These shoes are really going to turn things around for the kid here. I’ve made a lot of poor life decisions over the years but I’m pretty sure that’s all about to change. People are gonna be like this guy is kind of suddenly blowing my mind. You know? There’s something about him that makes me want to learn more.
Ladies’ll be biting their fists. They’ll push down their sunglasses to get a better look, not believing their eyes. They’ll lean in and “casually” touch my bicep while telling me a hilarious story. They’ll find excuses to smell my musk. They’ll let me put things in them, like whatever and wherever, with no regard for safety or decency because they’re basically just wild animals at that point.
Guys’ll shout out oh snap now the party can begin! when I strut into the rec center. They’ll give me non-emasculating nicknames like Meat or Bonecrusher. They’ll ask me to go on fishing trips which I’ll turn down in a way that makes us all feel good about it. They’ll clap me on the back when we hug. They’ll stumble over their words as they try to say I love you and finally just give up and say this guy, watch out for this guy, he’s trouble.
I’m gonna machete through life with these shoes. And if they disappoint me like everything else ever at least I can ship them back for free. Zappos—Powered by service!®
» Rating: TBD
Just got a killer car wash, dudes. It’s global warm up in this mug today so I figured I’d treat the Corolla to the deluxe, throwing down six bills that I had in my velcro wallet because I’m basically rich as hell. I got the tri-color foam action, bottom blaster, straight up Rain-X®, the works. Only the best. I don’t give a fuck.
I got a little nervous when the brushes thudded against my windshield because my windshield has a huge crack in it because I like my windshields like I like my women I apologize for that let’s pretend it never happened. Anyway I was sitting there eating my gas station taco, just being me, and it occurred to me that those brushes might smash the window and then slap my face and fill the car with soapy water and I’d have to sit there in my wet, glass-covered underwear (pants off when going through a car wash, that’s a rule) and just take it and then get two more rounds of crazy spraying and then get sealant shot in my eyes and then have the big blowers blow me. Not sure why this got super gay all of a sudden.
But you’ll be relieved to hear the windshield hung in there like a champ and my Hanes Tagless Hi-Cut 100% Cotton Panties—don’t even judge, those things are like 1,200 thread count sheets for your junk—were unsullied. I tore out of there feeling like I could punch a hole in the stupid face of the world.
» Rating: EIGHT SEXY LADIES
I’m at The Connection just minding my own and enjoying a loud drink when here comes Liquid Smoke with the scimitar. I have just enough time to kick over my table and use it as a shield and pee my pants a little.
The sword gets stuck in the table and Smoke has trouble pulling it out. I clock her pretty good on the head with my tumbler and maybe get some gin in her eyes for good measure. I’m trying to figure out if she’s mad about me borrowing her PT Cruiser without asking and on accident setting it on fire when I spilled my martini while trying to light the hookah, or if it’s the whole not really helping raise our child thing. I figure either way I’m getting scimitar’d but good.
“Liquid Smoke!” I cry. “What is your deal!”
“My deal,” she says, “is you said you’d scrapbook with me tonight and instead you’re sitting in this sad dump getting sauced and laughing too loud at Good Times and making everyone uncomfortable.”
“Was that tonight? I thought we scheduled that for fifty years from now when I’m too feeble to mind doing stupid shit.”
“Listen to me very carefully,” she hisses. “You are going to assemble our cherished memories in a fun, creative, whimsical manner or hand to god I’ll take the pinking shears to that thing you call a peener.”
“You call it a peener. I call it Dandy Jim. And Dandy Jim loves nothing more than glitter and glue sticks and being whimsical.”
“Ugh. I know.”
» Rating: FOUR SEXY LADIES
“I dunno. It doesn’t look so bad.”
“Yeah. Look at the nice haircuts they all have.”
“And jaunty caps.”
“Total jaunty caps. Slimming denim outfits. You get good exercise. Fresh air. Drink beer out in the sun.”
“You do get raped from time to time.”
“Yeah but only at first. Then the rapers get beat up real good and you’re in the clear for like twenty years.”
“From then on it’s playing catch, carving chess pieces, watching movies.”
“Laughs with the gang at dinner.”
“A quiet jerk to Raquel Welch in your private room and then off to dreamland.”
“You want to, I dunno, set an orphanage on fire and get sent to this sleepaway camp here?”
“I can’t wait to meet my black friend.”
» Rating: SEVEN SEXY LADIES
I straight up do not have time for this shit. I’m not saying I’m so rich I don’t need them in my life—I mean I only have one microwave—but I think we can all agree that pennies are the worst invention since the camera my mom secretly installed in the bathroom to monitor my masturbation frequency, or perhaps the resulting PowerPoint presentation given at my birthday party.
Anyway have you ever tasted a penny? Terrible. Roll a nickel around in your mouth and you feel like a goddamn cowboy out on the wide open plains chasing a tornado away with your mustache, but suck on a penny and you feel like an asshole kid who can’t spell very good and struggles with the Slurpee dispenser.
PRO TIP: I know times are tough, but once a week take a couple pennies and just throw them away. And be showy about it! Take a handful from your car ashtray and fling them out into the street. The dull clatter against the pavement is the sound of decadent freedom.
Got chewed out by the boss? On your way out throw some pennies in the recycling bin. He’ll be impressed with your lackadaisical approach to finance. This kid knows something I don’t, he’ll think later that night as he pays a woman to take a straight razor to his neck hair, slowly, so slowly, the only time he ever really feels anything.
» Rating: ONE SEXY LADIES
Let me paint you a word picture and shove it in your word hole. Dusk is falling. There’s a chill in the air. I breathe in the world and savor its sweet beauty. A child laughs at something stupid. A fucking bird does something. I stroll into Target and let its splendor splash all over my body.
I’m about to pick up a topical antifungal ointment when I see this wall of twinkling blue. It’s an enormous display of Target’s knockoff mouthwash, glistening and pure. I pick up a giant bottle and bring it home, cradling it my arms like a baby except it doesn’t give me the creeps.
I lug it to the bathroom and try to open it but it’s huge and unwieldy (the mouthwash). I finally get the cap off and like a gallon comes flying out and I almost drop it and it’s like wrangling one of those giant water cooler bottles and I’m just, I’m just about near tears at this point, you guys.
It gets worse. It won’t fit in my medicine cabinet so I have to leave it out by the sink. It just looks dirtball. Let’s say I have an extremely young ladyfriend over—just, could you, you know, roll with it?—and she bolts to the commode and sees this store-brand econo-size thing of mouthwash at the ready, what’s she gonna think? I’ll tell you what: This guy must have something seriously gross going on in his mouth and I’m not sticking anything in there ever. And suddenly she’s not interested in watching Project Runway and getting our cuddle on.
Then I’m struck, again, as usual, by total genius. I’ll decant this mouthwash. I’ll put it in a nice fancy bottle. It’ll be easy to chug and it’ll look like some kind of sick-ass mana potion.
Revised scenario: Ladyfriend of legal age makes a break for the john and spies this seductive elixir by the Q-tips. Ooh la la, she thinks. This guy is classy as shit. I will let him destroy me emotionally.
The only bottle I could find was a Good Seasons cruet but good enough. Check out this beaut:
I haven’t actually tried it because the bottle wasn’t super clean and it’ll probably taste like minty Italian dressing but whatever my breath naturally smells like midnight jasmine so I’m not too worried.
» Rating: EIGHT SEXY LADIES
“Oh god. Oh my god.”
“What, is your foot asleep?”
“How’d you know?”
“You sit like an asshole and it makes your foot fall asleep.”
“Honey, it kills and I can’t walk on it and I have to go to the bathroom immediately.”
“You want me to carry you to the bathroom.”
“Just … just escort me.”
“Say it. You want me. To carry you. To the bathroom.”
“I will do this—stop flapping your arms—I will do this for you. But know this: You will no longer be a man. If we ever have sex again, which we won’t, it will be perfunctory for me and humiliating for you.”
“It already is. But I think you might take a kind of perverse pleasure in carrying me to the bathroom and it’ll open up all sorts of hot new doors for us.”
“You think maybe my pity and shame will somehow turn to lust?”
“It’s my best bet.”
“OK let’s find out. You were right about that Thai restaurant.”
“Here we go. Step on the gas.”
“I’m suddenly extremely horny. I’m confused by these feelings. I need to be alone to process them.”
“Pick me back up!”
“I think we should spend some time apart forever.”
“I don’t even have to go anymore so whatever I win.”
» Rating: ONE SEXY LADIES [sic]
Dear Suddenly Stop Caring,
Do you like the name I came up with for you? I don’t think Raspberry Lemonade Crystal Light + Whatever The Cheapest Vodka Is is a standard cocktail so it fell upon me to christen you. Other ideas I came up with during the three-hour whiteboard session: Me Time, Wild Commute, Will You Please Just Shut Up, Uncle Boris’ Problem Eraser.
You are delightfully pink and deliciously low carb and when I drink you I can almost feel the electric blue taffeta against my skin because I’m wearing a hideous prom dress because I’m a big fat girl.
But it’s just you and me here, Suddenly Stop Caring. No judgment, just—beg pardon? You say you want me to buy the deluxe edition of George Michael’s Faith with bonus remixes just because you sort of like the title song? You got it, old chum.
And then get on Facebook and look up ex-girlfriends and post comments with little in-jokes from twenty years ago that will surely surprise and delight them? How about this: “Hi Meredith! I hope you still like ‘romancing the bone’ lol!” Aw she’s really gonna get a charge out of that, Suddenly Stop Caring. You have lots of good ideas.
Turn on the TV and see how long it takes to see boobs? You = genius! Pee not really in the toilet? Check! Strip down naked and eat grape jelly out of the jar with my fingers? That is a can-do, amigo!
Let’s cry for a couple minutes, bro Just yiu andme
looka my king fu movesds! KARAATER CHOP!! u gota have faitha faith faisdkmskfffffffff
» Rating: THREE SEXY LADIES
GIRAFFE: Hey koala!
KOALA: What’s up, giraffe!
GIRAFFE: Do you like eucalyptus yes or no!
KOALA: How about stopping it with the stupid questions!
GIRAFFE: ANSWER ME
KOALA: Dude, yes. Duh. Of course.
GIRAFFE: Well I just so happen to have a big thing of eucalyptus right over here.
KOALA: ARE YOU KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW
GIRAFFE: Straight up.
KOALA: Then let’s get down to business!
GIRAFFE: First! First you have to give me a big hug.
KOALA: No problem, I love big hugs!
GIRAFFE: I mean reeeeally big.
KOALA: Stop talking and start hugging, man!
GIRAFFE: That was … that was really nice.
KOALA: So, about that eucalyptus…
GIRAFFE: Yeah, about that.
GIRAFFE: I don’t actually … have any eucalyptus. Per se.
GIRAFFE: Yeah. I’m sorry. I just really needed that koala hug right now.
KOALA: I … I mean, I guess that’s OK. You could’ve just asked.
GIRAFFE: Sorry. I … I didn’t—
KOALA: It’s OK.
GIRAFFE: I just didn’t know how to—
KOALA: I said it’s fine.
[long, cold silence]
» Rating: EIGHT SEXY LADIES
Did the title of this review put a certain Heart song in your head? How about now? Moving on, these jeans have not been washed in a really really—OK enough, we’ve been through too much shit over the years for me to sugarcoat things now. These jeans have never been washed.
God it feels so good to finally say the words. I don’t know. I was breaking them in for a while, and then they missed a couple laundry days, and before I knew it 18 months had gone by. Seasons changed. We lost Corey Haim. Clouds raced across the sky real quick. Animals evolved into new animals, like with wings or thumbs. And yet I continued to wear them, unwashed, caked with filth, emitting a stench that can only be described as a crotchy funk fiesta.
Why? Because my ass looks A-1 dope in them. Is why. And I’m worried that if I wash them, the ass spell will be broken and it will suddenly look like any old busted pair of ham hocks doing gross wrestling moves on each other. Call me vain if you want but you won’t because you’ll be struck dumb by the vision of my ass in these jeans, perfect and eternal, a place you’d like to call home, finally settling down after years of wandering, maybe start a little garden and get to work on that novel you always—wait what if I said these jeans go on when I close my eyes. What about then.
» Rating: SIX SEXY LADIES
Hey there, guy doing creepy squats. And a good evening to you, mama. No big whoop, just here to blow this treadmill’s mind. Excuse me a sec while I tear away my tearaway pants—kazaam! Go ahead. Take a nice long look at my moisture-wicking short shorts. Imprint them in your mind so you have a clear image to work with later tonight as you light some candles, punch open a box of vino, draw a bath, and just flat out go to town on your parts.
Gonna kick the treadmill up to level 42. It feels like you’re running up the side of a fucking cliff. It’s pretty intense. I wouldn’t recommend it for you. Your legs are like little girl sticks. I could probably knock you over without it being a big deal at all. You see these? These get you up that cliff. In style.
OK, good run. Yeah thirty seconds is basically all the emperor needs. Yeah, the emperor. You mind rubbing down the emperor’s glutes with this post-workout toning oil I made myself? It’s two parts Wesson, one part AXE Dark Temptation shower gel and one part shhh not tellin, girl, OK twist my arm, it’s love. And sex juice.
Does my stretching showcase my testicles? Sorry about that just kidding. You’re welcome. No that was you who farted, pretty sure.
» Rating: FIVE SEXY LADIES
My brother sets down the shot glass he bought with 500 skee-ball tickets. It says Drink ‘Til He’s Cute. He pours a generous amount of apple cider vinegar and slides the glass over to me. “Drink it,” he hisses.
“That is vinegar,” I say. “That is for jellyfish stings and vaginal irrigation.”
“Oh so you want head lice. You want syphilis. You want monkey butter.”
“Gimme that,” I say. I knock it back and the world turns yellow. I tumble into the shot glass, riding a two-headed robot dolphin named QT-π. We save a princess who looks like me in drag from some kind of space stegosaurus. My body explodes into a fine mist of pure being.
“Got a kick, right?” my brother says.
I get up off the floor and say: “It’s not so bad after a few seconds.”
“Josh,” my brother says. “You’ve been out for three weeks.”
I realize my beard is down to my pee-pee (it grows fast) (my beard, I mean) and my car got towed and I missed the birth of my son and odds are pretty good there is a cock and balls Sharpie’d on my face.
“Your son is beautiful,” my brother says. “Looks just like his old man.”
“Cock and balls drawn on his face?”
“It’s sort of my trademark.”
» Rating: SEVEN SEXY LADIES
Have you seen my thighs? Of course you haven’t but if you did, you’d want to get them tattooed on your thighs, as a constant reminder of their sublimity. Would your thigh tattoo sometimes make you sad, because your thighs look so lame in comparison? Yes, of course. But sometimes it’s good to be sad and anyway the image of my thighs will soon cheer you up.
“Your thighs are like twin pistons of eroticism,” somebody said. If it’s a quote then it’s not bragging. “They are sleek and powerfully hairy.”
Could I crush an enemy’s head between my thighs? I could but, ew, you know? I don’t want head guts on my thighs. My thighs should be put in a fancy frame, not covered in gross gore.
Can you touch my thighs? Good question. The answer is yes as long as you wear these special gloves and don’t get rough. Another good question is: Can my thighs touch you? Like, emotionally? The answer is no doy.
» Rating: NINE SEXY LADIES
I awaken—gently, like a newborn bird—on the floor of my kitchen. My face is full of stories.
“Last night you asked a girl if she wanted to take the J train to aw hell I’m bad at metaphors can we just intercourse each other for like six minutes,” say my eyes, “and she threw Cholula hot sauce in me.”
“I think we ate a couple of squirrel tails,” my mouth says. “There’s no other explanation for the taste and texture of what’s going on in here right now.”
“I wish I was dead,” my nose says.
I heave myself up and discover my abandoned efforts to make a sandwich out of mayonnaise and a potato. I retrieve my boxer briefs from the dishwasher. I feel like my mortal soul has set itself aflame and exited roughly through my anus, but it is Saturday, I am alive, there is pornography in the world, and I could, if I wanted, listen to Destiny’s Child all day while staring into the middle distance.
» Rating: FOUR SEXY LADIES