Shit or Get off the Pot

It's raining today in New York. And rain, as we all know, can suck my penis.

If I have to explain to you why rainy days are less fun than accidentally cutting yourself while trimming your pubes, you should probably return to the Red Sox message board from whence you came. You do not understand the basic fundamentals of life, and are not worthy of my attention, scorn, or bloodied but well-manicured testicular region.

As shitty as rainy days are, however, I can usually deal with them with a minimum of pain. After all, it's only a little water, and I'm a man, I'm 26, damnit! Come after me!

(Getty Images: Wait, wrong coaching freak out.)

However, today's rain presents a problem for me. It isn't the kind of rain that I know what to do with. Most of the time, when it rains, I have a time-tested approach I've been perfecting since the age of 6:

1. Don't check weather report
2. Leave apartment without umbrella
3. Walk to subway in bright, beautiful morning
4. Leave subway, get confronted with reality that I somehow got on the train at 86th street and got off in the Vietnamese jungle during monsoon season
5. Curse myself, God, and every human being I come in contact with
6. Go to work soaking wet, read ESPN.com for 3 hours, alt-tab between web browser and Microsoft Word document approximately 5,284 times
7. Buy $10 umbrella during lunch break
8. Watch helplessly as $10 umbrella gets snapped in half by 40 mph wind

As you can see, it's a pretty efficient system.

But on days like today, when the rain doesn't have the stugats to stand up for itself, to rain hard and fast like a real rain should, I find myself completely defenseless.

I mean, what do you do when you find yourself in a mincy, fraidy-cat rain that consistently starts and stops, existing half way between a dribble and a full-on downpour?

If you use your umbrella, you look like a bitch. I mean, come on, it's barely raining! But if you don't, it's raining just enough to be annoying. Maybe it'll get your iPod wet, maybe it'll poke you in the eye every once in a while. So there you are walking down the street, clearly annoyed, and cleary retarded, because you have an umbrella in your hand, and you're not even using it.

But you can't use it, because you'll look like a bitch. It's like you're stuck in one of those M.C. Escher drawings with the staircases that go every-which-way. You want to go down the stairs? Sure, take this one. But wait, what's that, now I'm at the TOP OF THE BUILDING? How the fuck did that happen?

(Getty Images: Trying to get out of this building is like listening to the Song that Never Ends)

I mean, what do I do here? What's the proper move? I'm thinking a hoodie might be the way to go, but what if it's hot as balls outside, or what if I'm on my way to work? A hoodie and dress shoes don't exactly go together. Does it make me gay that I consider the fashion ramifications of such a decision?

So many questions, so few answers!

So I say fuck you, bisexual rain. Make up your mind already. You can't have it both ways, that's just selfish. Are you in, or are you aushwitz?

Welcome to the Good Life

Do people with horrible tastes in music walk around in a perpetual state of bliss?

When I hear a favorite song in public, it invariably makes my pathetic excuse for a day. But I like music that's not on the radio, so for me, that doesn't happen too often. Nickelback-loving Tony, on the other hand, must get his musical jollies every 10 minutes, right?

Now, I know what you're probably thinking. And no, it's not that I have some esoteric, holier-than-thou, fancy-schmancy taste in music. In fact, some of my favorite artists are some of the most popular artists of all time - Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, the Beatles, Wu-Tang Clan, and the one, the only, Notorious BIG.

As you can see, I'm not exactly Mr. Indie McSkinnyPants. About as far out in left field as my tastes get are your MF DOOMs, or your Madlibs, maybe even your Black Keys. With tastes like those, I'd probably be branded a mass-media communist stooge by the Pitchfork Elite.

But you're not going to walk into a Dunkin Donuts and hear "Niggas Bleed" blasting through the loudspeakers. You just aren't.

So if I'm at a bar, and somebody happens to put on the instrumental version of "Little Wing" off of the Hendrix box set, I'll probably shit my pants out of sheer delight. Ditto "Wu-Tang Clan Ain't Nothin' Ta Fuck Wit."

It just makes me happy to hear a song I love, in a setting I love (Jaeger Bombs! Jaeger Bombs! Jaeger Bombs!), played by a complete stranger. Not only does it tickle my cheap-bastard bone to hear a favorite for free, but it positively jerks off my There's-Hope-For-The-Universe Bone to know that somebody out there respects such fine lyrical dexterity as:

Nigga, you ain't got to explain shit/
I been robbin' mothafuckas since the slaaaave ships/
with the saaaame clip and the same four-five/
Two point-blank, a mothafucka's sure to die/
That's my word, nigga even try to bogart/
Have his mother singin "It's so haaaard..."

Those are some devastatingly beautiful lines, aren't they?

So here's what I want to know. Is the feeling that overwhelms me when "Oh Shit" by The Pharcyde starts playing on the juke box the same feeling that the ignorant masses get to feel 5 times a day?

When Stefania DiGinzo walks out of Sunset Tan and into Starbucks, only to hear, OH MY GOD!, Ne-Yo's Miss Independent! playing faintly over the PA system, does she get to experience that same unbridled orgasmic joy that I feel when "Dog Shit" inexplicably comes on at some wannabe hipster bar that I've been dragged to?

This is how I picture a typical day for Stefania, queen of horrible taste in music.

[INT. PINKBERRY]
Poor, depressed frozen yogurt selling bastard: Can I help you ma'am?
Stefania DiGinzo: OH MY GOD! Is this "Disturbia?" I LOVE this song!

[INT. SUBWAY]
Down on his luck sandwich artist: You want that toasted?
Stefania DiGinzo: OH MY GOD! Is this the newest Flo Rida?
Down on his luck sandwich artist: Toasted?
Stefania DiGinzo: What's it called, "In the Ayer?" I LOVE this song!
Down on his luck sandwich artist: Chips and soda?

[INT. GYNECOLOGISTS OFFICE]
Dr. Pervenstein: (while examining gaping, diseased vagina with miner's helmet) Just how many people did you sleep with in the past year, Ms. DiGinzo?
Stefania DiGinzo: OH MY GOD! Is this "Womanizer?" I LOVE this song!

If that's how it really goes (and I suspect it is), if Ms. DiGinzo gets to feel that joy 20 times a day, I'd like to sign up for a Flowers For Algernon-style lobotomy ASAP.

Actually, fuck it. Who am I kidding? On this salary, I could barely afford a back-alley brain abortion.

I guess I'll just have to settle for the ol' crayon to the brain. If it's good enough for Homer, it's good enough for me.

Sign #26 You're Turning Into Your Father

You fart loudly while urinating in public restrooms, hereafter known as Rip Van Tinkle.

Subway Enemy Number 231: Best Friends

There are lots of things that can go wrong on the subway. Trains can be late, crowded, or unbearably hot, and sometimes, if you're not careful, they can make you hold their trophies while they kiss your girlfriend.

But just because there's a lot going on in the subway that you can't control, doesn't mean there aren't some things you can do to give yourself a more pleasurable train-riding experience.

If you've been following my exhaustive series on the New York city subway system, then you know that identifying your subway enemies is one of the most important things you actually can do. So stop anxiously peering down that tunnel. It's not going to make the train come any faster. Instead, evaluate your competition, and make the correct adjustments based on who is near you.

(Omaha! Omaha!)

Today we look at one of the most dangerous subway goers out there. A group that is so deadly and efficient in destroying your commute, they might as well be a staph infection in Kellen Winslow's ball sack.

That's right, today we're talking about the dreaded, the evil, the malicious, BEST FRIENDS.

In general, friendship is a good thing. Friends will hook you up with a decent dealer when you move to a new town. Friends will try to stop you from attacking that 400 pound bouncer at 3 am. Friends will even go so far as to buy you a shot on your birthday in the hopes that you black out and piss yourself in the middle of the bar after collapsing during a drunken rap-along to Regulate, the hit song from Def Jam recording artist Warren G.

Yes, we all know the benefits of friendship.

But what you probably don’t realize is that friendship has a side so dark, so sinister, it would make the Jonas Brothers squirm.

(Pure Eeeevil)

When it’s early in the morning, and you’re barely awake, almost nothing is worse than sitting next to the dreaded best friends. Or, even worse, to have one sitting next to you, and another standing over you as they volley verbal diarrhea back and forth, like an even more sick and twisted aural version of 2girls1cup.com.

Think of it like being next to a cell phone yapper, only you get to hear both ends of whatever inane, worthless conversation is taking place.

Listen up, friends, we don’t give a fuck about that great new cheese you tried last night, and we certainly couldn’t care less about how long you were on the elliptical yesterday. We’re exhausted, we’re hung over, we’re surrounded by fat, blathering retards, and we’re probably gassy, too.

So do us all a favor and shut the fuck up already. I mean, what could you possibly be talking about? You obviously live together, because you’re arguing over who polished off the bottle of Pinot Grigio in a desperate attempt to forget the miserable, cookie-cutter yuppified life you’ve created for yourselves. So what the FUCK could have happened between the time you went to bed last night and the butt crack of dawn, which it currently is.

Here’s an idea, why don’t you actually be quiet for 2-3 seconds and think about something. Anything. Just use your own goddamn brain for once to entertain yourself. Or is peering into the dark void you call your personality really that painful?

I’m hoping that this post makes a difference, that maybe, just maybe, one pair of friends out there will shut the fuck up during the morning commute. But, most likely, nothing will change.

That is why I recommend that whatever you do, at all costs, if you see a bunch of construction workers walking down the platform, or two hipsters wearing skinny jeans, or a gaggle of girls eating Pinkberry, I implore you, for the love of God, stand down soldier. Just cut your losses, move down the platform, and pray that you don’t get stuck next to any obese sons-a-bitches.

God speed, commuter. God speed.

SHIT-I Status Update

I consider the office bathroom my own personal Ground Zero. It is where my desire to live my life the way I see fit is constantly besieged by rogue terrorists looking to inflict their will on an unsuspecting, innocent public.

The ability to safely and comfortably use our public restrooms is an inalienable right that no one, and I mean NO ONE, should be able to take away from us.

It is for that reason that I present to you the latest, most up-to-date Stink, Heat, and Irritability Threat Index (SHIT-I). Below please find a graphic illustrating the current threat level in my office bathroom.

Frat Math: Troy Polamalu

Troy Polamalu thinks that the NFL is turning into a sport for little girly men.

I think that if Troy Polamalu is concerned about being perceived as a little girly man, Troy Polamalu should stop wearing his hair like Diana Ross.

I also think that Troy Polamalu looks like a ridiculous amount of people. Mostly, it's the hair. Ok, well, maybe it's entirely the hair.

But whatever it is, I had a hell of a time whittling down the list of people that Troy Polamalu looks like for today's edition of Frat Math, so I hope you'll understand if you think I might have left somebody out. But if you do think that, you're probably retarded, because I'm absolutely sure that I nailed it.

(Click on picture to enlarge)

Clearly, Troy Polamalu is an unholy concoction of Bizzy Bone and Wish Bone of Bone Thugs-n-Harmony, Bone Crusher, Slash, and a just a smidge of Bob Marley.

Why God?

WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!

Things That Would Be More Gangsta if They Started With Wu

In part two of an ongoing series, Biological Fanny Pack investigates a curious phenomenon known as Wu-ification, in which things that were previously considered the wackest of the wack instantly become 126% more gangsta by the addition of the prefix Wu-.

In the latest report conducted by the Goochtastic Center for Gangsta-Related Scientific Inquiry (GCGRSI), there were literally thousands of test subjects that were found to be significantly more gangsta by the simple addition of the Wu- prefix, or to put it more gangstaly, the Wu-fix.

Rather than linking to the comprehensive 687-page report, we here at BFP sifted through the entire document in order to be able to present to you, the readers, four of the most intriguing examples of this peculiar development.

Project Runway
Project Runway is one of the least gangsta shows out there. It consists of a bunch of people like this:

(Getty Images: This is only gangsta in the Ja-Rule sense of the word.)

making "fabulous" gowns, taking catty potshots at each other, and weeping uncontrollably at the slightest sign of adversity.

In other words, it's fruity, wack, and I dare say, to some degree, wanksta.

But project Wu-Way? That's a different story all together. Simply stick Method Man where a skinny, no-boob having, androgenous shemale once was, and waBLAO, you've got gangsta all over tha mothafuckin place.

(Getty Images: Method Man is lookin fly in his Karl Kani jeans.
He also wears 13s, know what I mean?)

Tofu
Let's face it, Tofu suffers from an enormous image problem. It's generally seen as the exclusive domain of vegetarians and vaginas (and really, what's the difference?).

But this is a simple problem to fix. Simply sprinkle on a litte Wu- to your favorite Tofu dish, and Presto! you'll have a meal that will give you the energy to sew countless wack MCs' assholes shut and keep feeedin' them, and feeeeedin' them, and feeeeedin' them.

Just make sure you don't feed them any Wu-fu, or they might gain the strength necessary to put your nuts on a dresser, just your nuts, and hit them with a spiked bat.

(Getty Images: Protect ya mothafuckin cholesterol and eat some Wu-fu.)

Lou Reed
Lous Reed was the original whiney emo brat.

Waaaa! I'm depressed!

Waaaa! I want to commit suicide!

Waaaa! I'm going to go do heroin!

But Wu-Reed? That's somebody I ain't gonna fuck wit, and neither should you.

(Getty Images: Are you calling Wu-Reed a pussy?
He dares you to stick your dick in this.
Cause if he was a pussy he'd be filled with herpes, ghonorrea,
chlamydia, gettin rid a ya.)

Skinny Jeans
Speaking of whiney, annoying emo brats, nothing is less gangsta in today's society than skinny jeans on a man.

Skinny jeans on a woman? That's no problem. They make girls' butts look nice, big, and round, and we all know that bigger is better. But on guys? They make them look like the efiminate wusses they are.

But no matter how truly, profoundly un-gangsta skinny jeans on a man are, they are no match for the mighy Wu-fix.

Ladies and gentleman, I present to you, Wu-Skinny Jeans

I don't know about you, but I wouldn't go anywhere near that badass motherfucker in a dark alleyway, skinny jeans or no.

Lovely Weather We're Having

Small talk is my enemy. Office small talk is my arch nemesis. And as the old saying goes, the friend of my arch nemesis is a fucking cocksucker. Or something like that.

That is why I have no other option but to declare war on my office coffee machine, the Keurig Small-Talk-Encouraging Sex Bot 5000.

Oh Keurig, how I loathe every inch of your deceptively seductive metallic body. How I dream of taking you to an open field and battering you with a Louisville Slugger while "Damn it Feels Good to be a Gangsta" plays in the background.

No inanimate object is more responsible for subjecting me to the torturous practice of making conversation with middle-aged, female, luddite editorial staff than you. These are the same people who once asked if "children still play outside" after a demonstration on electronic technologies. And because you take your sweet fucking time brewing my disgusting watered-down cup o' joe (not to be confused with cup o' noodles), I have to actually say something to these people.

What's that you say? You don't understand the role you play in a daily torture ritual so perverse that it would make the creators of Saw V cringe (so topical!)?

Well, let me break it down for you.

First of all, the coffee you make is so watered down, so putridly ineffective, that I have to take the "strongest" K-cup you have:

(Getty Images: Dark Magic has spellbinding complexity.
It is also deep, dark, and intense, like the brotha Farakhan,
a motherfuckin rap phenomenon.
Plus, I got more glocks and tecs than you/ make it hot/
brothas won't even stand next to you)

But one K-cup will not do (even one containing the deepest, darkest magic), especially at the 8 or 10 oz. setting that is required to fill my mug. So I have to wait through not one, but TWO excrutiatingly long brewing sessions at 6 oz. a piece in order to come close to something that might be able to wake me up a little.

And you know how long that takes? About a minute and a half. On a good day.

Do you have any idea how long 90 seconds is when you're constantly looking over your shoulder, wondering what horrible abomination of a human being might wander into the kitchen and ask if you've been busy lately? Oh what an interesting fucking conversation. Yeah, it's been pretty crazy, how about you? Yeah, it is a busy time of year. Well at least it's Friday!

Ahyuk yuk yuk yuk yuk!

/slide whistle

/gong

/trumpet with mute playing descending notes on a scale

It's enough to make me want to kill myself via a tragic case of autoerotic asphyxiation gone terribly awry.

Why can't my office just have a coffe pot? It would solve so many problems. I don't give a fuck if the coffee gets stale. As long as I can run in the kitchen, throw that shit in a cup and be ghost, everything will be alright in the world. Plus, if anyone gets fresh with me, I can bash said coffee pot upside their head and shout Wu-Tang at the top of my lungs. Problem solved.

And I haven't even talked about the indignity of being forced to empty a full k-cup bin. Not only does it waste my precious time, and increase the probability that I'll have to listen to somebody talk about organic tofu, but I always get grimey coffee residue on my hands, which means I have to wash them, which means, you guessed it, more time in the 5th ring of hell known as my office kitchen.

You've been warned Keurig. One more false move, and I'll rip your fucking guts out faster than somebody can say, "Looks like somebody's got a case of the Mondays!"

One is the Loneliest Number

I do a fair amount of text messaging.

It's not that I need to be in constant communication with my vast array of 13-year-old friends. In fact, the State of New York has expressly forbidden any such communication.

(Getty Images: How's that book coming, Pete?)

To be completely honest, it has nothing to do with wanting to be in contact with other people at all. I actually hate most other people. Shit, some times I can barely stands myself.

So rather than waste time conversing with a bunch of assholes that I don't really like (that means YOU friend of mine who's reading this) I send my thoughts as often as possible via painstakingly constructed, grammatically correct text messages.

It's a pretty efficient system, with one glaring weakness.

Every time I want to type the numeral 1 into a message, I have to hit the number 1 key roughly 483 times.

It's completely out of control.

(Getty Images: Did somebody say completely out of control?)

Look, I understand that for the rest of the keys, you have to hit them three or four times to get through the letters before you get to the number. That's to be expected. It is, after all, text messaging.

But what the good folks who made the Chocolate put you through (I know, I'm gay) in order to type out a simple 1 is absurd. Straight up and down absurd.

I have to hit the number 1 key a whopping 10 fucking times, I repeat, 10 fucking times, before I can get to the number that that fucking key was named after. It's a complete outrage. I mean, just look at the useless shit you have to go through before you get to 1.

A dash

A comma

An ampersand (That's this one - & - you illiterate monkeys)

A forward slash

A colon. Seriously, a fucking colon? Who needs to put a fucking colon in their text messages more often than the number 1? I'm not writing in-text citations here, I'm telling my friend who's a Red Sox fan to suck my balls (1 time! 1 time!).

Verizon, or the Chocolate makers, or some programmers somewhere, or whoever the fuck is responsible for this abomination, you better fix this shit.

I'm fine with waiting 3 or 4 button pushes to get to 1, but anything beyond that and you're just a sick fascist fuck.

(Getty Images: Did somebody say fascism?)

Also...whaaat's the deeeeal with cell phones?

If You See Something, Say Something

For the past few weeks, on my walk home from work, I've come across the following billboard:

Its intent is to alert people to the fact that children cannot defend themselves from child abuse, and to urge people who see something to say something, sort of like those 1,944 Big Brother-loving, non-critical thinking robot fascists who reported any mysterious darkies they saw on the subway last year.

But if you allow yourself to forget about those absolute power-loving automatons for a second, you'll realize that this is a pretty effective ad campaign. First of all, that baby is fucking adorable, and second of all, the speech bubble drives home the fact that infants can't say something, so if you see one catching a savage beating, you should probably alert the police, or shout, "hey, quit it!" to the offending infant beater.

In fact, this ad campaign is so good, it got me thinking, "why not extend it to include all kinds of abuse that people are afraid to speak up about?"

So rather than sit back and do nothing, I have been inspired to create my own versions of these ads to raise awareness for other forms of abuse that, for whatever reason, people just cannot talk about in the open.

This first ad is for the guy whose girlfriend rules the remote with an iron fist. You're sick of watching figure skating, VH1 seems to be the only channel on your cable plan, and if you have to watch one more vapid skank cry while getting her hair cut on Americas Next Top Model, you might just shoot yourself in the balls with a crossbow.

Well suffer no longer, because I am positive that this ad will raise significant awareness for your cause.

Ad number two is for the ladies (much like this entire blog). Does your guy do a double take any time a marginal piece of ass walks by, like he just finished serving a 25-year prison sentence? Well fear not, because I've got your back. I mean, who wouldn't be shamed by this adorable little girl's uncorrupted sense of right and wrong?

Ad number three is for anyone who is dating or married to a back-seat driver. These people are the worst. Yes, I fucking see that the light is turning red. Yes, I fucking see that car. Yes, I'm going to fucking slow down. Will you SHUT THE FUCK UP, ALREADY?


The final ad is for anyone stuck in a relationship with somebody lacking, shall we say, modern hygiene habits. I think you know what I'm talking about. But this is an incredibly touchy subject, and one that few people feel comfortable breaching. So why not let some adorable, random baby do it for you?

With Pizza on a Bagel, You Can Eat PIZZA any Time!

(Getty Images: Who doesn't love the occasional freshly-baked bagel bite?)

This morning I was walking up the steps to the Ditmars Boulevard entrance of the N&W trains.

On the steps in front of me was a young woman. Because she was two or three steps in front of me, I could see straight into a Tiffany's bag that she was dangling annoyingly at her side, using the same wrist posture as a gay man walking a teacup yorkie down Christopher Street.

Since the contents of the bag were at eye level, I literally could not help but look inside, only to see, to my surprise, a box of Bagel Bites.

It struck me as bizarre at first, but I couldn't quite put my finger on what was drawing me so strongly to the situation. Surely she had some other way to transport those Bagel Bites. But was that it? Was that what was bothering me? Was I really just surprised that she chose to carry around her tasty microwavable treat in an upscale jewelry bag as opposed to say a backpack, or a brown bag from Yuppie Heaven (Trader Joes), or maybe even the original plastic bag from the store at which the aforementioned Bagel Bites were purchased (probably a CVS)?

While I was mulling over the various non-douchebaggy methods of transporting Bagel Bites that our anonymous young woman rejected, it suddenly dawned on me.

This woman isn't carrying around a box of Bagel Bites in a Tiffany's bag.

This woman is a box of Bagel Bites in a Tiffany's bag. And so are about 80% of the people you meet in Manhattan.

(Getty Images: Take a good look in the mirror New York City,
this is the hideous monster you have become. 2008.)

I mean look, there's nothing wrong with Bagel Bites. They're inexpensive, they're tasty, and they'll fill you up. I would never fault a human being for enjoying them. In fact, they made up roughly 60% of my diet during my first semester of my freshman year in college.

But that's just the thing. What the fuck is wrong with Bagel Bites? Why would you not only have to camouflage your enjoyment of them, but camouflage them in the packaging of their socio-economic opposite -- a bag that holds overpriced, superfluously-purchased jewelry for overprivileged snobs who want nothing more than to broadcast their overprivileged lives to anyone who will pay attention, and hopefully, if everything goes according to plan, make somebody feel jealous.

In this city, people are afraid to enjoy the proverbial Bagel Bites in plain sight, and that's a problem. Bagel Bites might be simple, they might not be the most refined, they might not make everyone jealous of you, but they get the job done. I mean, who doesn't like a fucking Bagel Bite? What the fuck is wrong with a simple, honest, hard-working Bagel Bite?

Nothing. Nothing is wrong with a Bagel Bite. But Bagel Bites weren't given a glowing review in New York Magazine. Bagel Bites aren't authentic. Bagel Bites aren't in a hip area. Bagel Bites aren't expensive.

So you have someone who might be a perfectly acceptable Bagel Bite of an individual. They might be well-adjusted, they might be fun to be around, and shit, they might even have a job they don't absolutely fucking hate.

But around here that's not enough.

Around here, if someone asks what you do, and you tell them you're a happy, well-adjusted Bagel Bite, you'll get snears and jeers. Happy well-adjusted Bagel Bites don't vacation in the Hamptons. Happy well-adjusted Bagel Bites don't do blow in the bathrooms of shitty, way-too-loud clubs in the Meat Packing District. Happy well-adjusted Bagel Bites simply aren't interesting enough for a sophisticated Manattanite.

So you take your Bagel Bites and you carry them around with you in a Tiffany's bag, even though they don't completely fit, and even though you have to get a job as a CPA and work 16 hour days for half of the year to afford that bag. Now everyone can see what a success you are, but inside that naueseatingly pastel satchel you've still only got Bagel Bites, only now they're defrosting on the subway and Gajingo the God of War (or so he calls himself) is masturbating into that bag during your evening commute while he drinks vegetable oil out of the jar and sings Bible versus about armageddon and your need to repent.

Then you get to your apartment in your doorman building on the Lower East side, and sit on your bed/living room couch/desk/kitchen table, and you eat your fucking Bagel Bites by yourself because nobody but you can fit in your studio apartment that's the size of the walk-in closet you had in your old place in Queens.

America, enough is enough. It's time we take pride in our love of Bagel Bites.

Now I don't want any confusion here. This isn't some sort of Sarah Palin/Cultural Revolution hatred of intellectualism, or of anything that is so-called "refined." It's fine if the only thing you want to read is Ulysses and the only music you want to listen to is made by some white, Ivy League assholes playing African rhythms. Hell, sometimes even I want to do those things (though no Vampire Weekend for me, thank you).

But I know not all of you are like that. And even if you do enjoy those things from time to time, you don't always enjoy them. So stop fucking pretending. It's starting to piss me off. And stop mortgaging away your goddamn life for it all.

I mean yeah, sometimes I like to drink expensive Scotch (when somebody else is paying for it), but sometimes I just want to drink a fucking Mad Dog 20/20 (non-ironically) and not have to pour it into a Peroni bottle.

Is that so wrong?

That's what makes America great. It's a land where the Johnny Walker Blue drinkers can coexist with Old Milwaukee drinkers. It's a land where Giants fans (classy and sophisticated) can coexist with Jets fans (crass and ignorant). It's a land where you can go to an upscale sex club in Manhattan or find a $5 hooker on the boardwalk in Atlantic City.

This land is your land, this land is my land, and as long as I have a stake in it, no longer shall we be forced to hide our proverbial Bagel Bites in our proverbial Tiffany's Bags.

Now who's coming with me!?

Happy Eastuh

Hey, how ya’s doin?

I seen that a lotta ya’s been findin my web site on some fumbleupon shit. I guess some little intuhnet faggot’s been instant messagin his little buddies. I don’t really unduhstand how all this fagguhtry works, but yous gonna catch a beatin when a find ya's, ya hear me?

(Getty Images: Speakinuh catchin a beatin, did you see

the fuckin Giants fuckin dominate those fuckin Seattle faggots?)

Hi Aunt Mary. Happy Eastuh.

What was I sayin?

Oh yeah, so I’m checkin my Google analyticals, and I see that like fuckin’ 500 fuckin people came to my site on Satuhday, but it was all fuckin referuhls.

Heeey, Vinnay! Happy Eastuh, buddy, how ya doin? Mets SUCK!

So I says to myself, I says, “who the fuck is referrin all these goddamn mothafuckas to my web site?”

And I see that some fuckin jumbotron, or tumblecon, or some shit like that is sendin people heah unduh the category Bein Eyetalian.

Hey Uncle Petuh. No, Chrissy had to work today. Happy Eastuh.

Well welcome to my site you fuckin rumblethong ginzos. We got some antipast, and Uncle Johnny brought that Merlot that he makes. Yeah, it’s pretty fuckin good, I’m not gonna lie. It tastes a lot less like paint thinnuh this yeah.

So make yaselves comftable. We just got that sofa last week. On sale. Jennifuh Convertibles. 800 bucks. Yeah, not bad. You’s want a beer or what? How about some soder ya little bitch, you.
Happy Eastuh, Grandma.

Subway Tip No. 237: Know Your Enemy

(Getty Images: In order to conquer the animal, I have to learn
to think like an animal, and whenever possible to look like one.)

When you're waiting for a subway car to come, and you care about getting a seat, it is crucial to be aware of your surroundings.

First, there are the obvious things to consider, like how many people are in your general vicinity, how far away you are from the entrances, and your proximity to areas that typically draw a crowd, like those with benches or those with a man playing Celine Dion's greatest hits on the pan flute.

But one thing you probably haven't considered is that it's equally as important to take note of the individuals you are standing near. You could only have one person to compete with, but if that person is the wrong person, you might have already lost, only you won't know it until you're jumping out of the way of a 6-year-old break-dancing hustler while the subway car goes careening around a curve, sending you hurtling into Jerome, the 6-year-old's very large, very intimidating "handler."

(Getty Images: Some a y'all know me, some a y'all don't.)

Therefore, your ability to correctly size up your competition could mean the difference between 30 minutes of sitting down, relaxing, and reading a book, and 30 minutes spent getting your hand touched by creepy strangers while you desperately cling to the center poll for dear life.

Knowing who will be the most aggressive seat seekers, and therefore knowing who to avoid, might seem like an almost impossible feat, but if you follow my simple advice you'll be taking up two seats, reading US Weekly, and bobbing your head to the sweet sweet sounds of Mary J. Blige faster than you can change out of high heels and into your tennis shoes at 4:58 on a Monday.

For today's lesson, we will be discussing the most dangerous foe you will ever face on the subway, the dreaded...

OBESE PERSON
Listen, I've got nothing against fat people. First of all, I'm not exactly Mr. Svelte. Second of all, I like to eat, drink, and occasionally wrap my naked body in bacon. But there's a difference between being a normal American fat ass, and being the type of fat guy who gets winded while taking a piss (I'm looking at you Brazilian TV station camera guy who works in my office building).

And that difference is precisely the reason you cannot afford, under any circumstances, to wait for a subway car next to somebody over 250 pounds. These people think of nothing night and day but how best to avoid doing any sort of physical activity. It's more important to them than food, water, or mail-order degrees in VCR repair.

In fact, the only time that obese people will exert themselves is when they believe that the exertion needed in the present instance will be more than offset by any future exertion avoided by virtue of the current exertion. It's the exact opposite principal used by dieters -- burn more calories than you take in.

I'm sorry to get all scientifical on you, but in lay man's terms that means that obese people will stop at nothing, and I mean NOTHING, to get a seat on the subway. To them, standing is a fate worse than death.

Knowing that, I ask you, what would you do to avoid death? Would you push someone out of the way? Would you throw around your considerable heft? Would you magically transform yourself into Warren Sapp in his prime, shedding blockers like it's your job?

You bet your (not that) fat ass you would.

And so would really fat people. Only they've got the physical attributes to make their dreams come true. Sure, the door might stop right in front of you, but if it stops right in front of Ralphie May over there? Forget it. He's not letting anyone on or off until he's squeezed himself through that door. Then what are you going to do?

Let's even say, for argument's sake, that you get on the train first, and he gets on the train second. Then let's make the equally improbable argument that you somehow secured a seat with King Rataxes breathing down your neck.

If there is so much as a SLIVER between you and the person sitting next to you, you can bet your sweet fanny that the ghost of John Candy is going to wedge his large behind inbetween you and your fellow traveller so that you have absolutely NO choice but to give up your seat.

I'm sorry, but you can't win this battle. Subway seats belong to fat people like Red Sox seats belong to racists. It's just the way it is.

When laziness is on the line and you're going up against an all-time great, just count your losses and throw in the towel. Your arms are too short to box with God, kid. There's no shame in quitting if it means getting to live another day.

In summary, if you're waiting for a train, hear heavy breathing, and turn around to find a midwestern housewife cooling herself with a Wicked fan in the middle of February, move a poll or two down the subway platform. You'll be happy you did.

Frat Math: Bob Dylan

I was sitting around the other day, contemplating life, stroking my pathetic excuse for a beard, when I stumbled upon the Bob Dylan documentary No Direction Home on PBS, or it could have been Ovation, or maybe it was the Food Network - I don't really remember.

(Getty Images: The Gooch's beard is so patchy and disgusting
that it would make Kyle Orton sick to his stomach.)

But what I do remember is that the thing was so damn engrossing I wound up watching all 68 hours of it that day. That's right, I can manipulate the space-time continuum. But don't ask how I do it. It's a complicated mixture of Super String Theory, marijuana, and furious masturbation (dick joke!), and I'd rather not get into it right now.

All I'll say is that I vacillated between thinking he was a genius and thinking he was completely full of shit the entire 146 hours, finally settling on a percentage of 80% Genius, 15% Full of Shit, and 5% Whiney Little Bitch.

(Getty Images: Potshot!)

What I couldn't figure out is who (or what) the old Bob Dylan looks like. The young Bob Dylan may not be striking, but if anything he's just a little dorky looking. Otherwise, he's a pretty standard humanoid. But the old Bob Dylan is some sort of hideous monster that should not be let out of a top secret facility buried deep within the Rocky Mountains.

So, after retiring to my fortress of solitude, and contemplating the horrific abomination that Bob Dylan calls his face for at least 13 minutes, I arrived at what I believe to be the correct formula.

(Click for larger image)

In case you're ignant and don't know who those fellers are, I'll spell it out for you:

Phil Spector + Edward Scissor Hands + Bram Stoker's Dracula + John Waters = Creepy Old Bob Dylan

Have a nice day.