seizure with glow sticks. Either way, most guys are too wrapped up in bright lights and shiny objects to bother trying to rub up against you. Kind of like going to a club full of retards.

And let’s say you were one of the nine people who decided it would be fun to get drunk at Ultra (Ultra, also the only place where hard-core drinkers are seen as wholesome). You know how when you get wasted you always seem to get really hungry? Well not only does Ultra boast 25 or 30 top-notch food stands, but, for some reason, nobody seems to be eating anything. So you just walk right up, order your chicken-kabab and an Arepa, and go back to dancing the night away. But don’t even think about trying to buy water, you’ll still be on line when they kick you out at midnight. Although, according to many Ultra-goers, it is “like, the best water I’ve ever tasted,” so perhaps it’s worth the wait.

So see, even if a repetitive beat overlaid with a sound my mom once described as “a loud cat burping,” is not your thing, there are a lot of worse ways you could spend twelve hours on a Saturday. And this year, they even had The Killers play a set, since, you know, those ravers LOVE The Killers. Perhaps this will start a trend and more rock bands will start playing at Ultra and eventually it will become more like Woodstock than Burning Man. Or perhaps Eminem was right, and “Nobody listens to techno,” which would mean that the 40,000 people I saw on Saturday were just an illusion. Man, I gotta find out where to get some more of that shit.

Tagged Again

Again , my apologies to Nicole for forgetting about her tag during yesterdays shitstorm of vitriol. Here are my responses:

1) What were you doing 10 Years Ago?
Finishing up my Junior year at Roosevelt HS in Seattle. I think Vocal Jazz won the Reno International Jazz festival around this time that year.

2) 5 Years Ago?
Enjoying my Junior year at University of Miami. I think I started doing coke around this time.

3) 1 Yeat Ago?
Preparing to leave Orange County and cruising through my last days at the Vitamin Company. Spent most of my time on the message board for a High School in Pittsburgh. Don’t ask.

4) Five snacks you enjoy:
- Kettle Cooked Potato chips
- 94% Fat Free Microwave Popcorn
- Chocolate chip cookies
- Chips and salsa
- Cereal

5) Five songs I know by heart but wish I didn’t:
- Livin’ La Vida Loca (Ricky Martin)
- To Be with You (Mr. Big)
- Return of The Mack (Mark Morrissey)
- Barbie Girl (Aqua)
- Da Dip (Freak Nasty)

6) Five things I would do with a LOT of money:
- Buy a luxury condo
- Travel the world
- Go out, in style, a LOT
- Clothes, clothes, clothes
- Open a free abortion clinic

7) Five things I would never wear:
- Polo with a popped collar
- A striped dress shirt and jeans
- A dress shirt with a loud pattern
- A sport coat and jeans
- Anything ripped

8) Five things I should never have worn:
- Zooba pants
- Spandex
- Seafoam dress shirt
- Flourescent baseball hat
- Short shorts (for anything but working out)

9) Five things I enjoy doing:
- Writing
- Working Out
- Tanning
- Shopping
- Drinking

10) Five bad habits:
- Being impatient
- Poor diet
- Drinking and driving
- Cursing
- Absent mindedness

11) Five people that must fill this out:
- Ashburnite
- Andy
- The Only Other Miami Blogger I Know Of
- JenJen (That's what you get for calling me a sellout)
- Johnson

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Hater Nation and More From Graig

I feel like this blog has finally arrived. I have officially developed a legion of haters. So, Ted, Andy, Greek Girl, and everyone from The Locker Room message boards on, thank you. Today has been a lot of fun.

For those who do not read my comments section, I have been pretty steadily ripped for the past two days. I'm not sure why, but all of a suuden what was once a mildly offensive comments box has become an all-out attack of myself. Oh well, keeps things interesting. Then came today, when my good friend Matt Johnson put a link to my Jenn Sterger post on a UM message board. Then it got put up on a couple of FSU boards, then an Iowa one, then one at University of Kentucky, then, I have no idea. What I do know is I got literally 70 times the hits today that I have gotten on any other day. And most of these people, apparently, don’t like me too much. No word if the Drugstore Cowgirl has seen it yet, though.

Then there was this guy, who devoted an entire post to me being a doofus. Thanks, I guess. But he is pretty funny. At least he thinks he is.

So, since I have devoted so much energy to addressing Dade Hater Nation (and some might say I should just ignore them, but what fun would that be?) I am going to once again give the floor to my good friend Graig. Or, as I like to call him, the only decent thing to ever come out of FSU.

By Graig Smith

We’ve worked really hard for this. I would like to take this moment to share some wisdom that I really think could go a long way towards settling some of the problems between the sexes. Well, perhaps that’s a tad exaggerated. I mean, I didn’t exactly find a way to convince women that they’re sole purpose is to satisfy the physical needs of man and that alone should make them happy enough. Surely, if I had, you would have heard of my Nobel nomination on CNN or something. No no, my ideas are much more modest. But I do truly think this can have some impact on bettering relations.

Men can, at times, have rather foul mouths. It’s part of what makes us men and it’s really fucking fun to just curse sometimes. Try it. This display of rudimentary language can be applied to all topics and subjects, including women. Sometimes men make comments or descriptions of women that are found to be quite offensive by the female gender. However, it seems to me that often times women rarely understand the basis of such comments.

When men get upset they like to swear. If a man gets upset with a woman, for whatever reason, there will logically and most likely be swearing involved. In this instance a man can use any one, or more, of the myriad of derogatory terms for women (why so many??). Since there is such an abundance I will only mention a few of the more popular ones and also some of my personal favorites: bitch; whore (pronounced whoore); slut (can be pronounced sloot, much like the law offices of Steven Slootsky, or the infamous Vandersloot); and of course everyone’s favorite – cunt. Yes, that’s right, the ol’ champion of berating women.

The problem arises when women hear men use these terms and think that the man is actually using these words based on their descriptive meanings. Men know this is not always the case. Too often women miss the point of what the real problem is and focus more on the definitions of certain words used when outlining the problem. For example, if I begin a sentence with something like, “This fucking whore went and did….” or, “Can you believe this Goddamn slut….” I don’t necessarily mean that these women actually go and sell their bodies for money, nor are they even necessarily morally loose individuals. If they are and the price is right, then hey that’s fine. But I digress. The above examples simply portray a guy who is upset for some reason, the source of his discontent is a woman, and he is expressing his dislike of said woman with the first demeaning term that pops into his head. It really is that simple. If the aforementioned female happens to be your friend, don’t take it personally if she is referred to as a whore. Ladies, this is what you need to understand.

I do realize that there is a chance that any female who was reading this stopped prior to this section and is ready to go off on some tirade about how I must never get laid and I must be ugly and why do I hate women, etc., and it is this same behavior that perpetuates the problem I am addressing. Or there could be the girl who is reading this who doesn’t take these simple words seriously and looks to the bigger picture….


Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Disappointment? Who Wouldn't Trade Places With Me?

Yesterday, someone called me a disappointment to my family because of my chosen profession. Am I a male prostitute? A porn star? Stripper? No, no, I manage a gym. And although no Jewish mother brags to her friends that her son shows people how to lift weights for a living, I have a job that I love going to every day. I work in a bright gym full of sunshine. I can write all day if I want to, as I look out on Biscayne Bay from my office. And if I get bored with writing, I go out and lift some weights. If I could get a tan while I was doing this I believe I would have the perfect job. And, thanks to some lucky breaks and my employers being very good to me, I am making the same if not more (at this point anyway) than I would if I had “used my degree,” as some accuse me of not doing.

Despite all of my complaining and hating on this blog, I actually enjoy my life a lot right now. I go out and drink more than I did in college, I have plenty of time to do the things I enjoy, and I am typically getting paid while I do them. I hardly ever have to sit in traffic; my commute is typically under 10 minutes. I get a 3-day weekend every other week. I have plenty of friends who at least pretend to enjoy my company, and I make new ones every day thanks to this blog. I am making enough money that I am able to do pretty much whatever I want and have enough left over to fix my car if it breaks down. I look good, I feel good, and even possible eviction and a ticket on the way to work don’t really bother me that much. I have two jobs, neither of which require me to do a whole lot. But they both interest me, keep me financially comfortable and, most importantly, do not dominate my life in any way.

Do you know why I am able to live like this? Because I prioritized doing something I enjoyed ahead of making a lot of money. I have a degree. In business management, actually. Unfortunately, I find the actual “business” side of things to be dreadfully boring, and therefore have sought out jobs that involved something that interested me. And anyone who thinks I am not using my degree has no idea what they are talking about. My first job, which dealt with nutrition and science, I would not have gotten without a business degree since it was in the marketing department of a Vitamin Company. The job I have now came down to me and another trainer, who was more experienced as a trainer, mind you, but since I had a degree, and that degree was in Business Management, I got the job ahead of him. So while I am not crunching numbers or figuring out gross profit margins, I am making a return on my parents’ investment. And, most importantly, I am happy. At least professionally.

Good ol’ Larry wrote a piece a few months ago that was, in my opinion, one of his best. Though I disagreed with a lot of it, it basically talked about how life sucked after college and the sad thought of working in a soul-sucking job for the rest of your useful life. It was a bit depressing. But that is what happens when you take a job based on money. You end up doing some shit you don’t necessarily enjoy doing as a means to an end. And I guess a lot of people I know do the same thing.

A friend of mine from Business School who works about 60 hours a week for a bank down here asked me recently “Why don’t you actually use your degree? Like, you are so smart, if you wanted to you could be doing so much better.” Granted, if I wanted to go the corporate route, I could be making more money. But “doing so much better?” Listen, there is no closer version of Hell to me than sitting in traffic for an hour each way, spending 10 hours at a job you don’t like, then driving an hour back home. In traffic. I would take my life now ahead of that life and a higher salary. And I think most others would too.

I don’t ever want kids, and I don’t really care one way or another if I get married or not. I feel no need to drive a fancy car, nor do I particularly aspire to buy any property. These things are just not important to me. So why put myself through hell five days a week to try and support a dream I don’t have? As I look out my floor-to-ceiling windows on yet another sunny day here is South Florida, I wonder if I would be able to do all this were I working in the business world as a strictly business person. Somehow I doubt it. As a matter of fact, I think if I were working in a job I hated just so I could make more money, that would be a bigger disappointment to my family than anything I am doing now.

Thursday, March 23, 2006

FSU Cowgirl Jen Sterger is What is Wrong with America

Just to preface this: I hate Florida State. For a variety of reasons ranging from football to an ex-girlfriend, I am one of the great FSU-haters of all time. But my hatred of this particular institution has absolutely nothing to do with why I find Jenn Sterger to be one of the most phony, obnoxious and overrated personalities to grace the internet since Miss Paris Hilton had her coming out party on video. For those of you unfamiliar, the esteemed Miss Sterger (apparently known in internet circles as Cowgirl Jenn) was spotted by an ABC cameraman at the Miami-FSU game this year, and a few hundred thousand internet postings later, she is now in Maxim and preparing to show herself in Playboy next month. Oh, and not only are we being bombarded with Jenn Sterger pictures, but she now has a column on too.

What really disgusts me about Jenn Sterger is not her chest or her “hey-look-at-me-I’m-a-hot-chick” choice of wardrobe. Nor is it her labeling herself a “cowgirl” when she hails from the legendary cattle town of Tampa. Those are all things typical of any A-grade attention whore in Tallahassee. No, what irks me about you, Miss Sterger, is your thinly veiled attempt to be the “Attainable Hot Chick who Loves Sports.” Jenn, you are a hot-girl celebrity and you are wallowing in it like a hog on a hot day. Stop telling us you are a down-to-Earth hometown girl because, sweetie, I ain’t buying it. Anyone who devotes an entire SI column to telling the world how popular they are cannot tell me they are not full of themselves with a straight face.

Your attempt at modesty is absolutely pathetic. You cannot, in one breath, say “I’m a normal college girl. I wake up late for class, fight for parking spaces, and spend way too much time watching ESPN. Honestly, if you walked past me at school, you probably wouldn't look twice,” and then in the next brag about your 16,000 friend requests on facebook. Because being the most popular girl on facebook is kind of like being the guy who gets the most pussy at a BBW convention. And, incidentally, I especially love how you started your SI column with “You may not recognize the name, but I'm sure you have seen my pictures.” Actually I mentioned you to about a dozen people in New York this week and none of them had a fucking clue who you were. Maxim spread and all.

What irks me even more about Jenn Sterger is her proclaiming herself an FSU “superfan.” Yes, Jenn because only a true fan would describe gameday as “like, the funnest thing ever. You just get up and get wasted.” I don’t know about you, but I find it difficult to tell whether or not Bowden is using his nickel package on third down after four hours of binge drinking.

Our darling cowgirl also claims she wants to go to law school (aka the residual career path for the directionless). Let me tell you, if I am accused of murder, and my lawyer walks in and she has a pair of $10,000 tits and a Playboy spread to her credit, I will probably go back to my cell and hang myself. The downside to being a professional hot chick, Miss Sterger, is that nobody will ever take you seriously again in a professional situation. Sorry, that’s the price of “notoriety,” as you put it.

I’ve read Jenn Sterger's attempts at journalism on If I were an aspiring sports journalist (which I am not), I would be outraged that some “cowgirl” with a very impressive boob job is able to land a column in Sports Illustrated while I will be relegated to covering High School Girls Basketball in Butte, Montana for the next five years before I can get a column gig in some third tier market like Fort Collins. But this girl, who writes at MAYBE an 8th grade level, which I guess is pretty good for a Senior at Florida State, does not warrant her own column on a major sports website. I hope you are not seriously considering a career in journalism, Miss Sterger. Because youth and beauty are gone someday, and then what do you have left? A pair of silicone breasts and a degree from Florida State. And in Florida, those are both a dime a dozen.

But the fault doesn’t lie completely with Cowgirl Jenn. Actually, it lies more with the absolutely pathetic throngs of men who give her so much attention. She was right when she said that “I go to school with some of the most gorgeous girls you will ever see in your life. To even be placed among their ranks is an honor in itself.” (although, again, your attempt at modesty is about as believable as the Oscar loser who says “It was an honor just to be nominated.”) We all know there are hot girls in college, so why the obsession with Cowgirl Jenn? It’s because she’s the type of girl who makes guys think they have a chance. Because she plays herself off as some sort of sports-junkie “normal college girl” instead of the professional-hot-chick that she is, guys now think they have a chance. Don’t kid yourself, gentlemen, Miss Sterger’s college boyfriends have most likely been athletes, or, if not, good-looking sons of extremely wealthy men. After college the only men she will date under 35 will be celebrities, but most likely will end up with a guy who made more in the time it took you to jerk off to her facebook profile than you will make in an entire year.

The fault also lies in the marketing people at SI and Maxim and Playboy and any other publication giving this much exposure to some girl who did nothing more than wear a bikini to a football game. Is that all it takes to become famous these days? Shit, I remember a time when you actually had to accomplish SOMETHING to be a celebrity. I guess the internet has changed that forever. But really, assorted media, why all the fuss? This girl does not seem to have any discerable talent other than picking a good plastic surgeon, and is way too short to be first-rate model. So where does that leave us? With an FSU co-ed and her now falsely inflated ego that will lead her to treat guys like dirt for the rest of her life. Thanks a lot SI, you have now created one more extremely shitty chick to grace the Sunshine State with her presence.

I will give credit where credit is due, though. If I were Jenn, I would be milking this for all it was worth too. And those breast implants? You are right, best investment you ever made. I never said you were stupid, Jenn Stereger, just a big phony. It’s okay though. When your rich husband divorces you in 2023 and starts dating the “UCF Cowgirl” I will probably run into you on a Wednesday night at Ted’s Hideaway in South Beach. You will be on your fifth Martini, your sixth boob job and your second facelift. At some point, someone, probably me, will say something insulting to infuriate you, and you’ll throw your Martini glass across the room and yell, “You know who I was? I was the FSU Cowgirl, goddam it! I was somebody!” And I will smile and go back to my game of Golden Tee.

*And incidentally, Jenn, should you somehow be directed to my well-articulated diatribe: No, this does not help me sleep at night. Since that is the response you seem to give to everyone who does not offer you a marriage proposal. I still have chronic insomnia for no apparent reason and ripping you for 1500 words has done nothing to help it.


Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Confessions of a Belt Winner

People often ask me “Dude, how do you fuck fat girls? It’s soooo gross.” Gross, I believe, is a highly relative term, first of all. But for those of you out there who have never partaken of the heavy flesh, I thought I’d hip you as to how one can overlook some slight physical imperfections and end up in the bed of a woman nearly twice his size. I must start by saying that I do not particularly enjoy banging fat girls, but I am willing to do it if no better options present themselves. I prefer skinny girls, but, as a wise friend of mine once said “Come bien, come mal, come dos veces.” Which means “I eat good, I eat bad, I eat twice.”

It always starts out with her approaching you. Because God knows it is one thing to fuck a fat chick, but quite another to put any effort into it. She may come up and start dancing with you on a dance floor, or sit next to you at a bar or table, or maybe just grab your ass as you walk by. Believe it or not, it is at this point that the decision to challenge for The Belt is made. If you are sober, I think 99 times out of 100 even the most desperate of us will just walk away. The problem comes when you are 6 or 7 shots and a few pitchers into the night. It’s not that this behemoth looks any better, it’s just that at this point you don’t particularly care how she looks at all. And so, when she starts grinding her titanic ass on you, you wrap your hands around her fleshy waistline and grind her back.

As soon as a fat girl has gotten this attention from a good-looking guy, she will move extremely fast. She will probably turn towards you and start grinding on you face to face, making sure to rub her ample crotch right on your now semi-erect manhood. Or, if you are at the bar she will start putting her body against yours or try and interlock fingers with you. She may even wrap her arms around your neck or chest. Any way you cut it, you are now officially green-lighted. It is at about this point that you start to get “the look” from your buddies.

“The Look” is a cross between confusion, disgust and disbelief. It is meant to convey “What the fuck are you doing? Are you sure you want to be doing that?” but generally comes across more like a wide-eyed sneer. If it is returned with a “Help Me’ look, your boys will swoop in and rescue you. But if that look is returned with a nod, well, then the friends know that you are trying to score yourself a night of rancid pleasure. Good friends will pull you away anyway. But mine, no, mine choose to compete to see who can take home the fattest one. So, naturally, they make no effort to stop you. Just the compulsory “look.” This is your second chance at getting out, and a smart man might say, “You’re right. This bitch is disgusting. I’m outta here.” But I never claimed to be a smart man.

A fat girl will make out with you within minutes if you want to. Although I will say public kissing is probably best kept to a minimum if you ever plan on returning to that particular bar, it is often necessary so she can maintain the delusion that you like being seen with her in public. As soon as this first kiss happens, it is absolutely imperative that you close your eyes. Because as she moves her tongue around your mouth and her hand down your pants, you can escape the fact that the person doing this to you is someone you find utterly repulsive. It’s hard to pretend it’s someone good looking, since your hands are typically exploring various mountains and folds of sweaty flesh, but trust me, not seeing it is what will allow you to become sexually aroused.

As you make out, as with a “hot” girl, the thought begins to cross your mind “Where can I take this girl to have sex?” Your place is a terrible idea, because you run the risk of her being there when you wake up. This will more than likely result in you spending the better part of the next morning curled up in the fetal position on your bedroom floor while she looks through your kitchen for breakfast food. Her place is okay, so long as you have a way to get home. The best place is a neutral site like a park, a car or an EXTREMELY cheap hotel room. As soon as you have your venue selected, you ask “Do you wanna go somewhere else?” Which, as we all know, means “Do you want to have sex?” To which she will say yes (that is one good thing about fat girls, when you breach the topic of “going somewhere else,” you do not risk rejection) and then inquire as to where. The “where” is immaterial, but once the offer is accepted, you must take her there. Immediately.

What It's Like Fucking a Fat Girl (Confessions of a Belt Winner Part 2)

Inevitably, your porker will want to get some food before going to have sex. Because god knows she does not have enough energy stored up in her ass to fuel her for the five minutes of sex she’s going to have. It may be a slice, it may be to The Diner or, as one recent whale told me, to “get some fat food” (I think she meant to say “fast food” but it just seemed so much more appropriate this way). Under no circumstances should you ever let her stop for food. This is for several reasons. 1) You would be doing her a disservice as giving food to a fat person is like giving smack to a junkie. You are contributing to their sickness, and it’s not right 2) It means being seen in a second public place with her 3) People you know may be in that public place 4) She might change her mind (not likely) 5) It is that much more time you have to spend with her before you can make your calculated exit. So you deal with her whining about being hungry all the way back to her place, and then it is time to get down to business.

You should generally try to do the deed on the first horizontal piece of furniture you can find. A couch is usually a good choice, since there won’t be enough room for her to try and cuddle with you. You continue the drunken make-out and remove as little of her clothing as possible. Although I will say taking her top off can SOMETIMES be fun, since big girls do often have some enormous breasts. But, dear God, if you thought it was important to keep your eyes closed while making out, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD MAN DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT OPENING YOUR EYES DURING FOREPLAY. Foreplay, by the way, should be kept to a minimum. Oral on you is okay, but do not try going down on her. I have met exactly one fat girl that was well groomed down there, which makes sense if that part of your body isn’t being viewed by a whole lot of people. You can try fingering her, but this generally involves pulling back thigh fat first, so it becomes rather pointless. Best to get in as soon as possible.

I would tell you to use a condom here, but anything that might give you a second to realize how disgusting what you are about to do really is may not be a good idea. Best to just hit it raw and roll the dice. Once you are in, you may notice that your penis looks extremely small. “Odd,” you think, “When I was banging that 98-pound stripper last week it looked a lot bigger.” Do not fret, your manhood is not holding out on you because it doesn’t want to be suffocated. It is merely a matter of perspective. Unless your name is John Holmes, even a very-above-average Johnson will look puny in comparison to a three-foot wide ass. Again, yet another reason to keep your eyes closed. The name of the game here is speed. Even if you have great sexual prowess and complete climax control, do you really want to be fucking this girl any longer than you possible have to? You are not trying for any repeat business here, so your performance is absolutely irrelevant. Get in, get off, and for your own safety don’t ever let her get on top. Your pelvic bone can thank me later.

I would be remiss if I did not mention here that being inside a fat girl actually feels pretty good. Because it’s like extra padded and soft in there, it is like sleeping on a feather bed versus a cheap Ikea mattress. This may be the only upside to banging a fat girl. Provided, of course, you keep your eyes closed.

Once you finish, the horror of what you have just done sets in. You look at your splooge on her stretch-mark filled stomach and the only thing you can think is “Get. Me.The. Fuck. OUTTA HERE!!!” You think how embarrassed you are that everyone in that bar saw you kissing this girl. You wonder what all those people who saw you holding hands and making out in the street were thinking. Oh, dear God, I am gonna get it form my friends tomorrow. Why didn’t they stop me? Will this win me The Belt? Then you realize you have to at least clean this girl up before she passes out, so you grab the nearest piece of cloth that does not belong to you and do just that. You give her one last kiss on the cheek good night before she passes out, and you leave. Never give her your number. Never ask for hers. Just get in your car, call a taxi, or call one of your buddies who allowed this tragedy to happen, and get your ass home. And then shower. Shower like you have never showered before.

The next morning is somewhat like a cocaine hangover. For those of you who have never experienced the pleasure of a cocaine hangover, it is just like a regular hangover except you often feel worthless, depraved, and like a giant loser. Basically, that you are the biggest piece of shit on the planet and that you never, EVER want to do that again. Until the next time you are in a bar and your blood alcohol level is higher than the batting average of the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. when a rather rotund female comes up and grabs your ass. Then the cycle starts again and your number, regrettably, goes up one and half

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Facts about Jack Bauer: HE DOESN'T FUCKING EXIST

Hero worship to me is disgusting. I have never understood worshiping another person as being above yourself. You should not put anyone mortal above yourself, ever. Respect, fine. Admire, great. But worship? That is just downright pathetic. I do not get excited when I see celebrities, nor do I care at all what they do. They are just people, like me. No better, often worse. Maybe it’s my ego, maybe it’s because I never had a real male role model, or maybe I’m just a straight-up hater. I don’t know. What I do know is that I find guys talking about how awesome other guys are absolutely pathetic. Though I am not one to criticize anyone for wasting valuable time, I will say that I can think of about 9 million things I would rather do, up to and including watching paint dry, than sit around stroking off some other dude. Especially if that other guy doesn’t even exist.

Such is my complete disgust with the recent Chuck Norris /Jack Bauer lists. We’ve all gotten them in our email. And they seem to be the new “I’m Rick James, Bitch” selection for the comedically unoriginal. Perhaps they’re filling the over-quoted comedy void that has been left by Dave Chappelle’s disappearance. At any rate, why are we so obsessed with how “cool” these guys are? Is it funny? Yeah, sort of, and I guess Jack and Chuck are simply vehicles for this humor. But, honestly, why do men feel the need to elevate these guys to a God-like status?

For starters, let’s get off Jack Bauer’s nuts for just a minute. If I read one more goddamn blog post about the awesomeness of Jack Bauer I am going to wretch. First of all, not only does Jack Bauer not exist, he is about as realistic a character as Snuffalupogous. It’s a goddamn TV show, people. Is your life so pathetic that you are living vicariously through a FICTIONAL character? It’s bad enough that you think you accomplished something when “your” team wins a game, must you revel in the accomplishments of a fictitious personality too? Especially one that appears on FOX. Sad, just sad.

Chuck Norris, while I will admit would, without a doubt, beat the living shit out of me at 109 or however old he is, is not someone I aspire to be. The dude is like 5’2”. How did he get to be the “Pushes the Earth off of him” icon all of a sudden? There are 100 guys in the NHL right now who are probably tougher, and they have funnier names. Jackie Chan is a vastly better martial artist, as is Jet Li. Jean Reno plays a pretty good bad-ass (and no, he is not French, he is a Moroccan of Spanish descent). So does Clive Owen. Hell, I’ve seen more impressive displays of manhood in movies from Jimmy Cahn. And Vince Vaughn kicks more real-life ass than pretty much any celebrity that does not play a sport that involves hurting people for a living. My point? Get off his nuts too. The man is a midget with a black belt. And he’s about 5 years from collecting social security.

And, since it is a new season now, I may as well tell everyone to get off all of The Soprano’s nuts too. Compared to the rest of TV, it’s a great show, but we get it. They’re mobsters. WOW! Okay, so you fuck strippers and “whack” people all day while using colorful words like “Moulinyan’ and “Fuhgeddaboutit.” I’m over it. They’re just sorry old men holding on to a lifestyle that hasn’t’ been cool since Steve Wynn took over Las Vegas. It’s like watching a show about a bunch of guys who are at the top of the 8-track game. I’m sure there is still some Italian mob influence out there, but does anyone even notice it? Outside the guy who runs the Karaoke at Shine at the Shelborne, I don’t notice much of a presence down here. Hell, I don’t even hear about it on the news.

So, guys, I know your dull, mundane, seemingly-undersexed lives beg for a supposed man’s-man like Jack or Chuck or Paulie Walnuts to come along and make you feel like you too can kill 87 terrorists, do some coke off a stripper’s ass and then do it again every day on no sleep. But guess what? You can’t. And neither can they. Although Keifer Sutherland may be able to take out that many Christmas Trees. So get over it. Accept the fact that you still work as a desk jockey/phone bitch/gym rat and that you still live with your parents and/or in a shitty apartment, then try and improve it if you’re not happy. Don’t be satisfied with what some guy made up in the brain of a FOX executive has done. The only person reading this (that I know of) who will ever contribute to anti-terrorism is Biff and the only guys who will be banging strippers on a regular basis are the ones low-class enough to date them. Like myself. And Chuck Norris is a short old man. But if you can’t get through a day without idolizing another man, at least stop telling me the fucking jokes. Next thing you know I’ll hear you quoting lines from Super Troopers.

Monday, March 20, 2006

Alabama Justice

Some may find this story infuriating. Others may find it comical. Some may be disgusted. Others may just purse their lips, shake their heads, and go, “yeah, that sounds about right.” But no matter how you cut it, this story is an eye-opener to anyone who thinks racism is not alive and well.

Saturday morning me and five white friends (and one Asian) piled into our rented Dodge Durango (it’s got a DVD!) filled with empty beer cans and red plastic cups. It was really more of a rolling bar than anything else. We were all hungover and knew there were exactly two cures for our ailments: More booze and Waffle House. So we all took a couple swigs out of a flask of Bacardi Gold and headed out to the nearest Yellow-and-Black bastion of mediocre breakfast. Unfortunately we seemed to be staying off of the only freeway off-ramp in the entire state of Alabama not containing a Waffle House, so I had to ask our Hotel Concierge, Tomika, for directions. Tomika gave me some typically southern directions that contained a bunch of landmarks named something like “Guy’s Auto Repair” and “The Old Baptist Church” and “Ray’s service station,” all essentially places that someone who had not grown up with a 205 area code would not understand. Needless to say, I couldn’t find the damn Waffle House.

I thought I saw one on my left and signaled to change lanes into the left turn lane. As I got over BAM! I was sideswiped by a white van. Now, I don’t ever buy rental insurance, nor do I even have regular insurance on my car at home, so I am shitting a brick. After a brief “Hey, what happened?”me and the driver of the van pull into a parking lot to exchange information. The driver is a middle-aged black man who was using the van for work. He was there with a black female, possibly a girlfriend, and a younger black man with gold teeth. I attempted to rectify the situation by offering him cash for the scrape of red paint on his van, but he insisted that we must call the police. Now mind you, I have taken two shots of rum and have a car full of beer cans, so I am in no hurry to have the cops show up. I offer him some obscene amounts of money to go away but he tells me no dice, since this is a work vehicle and his boss will need a police report.

Well, my friends decide this would be a good opportunity to throw away all the contraband in the dumpster of a nearby gas station, which they do. Just then, as I am sipping on a smoothie I purchased to get the rum off my breath, the cop shows up. My friends apparently were spotted by the van driver’s girlfriend, who attempts to alert the cop to the white kids from the Durango (It’s got a Hemi!) throwing away 45 empty Strohs. He tells her to shut up and apologizes to me, to which I reply, “Hey, they’re just cleaning out the car.” The cop immediately approaches the black man who was driving the van and says “What the Hell happened here?” The driver answered his question rather honestly, stating that he had been in the left turn lane and was unable to stop in time as I pulled out.
‘Well, why’d you move the cars?” the cop asked. I informed him we didn’t want to block traffic, which he found acceptable.
“So, you sideswiped this guy?” he said to the driver.
“No, he was getting in the other lane and I couldn’t stop in time.” He responded.
“Were you speeding?” asked the cop.
“No.,” The cop gave him a nod that said, “yeah, whatever,” and proceeded to take down the driver’s information. He then walked me to the back of my Durango and said:
“Hey, how are you? I’m officer Johnson. So, ah, are your friends okay?”
“Yes, sir we’re fine.”
“So what happened?” his tone was amazingly friendly for a southern cop. I told him that I had been trying to get into the left turn lane and that’s when I got hit. Which was true. I said we both kind of got to the same point at the same time. Which was also true.
“Yeah, that happens. Okay, well let me get your license and registration and all that and we can get you on your way.” So I handed him my suspended-in-Florida Washington State License, an insurance card from California in 2004, and a rental agreement. He took down my info, thanked me for my time, and sent me on my way. I was not issued a ticket, nor was I reminded to look before I change lanes. I’m not sure if the other driver got a ticket as I got the fuck out of there as fast as I could. I hope he didn’t.

Not to sound like an apologist, because I am not. At all. But I will be the first to admit that that accident was more my fault than the black guy’s. Unfortunately for the other driver, since no ticket was issued, it is, at best, a no-fault accident. So he will be paying for the damage that I did. Why? I’m not going to speculate, but the difference in treatment between the group of white kids (semi-liquored-up white kids, I might add) and the two black men was pretty stark. I felt bad, but not bad enough to ask the officer to cite me. That’s just stupid. Honorable, but stupid. At any rate, I’m not sure how I feel about this whole incident. I probably got away with something I shouldn’t have thanks to blatant racial discrimination. Should I feel guilty? Lucky? Stupid? Or perhaps a mixture of all three. I don’t know. But I do know that as much as it may be difficult to be a white man in Miami, it is exponentially easier than being a black man in Alabama.

Things I Learned in Alabama

Here are some revelations I came to during my 26 hours on the road this weekend on the way to a friend’s wedding in Birmingham, Alabama. In order of importance:

1) Alabama girls love me. I never get more attention from women than when I am in Birmingham. I have no idea why this is, but if the girls in Miami don’t start appreciating me the way the girls in the 205 do, I may seriously consider moving.

2) Never, EVER, let your girlfriend go to a wedding her ex-boyfriend is attending.

3) If you go to a wedding reception that ends at 5, do not make your target girl the one that has to go to work at 5:30. No matter how doe-eyed she is. No matter how much everyone at the wedding tells you she wants you. No matter how nervous she looks when she's talking to you. She's not getting fired for a piece of ass. And she's not going to be up for much when she's hungover at 11:30 at night.

4) If you have less than four people going on a road trip that is longer than 8 hours, fly. It is only slightly more expensive and exponentially easier. Trust me.

5) Birmingham has the best chips and salsa I’ve had outside of the West Coast

6) Racism is alive and well

7) If I lived in Birmingham, I would be married to a woman who would ultimately ruin my life. I knew it when I went out with her a year ago, and it was reaffirmed this weekend. I have never met someone so irresistibly insane in my life

8) I never realized what a pussy-assed car a Saturn is until I drove a Durango for five days. I am the bitch of the highway.

9) Birmingham is an Olde English word meaning “Strip Malls Surrounded by Nothing”

10) Those of you who bitch about hot girls being stuck-up and materialistic have never been to the south. The trade off is they want to get married by the time they’re 24.

11) Check your lift side view mirror before changing lanes

12) People in the south like to drink

13) Florida is one ugly state once you get five miles from the coast

14) 19-year olds may be hot, but man are they flaky

15) “Weatherman,” is a good movie, but not for a road trip

16) If you are a girl, do not wear oversized dark sunglasses in the South. You will be a target of ridicule all day. But the other girls will still be nice to your face. That’s why I’m telling you now. You’re welcome.

17) Once you tell me you are living vicariously through me, your life officially sucks