Crossing the Line

Notes From Obesity: Howie Goes on Another Date

2010-07-19T22:32:00.000-07:00

“Shut up and blow me!” – Mel Gibson

In the dating world, when you’ve been described as “Louie Anderson’s uglier, fatter little brother”, the odds are pretty much stacked against you. Sometimes though, a merciful digital camera and a lonely girl recently dumped byher boyfriend can turn the tide just enough to make things work out.

Believe it or not, I can take a good picture when I need to. My Facebook picture back in late 2004 must have been great, because I ended up with a Facebook stalker. That’s right, me, a guy who was once told by a girl that I make John McCain look like Zac Efron, had a girl find me and contact me via Facebook strictly on looks. How could this go wrong?

Had this situation happened in 2010, we would have exchanged Facebook messages for a few days, then I would have gotten drunk and texted her some dick-pics. But, this was 2004, and my cell phone didn’t have a camera. So, we spoke for a few days via AIM, she trying to get to know me, I trying to make sure she wasn’t a dude. Eventually, she was impressed enough to meet me, and I was about 60% sure she was in fact a she. We agreed to meet.

We were set to meet at a Starbucks one Saturday night. I had it planned perfectly. If things didn’t go well, I had to be at work for 12:30 AM anyway, so I could leave. And if something went wrong and the night went my way, I could always call in sick. Excited, I prepared by dousing myself in Axe. Then, I got dressed. There are two ways to hide just how disgustingly fat one is: baggy clothes and tall shoes. I put on a hooded sweatshirt and a pair of Timberland boots, along with my 42x34 jeans, tattered at the bottom because they didn’t make an appropriate waist/length combination for me. Feeling confident, I walked out of my dorm, knowing I looked like a guy who either was about to meet an internet stalker, or just finished his GED and was about to start my first day working at a construction site.

Standing outside of Starbucks waiting, I was both anxious and fairly hard. This girl wanted to meet me based on my Facebook picture, so she knew what I looked like. Now all I had to do was transfer my AIM conversation skills into the real world.

As I saw her coming, I knew I was in way over my head. She was beautiful. Is it too soon to tell her I love her? I tried the best I could to not look nervous, hoping my jeans and sweatshirt were both stylish and concealing. As she saw I was the guy she was there to meet, I saw this look flash across her eyes. I wouldn’t exactly call it disappointed. It was deeper than that. It was almost like she was just told Santa isn’t real, her entire family died slowly and violently a few hours ago, and that she had terminal cancer, all while watching puppies be decapitated.

For some reason, she didn’t turn and run. We exchanged polite hellos, me planning how to get back to her dorm, her planning on how to signal to the security guard at said dorm I wasn’t wanted. We sat down and had some coffee, and talked. She was pretty, and I could tell she had no interest in me. Thankfully she was also incredibly obnoxious. I ended up getting her entire life story, including a bunch of details on an ex-boyfriend she was completely over and hated. Really, hated and didn’t want anything to do with. I remember no other inane details of her miserable existence, so let’s skip to the end.

As we were saying goodbye, and I was still trying to figure out how to tell her I loved her, she got to talking about how her little sister had a dance recital, and wanted to show it to me on her computer… back at her dorm. Did she want to murder me or was she interested? I couldn’t be sure, but I was ready to find out.

I watched the DVD, and thankfully wasn’t surprised by a Dateline film crew. But, things weren’t going great, so I decided to go to work. We parted ways with an awkward hug, me trying to savor every second of it to use later, her shocked at just how much I was able to hide under the sweatshirt.

The fact that things didn’t go terrible meant I had to push to see her again, so I did. And she actually said yes! Plans were in motion for “date” number two.

To be continued…

Online Dating Memoirs

2010-06-20T07:20:00.000-07:00

My name is Sam and I need a girlfriend. Sound simple enough? Well obviously you don’t know me well:

I fear commitment; I’ve never had a relationship last longer than an orgasm.

I’m unrealistically picky; if I was the “Bachelor,” there would be over four rose ceremonies within the first 30 minutes of taping.

I have no patience and really only want a girlfriend when it’s convenient for me; the rest of the time I would want to be left alone in my room looking up mundane movie references on IMBd such as whatever happened to the actor who played Billy Heywood in “Little Big League?” Answer: Luke Edwards will be appearing in “Jeepers Creepers 3” coming to theatres in 2011. He would have been better off sticking to drugs and depression like most child stars.

So in looking for a girlfriend, I need someone who doesn’t want a big commitment, has no faults, and would be content hanging out one or two times a week when I have no other plans. But where do I find this person? If this dream girl exists, I’m most likely to find her in the same place where you can see the hairy junk of men across the world on chat roulette; the Internet!

If I can’t find my true love online, it’s never going to happen. I can’t meet someone through friends because they already know I’m an asshole. I can’t meet someone at a bar because getting kicked out for taking off your shirt and showing your 150 pound hairy chest isn’t deemed attractive. And I can’t pick up anybody at a grocery store because I eat Subway $5 Footlongs for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Prior to joining online dating, my romantic experiences could be characterized into three phases:

High School: Dry hand jobs in the backseat of friend’s parent’s station wagons parked in suburban cul-de-sacs.

College: Waking up severely hung-over next to a girl that mysteriously gained 25 pounds since nightfall.

Young Professional: Blacking out at office happy hours and showing up to work the next morning hoping I don’t have a “sexual harassment lawsuit” waiting for me in my cubicle.

I don’t see anything wrong with meeting someone online. The only thing that sucks is if you do meet someone and fall in love, 10 years down the line somebody is going to ask how you met. And unless you lie, you basically have to admit that you met your wife the same way a pedophile meets a 13-year-old boy. But the alternative is being 35, single, and fighting off rumors that you’re gay.

Something in my life needs to change. I have a dead end job, no productive hobbies, and seem to lack any ambition to do anything about it. This must be why people get married and have kids in the first place. They’ve already given up on their own lives so they might as well start over and live vicariously through their children who will inevitably repeat the cycle. Online dating is my first step in giving up on my dreams.

Okcupid.com is a free, online dating site that I was referred to from a friend, who will remain nameless due to the fact that he referred me to a free, online dating site. All I needed to do was create a profile, upload some pictures of myself that look a lot better than I actually look, and wait to fall in love, get engaged, and spend my Saturday nights drinking red wine and watching Netflix on the couch of the home with the mortgage payments that will control my life for the next 30 years.

Before I could contact anyone, I needed to create a profile which would trick potential women into believing I’m everything I’m not. What better way to start a relationship than with a lie? The following is my complete online profile:

PROFILE PICTURE:

Editor's Note: I’m on a boat so I must be successful or at the very least come from a successful family. I’m drinking a beer so I must know how to have fun. And have you ever seen someone on a boat that’s not happy? Of course not. So this picture shows that I’m happy, successful, and enjoy life. I not only fooled potential ladies, I almost fooled myself.

Describe yourself in three words:

I am ambitious, adventurous, and athletic.

Editor’s Note:

Ambitious = I've been looking for a new job for the past two years, but every time I get to the application process online and it says I have to sign up for a company account, I exit out, check my Gmail, and turn on the TV.

Adventurous = I got the Spicy Italian from Subway yesterday instead of my usual Oven Roasted Chicken. AND I GOT IT ON PARMESAN OREGANO INSTEAD OF WHEAT!

Athletic = I must have a ripped body…HA!

My Self-Summary:

In third grade I wanted to be a professional baseball player and my teacher said I could be anything I wanted to be. She lied. For now, I’ve settled with working for the federal government instead of turning double plays at Fenway Park. I have no idea what I eventually want to do with my life and fear that I may never will, but my job has given me the opportunity to travel the country extensively on the government’s dime and experience many cool things:

I’ve been able to ski in Aspen, camp in Yellowstone, hike in Albuquerque, white water raft in Montana, drink on Bourbon Street, eat BBQ and listen to live Blues music on Beale Street, take Saki Bombs with D-list former reality stars in Hollywood, eat a medium rare steak in Omaha, gamble in Biloxi, catch a Braves game in Atlanta, and drink coffee and do a crossword puzzle on the waterfront in Seattle to name a few.

I grew up in Massachusetts, went to college in the South, and eventually found myself in DC.

A few things I enjoy:
Sports
Ski Trips
Pick-up basketball
Pop Culture
Live Music
$5 Footlongs
Reality Television
Traveling and Road Trips
Breakfast for Dinner
Writing
Making my Bed
Coffee and People Watching
Sarcasm

Editor’s Note: I basically travel a lot for my job so it must be REALLY important, but you know who else travels a lot for their job? Freaks in the Circus.

What I’m doing with my life:

G-chatting, looking up random early 90's sitcom facts on Wikipedia, and creating an online dating account. You know, life-altering stuff.

Editor’s Note: “Oh what hilarious, humble, and modest sarcasm! This guy must be really down to earth.” They probably wouldn’t be laughing so hard if they knew that this is literally what I’m doing with my life.

The six things I could never do without:

Zack Morris’s cell phone
A.C. Slater’s Zebra Pants
Jessie Spano’s caffiene pills
Lisa Turtle’s Visa card
Screech Powers’s suspenders
Kelly Kapowski’s tips from the Max

Editor’s note: “Oh my god, I remember watching “Saved by the Bell.” That’s so funny!”

I spend a lot of time thinking about:

how Shia Labeouf is famous.

Editor’s Note: This isn’t really a joke. I’m dead serious. How is Shia Labeouf famous? If the curly haired dork from “Even Stevens” is an action hero, than I’m Jean Claude Fucking Van Dam.

The most private thing I’m willing to admit here:

is the most fun I've had in weeks was last Sunday when I watched five hours of a "Millionaire Matchmaker" marathon on Bravo while drugged out on Vicodin from getting my wisdom teeth out.

Editor’s Note: basically a politically correct way to say that I enjoy altered states of consciousness from recreational drugs. This beat the alternative of saying, “The most private thing I’m willing to admit here is that I smoked so much weed last Saturday that I tried to call 911 because I couldn’t move my right arm, but forgot the number.”

After completing my profile, it was time to lose my online virginity. I casually browsed some of my local “matches” and finally fulfilled my lifelong dream of knowing what it would feel like to be a contestant on the MTV reality show “Next.” For about an hour, I just kept clicking over girls and screaming “NEXT” in my bedroom, while giggling and pretending I was getting interviewed by MTV cameras. “I’m not sure if Horseback.Rider.25 rides the horse or if the horse rides HER! NEXT!!!!!!!!!!!”

VICTIM #1
A few days passed and the only activity I had gotten were a few “winks” from girls who looked like they were auditioning for the pilot of a spin-off series of “Ugly Betty.” But then I received a message from a girl that didn’t look half bad. “I too couldn’t live without Screech Powers suspenders. Have a good weekend,!” she messaged me.

I clicked on her pictures and she seemed like a cute blonde. Her profile made her seem pretty normal and it looked like I had my first victim. I decided to exchange messages with her, and after talking about reality television and the usual where did you go to college and what do you do in DC, I invited her to meet up for a Saturday brunch. I was actually going to go through with this.

Now the following may come as a shock to you, but guess what? Girls can actually look a lot better in pictures than they do in real life! Weird, I know! I feel that this is very unfair. If anything, guys look better in real life than they do in pictures. We don’t wear any make up and the only pictures we have of ourselves are when we’re drunk and making stupid facial expressions or sexual gestures. I just looked through my 635 tagged photos on Facebook and I think out of all of them, there’s maybe six where I would legally be able to operate a motor vehicle. On the other hand, girls wear all kinds of make-up and have thousands of pictures to choose from, including stupid arm poses in the bathroom of a “Ruby Tuesday” during a Tuesday lunch break.

Now this isn’t to say the girl was ugly by any means. For a normal, non-fucked up person with realistic expectations, she was actually very cute. But I’m not normal and I’m definitely fucked up. If I had a blind date with Brooklyn Decker, I would find faults in the number of veins showing on her left wrist. Sadly, I knew this date had no shot of going anywhere and I hadn’t even gotten close enough to say “hello” yet as I saw her exit out of the metro station in front of the restaurant.

“It’s great to meet you,” I lied as we exchanged an uncomfortable hug. “You look nice.” From an outsider looking in, the date seemed to be going very well (this would be the theme of all my dates). We enjoyed brunch over an easy flowing conversation and there were no awkward pauses throughout the entire meal. The check came and I grabbed it, knowing that these investments were going to be the worst part of the online dating experiment. Nothing sucks more than paying for someone you know you’re never going to see again. $35 later (a cheap DC brunch), we left the restaurant, I walked her to the metro, and we exchanged another hug. “It was great meeting you, I’ll call you,” I lied again as I watched her walk away from my life forever.

Editor’s note: Now, I know guys look like assholes for saying that they’re going to call someone and they never do, but what is the alternative? Telling the truth? “I wasn’t attracted to you from the start because I have unrealistic expectations and the date was just a formality after I saw you. Have a nice life.”

My first date was unsuccessful, but my quest for love had just begun. My next date was only a click of the mouse away.

VICTIM #2

One of the features this dating site gives you is something called “Quickmatch,” where you basically scroll through user’s profiles and pictures and rate each person from one star to five stars. If you rate someone with four or five stars, that person is notified that someone has chosen them and they are given a list of random people, including yourself, and if ultimately they rate you with four or five stars, you officially have a “Quickmatch.”

This is how I found my second victim. After being notified we were a Quickmatch, I re-read her profile, which described her love for travel. This was an easy opportunity to message her about my job that sounds a lot more important than it is and all of the travel I had done. Her profile also mentioned a love for skiing so I also threw in the fact that I had recently done a trip to Aspen with friends.

We messaged back and forth a few times until ultimately I used my go-to line of “I have never done this before, but would you be up for meeting up for drinks sometime?” She agreed, I got her phone number, and we exchanged text messages until we made plans to meet in Chinatown after work on a Friday for happy hour.

When I chose the bar to meet for happy hour, I had only one criterion: cheap. Each of these dates was a risky investment and if it went bad, I wanted the opportunity to get as drunk as I wanted without worrying about the tab that I was piling up. The place I chose had $3 drafts for everything on tap from 4-7 pm, which is incredible for DC standards.

We met at 5 pm, which gave me exactly two hours for this date until I had to make an excuse at 7 pm because I didn’t want to pay for her full priced drinks. When she came into the bar, I was already two Guinness’s deep and feeling cheery. She was a cute, dark, exotic looking girl, who was two years older than me.

The date went well as usual. We talked about our jobs, places we liked in DC, and why government workers in this city are always wearing white tennis shoes on the metro to work. I casually had five beers and she had three. You could tell we both had a good buzz, and I walked her to a cab at 7 pm after saying I had plans to meet up for a friend’s birthday (if by friend’s birthday, you mean going home and watching MTV’s "Sweet 16"). I had felt no real connection, but had decided to maybe give this another shot with another date and see where it would lead. Plus I was almost 25 and had never been on a second date before.

For our second date, we made plans for a Friday night dinner at “Matchbox,” a hip, urban pizzeria with a great selection of beers on tap back in the heart of Chinatown. This would be the setting of my greatest dating move of all time. Matchbox is one of the most popular restaurants in DC and does not take reservations.

Being that we were having dinner at 8 pm on a Friday night, we were certain to be waiting for at least an hour to be seated. But I showed up a few minutes after 7 pm and put my name down on the waiting list. I spent the next hour standing up against a wall behind the packed bar watching an "NCIS" episode in closed captioning on a corner television and pretending that I was waiting for a friend to come out of the bathroom whenever someone walked by.

At 8 pm, my date walked through the door to the perfect timing of my seating buzzer going off in my pocket. I hugged my date, than gave the buzzer to the hostess, who said, “thanks for waiting.” My date looked at me confused, and I just smiled as we followed the hostess to our table knowing I had wasted such a brilliant tactic that I’ll never be able to top on someone I didn’t even like. $85 later after drinks, appetizers, and food, I was buzzed and realized that the secret to a successful second date was probably to have a connection on the first date.

As the night ended and we waited for separate cabs to take us to opposite ends of the city, I figured I would try to make out with her to at least have a funny story to tell my friends on G-chat Monday morning. Trying to hold back my giggling, I went in for the kill and as we made out on the crowded city street, I felt the same “nothingness” from the kiss that Zack Morris and Jessie Spano felt in the Bayside hip-hop remix production of “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.” I had reached another dead-end of a “relationship,” but I was able to walk away knowing I had accomplished two firsts in my young life. I had gone on a second date and I had made out with a girl sober. To quote the great Dr. Leo Marvin in “What About Bob?” “Baby Steps. Baby Steps.”

VICTIM #3

For my third victim, I wasn’t going to be fooled again by a deceptively flawless profile picture. I needed more proof before making another risky investment. What better way than a YouTube video? Through the powers of Google stalking, I found a three minute YouTube video of my next victim. How was I able to this? Simple. And why am I asking questions to myself as I write a blog post? I have no idea.

Her profile mentioned that she was a news reporter. After exchanging messages, I found out her first name and the college she attended. I used this information to find her on Facebook, which revealed her full name. I than went to Google and typed in her full name followed by news reporter. Miraculously, a YouTube video popped up of her doing a news report. I half expected to receive my restraining order in the next day’s mail.

Anyway, I liked what I saw with my video proof. We exchanged more messages on and off for about a week until I went in for my online finishing move:

"Anyway, not familiar with this site, but would you be up for meeting for coffee or drinks sometime? Let me know. Have a great weekend."

She lived in a neighborhood close to mine and we confirmed plans to meet up for drinks on a Wednesday at 7 at a little Belgium place with an outdoor patio. Being the veteran romantic, I showed up 20 minutes early to guarantee a patio seat and casually sipped on a Stella as I waited. A few minutes after 7, I saw her walking towards the restaurant from the other side of the street.

I suddenly realized I had forgotten one cardinal rule from my broadcast journalism classes that I took as a Communications major; makeup. Every time a news reporter is on camera, they spend more time on hair and makeup than the fat girl on a “Made" episode who wants to be prom queen and than gets asked out by the most popular guy in school because he knows it will get him on TV. (In real life, nobody asks the girl to prom, she eats her emotions, and ends up going with her cousin from a town next door and pretends to be happy)

Once again, the date was over before it began, but I could at least get more practice in other aspects of dating etiquette in case the right girl does come along. After about an hour and a half, I picked up yet another check and offered to walk her home. She lived about 7 blocks away and right before we got to her front door, two of her roommates were walking out.

“Hello, nice to meet you. My name is Sam and this is what an online dater actually looks like. Please don’t make fun of me later tonight when you all get home and talk about this.”

But all I really said was “hi” and “nice to meet you” and they walked away, leaving their loving roommate alone with a guy she had met two hours earlier online. There was just one last thing to do on my “End of Date To Do List:” Hug, tell her I had a good time and that I will call, and REPEAT for the next victim.

VICTIM #4

My last victim had a profile picture that would have landed her as a contestant on any celebrity reality dating show as the “cute girl next door.” At this point, you would have thought that I learned my lesson to not judge someone’s attractiveness by one picture, especially if it’s a picture they took of themselves sitting at their desk in their room. But I couldn’t stop thinking of the “what ifs” so I had to message the girl something funny and witty. Her profile mentioned a love of guacamole and this love of the delicious Mexican topping was even incorporated into her username. I took full advantage of the situation in my first message to her:

"I went to a friend’s birthday party the other week and a girl I didn’t know walked in with a huge bowl of guacamole. Luckily, she placed it down right next to where I was standing with the chips. I introduced myself, tried some of the guacamole, and told her it was really good. She was very pleased. Twenty minutes later, she walked by me again still standing by the guacamole bowl. It was empty. She wasn’t very pleased. It was awkward. Enjoyed your profile. Where are you from in Minnesota? I was recently in Minneapolis for work. All I remember is walking into the Mall of America, going up an escalator, realizing I was extremely flustered, going down the escalator, going back to my rental car, and driving back to my hotel. The whole process lasted six minutes. If I ever make it back, I’ll have to mentally prepare myself for a retail revolution."

The purpose of this message was to first show that we not only shared a love of guacamole, but that I was also down to earth and didn’t take myself too seriously. The second purpose of the message was to pretend to show an interest about where she was originally from, while subtely implying that I once again must have an important job because I travel for work and “they even give me rental cars.”

After exchanging more messages, it was actually scary how much we had in common. She was currently in law school in Boston and was in DC for a few months with an internship. It turned out that she even lived in Coolidge Corner, the same section of Boston that my dad had moved to and lived in for six years after I graduated High School.

She worked for a law firm downtown, but was staying with a friend’s parents on the outskirts of the city during her internship so I made the executive decision of meeting her for after work drinks on a Thursday before her commute back home. I chose the closest bar to my house for the sole reason that they had the best Thursday night happy hour in the city; $2 Coronas all night long. If I did my math right and I only ordered Coronas, this would mean that $16 could potentially buy me a dry hand job.

It was a beautiful spring evening so I showed up a little early to grab a patio seat outside. She texted me that she had gotten lost in trying to find the place so I downed two quick Coronas to get me 25% closer to a dry hand job. She finally showed up and SURPRISE SURPRISE! I once again felt no instant attraction.

The waiter came up to our table and asked what we wanted to drink. Hoping she would follow my lead, I ordered my third Corona, but she didn’t budge and ordered a Blue Moon! For God’s sake, that was like the cost of three Coronas! Obviously this girl had never spent a Tuesday afternoon in her office “yelping” different DC Thursday night happy hour spots.

Blue Moon aside, the conversation of the date went fine. She did most of the talking, while I listened, drank, pretended to already have eaten dinner so I wouldn’t have to buy her food, and paid the $30 tab when it was all said and done. I walked her back to the metro, gave her another “I’m never going to see you again hugs” and told her to have a safe trip back home. I was five beers deep, buzzing, and walking home frustrated and angry.

For now, I'm going to take a long break with online dating. Four girls, five dates, one awkward make out, and $200 later, all I have to show for my effort is this bitter blog post. I wish I had a more entertaining conclusion, but that’s the thing with online dating. The perfect ending is only a mouse click away.

Legal Disclaimer: All girls mentioned in this blog post were cute, sweet, funny and interesting. I wish them the best in finding love. "It's not you, it's me."

Monday's With Howie

2010-04-19T19:07:00.000-07:00

Notes From Obesity: Howie Goes on a Date

2010-04-07T07:21:00.000-07:00

I know what you’re thinking: Howie is doing a post about dating while fat. Here come the hooker jokes.

Untrue! I instead intend to share a tale of a fat man, taking an okay looking girl, to an awful restaurant. I met the girl, black-out drunk, at a bar.

We really hit it off. As I recall, she made out with my almost instantly. A breast was even grabbed; unfortunately it was her grabbing mine. Some innocent texting followed, none of that sexting like the kids do nowadays. Truthfully, I just assume any “sext” I’d send would be really creepy. An example off the top of my head:

“put the fone on vibrate and shuv it up ur pu$$y”

Disgusting and creepy.

Anyway, eventually this girl and I decided to go to dinner. Not knowing anything about where to eat aside from cheap pizza and supermarket sushi, I took a (labored) walk around town to find a place that looked nice, but was cheap enough for me to afford. I found a nice Mexican place. I know, the words “nice” and “Mexican” don’t go together. But I swear this place was classy. Or at least as classy as a Mexican restaurant can be.

So there we were, I with my ill-fitting clothes, she with her embarrassingly obese date. We ordered a drink each, $13 margaritas. Go back and read that again. This place was turning out to be more expensive than I expected, especially for a man who needs a lot more than one margarita to penetrate the layer of “baby fat” he’d been carrying around for twenty three years.

The waiter came, and I of course ordered the cheapest meal on the menu. She ordered the most expensive taco dinner, and got rice and beans on the side. Yes, she ordered beans. Congratulations sweetheart: the fat guy who can’t get laid is now disgusted by you.

As dinner went on, she proceeded to call the waiter the n-word, behind his back. She also made an inappropriate comment about Hispanic people. As I finished my taco, which couldn’t have filled up a ice cube sucking model, she was finishing her beans and rice, which I of course was offered no part of. $70 later, the night was through.

I walked her to the subway. It was a cold night, and I was of course sweating and hungry. I got home, ordered myself a pizza, and went to bed, all before she got home and shit out the $70 dinner I bought her.

The fat guy was taken advantage of, in a bad way. Lesson learned: never take a hungry racist to an ethnic restaurant.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Being Healthy...

2010-04-05T06:49:00.000-07:00

Things. Aren’t. Good.

Remember how Old Howie used to tell funny stories about when he was fat, like in the past tense? And Howie made fun of the overweight, joking about things like diabetes and heart disease? Well, whatever’s out there has fucked Howie once again.

Things were going my way as well as they could. And by that I mean Fat Howie was safely repressed and Less Fat Howie was living his life. Then, in a cruel twist of fate, I did something stupid: I hopped on a treadmill, and broke a foot. For the better part of three months, I didn’t do a whole lot of moving.

At that point, Fat Howie popped back into my life. Yes lady and gentleman, Howie’s back to being “visibly fat”.

And it blows. Pants don’t fit anymore. And those that do are taken over by gut hanging over them. Walking up stairs is a choir again, and I sweat walking to and from the subway. I look like Kirstie Alley after a buffet dinner.

Was it using my broken foot as an excuse to sit around and do nothing? Was it using the weather as an excuse to sit around and do nothing? Or is it punishment for buying two shirts at Abercrombie and Fitch? Truth is, there’s no one answer.

Now it’s time to play “Biggest Loser”. Although I’ve never actually seen that show, I think it involves fat people being shamed into losing weight, or raped (maybe I saw a commercial for it during Law and Order: SVU?). And what better way to shame yourself by posting information about trying to lose weight…on a blog…read by nobody.

From now on, every fat moment, every piece of food, and every embarrassing second at the gym will be chronicled here. I welcome all negative comments as I go along, because if history has taught me anything, it’s that I don’t respond well to kindness.

I’ll try to beat myself up as much as possible along the way, because who wants a serious blog about an overweight person trying to save his own life?

Come back for the fat jokes, but stay for the touching moment when I get kicked out of the gym for staring at a girl’s ass a bit too long. It’s a long three months until beach season.

Come to the Party I'm Thowing For Me!

2010-04-01T18:21:00.000-07:00

There’s a good chance that if I ever killed myself, I wouldn’t write a note, because I assume nobody would read it. Maybe it’s that kind of self esteem issue that makes me think that throwing a party for yourself is a sad and pathetic waste of time.

Ever get an invite to an event on Facebook? “Hey, someone is throwing a birthday party for someone!” But, then you realize that the person throwing the party is also the person celebrating their birthday.

Before Facebook, I think we can all agree throwing a party for yourself was something reserved for someone without a lot of friends. Truthfully, I can picture a young Howie doing such a thing. Don’t you have friends to do that for you? Isn’t it embarrassing calling the bar to set up the happy hour for yourself?

An adult throwing a birthday party for his or herself is a lot like a virgin visiting a strip club: of course it’s exciting, but at the end of the night, you’re a little more broke and not too satisfied, with a wet spot on your jeans for everyone to see.

Recession Blues

2010-03-30T05:25:00.000-07:00

Like most twenty-somethings who were told by their parents “you can be anything you want to be”, I hate my job. As a matter of fact, I pretty much hate everything about my existence. But, focus: I really hate my job. I don’t want to get into specifics about where I work or what I do, but it involves an uncomfortable amount of interaction with other people. Not “ghetto hooker” interaction, but still pretty bad.

Anyway, I was always told if I put my mind to it, I could do anything I wanted to. Either that was a lie, or my mind isn’t doing shit. So, I came up with a few job ideas I think could be a good fit for me. Unfortunately, the “Great Recession” is preventing me from doing any of the below. But hey, I can dream…

Politician - When I was a kid, I wanted to be a politician. But nowadays, politicians can’t take bribes or have affairs and get away with it. Luckily, I have very few principals. “Sure Mr. Crazy, paranoid, uneducated white man, you keep that gun!”

Professional Golfer – If I knew golfing could get you laid, I would have spent a lot more time at the driving range and a lot less time in the fridge. Is there such thing as a 3.5 iron?

Teacher - Speaking of jobs with an unlimited supply of pussy…(at the college level, of course…)

Create a sitcom that takes place in an abortion clinic in post-Katrina New Orleans - I don’t have a title yet, but it’ll be some hilarious combination of “9^th Ward” and “terminated pregnancy”. Suggestions welcome.

Lawyer - I think going to law school would be a great idea, ten years ago. Unfortunately, there are just too many lawyers around to make any money. Hey! Jerk Off, Esq.! You’ll have to tell me what it feels like still paying off your student loans at 70.

Whale Hunter - Who's fat now, 6th grade classmates?

2010-03-29T17:37:00.001-07:00

How come the homeless guy on the subway can shit himself, but I have to wait until I get home?

Netflix Hates Howie

2009-08-30T18:42:00.000-07:00

I recently started a Netflix account. Aside from owning a cat or having an account at a child pornography website, nothing quite says “destined to die alone on the toilet” than renting movies by mail. Not only are you engaging in an activity that you can do sitting alone in your room, you’re also doing it by mail, taking away all interpersonal contact. But, my dick and hand needed some time-off from each other, so this is where we are. Accept it.

Anyway, in order to get some ideas of movies to watch, you can rate movies you’ve seen before. Based on these ratings, you can get recommendations. So, I rated a whole bunch of crap I’ve seen. Then, I received some recommendations. The system may be flawed.

Let’s take three films I’ve rated. The first is Patton, a biographical war film about an American general in World War II. Action? Drama? Yes to both.

The next rating was a season of The Office. That’s an office comedy. Not much more to say.

Finally, I rated the third season of Arrested Development, which is an irreverent comedy.

So, based on this war movie and two comedies, I was expecting an interesting recommendation. You know, something to make Saturday night a little less painful, as I sit alone in my own bedroom, cut off from the world.

What does Netflix recommend for me? A movie about Hitler’s last days! I tell them I like movies that are comedies and with stories about American heroism. And they give me a movie about an asshole killing himself in a bunker.

A guy nobody likes, alone in a room, just waiting for his entire world to come crashing down around him. Clearly, Netflix ignored my recommendations, and instead chose to give me something a little more reflective of my own life.

Thanks for rubbing it in, Netflix.

Howie Goes to Wal Mart

2009-06-02T03:44:00.000-07:00

“Where aisles and aisles of dreams await you
And the cool promise of ecstasy fills the air” – Bruce Springsteen

I don’t like Wal-Mart. I used to lie and say it was because of their labor practices (black cotton pickers on plantations circa 1850 had a better benefits package), but it’s really because I’m embarrassed by stereotypical Wal-Mart shoppers. How embarrassing do I find shopping at Wal-Mart? Let’s put it this way: I’d rather catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I get out of the shower.

Of course by stereotype I don’t mean everyone who shops at Wal-Mart. I’m talking about the “Real American” Wal-Mart shopper: taking the kids for a Big Mac before getting there, with weights higher than their yearly household income. You know, hockey moms and tax-evading plumbers.

All of my horrible stereotypes were confirmed a few weeks ago though, when I went to a Wal-Mart in New Jersey. That’s right; I combined the all-American spirit of a Wal-Mart shopper with the gonorrhea-soaked glory of a New Jersey resident. Talk about a combination of stereotypes! It was like someone introducing you to a black Jew, who’s really cheap and loves watermelon.

So, I was in this New Jersey Wal-Mart. And like an orgy at Rush Limbaugh’s house, it smelled awful and I didn’t expect to get out alive. As I roamed through the aisles, hoping I finally took that Obama ’08 pin off my jacket, I tried to be positive. Were there some white-trash types? Sure. But, not everyone was white-trash. Many were low-income Latinos. Not only was I among New Jersey Wal-Mart shoppers, I was also around potential future Supreme Court nominees. This experience was becoming ok!

At this point, I realized that Wal-Mart shoppers weren’t bad people. But, what about the store itself? It was larger than most European countries, so getting through the entire thing would be impossible. But what I did see was encouraging, and changed my mind. “Look at all these deals!” I said. Good, hardworking Americans, even harder working illegal immigrants, and low prices derived from out-sourced manufacturing and awful wages. Yep, I was way off about Wal-Mart.

As I walked out, I had a rare feeling: I was wrong! How could I have stereotyped these people? Not only was I planning on returning to Wal-Mart someday soon, I also felt I made a few hundred new friends, and a few hundred potential landscapers.

I was twenty yards from the door when I walked past the greeting card aisle. I saw this:

Nevermind.

Healy's Beach Body

2009-05-31T13:10:00.000-07:00

It’s officially summer and that means BEACH SEASON, where steroid users and anorexics alike can finally show off what they’ve worked so hard to achieve over the last year. But unfortunately for guys like me, the measure of attractiveness shifts from the face to the body, which for me is like going from George Clooney to George Costanza. My High School English teacher even once had mistaken a picture of Brad Pitt's face on her computer screen for me. Granite, she was 70-years old, blind in one eye, and looking at the computer screen from across the room, but a compliment is a compliment.

But my body is a different story. How would I describe it? Well, I would say that I look like one of those kids they used to show in the “Jesus Christ and the Church of Latter Day Saints” commercials, where for only 75 cents or the price of a cup of coffee, you could save 11 starving children in Africa. When I take off my shirt, my body looks like that of a pre-pubescent 12-year-old boy with unusual chest hair. I haven’t lifted a weight since high school basketball, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t tried to improve my body. Instead of lifting, I’ve tried Matthew McConaughey's approach to a great body by taking off your shirt, wearing a bandana, and posing for the paparazzi. Unfortunately, I looked more like Richard Simmons yelling at tourists to take a picture of the blood blister on my stomach.

And worst of all is my tan. You know how good looking girls love hanging out with ugly girls because it makes them look better? That’s how I would describe my complexion. Whenever I’m at the beach, I feel like a former “Real World” cast member on Spring Break in Cancun with the amount of pictures girls take with me. Not only do I let them feel more comfortable in their own bodies, I’m also a temporary remedy for their insecurities. In other words, my beach body could best be described as a cheap alternative to crystal meth. So bring your cameras ladies. I’ll see you at the beach.

Don't Pray For Me

2009-05-28T04:11:00.000-07:00

“We got to pray just to make it today.” – MC Hammer, welfare recipient

Praying is like voting for the Republican Party: it never works, but some people just keep doing it anyway. I can remember some of my prayers:

“God, if you get this dent out of the car before my father gets home, I’ll never masturbate again.”

“God, if you turn this C into a B- before my father gets home, I’ll never masturbate again.”

“God, if you put the Halloween candy out of my stomach and backing the bag before my father gets home, I’ll never masturbate again.”

Clearly, I was an obese moron who touched himself more often than not. But, that dent stayed in the car, the C stayed a C, and the Halloween candy didn’t get back in the bag. Praying didn’t work! It just prevented me from doing something constructive, like park the car a different way so I could blame the dent on my sister later, or come up with the excuse that the teacher is out to get me and therefore gave me a C, or simply hide the Halloween candy wrappers.

I bring this up because I’m trying to unload my apartment, of course because I don’t like my roommates. I was speaking to my mother a few days ago, and she told me she’d say a prayer for me so I can get rid of the apartment. She’s apparently been praying for me since I was born. In the twenty-four years since my birth, I’ve grown to be an overweight Benadryl addict stuck in a dead end job, sitting at home on a Friday night watching a Tom Cruise movie.

Either praying doesn’t work, or both God and my mother are out to get me. Either way, please, don't pray for me. I'll risk going it alone.

Super-Size That Please!

2009-05-26T04:04:00.000-07:00

“Sometimes in life, you just have to settle for mediocrity.” – Michael Steele, RNC Chairman

I came to a conclusion a long time ago: beautiful girls just aren’t into a guy like me. Of course by "guy like me", I mean unattractive and unhappy. Could there be a pretty girl with a great personality somewhere out there, having a bad day who could, in a moment of weakness, look at me? Maybe. I just haven’t seen it yet. Therefore, I settle for the “gatekeeper” of a group of girls; the unattractive fat girl who never smiles, who you have to impress to get to something remotely human.

When you’re me, you get stopped at the gate. Talking to a gatekeeper is tricky, and you have to know just the right things to say. If you want to get that gatekeeper, here are a few lines I think may just do the trick.

“Damn girl, you have the body of a softball pitcher.”

“Starr Jones ain’t got nothing on you.”

“I’ve never felt I was too good for someone, until now.”

“Look at it this way: by the time I find your vagina, it’ll be morning and I’ll have to leave for work.”

“I must be gay, because I think I just fell in love with a woman who looks like John Goodman.”

“I bet black men really appreciate your body.”

“You’re so pretty, you could appear in an Old Navy catalogue.”

Southern Hospitality

2009-05-20T15:29:00.000-07:00

I’ve never been the victim of a hate crime, mainly because I’m not black, gay, or live in the South. But last week, for at least a moment, I knew what it felt like to be a Jew sitting on Santa’s lap.

My job, or “the thing I get paid for while looking for other jobs” as I like to refer to it, brought me to a tiny, back road, Central Louisiana town on the outskirts of Ft. Polk Army Base last week. While steering my 2009 Chevrolet Hatchback rental car with my knees and drinking a Mountain Dew in one hand and looking at my MapQuest Directions in the other, I noticed the blinking Gas Light on the dashboard below me. “No problem,” I thought. “I’ll just pull over at the next exit.” Twenty miles later and not an exit in sight, the blinking light suddenly became a warning that I might end up beneath a swamp with tobacco chew in my ass, rather than a reminder to fill up.

Finally, an exit appeared in the distance, and I thought I was saved. I pulled my car off the deserted highway with hopes of finding a gas station not too far from the interstate. At the stop sign, I looked to my right then looked to my left. I didn’t see any gas stations, but I did see a couple Baptist Churches surrounded by broken down trailer homes and rusty pick-up trucks parked in front.

According to Sarah Palin, this was the “Real America.” Desperately needing to find gas, I flagged down a 1970’s Ford pick-up heading my way on the otherwise empty road.

“Where’s the nearest gas station?” I asked a middle-aged man in a pocket T-shirt and missing his front teeth.

“Just go down that there road right there, bang a right, and about nine miles down the road, you can’t miss it!” he said excitedly, giving me the impression that nine miles in “Real America” is the equivalent of three blocks in “Fake America.”

Sure enough, nine miles later and my gas tank below empty, I pulled into a gravel parking lot with two gas pumps, where awaiting my arrival were a group of 15 bikers drinking Budweiser, who would have made the “Blue Collar Comedy Tour” look like a Harvard 30-year Reunion. I cautiously stepped out of my car and was met with the same reaction of whistling and smirking as a slutty sorority girl walking past a construction crew on their lunch break. Then it hit me. “Holy shit, look at me,” I thought. I was driving a Chevy Hatchback, wearing plaid shorts, a white V-neck, and worst of all had on a pair of thick black rimmed glasses. I was the reason these bikers supported the Second Amendment. It was so bad that if Matthew Shepard were still alive, he probably would have told me to “quit being so gay” (crossing the line?)

Any hopes of a quick exit were thwarted when I saw that the credit card options of the two gas pumps were "out of service," which made sense considering I was standing in a part of the country we're building your credit score is the same as buying a case of Budweiser, a pack of Marlboro Reds, and hitting your pregnant-soon-to-be wife. Left with no other options, I walked into the gas station with cash in hand to pre-pay my way out of the next hate crime featured on the 10 o'clock news.

"You lost boy?" said one of the bikers behind me with a Fu Manchu and an American Flag head band as I laid down my money for the cashier.

"Actually, do you know how to get to Louisiana 8 West?" I said, hoping the directions wouldn't start off with a right then end with stitches in my ass.

"Just follow the road another mile and you'll run right into it," he said with no signs of wanting any part of my body in return.

"Twenty five dollars on Pump One?" the cashier asked me.

"Make it $24 and get this man a Budweiser," I said in appreciation of the directions and not the facial given to me.

And with that, I walked out of the store, filled up my gas, and hit the open road. What I learned from this adventure was not that stereotypes are bad or not to judge people too quickly, but rather the solution to any potential hate crime in Louisiana can be bought for a $1 gas station Budweiser.

Some Nice Things I've Missed

2009-05-12T18:54:00.000-07:00

For two short months, I remembered that nobody cares about a thing I think or say. In those two months, a lot has happened. Here’s some of it.

Octomom – First of all, I’m embarrassed I know the word Octomom. Talk about abusing modern medicine. Octomom, instead of getting knocked up the old fashioned way, decided to go to a fertility clinic. Her doctor was a little trigger happy, and now the state of California has eight bundles of joy on the payroll. This woman, combined with the woman with the Asian husband who cheats on her (it’s the show after the midgets on TLC, I don’t give a shit what it’s called), give fertility clinics a bad name.

A little more abortion clinic and a little less fertility clinic? Sounds like a plan!

Miss California – Let’s be honest, three kinds of people watch beauty pageants on TV: impressionable young girls, horny fat guys, and the gays. In the end, like any woman who has ever come near me, all walk away dissatisfied. You see, Miss California thinks “opposite marriage” is right and gay marriage is wrong. A bigot or a patriot? Not my place to say.

As much as I dig arguing with an idiot, and dumb girls, I actually feel bad for her. She’s on TV to be observed and hot, not intelligent. It’s the Miss USA Pageant, not women’s college basketball. So, do us all a favor, Miss California: instead of answering the questions, stand there silent for three minutes. That should be plenty of time for me to finish jerking-off.

Torture – Apparently America tortured people for a few years back in the early ‘00’s. But, we’re America, so it’s okay. Just to clarify, an American can torture someone from another country, and it’s legal. But, if someone from another country tortures an American, it’s a crime. Now I get it!

I can’t wait to hear a country music star shoehorn “water boarding” into a song about getting drunk and beating up his wife.

Octomom – I wasn’t finished yet. Did you know this woman, who now has fourteen kids, wants to have more kids? I don’t want one kid, let alone fourteen. This woman is like a dog, just breeding until she dies. And her kids are white, so nobody will want to adopt them!

Octomom wants more kids? Give me a bottle of tequila, a shovel, and a cement mixer and I’ll handle the rest.

Kentucky Fried Oprah

2009-05-09T22:08:00.000-07:00

“Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”

Could I be an asshole? Who knows. But I had an interesting experience this week. I got an e-mail about Oprah giving away free KFC grilled chicken. My first reaction? “What a great racist joke! Thanks for sending this to my work e-mail account.”

I must have thought I received an e-mail about male enhancement drugs or maybe a link to a nipple slip on Facebook, because I clicked the link in this e-mail instantly. I was hoping to be fired, and what better way for that to happen than to go to a website with Oprah’s face Photoshopped on a fat naked black man’s body, eating a bucket of fried chicken?

Holy shit was I shocked when I discovered the truth: Oprah was in fact giving away coupons for free chicken at KFC.

Black man gets elected President? A step forward for black people. Oprah gives away free KFC? Forty steps back. Forty huge steps back. Like, “your name is Toby” steps back.

Now, Oprah giving away free chicken is bad enough. But, every KFC around the country was mobbed with people looking to claim their free food, to the point of shutting down KFC’s across the continental United States. Overweight people gorging on free chicken, courtesy of a talk show host? Take that, Taliban!

Free “chicken”, “gravy”, and “mashed potatoes”, all of which are chemicals that are good for you because they only account for 15,000 of your 2,000 daily calories… thanks Oprah. You couldn’t offer us something like free sticks of butter or free lard, you know, something a little healthier than KFC?

From one person with a “weight issue” to another fat fuck, I have to ask Oprah, “what the fuck are you doing?” Does anyone realize how fat Oprah has gotten? Is big beautiful? If you’re an ugly guy with a “I’ll take what I can get” attitude, sure, why not. But Oprah isn’t big and beautiful. She’s a gigantic fried chicken pushing rich woman with no self control.

Oprah says read something, and illiterate housewives read and pretend to comprehend. Oprah gives you a coupon, and America shuts down the local KFC. With great power comes great responsibility. Now get your fat ass to the treadmill store and start putting those under the seats in your audience.

Speaking of Oprah’s influence, I feel bad for America’s “Oprah husbands”. I’m not married, but I’d imagine every man wants to come home to his wife watching Oprah. As he sees her with her KFC bucket, he hopes she says that magic phrase:

“Hey baby, my pussy’s greased with fried chicken oil, courtesy of Oprah. Wanna fuck?”

I Hate A Parade

2009-03-16T17:47:00.000-07:00

I’m not a huge fan of doing things normal people do. Go out on a Friday night? I’ll take staying home and masturbating to the point of self-mutilation instead. Live a long happy life and die of natural causes? I’ll take a heart attack at 30 while enjoying a dish of baby back ribs on the toilet. Going to a parade? I’d rather be a Jew on a pilgrimage to Mecca.

What’s so great about a parade? It’s a bunch of people you don’t know marching down the street waving to you. I actively avoid saying hello to people I know, why the hell do I want to wave at a bunch of strangers walking down the street?

You know what else? I was once in a parade. I had to drive a van in a parade. Yes, I drove a van in a parade. You know what they call a guy driving a van waving to children? They call him a pedophile.

What brought this all on? Well, the St. Patrick’s Day parade is coming up, or maybe already happened. And every jack-ass this side of New Jersey feels the need to come in to Manhattan, get shit-faced, and watch a parade. Stop and think about this: you choose to celebrate a culture by exploiting it’s worst quality. Would you celebrate German Pride Day by killing a Jew or Chinese Pride Day by driving slowly in a crowded car? I doubt it.

Word to the wise: putting on a green t-shirt and drinking whiskey doesn’t make you Irish. All you’re doing is getting drunk and going to a parade. And you know what I call someone getting drunk and going to a parade? I don’t call them an Irishman; I call them a Puerto Rican.

Healy Gets a Physical

2009-03-02T15:54:00.000-08:00

I've lived in Northern Virginia for almost two years since graduating college. After coming down with a bad cold last week, I realized that I don't even have a doctor if something serious were to occur, such as ghonneria, syphilis, or any of the other symptoms associated with watching a Bret Michaels reality dating show on VH1. At the urging of my step-dad, I scheduled a "New Patient Appointment" with a local doctor just in case producers were serious about picking up a thirteenth season.

I left work after lunch at 1 pm for my 2 o'clock appointment. Stepping outside into my car on a cool, sunny, early weekday afternoon, the scene brought me back to getting picked up by my grandparents for middle school doctor appointments. Just like then, it was still a sort of sudden shock that the world actually exists outside your classroom or outside your cubicle from the hours of 9 to 5. People are walking the streets, running errands, and bicycling like it's a Saturday, but what the hell do they actually do? Every person I drove by, I was tempted to yell, "Get a job," envious of their carefree Thursday afternoon, not realizing that they were probably unemployed or even worse worked in the Restaurant business.

I arrived at the doctor's office, parked my car, entered the building and took the elevator up to the third floor to Internal Medicine. Like every doctor's office I've ever been to, a local soft rock station echoed from the radio speakers at the front desk. It makes me wonder if doctor's receptionists put "can listen to Celine Dion all day long” under "Skills" in their Resume. The receptionist greeted me, asked for my Insurance card, and handed me a set of forms to fill out that looked like a Standardized Test. Proud of the fact that it was my name on the Insurance card and not my parents’, compliments of my "real job's" health insurance, I felt like a young, successful professional. This feeling only lasted about one minute as I wrote down the address for my emergency contact (my mother), handed it back to the receptionist, and she said, "Oh, it's the same address as yours."

Waiting for a nurse to pick up my file and say “Mr. Healy,” I scanned the reading material scattered throughout the tables in the waiting room. The selection was the usual torn up People Magazines and Newsweek’s outdated by at least 8 months. In doctor’s offices across the country, Jamie Lynn Spears is still the most famous pregnant teenager in America and an unknown Bristol Palin is just one smart Vice Presidential nomination away from a quick and quiet abortion.

Twenty minutes later, the nurse called me in, took my blood pressure, and left me waiting for my new Doctor. Five minutes later, my pants were down, my head was turned, and I was coughing like a teenager taking their first bong hit. I didn’t know if I was in the middle of my physical or at my first Frat party. The following is what transpired with my Doctor for my first physical in nearly six years:

Doctor: Have you recently been sexually active?

Me: Define Recently.

Doctor: In the last couple months.

Me: Does masturbation count?

Doctor: Only if we’re testing for depression. Have you ever been tested for STD’s or HIV?

Me: Ignorance is bliss.

Doctor: Do you drink?

Me: Yes.

Doctor: Drink to socialize or drink to black out?

Me: Drink to socialize. Last Saturday, I socialized with a $20 prostitute.

Doctor: Okay, we’re just going to need a urine sample and then we’re done.

Me: How long does marijuana stay in your urine?

Doctor: About one month.

Me: Can we reschedule four weeks from now?

Doctor: I think you should look for another Doctor.

Me: I think you should stop playing with my balls.

Intervention 2

2009-02-18T20:18:00.000-08:00

Oh Healy. Did you not learn your lesson last time? Contrary to what this picture looks like, it is his Facebook picture, not a profile picture for some kind of “blowing black dudes” website.

Seriously Healy, I think it’s pretty obvious that your picture was taken after you told a friend, “take a picture of me for Facebook”. Also, I assume there are three or four pictures on your camera before this one where you tried different faces.

Why is your face turned, a cock slap it too hard? I don’t want to be a dick, mainly because I assume from that picture, you’d probably try to stick me in your ass.

I hear Dakota Fanning is looking for a stunt double. You interested? Or you too busy with your audition tape for season two of “Bromance”?

I mean, really, you look like the kind of guy who uses conditioner then blow-dries his hair. You look like you just came from seeing “He’s Just Not Into You” on opening night.

You buy Mike’s Hard for high school girls, don’t you? You look like you spend your weekends playing beer pong with 16 year olds at high school parties.

Is that the face you’ll use when you pretend to be surprised after Chris Hansen tells you the girl is only 12?

David Spade called. He’s suing for identity theft.

Howie's Moving

2009-02-16T19:55:00.000-08:00

I don’t like Craigslist. To me, it’s a little creepy. You ever read some of those “casual encounters”? Who would have thought there were so many horny BBW’s out there? But, I’m in need of a new place to live, so I’ve been looking there. Unfortunately, anyone looking for a roommate has unreasonable demands. Cleanliness? Being social? Pay rent on time? Must speak Spanish? All outrageous conditions I could never meet. Nor, should I have to. But, there are even worse things out there. And here are some of them.

“You can’t be one of those people who secretly hate themselves or their lives. If you do, don’t apply!” – Don’t worry, I won’t! I don’t think I could have faked my way through this one. And, how dare you say something like that. Also, what if I’m open about it? Will that make a difference?

“I like to have dinner parties.” – And I like to pretend to be unhappy for attention. Just because you like to do something doesn’t mean it’s right.

“Must be a gay vegan.” – Might as well have said, “must be a fucking stereotype”. Isn’t that like saying, “must be a white Caucasian”? In all honesty, the pictures of the apartment looked very well decorated and clean (shocking). I was going to pretend to be a gay vegan, but the second the badly dressed fat guy walks in the door, I think Homo Jim would see right through me. Meat and pussy, two things I don’t get enough of, would pay top dollar for, and prefer medium rare.

“We don’t have to be best friends, but don’t be anti-social either.” – Leave me alone. I’m going to treat you like I’ll treat my first kid: a check once a month and the occasional passive aggressive insult. You know when I’ll be your “friend”? When we run out of toilet paper and I don’t want to go to the store and miss “The Bachelor”.

“Two twenty-something females looking for a male roommate.” – Erection.

“Safe neighborhood.” – If you feel the need to tell me you live in a safe neighborhood, chances are it isn’t a safe neighborhood. Word to the wise: if the room can fit a king sized bed but every billboard outside is in Spanish, I’m not moving in. If your apartment building has a roof-top deck and forty Ecuadorians living in one room, I’m not moving in.

“My Cuban grandmother visits often.” – Super erection.

Would You Like To Be Transferred To His Voicemail?

2009-02-05T14:51:00.000-08:00

My goal in life is to one day have this as my voicemail at work.

I think I'll have to be self-employed.

505,648 Ain't Bad

2009-02-03T18:01:00.000-08:00

I was taking a quick break from Wikipedia and self loathing yesterday, and did some “web research”. And you know what I found out? Howiehealy.blogspot.com is the 505,648th most popular website in the United States.

If you’re anything like me, you’re probably asking yourself, “but Howie, how does this benefit me?” Truthfully, it doesn’t. It just serves to bring my self esteem up from congressional approval rating levels to Cheney approval rating levels (Editor’s Note: This was written before 1/20 and I have no motivation for a new “joke”).

Does 505,648 look like a good number? Of course not. But, consider how many websites people visit all over the country. See? That number isn’t so bad. It’s actually bordering on “Okay”.

But, Healy and I are two people completely unsatisfied with life and with an inability to experience joy. Therefore, we need to get that number lower. Aside from subliminally telling you to pass this site onto your friends (pass this site onto your friends), we also want you to not go to any of the 505,647 sites that have more visitors than us.

So, here’s why you don’t need any of those sites.

The Top 100 Websites: Yahoo, Google, Facebook, ect. The top 100 websites consist of social networking sites and news sites. Therefore, we know most people are reading about fighting in Gaza followed by looking for pictures of their friend’s younger sister in a bikini before visiting us.

But, here are some sad facts: all the news out there is depressing and your friend’s sister put on that freshman fifteen before her first interracial orgy during orientation. Fat chicks and war…I think we have that top 100 beat.

101-100,000: Porn. Yes, the next 99,900 websites ahead of us are porn sites. That may sound like a lot, but consider all of the crazy shit people are into and that 99,900 is a conservative estimate.

After depressing yourself with bad news and overweight beach photos, you then try to cheer up by masturbating. If this website has taught us anything, it’s that masturbation is not Prozac. Essentially, you use your own tears as a masturbatory lubricant. Isn’t that pathetic? So, we’ve established that there is no need to read the news, go on Facebook, and now you’re too ashamed and embarrassed to hit the “Back” button to have another round with FeetandFatAsses.net. We’re moving up the list already.

100,001-505,647: Blogs. Hundreds of thousands of jerk-offs with jerk-off opinions doing the exact same thing as the two of us. Our situation suddenly went from “cautiously optimistic” to “the movie ‘300’ without homosexual undercurrents”. How do we compete with all of these people doing the exact same thing as us? Insult them!

Some people out there think they can have a “career” with “blogging” using their “iPhones” while wearing “flannel” shirts with “skinny-jeans”. Delusions. That’s why people like Howie, Healy, and all of you need to take a stand. We can’t be enablers. Let’s encourage these “career bloggers” to give up on their dream and join the rest of us in misery by making this blog more popular than the rest. Imagine how much these douche-bags will be Twittering once two assholes like us eclipse them in popularity. Also, I truly have no idea what “Twitter” is.

World is going to hell, your friend’s sister is succumbing to destiny, we and every web company know you have a “chicks with dicks” fetish, and our blogger intervention is about to begin. I predict this site will be number one by summer.

So, the next time you see Healy or myself walking down the street, remember two things:

- No matter how sure you think you are, we’re NOT James Gandolfini and Steve Buscemi
- We run the 505,648th most popular website in the United States, so show a little respect

Afternoon Delight

2009-01-28T14:52:00.000-08:00

I find Strip Clubs depressing, unarousing, and always wonder if the dancer’s father drives a Ford pickup and has a domestic abuse history. But the real reason I go to strip clubs, besides supporting the local economy, is to feel a sense of moral and ethical superiority over my peers that I wouldn’t ever be able to find outside of attending Sunday Mass.

I visited my former college roommate in Columbus, Ohio on Saturday and we both realized over lunch that our futures were as scary and uncertain as an unwed, teenage mother. But at least they have the knowledge that they will never rise above the lower-middle class and can plan accordingly. In ten years, I could be dead, in rehab, or worst of all be working in the Management Trainee program at Enterprise Rent-A-Car. Walking back to our car in the Max & Erma’s parking lot, we noticed a billboard across the street advertising for “Kahoots Gentlemen’s Club.” My friend asked if I’d be interested. I looked at my watch. It was 1:30 pm. Jimmy Buffet once said, “It’s 5 o’clock somewhere.” If that’s the case, somewhere else it could be midnight with a cocaine epidemic.

(Add 100 pounds and repleace the Benjamin with a $1 bill to increase reality)

Dancing at a Midwestern Strip Club at 1:30 in the afternoon is like applying to community college; all you need to do is show up. We entered the club through a set of double doors and were greeted by a girl-next door hostess, who told us to enjoy ourselves and there was no cover charge this early in the afternoon. We had officially made it in time for the Matinee. Was this rock bottom? We ordered two Bud Lights from the surprisingly good looking bartender and entered the dance stage through a sheet of black curtains.

Techno blasted from the speakers and the room was dark and empty, with the exception of an 83-year-old man sipping on a bottle of water in the corner and studying intently at the overweight, topless stripper, who could only be described as someone who was happy to get promoted to the 1:30 afternoon time slot. The music and lights slowly faded out, and the overweight stripper exited the stage with the same amount of money she came on with.

Being the sympathetic, humanitarians that we are, we couldn’t let another hard-working dancer’s effort go to waste, no matter how much she resembled a young, Rosie O’Donnell. We reached into our pockets and pulled out a combined $7 in crinkled one dollar bills. We would stay for two dancers, give out our charity, and head home knowing that we had given back to the local community.

We decided we would play a game of Russian roulette with the next two dancers. My friend was up first. Whoever came out was who would receive his $4. To my chagrin, a decently attractive blonde with fake tits and a nervous smirk entered the stage and seemed stunned to have an audience outside of her boyfriend’s home videos. My friend threw down his cash that wouldn’t have been enough to buy a name-brand cereal at a local grocery store. “This is the most I’ve made all day,” the dancer bluntly said without shame, rewarding my friend with a sample of her tits in his face. We had spent $4 and were being treated like Hugh Grant.

The song ended and the stripper picked up her cash knowing she was $4 closer to getting high after her shift. It was now my turn. I approached the stage, realizing the chances of two good-looking strippers in a row coming out during the same time as “Family Feud” were slim. My suspicions were confirmed when the overweight one from before entered the stage and locked eyes with me. The two-man, afternoon rotation was definitely in effect at my expense. She inched closer and closer to me, accompanied by her bruises and love-handles that were surely a prerequisite for an unplanned pregnancy. She whispered in my ear, “watch this,” and proceeded to climb up the pole and slide upside down with the pride and failed grace of an 8-year-old showing her dad her first cart-wheel. Knowing it would all be over soon, I threw down my $3 on stage and held my breath as she came to receive her prize. After just learning that this kind of money can get you farther in Ohio than I got on my own prom night, I stopped the beast before I had to check for lumps with my mouth. “No thanks, I have a cold.”

And just like that it was over. We grabbed our coats, told the 83-year-old man sipping on his water bottle to wear protection as we headed for the door giggling like middle school kids playing their first game of spin the bottle, and entered the outside world. Just like the scene in “Varsity Blues,” the sun blinded us as we stepped outside to our abandoned car in an empty parking lot. I looked at my watch. It was only 1:53 pm, but it was 5 o’clock somewhere.

Notes From Obesity: Howie Joyner Kersee

2009-01-21T06:30:00.000-08:00

As I so painfully related several weeks ago, my first experience with organized sports was when I played youth soccer. That lasted for three embarrassing seasons, and I quietly retired, only to fade into sports oblivion. Little did I know that several years later, the call of the sports world and yet more warnings from my pediatrician about my shortening lifespan would lead me to my next sports endeavor: track.

I wouldn’t say I was ever lazy or unmotivated, about my time playing soccer or anything else. For instance, my pediatrician once told me if I kept up my weight gain, I’d be 200 lbs by the time I turned 18. I showed him though: I hit 200 lbs at 14. That’s motivation.

Anyway, I of course realized I was slowly killing myself, and started running during the summer of 1999. I would walk a half mile, then jog a half mile, then walk the mile back home. By the time I got there, I had sweated through two t-shirts and a pair of cargo shorts and felt like I ran two marathons in a row. I didn’t give up though; I kept up that routine for months. Finally, I could do that half mile without stopping for a break, so I got bold: I signed up for winter track.

Practice was pretty intense, but I figured out how to make it work for me. Whenever we had to go out on our own to run, I’d go to my friend’s dad’s house and watch TV and eat junk food. One time, while walking back from his house, I even got my first sports injury: I twisted my ankle in a crack on the sidewalk. I was becoming a man.

One day after practice, a few weeks into my first season, my coach approached me in the locker room. He asked me if I was only doing this to lose weight. I said yes.

I assumed that only the best athletes ran in races. So, imagine my surprise when I was standing at the starting line at my first meet. The gun went off and I was in the zone. I was running so hard, I at one point thought I was leading everyone. Turns out, they were all just about to lap me. As the other athletes finished in four and five minutes, I kept pressing on. The officials, forgetting I was still “racing”, tried to start the next event. The announcer had to offer everyone a friendly reminder that there was still an “athlete” on the track.

As I came around the final turn on my final lap, all of my teammates were cheering me on. Then, suddenly some strange voices began to yell, “Come on, Foxboro, finish strong!” Yep, I was doing so badly and going so slowly that the opposing team was cheering me on. If retarded people could self actualize, I’d imagine this is what they would feel like participating in the Special Olympics.

I triumphantly ran across the finish line, looking like Cuba Gooding Jr. in “Radio”. The entire field house was cheering me on for my seven minute and thirty two second mile.

I went on to do three more seasons of winter track, and four seasons of spring track. My town was fortunate; we had both the fastest kid and the slowest kid in the league. For three years, I never won a race. Suddenly, in my last year of high school, in my last season of track, it finally happened: I didn’t lose.

By this point, I had become too embarrassed by the constant announcements of “please keep off the track, a race is still going on”. So, I switched to sprinting. In the 100 meter dash, I only lost by four seconds, not four minutes. One meet, I was getting lined up in the last heat, the only senior among a group of freshmen. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an athlete in a wheel chair. I tried to get into his heat, but he had already raced. So, I ran, and came in last in my heat. A few minutes later, I saw the results of all the runners, and saw that I came in second to last. Yes, I out-raced and out-performed a cripple three years my junior.

And you know what? All of the scholar athlete and participation awards (still proudly displayed by my parents on their “Wall of Mediocrity”), all of those lost races and embarrassments, and even those over-revealing short shorts I had to wear; they all disappeared. For the one brief, shining moment, I wasn’t the loser.

MISSING: AMBITION

2009-01-19T04:31:00.000-08:00

Last name: Healy

First name: Samuel

Age: 7

Last Seen At: Taylor Elementary School, Foxboro, MA

Last seen Wearing: Hiked up grey sweatpants and a blue Dallas Cowboys hooded sweatshirt.

Sam's ambition was last seen in October 1992 during a first grade book report on "Goosebumps." It was at this time, while presenting his research on R.L. Stine's horror fiction, that he noticed the kid in class who couldn't read and received discounted lunch coupons was getting more attention from the teacher than him. All motivation and ambition to try in life was instantly erased after realizing he would never receive recognition without having a learning disability or being a special education student who pulls their pants down and pisses on the walls in the Girls bathroom. The next 10 plus years of indifference were filled with scribbled homework assignments before class, "Unsatisfactory" check marks for behavior on report cards, and a college essay that read, "The reason I want to attend The University of Massachusetts is because I want to become involved with the Hokie community in Virginia" because he was too lazy to come up with more than one college essay. He currently works a 9-5 job, where the majority of his day is spent blogging and playing online Solitaire. If Sam's ambition is found, please contact his current Employer who haven't seen or heard from him in two weeks, or his mother who is wondering when he will move out.

Age-Progression to 23

Howie The Hater: Part 2 of 5

2009-01-14T17:54:00.000-08:00

Deep down, I’m a surprisingly tolerant person. Yep, aside from Renee Zellweger and Latino pride, I pretty much don’t hate much of anything. People that are happy kind of piss me off, but that’s more jealousy than anything. You know what does really get to me, aside from Renee Zellweger and Latino pride? Those who feel the need to pretend to be happy, a.k.a. married people.

Let me toss a metaphor at you. Verizon tells me I can get a new mobile every two years. The previous phone I had lasted me three years, and I only gave it up once the numbers 7 and 4 stopped working. Then, I had to choose a new one. It took me two weeks to find one I liked, and I regretted the choice the second the phone was activated. I’m okay with my phone, but am I happy with it? Of course not. I’ll always think to myself, “could I have done better?”

And that, my four readers, is why people that are married are pretending to be happy. My life is pretty simple and uncomplicated right now, yet every tiny decision I have to make takes seconds then has more second guessing and regret than the McCain and Giuliani campaigns combined. And that’s just on days I don’t eat.

I’m sure there may be a married reader or two out there saying, “Hey Howie! I’m happy! What gives, brother?” First of all, I’m not your “bro”. Second of all, you’re either in denial or have what the mob calls a “goomara” on the side. So, don’t tell me you’re happy.

The best evidence of my un-scientific hypothesis is newlyweds. Invite a pair of newlyweds over for dinner. They’ll start off referring to each other as “my wife” or “my husband” instead of their names. This will degenerate into cute name calling, with words like “asshole” and “whore” being used in a jokey, adorable way. After ten more minutes of underhanded comments and snide insults, you’ll think you stumbled into an amateur theater production of “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”

And I don’t know about you, but I’ve got enough of my own problems to deal with without listening to two people bitch and complain. So, please, either don’t get married or get divorced, because Howie hates married people.

Washington Wizards Tickets Anyone?

2009-01-08T16:02:00.000-08:00

You think your job is in jeopardy with the struggling economy? Try selling tickets for the (7-27), last place Washington Wizards, where your commission may depend on the backcourt of Mike James and DeShawn Stevenson, and your best sales pitch is the free Chipotle burritos given out between timeouts. In a questionable marketing move, I couldn’t even find a link to the NBA Standings on the Wizards website because the marketing department may have thought, “HOPEFULLY OUR FANS ARE TOO DUMB TO KNOW.” This was actually the depressing situation my former college roommate was in for the past four months. But unlike former coach Eddie Jordan who was fired by team management in November, my friend resigned Monday on his own terms. This was his email to me:

The resignation went like this.

They don't require a 2 week notice because once you say you are done, there is no reason to keep you around so they let you go that day.

I knew I was going to be resigning for the past 2 weeks so I decided to really lower my productivity over the holiday. In other words, I pretty much stopped doing anything. Last week my boss was out all week so I took it upon myself to leave tuesday afternoon without saying anything to anyone. I had also planned on calling in sick on Wednesday. Tuesday afternoon we got an email that said (and Im not joking). "please when you get home tonight check your tires, your alarm, and make sure you get a good nights rest, we don't want anyone calling in to make excuses about why they can't be here on New Years Eve." I would have gotten this email had I not left.

so I got in yesterday morning a little on the early side to check my email and see what I had missed. Before I even got to my desk my boss Ralph (nice guy, just smells terrible and fat as hell, sam met him) came up to me and asked if I could come in his office. I told him I would put my stuff down and be right in... I knew exactly what was coming so I grabbed my letter of resignation out of my bag and walked in.

When I went in to his office not only was he there but so was his boss, Jim. Both of them looked at me as I sat down and asked what was up. Jim didn't say anything but handed me a sheet of paper. When I took a look at it, it said "call log" which obviously keeps track of the number of businesses and people we contact each day to make sales. On average we should make about 250 calls a week. My grand total for the past 2 weeks was 11. As I looked over it, I really did try not to smile, I looked up at him and he asked "so what could possibly be your reason for this?". I didn't hesitate, I handed him my letter of resignation and said this might help explain things.

He looked at it, said alright, handed it to Ralph and walked out of the room. Afterwords I sat there and talked to Ralph for a while about my new job for a marketing firm down in Miami and how I was looking forward to getting a tan. I thanked him for the opportunity and said I enjoyed the experience. He said they would pay me for the day but I was welcome to go home whenever I was done cleaning out my desk.

I figure, the only reason my other boss was in the room were to fire me anyways so it felt good knowing that I had beaten them to it. Even if that isn't the case I still think it went over better then I had planned.

BJK

(Editor's note: Working for a Marketing Firm in Miami = Unemployed in Marlyand)

Love Me

2009-01-07T04:52:00.000-08:00

“Girls, girls, girls.” - Unknown

When I was a kid, I envisioned life a little differently than it actually turned out. When I was ten or eleven, thinking ahead to when I was twenty-five, I always envisioned I’d be the first astronaut to land on Mars. That dream was squashed when a family friend told me I was too fat to fit in the space shuttle. I also assumed I’d be on at least my second marriage. At this point, I’m not even close to marriage number one, unless you count the time I caught a glimpse of a girl in a nearby apartment building naked. Even that was over a year ago, so I don’t think anything will come of it.

Anyway, I need to find the future ex-Mrs. Howie. But where to look?

A Bar – As a rule, I generally don’t go for a girl that’s into me. If you have no respect for yourself, how can I respect you? I can forgive that when there’s alcohol involved though. And there’s nothing like a loud and crowded bar to bring out the conversationalist in me. Anyway, the big problem with meeting girls at bars is that the good looking ones don’t get drunk enough to talk to me and I don’t stay drunk long enough to go home with the ugly ones. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t judge people based on looks. What kind of hypocrite do you think I am? But, when I start talking to a girl that I think looks like Gisselle Bunchen and an hour later I’m making out with the same girl who now looks like Mickey Rourke, we have a serious problem. I’ve yet to find the proper balance between drunken desperation and sober judgment. Until then, meeting that special someone at a bar is out.

The Movie Theater – Darkness and silence are my best friends. I don’t have the integrity to date anyone with a handicap, so finding a girl in a movie theater is as close as I’ll get to that deaf and blind dream girl. Being in a situation where I can be neither seen nor heard eliminates all of my worst qualities, so it should be the perfect place to meet a girl. Yet, even this idea presents problems. First of all, the movie has to end eventually. Secondly, I always go to the movies early so I don’t have to pay full price (I set my alarm to see movies at 10AM. Real catch ladies.). And those morning movies are full of old people and lesbians. I guess my dream girl won’t be sitting in the 10:15 AM Sunday morning showing of “Valkyrie”.

Bookstore – Call me crazy, but seeing a girl thumb through a Bob Woodward book gets me super-wet. You’d be surprised how many hot and probably smart girls are in bookstores, waiting for me to pretend to be interested in the same book they’re looking to buy. Now, I’m not talking about the weird Indian chicks (dot heads, not Pocahontas) that sit on the floor in the Sci-Fi section reading “Battlestar Galactica” novels. I’m talking about the lookers who may have some similar interests as I do. Looking at the 500 page history of the CIA? Read it already, why don’t you come to my place and borrow it? It should be that easy. Closest I came to that bookstore girl? Saw one reading a Hitler biography. I thought she liked history. She ended up being a neo-Nazi…who wanted nothing to do with me.

Howie's New Years Resolutions

2009-01-05T05:29:00.000-08:00

“How the years rush on by; birthdays, kids and suicides.” – The Rolling Stones

Another year over and another one just beginning. They say the average life expectancy is 76. I’m not even a third of the way there and already I’m running out of shit to do. So in the meantime, I’ve got some New Years resolutions to try to make 2009 a little more interesting and a little less miserable.

Grow a beard – I’ve attempted this every now and then since I started college. One time I grew a moustache for two weeks. Then, I realized I looked like the kind of guy who has a little boy chained to a radiator in his mother’s basement.

In all honesty, I really can’t grow facial hair; which makes growing a beard the ultimate physical challenge. Maybe I’ll take performance enhancement drugs, like Rogain or a merkin for my face. Either way, this is the year I go from “creepy fat guy” to “creepy fat guy with a blotchy beard”. If it comes down to it, I can tell people my beard looks terrible because of cancer or something. That’ll silence all dissent.

Unfortunately, the average fourteen year-old Muslim girl has better facial hair than I could ever dream of having. I give the beard thing three weeks tops before embarrassment makes me shave.

Write a movie – I have to have something brewing in my head that can translate well to a direct-to-DVD “American Pie” movie. Or, worst case scenario, I write a bad remake of a classic movie. Either way, it’ll be a star vehicle for Eugene Levy. Maybe I can do a classic love story on a doomed ship, set off the coast of Somalia instead of the North Atlantic. How about a Muppet biopic? Kermit the Frog as JFK, fucking Miss Piggy as Marilyn Monroe? How can that not succeed?

In actuality, I’ll probably just write two or three more “Gossip Girl” spec scripts. I wish that were a joke. Seriously.

Drink – I had an idea to completely stop drinking for a year just to see if I could do it and be a little healthier. Then, I realized that if I tell people I quit drinking, they’ll assume I had some kind of drinking problem. Now, of course I don’t. I spend most of my time locked in my room scheming against my neighbors and writing little “stories” to put online. So, why invite unnecessary scrutiny by making people think I’m some kind of alcoholic?

How will I be the witty life of the party or make girls see how great I am if I don’t get liquored up first? Plus, I need beer goggles just to face myself in the mirror. Without a few shots in the morning, I’d never be able to gel my hair and brush my teeth before work.

2009 Retirement Plan

2009-01-02T18:36:00.000-08:00

2009 is a New Year with hopes for a happier and healthier lifestyle. Most resolutions deal with dropping so-called "bad habits" such as drugs, alcohol, and giving (*not receiving) oral sex in Airport bathrooms. But I've decided to ignore the status quo by picking up a bad habit and entering the world of online sports gambling just in time for the NFL playoffs. Why have I decided to begin gambling? Well, according to a website I found on "Google Search" that has no credibility beyond the fact that it seemed to use spell-check correctly, "the three predominant reasons young people report gambling are (a) the excitement it brings, (b) enjoyment, and (c) to win money." Let's see how these reasons fit into my life.

Excitement: While flipping the channels last week, I stumbled upon Brody Jenner's new reality show "Bromance" on MTV, which was only five minutes into the series premiere. I quickly grabbed a blanket and gave out an ecstatic fist pump in my mom's living room, realizing this was the most exciting thing to happen to me in two weeks (that includes Christmas). After the elimination ceremony where eight guys sat in a hot tub discussing what they were looking for in a relationship with another guy, I realized I needed a new hobby.

Enjoyment: Only three types of people could enjoy watching a Minnesota Vikings football game: people from Minnesota, people from the city playing Minnesota, and degenerate gamblers. I grew up In Massachusetts and while the Pats unfairly missed out on the playoffs, the threat to lose all your money never takes an early vacation. Just ask a married man.

To Make Money: What!?!? As opposed to losing money? It may be time to cite a new source: That's like asking Eliot Spitzer why he hired a hooker and him responding, "To orgasm."

What's the worst thing that could happen from sports gambling besides life or death debt, betting on a WNBA game, or a "Two for the Money" sequel? We will soon find out, but best case scenario is I'm retired by April. I think I'll fall somewhere in between. Wish me luck.

First Dates

2008-12-23T15:52:00.000-08:00

Let me start by saying that at 23, I’ve never been on a legitimate date, much less a first date, unless you consider inviting a 40-year-old woman into a Porta Potty at a DMB concert romantic. Contrary to starting a relationship by getting to know each other over dinner and a movie, my relationships usually start over a bottle of cheap vodka, generic brand orange juice, and the first girl to accept my pleas at bumming a cigarette outside the bar. These “relationships” usually don’t last past the first orgasm, or the initial realization that I’m not the actor formerly known as “Stuart Minkus” on “Boy Meets World.”

First Dates are simply awkward. And I’ve spent my whole life avoiding awkward situations, whether it be having a fake conversation with myself on a cell phone in an elevator or trying to take a piss in a urinal at a crowded sporting event, but nothing will come out, then flushing like I’m finished, and casually waiting 20 minutes in line for the bathroom stall, all because I’m gun shy. But some of my friends are quite different from me and tend to go with the more conservative approach to dating. They usually have career goals, self respect, and don’t know the exact number of results found on Google when searching “Audrina Patridge Nude Pics” (approximately 222,000). My former college roommate even gave me a call yesterday to say he met a girl last weekend and he was taking her out to dinner. Having the frugality of a Carl Winslow, I couldn’t help but think of what the awkward conversation would revolve around if I was taking a girl out to dinner on a first date:

Me: (Text Messaging because too nervous to call): leaving now to pick u up!
Date: (Responds before I can even put my phone back in my pocket): 4:14 PM ?!?!?
Me: (Taking approximately 9 minutes to enter the following): EARLY BIRD SPECIAL!

Me: (After picking her up at her house and forced to interact without the help of Verizon): Can you chip in for some gas money?
Date: (Hesitant, awkward laughter hoping I’m joking. Trust me, I’m not): ha ha HA haa..

(Cut to nationally chained restaurant barely good enough for a 12-year-old's birthday party)

Waiter: What can I get you to drink?
Me: We’ll take two Margaritas please.
Waiter: Just to let you know, happy hour doesn’t start for another 20 minutes.
Me: Water sounds good. And can you bring more bread?

After dinner, drinks, and a movie, what's the best case scenario that comes out of a First Date besides another shitty Adam Sandler movie that somehow keeps Drew Barrymore and Rob Schneider’s career relevant? Traditionally, I'd say the fourth date where you are rewarded with sober sex and a $200 credit card balance from treating that special someone to four three course meals at low-scale, nationally chained restaurants. (Outback: No Rules, Just right? Does that mean I don't have to pay?) For that kind of money, you're better off investing in a hooker and the Domino's 5-5-5 deal, each coming with its own special topping. And both are promised to be delivered in 30 minutes or less. Dating? No thanks. I've got low self-esteem, a bottle of vodka, and a phone book. I’m ready for marriage.

Intervention

2008-12-22T19:38:00.000-08:00

“He has all the charm of a date rapist.” – The Star Ledger on comedian Artie Lange

Sometimes, someone does something so horrible and can’t see it for themselves. And good people like me need to step in.

Healy, you have a problem.

Yes, my friend Healy has a creepy beard, and I feel I need to have an intervention to tell him to stop. Healy, in all honesty, you look like you belong in the “Violent Pedophiles R Us” catalogue.

Not only do you have that awful beard, but you feel the need to wear a plaid scarf on your head. Did you steal that from your mother? If so, when did you find the time to do that? Between trying not to wake her up masturbating in the morning and trying not to wake her up masturbating at night, where did you find a spare second to come up from your basement to steal a plaid scarf from her? You look like you murdered Al Borland and put his carcass on your head as a trophy.

And what about that facial expression? You’re wearing a plaid scarf as a bandana and you’re beard looks like a freshly shaven vagina, and you have the nerve to try to look like a tough guy? Were you filming your “Real World” audition tape while this picture was being taken? 125 pounds of pure muscle, all on display in that tough-guy face.

Putting the beard, scarf, and face all together, the best way to describe you would be to say you look like the kind of guy who starts a fight at a bar and gets the shit beat out of him, then goes home the next day and hits his girlfriend to make up for it.

So, please Healy…shave. You’re a few days and a few hairs away from becoming a “ripped from the headlines” episode of “Law and Order: SVU”.

"Well, a date rapist has to have way more charm than a regular rapist!" – Norm MacDonald on comedian Artie Lange

Notes From Obesity: Youth Soccer

2008-12-16T05:41:00.000-08:00

“You know Howie, not only do you look like you have a thyroid problem, but you also have the personality of someone who was molested repeatedly and violently by a loved one.” – Susan Sarandon

Let’s be honest, the fat are funny. Heavy girls with thongs hanging out, men that are forced to buy two airline seats, and Louie Anderson; all sad and disgusting, yet poignantly hilarious. Who among us hasn’t thought to themselves after seeing a fat person on the street, “Ha! That guy won’t live to see his kids graduate from eighth grade!”, “Ha! That kid won’t live to finish his Happy Meal, let alone have his first heart attack!” “Holy shit, is that really my reflection?” Yes, the fats are the court jesters in our collective kingdom. You know what’s even funnier than seeing the fat live their lives? Seeing a fat person do a sport.

Which leads me to my story…

My earliest experience with athletics was t-ball. I remember my dad taking me to the park, getting me set up and letting me rip, you know, like one of those tender B.S. father-son moments found on greeting cards and in the fantasies of orphans. Rumor has it I couldn’t hit the ball five feet. My father, sensing my inadequacy and his own latent humiliation over the fact that his DNA had some part in producing me, never tried to teach me how to play a sport again. That didn’t stop him from pushing the job onto someone else though.

I played soccer for three miserable seasons. Thankfully, I went to Catholic school where sports were a sin worse than masturbation (but not quite as bad as child sexual abuse), so there were no sports teams. And my parents, supposedly based on some kind of registration issue but probably more to spare us all from the scrutiny of the neighbors, signed me up for soccer in another town.

I don’t want to alarm anyone, but I wasn’t very good. All of my teammates “joked” that I should play goalie, since they assumed I could fill up the entire goal. My coaches, knowing I didn’t have the motor skills or girth to pull that off, never put me in the goal.

I remember playing the field though. I can still remember all of my favorite parts of the game: sitting on the sidelines while I was out, eating oranges at halftime, going home to get as far away from reality as possible. Yep, I was in my glory… until the whole “everyone has to play” rule hit me like a southern husband hits his disrespectful wife.

I wasn’t the lazy lump of empty hopes and lost dreams one would assume. I had a habit of chasing after the ball as long as it was near the goal. Even in my glory hogging, this hog never made a goal. The rest of the time I was on the field, I would just stand there watching the ball or talking, since I would never chase the ball past center field. Of course, you have to imagine all of this is happening while I am so overweight that my pediatrician was already warning me about dying young, I am wearing flowered Hawaiian shorts, and I am sporting a jersey that is ready to burst off of me like I’m some disgusting Bizzarro-world Hulk.

Every season ended with a big pizza party and awards ceremony, where I ate too much pizza and ice cream and received participation trophies. These trophies continue to sit in my closet (an homage to a lifetime of mediocrity and missed chances), waiting for a time when they can, much like a John Travolta or Tom Cruise, finally come out of the closet.

A special participation award should go to my parents, both of whom, despite the fact that their son lumbered around the field like a commercial for childhood diabetes, made it to every embarrassing game.

Thinking Out Loud

2008-12-15T15:32:00.001-08:00

Sitting on a crowded train this morning, a blind man and a pregnant women walked on. I didn't know who to give my seat to so I did what I thought was fair for both of them. I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

During the Christmas season, it's impossible to take two steps into a store without getting mugged by three employees asking, "How can I help you?" One of these days, I'll be honest and say, "You can go back to college, pick a major, sexually experiment for a year or two, and then interview for a real job so I don't have to feel responsible for filling your sales quota and feeding your children." But for now, I'll stick with, "just browsing."

My conversations with strangers are more of a reaction than an interaction. All my responses could be pre-recorded and played back whenever I'm asked a question.

Sometime this laziness works:
Grocery Store Cashier: "How are you?"
Me: "I'm good, thanks!"

But most of the time it doesn't:
Homeless Man: "Spare change?"
Me: "I'm good, thanks!"

My favorite types of books to read are memoirs because I find other people's lives more exciting than mine. If I wrote a memoir about my life today, it'd be 250 pages of masturbation and MTV Reality shows. The last two memoirs I've read were "Angela's Ashes," an eye-opening account (* books are difficult to read when your eyes are closed) of Frank McCourt's childhood growing up in poverty stricken Ireland in the 1930's and "Too Fat to Fish," a collection of stories detailing Artie Lange's rise from alcoholic to comedian to coke head to MADtv cast member to heroin addict to world-famous sidekick on the "The Howard Stern Show." While I can't recreate the struggles of growing up poor in 1930s Ireland, it's never too late to turn to drugs to get a laugh.

Healy's High School Reunion

2008-12-03T16:11:00.000-08:00

The purpose of a High School Reunion is to disguise your misery and apathy, while unfairly judging your peers to make you feel better about yourself. It’s the same rationale behind Republican opposition to “gay marriage” due to conservative family values. “I cheated on my wife and lost custody of my kids, but I’ll be damned if two fags ruin the sanctity of marriage.”

Living at home, working a dead-end job, and having a sex life that ended when my step-dad canceled our HBO subscription in August, I attended my five-year high school reunion last week to prove just how successful and happy my life has become. Keep in mind we’re talking about a reunion for 23 and 24-year-olds where the definition of success is a $40,000 a year job and a separate cell phone bill from your parent’s Verizon family plan. Fast forward that same scenario to your 10 year reunion, add two kids and a mortgage, and you’re just another member of the working poor, purchasing pre-paid phone cards, and wondering where it all went wrong.

Anyway, back to my point. I needed to figure out how to show my former classmates that I was successful and better than them, while hiding the fact that I spent the previous Friday night browsing “Match.com” and watching a “Law and Order” re-run on TNT. And knowing that a CEO and a Department Store Shoe Salesmen look just as important on a crowded subway, I decided to dress to impress. I could have just settled for an ironed button down shirt, but that wasn’t enough. Any Guido with a $50 gift certificate to “Express” could pull off that look. I needed something that could telepathically add $10,000 and an Executive title to my entry-level, civil servant job. I chose to go with the sweater over the collared shirt combo because the only people I know that wear sweaters are either successful or middle-class fathers in a family Christmas card. But whether I was being judged as a success or a middle-class father, the important point is I couldn’t be mistaken as gay.

Now that my mediocre life was being hidden behind a designer wardrobe, the next and last step to solidify my success was to mingle with the less fortunate of my former classmates such as the college drop-outs, pregnant mothers, and members of the Armed Forces (Just kidding......unless you're in the National Guard). The most awkward part of a high school reunion is you’re forced to interact with people that you have nothing in common with except you shared the same Chemistry teacher sophomore year. Small-talk becomes a painful necessity, encouraged by large amounts of alcohol, to make it through the night. But there can also be hidden meaning behind each contrived interaction. The following questions may seem straight-forward, but are really a strategy to spot the people just as unhappy as you:

Where you living these days?
Probably with your parents loser!

What you doing for work?
Do I make more money than you?

Do you have a girlfriend?
Is it true that you got kicked out of college freshmen year for blowing three guys in your dorm bathroom?

Looking back at the past five years of my life, I believe Vitamin C said it best, “So we talked all night about the rest of our lives, where we’re going to be when we turn 25…” At the time, I would have guessed working for the government in Arlington, VA was about 168’th on my list, right behind starring in a Gay Porn Trilogy, and being a volunteer for the McCain/Palin presidential campaign. But sometimes life doesn’t always go as planned. And in those unfortunate circumstances, there is nothing you can do, but put on a sweater and a smile and pretend to be happy, while taking pride in the fact it could always be worse. You could be MARRIED!

Take it away Vitamin C:

Ain't That America

2008-12-01T05:06:00.000-08:00

“I work at a Wal-Mart on Long Island. What’s the worst that could happen to me at work?” – Dead Wal-Mart employee

They say the economy is in trouble. People are apparently losing their jobs and savings and aren’t spending as much money, especially this holiday season. At this point, our economy has as much of a chance of success as “Valkeryie”, that new Tom Cruise movie.

The reason I remain skeptical about this whole “economic crisis” is because of something I saw on the news the other day. At 5 AM at a Wal-Mart on Long Island, an employee was stampeded over and killed while shoppers rushed in the store. That’s right, these shoppers were so desperate, they actually accidentally killed someone in the excitement of getting some of the finest American-purchased-from-China products available. Of course, Wal-Mart probably didn’t offer this employee any healthcare or a decent living wage, so in all honesty, he’s probably better off dead.

Anyway, stop and consider this: People were so excited and determined to save $100 on a flat-screen TV, get an X-Box 360 for their moron kids, and help get the economy back on track by throwing their non-existent savings at a huge corporation that gives nothing back to them or their community that they killed someone.

You know what’s really white trash? Killing someone while trying to shop at Wal-Mart. Seriously, how many Coors Lights and Marlboros do you get loaded off of to kill some jerk-off that works at Wal-Mart? You’re going to live and die on Long Island, what do you need a GPS Navigation system for?

If they ever wanted to take the Larry the Cable Guy franchise in a darker direction, this could make a pretty deep movie.

Howie The Hater: Part 1 of 5

2008-11-13T07:49:00.000-08:00

Hate is a strong word. Yet, there are some groups of people out there that genuinely warrant being hated. Now, I pride myself on not (openly) hating a group of people for their race, religion, or socio-economic status (although the super-poor and super-rich get me pretty angry). I choose to judge others based on character. Yet, there are some groups out there I very much dislike. These are their stories.

Amazon Reviewers
You know, as of a few days ago, I was unsure whether I would buy “The Dark Knight” DVD when it comes out. I was really agonizing over the decision, and had neither the mental fortitude nor trusted circle of advisors needed to make such a monumental decision. Then, I found myself on Amazon, agonizing over this decision, when I found a review entitled “The Dark Masterpeice Surpasses The Hype”. This five-star review altered my thinking, and basically out me back in the movie theater the night I first saw the movie at midnight, alone. So, thanks to Amazon Reviewer Justin Heath from Fort Erie, Ontario, I will be purchasing “The Dark Knight - Two-Disc Special Edition DVD”. Please, see Mr. Heath’s page at the link below.

http://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/A26X2TG93OTXVU/ref=cm_cr_pr_pdp

Could I have made this decision without Mr. Heath? I hope so. Who does this guy think he is, the next Roger Ebert? Wow, I wish I had the intelligence and creativity to critique the artistic works of other (Hypocrite Howie). I’m assuming Mr. Heath has a lifestyle that allows him to watch a new DVD every night, and a job that allows him to write witty and well-thought-out reviews of these films instead of working. Also, Mr. Heath doesn’t just do intellectual and long reviews of films. He also does short reviews meant not to inform, but to let people know he has an opinion. Like we give a shit (Hypocrite Howie II).

While I found his “Dark Knight” review life-changing and inspiring, some of his other reviews didn’t impress me. Please see his five-star “Commando” soundtrack review titled “Best Soundtrack EVER!!” or his one-star “Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull” review titled simply “Crystal Numbskull”. I don’t agree with your opinions sir, but I will fight (as far away from physical combat as possible) to defend your right to express them.

Notes From Obesity: Politics

2008-11-11T05:59:00.000-08:00

To describe my looks as my Achilles’ heel is an understatement. A better analogy would be to say that I’m the passengers of the Titanic, and the Titanic is my looks, with the lifeboats being personality: yes, they help a little, but in the end a sinking ship is still a sinking ship.

Anyway, I voted last week. And, despite the hour-long line, borderline-retarded election workers, and the old lady who opened my curtain while I was voting (I felt like my mother caught me masturbating). Anyway, this election year, being a college educated Manhattan resident with contempt for just about everyone and everything, I voted Democrat. This wasn’t always the case though. Oh no, not only was Howie fat, he was also a… REPUBLICAN!

Not only was I a fat Republican, I was one of those jerk Republicans who would use every opportunity he had to bring up his views. A few examples:

“Oh, Hi Howie. Do you want to come to my dorm for some drinks?”
“Sure, right after I tell you why we should invade France after the mission is accomplished in Iraq!”

“Hey Howie, want to go see a movie?”
“As soon as we have a constitutional ban on gay marriage.”

You get the idea. Anyway, I remember one time in the heat of the campaign I had to meet with a history professor. Considering I apparently was too stupid to realize all college professors (all except for my father) are left-wing nuts (Bill Ayers?), I made a mistake. On my walk to his office, I stopped at a lone Bush/Cheney rally, and picked up a bunch of stickers and signs. I then went to his office, joking that it was impossible to get any Bush signs around the campus. Mind you, I was sweating profusely from walking a half mile in 40-degree weather in a sweatshirt and shorts. Anyway, on Election Day he let the class go early so he could go to Pennsylvania and campaign for Kerry. I got a B+ in the class, the equivalent of an F for a communications major.

On Election Day, having proudly mailed my absentee ballot home to be destroyed by the Democratic election officials, I went out to hold signs for some local Republican candidates. Nothing screams, “vote for my candidates” like three fat guys waiving signs while eating candy they bought on sale the day after Halloween. As I recall, two of the three candidates lost.

Losing weight and getting an education screwed with my mind. Suddenly, I was being tolerant, speaking rationally, fitting in airplane seats, and registering as a Democrat.

And because of that, I delivered the state of New York for Barack Obama. As they say around here: As Howie Goes, So Goes Harlem. You’re welcome, Mr. President-Elect. You’re welcome.

Voices of the Homeless: Larry

2008-11-09T12:29:00.000-08:00

The homeless share many of the same stereotypes as the French: they rarely take showers, don’t believe in shaving, and both sides are happy that Obama won the election. But while the French are hated, the homeless are ignored. But who are the homeless and what can we learn from them other than using paper bags for protection against open container laws? In an effort to understand the homeless, we present you with a continuing series, “Voices of the Homeless.”

I found Larry sitting on a curb outside the Natural History Museum in DC on an early Saturday afternoon. It was an unusually warm November day in the nation’s capital, but Larry didn’t seem to notice as he was layered in a thick black coat and raggedy winter hat, as I’m sure wardrobe options aren’t a high priority on his to-do list. Change jingled from his McDonald’s Supersize cup and a cigarette flickered in his mouth. A blank, desperate stare replaced open begging due to either laziness or strategy as tourists, school field trips, and local joggers passed. Some looked the other way, some laughed, and some emptied their pockets. I approached Larry, threw in $2 to his cup and asked if he’d help me. He looked a little skeptical at first, probably hoping I wasn’t going to ask for a blowjob. But after I explained my project, he agreed to answer my questions. The following is Larry’s voice.

How long have you been homeless?
Six to seven years.

How did you become homeless?
Not going to lie, it was drugs.

What drug?
Crack.

What was the last job you had?
Custodian for Prince George’s County Public Schools.

Did you lose your job because of crack?
No, I was still able to work and do drugs. I lost my job because I couldn't work after getting sick with diabetes.

Are you still on drugs?
Not for about a year.

Have you been searching for jobs?
Not for over a week.

What kind of jobs?
Dishwashers, whatever.

Why haven’t you been able to get a job?
They look at you and ask for doctor’s papers and I don’t have it.

Have you given up hope?
Yes.

Do you have any family?
Yes.

Where are they?
In North Carolina.

Can you go home?
Yes, but I don’t want to be a burden.

What’s the average money you make a day out here?
Like $50, but today is slow (editor’s note: the federal minimum wage is $6.55. If you calculate that with an 8 hour work day, you get $52.40 BEFORE taxes. Makes you wonder why bother finding a job?)

What type of people are the most generous? White, black, female, male, young, old?
(Laughing and looking into his cup): Without white people, I wouldn’t have any money.

What is your favorite meal?
Tuna sub on white from Subway.

For my final question, I was hoping Larry would give a profound statement into my digital camera about what he’s learned from being homeless and what he thinks society should know about the homeless. Unfortunately, he sounded like a sponsor for the “NBA: Read to Achieve” program and hopelessly rehearsed the topics you learn in a fifth grade D.A.R.E program:

Best of luck to Larry and let’s hope he takes his own advice, but I won't be surpised to see him for years to come whenever I visit the new Art exhibit in town.

The Election and Facebook

2008-11-05T19:53:00.000-08:00

Praises to Allah, Obama won! Watching the news last night, with people celebrating and commenting on this historic victory, it got me thinking about what the real America thought of Obama being elected. No, I'm not talking about Joe The Plumber or over-breeding Alaskans, I'm talking about my Facebook friends. Here is a sample of my five favorites. Names have been redacted to protect the ignorant. And, in the case of the pro-Obama reactions, names have been removed just for the hell of it.

5. XXXXXXX "is moving to Europe."
Comment: Waaaaaaaaaaaah, my conservative candidate lost, now I'm moving to Europe. America elects a liberal president, and you decide to move to Europe? Ever hear about Europe, d-bag? Unless you plan on living in Vatican City, you better stay here, because if this country is too liberal for you, then you'll have a heart attack once you land in Europe. Luckily, you'll be in Europe and will be allowed to stay in the hospital after the heart attack thanks to universal healthcare. Ah, the socialism! Noooooooooooooooo!

4. XXXXXX "fuck you america."
Comment: Don't you mean "fuck you fake america"? Because real America voted for McCain/Palin, obviously. Don't lump the God-fearing, gun-toting Americans in with the book-reading, non-Bush-voting Commies.

3. XXXXXX "is even MORE proud to be an American! (if that was possible...)"
Comment: Now that's the right attitude! Your country just voted for the first minority president, which has only happened a handful of time in WORLD history. You were proud to be an American before, and you're even prouder now. That's how an American reacts to something like this.

2. XXXXXXX "is also looking forward to the winter and snow and skiing."
Comment: Subconsciously voted for Obama's white half.

1. XXXXXXX "is devastated our next president supported a reverend for over 20 years that preaches "God Damn America".. how could anyone want a psycho like that to lead us?!"
Comment: I went to college with this girl for two and a half years before she transferred to another school because she hated being away from Red Sox fans. I used to sit next to her in a history class, where she complained about how she hated everyone and tried to get a TA removed because he was "too stupid" to give her a C on a paper. Who's the psycho? Also, she had an alright face but a huge ass.

Adventures of Craigslist: Apartment Searching

2008-10-21T14:45:00.000-07:00

When a girl asks where I live in DC, I instinctively lie without remorse. Chinatown? Georgetown? Dupont? Arlington? The specifics change from one girl to the next and from a double bourbon and coke to a shot of Jager, but "currently staying with a friend because my apartment is flooded" always stays the same.

The reality is I live with my mother and step-dad in suburban Virginia. I make the excuse that it's because I travel so much for work, but the truth is I have major commitment issues. It's the reason why I've never had a relationship last longer than a fourth grade lunch period or why the same lamp has been sitting in the backseat of my car since I graduated college over 17 months ago. To me, signing a one-year lease would be like getting the fat girl you hooked up with while blacked out at a Halloween party pregnant. I'd be trapped and wouldn't be able to afford the monthly child support payments (rent and utilities) when I eventually get fired from my job for as HR would describe it, "not giving a shit."

But I figure it's time for me to grow up. If some of my friends are starting to get married and have kids (*on purpose), the least I can do to act my age is not sleep under a "DeGeneratioin X" poster in my mother's basement. So last week, I did what everyone does when searching for something in life: I went on Craigslist. After browsing the miscellaneous personal ads and mistakenly opening up an attachment of a leather belt wrapped around a hairy dick, I threw up in my mouth and then searched for "rooms/shared" under "housing" in "DC." I quickly found an attractive ad for a cheap room in one of DC's trendiest neighborhoods. It was two young professionals, a guy and a girl, looking for a third roommate to rent out the sun room of their two bedroom luxurious high rise. I responded to the ad with my interest, and an hour later got an email back inviting me to check out the apartment the following Saturday. If this is how easy dating is on Craigslist, I might have to buy a leather belt and throw away my razor.

Sitting on the train the following Saturday, waiting to meet my potential roommates, I couldn't help relate the situation to meeting my freshmen year college roommate. Unfortunately, that relationship only consisted of three "conversations" throughout the year, as it was tough to get his attention over his 24-hour a day "Halo" addiction (headset included). The first was,” hello," when we met on move-in day. The second was, "sorry," after I walked in on him beating off to a Jennifer Lopez picture on his computer a couple hours later. And the third was, "I drank your beer last night" sometime during the spring semester. Hopefully, these potential roommates wouldn't own "Halo" or a "Gigli" DVD.

As I waited in the lobby for two strangers to invite me into their lives, I expected two things from a guy and girl living together in a plutonic relationship. I figured the girl wouldn't be hot and the guy would be gay. I couldn't have been more right. The girl wasn't awful, but looked like one of those lead characters in a late 90's Freddie Prinze Jr. movie before she gets the miraculous makeover of taking her glasses off and letting her hair down. And the guy, well, I've always secretly wanted to be roommates with a gay guy. They're a great wingman, pose no threat of competition, and are always getting girls to let their guards down and feel comfortable. Basically, having a gay roommate is like having a date rape drug that's into fashion. But I'm not sure this guy even knew he was gay. He referred to his relationships as his "significant other," which I understood meant that he didn't know if Thanksgiving was the right time to tell his family that he wasn't a Tony Romo fan just because he liked the Cowboys. And if I wanted to room with a gay guy, I'd want him to be as open as possible, and not just leave his sexuality to uncertainty like Zac Efron's career.

After the tour, my new friends told me they would get back to me in a couple of days with their decision. I felt like a contestant on a future VH1 Reality Show titled, "Will and Grace and You." Overall, everything about the tour was nice. The people were nice. The apartment was nice. The building was nice, and the girl in the elevator on the fourth floor that I shamefully eye fucked on my way out was nice. But if "nice" was enough to be happy in life, the people-greeters at "Wal-Mart" would be making more than minimum wage. I want excitement. I want spontaneity. I want another Craigslist adventure. And besides, gay roommates only work for sitcoms and “Will and Grace” was canceled over two years ago.

Work vs. Prison

2008-10-09T16:34:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I think my life would be better off if tomorrow I was sentenced to prison for a crime that I did or didn't commit. And I don't mean that in a "joking with my friends, I hate my life" sort of way. I mean that I'd probably be happier if I walked over to a local High School Parking Lot today carrying a pound of pot or if I got caught exposing myself in the front row of the "High School Musical 3" premiere. The longer that I've been a member of the American workforce, the more I view going to jail as an "early retirement." Say what you will about serving hard time, but 25 to life is about the only career experience in today's economy that doesn't involve the risk of losing your entire 401K. Whether you're a teacher debating on sleeping with a student or a disgruntled middle manager looking to solicit a prostitute, here's a breakdown of what you could expect your life to look like, compared to your current career path.

Weekdays:
Work: My normal workday consists of waking up at 6 am, eating a bowl of cereal, taking the train to work, surfing the web for jobs, hiding from my boss, eating a soggy sandwich, searching for jobs, taking the train back home, and looking for jobs.

Prison: From what I've seen in movies, a normal day consists of waking up, eating breakfast in a cafeteria, working out, eating lunch in a cafeteria, working out, eating dinner in a cafeteria, working out and then going to bed. Replace the working out with drinking and the sleeping with unprotected sex, and that describes senior year of college.

Advantage: The only thing worse than a dead end job is interviewing for other dead end jobs, and I bet there aren't too many incarcerated felons on Monster.com right now: PRISON

Sex Life
Work: Teen babysitters. Horny Milfs. Interracial Moresomes. Are those illegal websites on your company computer or the guest list at Charlie Sheen's bachelor party?

Prison: Unless you're an actor on Broadway or own a Nickelback CD, getting fucked in the ass probably doesn't sound like a good time. But sometimes the intimacy between two people isn't supposed to make sense. Just look at Mini-me's sex life.

Advantage: Conjugal visits don't come with high speed internet access: WORK

Wardrobe:

Work: I once remember a time when I owned one pair of khaki pants. I was 10-years-old and would wear them if I ever attended weddings, funerals, or church, which was about once every five years. Now I own a brown belt, brown shoes, brown socks, a black belt, black shoes, black socks, blue shirts, white shirts, brown pants, black pants, and not to mention have to do dry cleaning. Thank you Ryan Seacrest.

Prison: Orange jumpsuit that you can sleep in.

Advantage: You can technically sleep in your work clothes, but that's just an early symptom of a substance abuse problem that should be treated: PRISON

Entertainment:
Work:
The new, hottest trend in American culture is to pay $50 a night on Pay-Per-View to watch UFC, mixed martial arts, or anything involving a cage, half naked men, and stitches.

Prison: In the real world, Kimbo Slice is a crazed monster. In prison, he's Clay Aiken.

Advantage: Why pay $50 for something you could see twice a day in the shower? PRISON

Conclusion: If you can live a life without Internet pornography, prison actually doesn't seem too bad. There's no worries of money or finding work, plenty of time for exercise, lots of live entertainment, and the sex isn't about love, but power. That's not a punishment, that's a Hollywood marriage. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go check out playing times for the "High School Musical 3" premiere. Goodbye Corporate America. Hello Summer Camp.

Anti-Terminator: The Sarah Palin Chronicles - Judgment

2008-10-08T04:58:00.000-07:00

“I’ll have to get back to ya on that one!” – Sarah Palin, when asked why she’d make a qualified president

As I sit here, watching “Big Mama’s House 2” and contemplating how best to kill myself without embarrassing my family, I ponder the impending election. When American’s choose a leader, they look at the important attributes of each candidate: religion, race, and occasionally judgment. Yes, the judgment of a president is crucial.

What do we know about the judgment of Sarah Palin? Not too much. But what we do know should make us all worried.

Bridge to Nowhere
Sarah Palin supported this thing called a “Bridge to Nowhere”. No, I’m not talking about church, I’m talking about an actual bridge to a small island of fifty people. That’s one bridge for fifty people. I barely have a fucking bed, and Sarah Palin thinks fifty Alaskan assholes deserve a bridge to their island. Maybe instead of paying millions of dollars for a bridge to these people, we pay a few cents to homeless people to shame the island dwellers into not living on an island in the middle of nowhere. Bad judgment Sarah; should have let Gilligan and co. stay stranded.

The Knocked Up Daughter
I truly feel bad for Sarah Palin’s daughter’s boyfriend/baby daddy. Imagine you’re an eighteen year old Alaskan hockey star, catching blowjobs on Friday night in your friend’s basement and doing meth in your friend’s meth lab (it’s what they do in Alaska, look it up). Then, you decide to have unprotected sex with the biggest whore in school. Fast forward a few months. Now, you’re standing onstage with a pregnant chick, shaking hands with John McCain and treating Mike Huckabee like a human being. Congratulations kid, the rest of your life will be filled with unwanted children, quickies in gas station bathrooms with strangers, and Republican fundraisers.

Sarah Palin wants to be vice-president, so she’s making her daughter and the guy that knocked her up get married. And, the “Republican base” loves her for it. Imagine if that black guy on the Democratic ticket had a pregnant daughter? Fox News would spend an entire week just flashing the words “Told Ya So!” across the screen.

The Palin Children
What the hell was Sarah Palin smoking/snorting/huffing/injecting when she named each of her kids? Track, Willow, Bristol, Piper, and Trig? There is nothing to compare these names to. I hope she wasn’t serious with these names. Maybe she’s just a cruel person, not an idiot. And the worst thing? She named a baby with Down syndrome Trig. You name a retarded kid Trigg? I don’t know who I feel worse for, the kid with the name or the special education teacher that has to scream, “Trig, stop humping that poor girl!” On a lighter note, at least Bush finally has an intellectual equal in the Republican Party.

Sarah, I’d like to introduce your children to my future children. Trig, Track, Willow, Bristol, and Piper; meet Khyber, Enduring Freedom, Rubicon, and Botched Late Term Abortion.

Notes From Obesity: Masturbating With Low Self Esteem

2008-10-06T08:22:00.000-07:00

"You go on Match.com and they match you with a sofa and lotion." - a joke I stole and can't remember from where

To say I have low self esteem is an understatement. My self esteem is so low, not only will I not tag myself in pictures on Facebook, I won’t even tag people in pictures with me, just to save them the humiliation of being seen with me.

So, when “masturbation time” comes around, it poses a problem: with the physique of a dreidel, how do I masturbate to anything when I’m so disgusted with myself? My self esteem is so low, I don’t even include myself in my own sexual fantasies. And let's be honest, I'm not showing up anywhere else either

That’s right, in my own sexual fantasies, I don’t even get to have sex. As opposed to imagining myself having sex, I imagine myself watching other people having (filthy) sex. Basically, my masturbation consists of me standing in a corner masturbating to other people.

Just to give you an idea of how bad it really is, imagine Jon Lovitz standing in the corner of a basement while beating off to a snuff film.

That is what I’m forced to masturbate to. No wonder I'm so miserable.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

2008-10-02T07:51:00.000-07:00

“I wish you all the best
I hope we meet again
On a cold Chicago night” – The Rolling Stones, She Was Hot

To be honest, I’m getting sick of Facebook. I rarely use it anymore, and when I do I only get mad at what I see. Times have changed, and apparently so have I. Maybe it’s because I’m getting older, or maybe it’s because I really haven’t dealt with 9/11 yet. Either way, I’m leaving Facebook. And here is my letter to her breaking off our four year relationship.

Dear Facebook,

I don’t really know how to start. When we began seeing each other four years ago, it was awesome. You allowed me to take an abstract concept like friendship and quantify it as something tangible. I didn’t know how many friends I had until you came along! You also acted as a buffer against people I didn’t want to hear from. You and I called them “Myspace users”. Yep, we were elite you and I, spending our weeknights hidden in my dorm room, looking up people as diverse as old high school friends and the hot girls that lived down the hall that wouldn’t even look at me.

As time went by, things got better. By far your greatest attribute was your photo albums. Finally, I could prove to people from high school that I had friends, friends I apparently played a lot of beer pong and flip-cup with. I could even prove to my college friends that I had high school friends, high school friends I played a lot of beer pong and flip-cup with. Also, girls that posted beach pictures filled a lot of those empty summer nights with joy. But, you also had a dark side to contend with.

Two things always bothered me about you: groups and ugly girls with high self esteem. I remember when I tried to join the group “People Who Don’t Suck and Like to Party”. You rejected me, and recommended I go start a group called “People Who Really Do Suck and Like to Party”. That was cold. You also gave a platform to unattractive girls with high self esteem. Yes Facebook, I feel that was wrong. Back in high school, ugly girls who were either too big or too poor to wear nice clothes usually boosted their self esteems by hanging around with the gay kid. Then you, Facebook, you offered them solace. Now, the pale fat girl with black lipstick could pretend she had actual friends. And, I would have to sift through pictures of her while trying to find bikini shots of her freshman year roommate. Not cool.

I stood by you though. We were a legendary duo, like Lindsay Lohan and the man boy she dates, or like Jack Ruby and Lee Harvey Oswald. Then, you took advantage of my kindness and started to change. Suddenly, you became a dirty whore. Anybody could get in you, and in turn could get to me. Community colleges? Really, Facebook? Sorry, but there is nothing elite about a college where the only thing the admissions office looks for in a prospective student is the ability to show up on the first day of class. You made us both look cheap. Then, if that wasn’t bad enough, you let high school kids in. I’m sorry, but high school kids? Was your intention to have me meet Chris Hansen from “Dateline” in an affluent neighborhood in suburban Pennsylvania? Because if so, mission nearly accomplished!

That was all bad enough, but this whole “new look” is the tipping point. I don’t even recognize you. And, I’m not the only one. Most of my friends are in groups protesting your new look. Think about that Facebook: more of my friends are rising up against you than will vote in November. That says a lot about you, and even more about the morons I associate with.

Anyway, I really can’t think of anything else to say. Will I miss your e-mails about wall posts and friend requests? Sure, but I’ll get over it. And in the end, I’ll find something else to do with my life. I wish you luck in your future endeavors and hope we can somehow remain friends.

Best,

Howie

Glory Days? NOT!

2008-09-30T09:21:00.000-07:00

I was home a few weekends ago, and driving around running some errands when I had a craving to hear “Secret Garden” (the version with “Jerry Maguire” dialogue, of course). So, I popped in my Springsteen greatest hits CD, and happened across “Glory Days”. Listening to the song, with my own glory days having either snuck by without me noticing or possibly never to come, I thought to myself: this is the most miserable song ever.

Boiling the song down, a working class guy (millionaire rock star pretending to be blue collar), goes about his town running into people he went to high school with. With every person he meets, he gets drunk with them and reminisces about the old days. This sounds like a DUI and a pink slip from the factory, not a fun night.

Seriously Bruce, you’re a middle aged guy spending his time going from bar to bar doing nothing but talking about high school. That’d be more pathetic if it weren’t the life story of most of the people I went to high school with.

Ever listen to the lyrics? Some broad that was hot but got knocked up so became damaged goods almost cries until she thinks about her glory days. This is the song Jersey Shore jerk-offs drunkenly sing every summer weekend? Sounds like a blast.

If you’ve graduated from college, and the majority of your friends are from high school, where do you go from here? Twenty years from now will you be getting drunk talking about the glory days of getting drunk and reminiscing about the glory days? You go to that high school reunion and get drunk with people while listening to this song.

Glory days indeed.

Support Your Local Stripper

2008-09-27T12:35:00.000-07:00

I was in Los Angeles last week for business and wanted to do what every successful businessman does when on the road. Unfortunately, I don’t have a wife and kids to cheat on so I had to settle for the next best thing: the Strip Club. Luckily, I was in the porn capital of the world and only needed to walk across the street from my hotel past a Carl’s Jr. to find corporate happiness.

Entering the Gentlemen’s Club, I felt like I was in fifth grade and just heard my teacher casually pronounce “PENIS” for the first time in Health Class. I could not stop giggling. After paying the $11 cover and ordering a $6.50 one drink minimum Red Bull (L.A. strip clubs don’t serve alcohol), I immediately regretted the “No Camera” rule. But it wasn’t the naked teenagers on stage with the fake implants and absentee father relationships I wanted to take pictures of. It was the faces of the men around me who ranged in diversity from a 21-year-old alone in a wheelchair tossing dozens of $5 bills at his favorite dancer to a 40-year-old, overweight, bald man, drinking an O’Doul’s and frantically searching his wallet to see how many lap dances he could afford on his minimum wage job as a Sales Associate at Staples.

In terms of being aroused, I was more focused on the 65 cent bag of Skittles in the vending machine across from me than the girls on stage who once failed Sophomore English. The DJ was spinning a surprisingly great 90’s playlist with the names “Sugar,” “Candy,” and “Lollipop” echoing over the lyrics of Eddie Vedder and Sugar Ray for each new dance.

After watching a trio of the best looking girls in the club shamelessly picking up their rewards off the stage that would make them the Queens of the McDonald’s Dollar Menu, the DJ introduced a new adult entertainer that I joked was the “Diabetes” to the aforementioned “Sugar” and “Candy.”

The front row instantly scattered to the bar for non-alcoholic cocktails and 15 feet in front of me was a dull, sad looking girl with signs of stretch marks, upside down on a pole looking out into an empty room and wishing that condoms were more than 98% effective.

For reasons unknown, a great sense of pity swallowed me and I needed to save this girl. I was going to be the United States Government and she was going to be AIG. My crisp set of dollar bills were needed to save the economy and pay for her bastard child’s health insurance. I approached the empty stage and let my first two dollar bills come down like rain as I snapped my wrist like years of tennis lessons taught me. Seeing that she might now have enough gas money to drive home, her six inch platform heels and butterfly pelvic tattoos came at me like a homeless guy searching a pay phone for quarters. Our eyes met as she bent over in front of me and began stretching her hamstrings with her legs spread as if to tell me she once won the Presidential Fitness Award in Middle School.

Unfamiliar with how to fill such an uncomfortable and awkward silence, my new charity case broke the tension by whispering in my ear, “Do you like my pussy?”, sounding like someone who had rehearsed the line hundreds of times in the mirror while brushing her teeth before going to bed.

“It’s better than the Internet,” I shouted trying to sound like a kid who had hidden his porn collection on the family computer under the created folder, “Homework.”

With a mix of emotions from amusement to sadness to depression, I fed her the last of my dollar bills that I could only hope might turn into a box of Kraft Mac n’ Cheese for her son later that night. Nirvana’s “Teen Spirit” slowly faded from the speakers as the girl I would forever call “Diabetes” thanked me for my kindness.

Lying in my hotel room later that night after ruining another clean towel, I felt good about myself. I had served a purpose. I had helped someone in need. But maybe next time I’ll just donate to the “Red Cross” and my employer might match the contribution.

Notes From Obesity: The Television Commercial

2008-09-25T09:53:00.000-07:00

Last week, I posted a story about my time at a “Star Trek” convention. What I failed to mention was that the day got worse.

The convention was sponsored by a local FOX affiliate, and they were asking people if they wanted to film little intros to shows on the station. So me, in my “Star Trek” costume and completely lacking any shame, volunteered.

There I was, in front of the camera, a fat kid dressed as an alien ready to go on TV and sell “The Simpsons”. Cameras rolled, and after four or five tries, I finally got it right:

“Hi, I’m Howie from Boston, and I really like “The Simpsons”. Homer’s my favorite. And it’s coming up next on your FOX64. D’oh!”

Once I finished, they told me to watch next week to see the commercial. I knew this was to be my big break. I was poised to become the child actor who plays Chris Farley as a kid in movies.

Then, I finally saw the promo.

They say the camera adds ten pounds. But, when I saw myself on TV, the difference between how I saw myself and what I actually looked like was astounding. It was like thinking you were rowing a canoe, only to realize you were the captain of the Titanic.

But, I was still excited over this commercial. I remember when the commercial started airing, I raised my hand in class to tell my teacher and my classmates - all of whom loathed me for being me - about my accomplishment.

“You, the fat one” my teacher said as she pointed to me.

So, I told her and the class all about the commercial. And, nobody gave a shit. I was so upset, I taped over my only copy of the commercial with an episode of “Star Trek”. It never aired again, and I was never photographed again.

The "Sex And The City" DVD Release Celebration!

2008-09-23T09:25:00.000-07:00

This past summer, the worst thing to happen to women since the nineteenth amendment happened: the “Sex and the City” movie. And, as the nineteenth amendment comes back to haunt us every four years, the “Sex and the City” movie is coming back to haunt us today with its DVD release.

I have nothing against fans of this TV show/movie/AIM profile quote generator about friendship and being a superficial whore. As I’ve stated on these pages, this show is a fantasy for the homely girl sitting at home alone on Friday night while her hot friend fucks the guy she actually likes. Imagine if the star wasn’t Sarah Jessica Parker, but an attractive woman. The show would have never lasted past season one. No, I have nothing against these fans.

Here’s what I have a problem with: they’re planning a second movie. That’s right, the movie about a bunch of forty-something women with eleven yet-to-be-discovered STD’s between them is having a follow-up. So, I have to ask the question: at what point does this series stop being “Sex and the City” and start being “The Golden Girls”?

I haven’t seen this movie or the TV show. I can only assume it’s about women who like expensive clothes, liquor, and fucking. So, what’s the next movie going to be about; osteoporosis, ovarian cancer, and artificial lubricants?

Please Hollywood, do the world a favor: do NOT make a second “Sex and the City” movie. Maybe if you don’t, all of those poor girls that sit home living vicariously through their “Sex and the City” DVD sets will go out, and finally discover the secret to their happiness: an empty life filled with expensive clothes, liquor, and fucking.

Notes From Obesity: The Star Trek Convention

2008-09-18T09:16:00.000-07:00

I was kind of a “nerd” or “geek” when I was younger. But, as I got older I grew out of that phase (I didn’t). In the height of my loserness, I found sanctuary in my own fantasy world.

In this fantasy world, life wasn’t going to school and being made fun of for being bigger and uglier than the other kids and making girls cry just by a rumor starting that I liked one of them. No, in my fantasy world, I was flying through space, fighting evil aliens and making out with black chicks. That’s right, I was a “Star Trek” fan.

Okay, now we all have three essential facts about my adolescence: I was a loser, I was a “Star Trek” fan, and I was fat; a trifecta worse than a heroine, ecstasy, and AIDS cocktail.

You ever hear of a “Star Trek”: convention? Well, it’s a gathering of every virgin who lives in a 75 mile radius of a convention center, all of whom (un)coincidently share an affinity for “Star Trek”. They go to meet Trek stars, watch episodes and movies, and buy and trade memorabilia. Oh, and people dress up as well.

My father and I came to an unspoken agreement some years ago: he would be an enabler to my fat nerdiness and I wouldn’t turn gay. We both lived up to our bargains and he took me to the convention. Apparently I subconsciously thought, “How can I embarrass myself and my family name anymore than I already do?”, because I wore a costume.

There I was at this convention. I had my uniform on, my pointy Mr. Spock ears, and my shamed father with me. And what do I decide to do? Join the costume contest.

It was the first time in my life I wasn’t the fattest guy in the room. I was standing up there, with my brethren, men just like me: fat virgins wearing costumes to disguise their true identities and their gross inadequacies as men.

The contest went on, and I, the guy who just didn’t fit in with normal people, got second place in this contest of freaks.

For one brief, shining moment, I got to live my dream. Of course the following Monday, I returned to school, and things were back to normal. But, this time it was different. I had my own world where I was king, and that gave me solace. Of course, if anyone found out about it, I would have been beaten up by the toughest person in the class, the lesbian. Luckily, nobody ever found out.

Anti-Terminator: The Sarah Palin Chronicles - The Environment

2008-09-17T05:57:00.000-07:00

Personally, I don’t care about global warming. Right now, I’m actually a little cold anyway. By the time everything gets really bad, it’ll be somebody else’s problem. So, why should I worry about it?

Anyway, I may not care about the world burning or not, but some people do. You know who one of those people is? It’s America’s Sweetheart, Sarah Palin.

Yes boys and girls, Sarah Palin loves this world of ours. And you know how I know? Allow me to tell you, in a series of outrageous statements.

Sarah Palin Supports The Killing Of Most Living Things!
Yes! As governor, nothing got Sarah Palin’s blood pumping quite like replacing qualified government employees with grade school friends and killing innocent animals. Palin is an avid hunter, killing animals such as deer, moose, and kittens. She also supports the Bush Doctrine, although to be fair, she has no idea what that is. So, she supports the environment by population control: killing animals and sending people to (preemptively) die.

Wait, she’s against abortion though. Isn’t that a little hypocritical? No! The life of a lump of cells is worth more than the life of some defenseless animal or person.

Sarah Palin Wants To Drill In Alaska!
The burning of fossil fuels, according to those crazy liberal far left anti-American science types, is causing pollution. Sarah Palin and I respectfully disagree. Also, in order to get fossil fuels, we have to buy it from people that hate us. Don’t worry though; Sarah Palin has a solution to all of this: drill, baby, drill! Wait a second, when the crowd at the Republican Convention chanted “drill, baby, drill”, they were talking about drilling for oil and not Mr. Palin screwing Sarah? That’s right. Anyway, in order to save our environment, lower gas prices, and end our dangerous dependence on foreign oil, Sarah Palin will go into our national wildlife reserves and drill for oil. So, ten years from now, gas prices may drop 2 cents a gallon, Alaska will be destroyed, and we’ll get a slightly smaller percentage of our oil from people trying to kill us. Sounds like an offer we can’t refuse!

Sarah Palin Supports Cancer!
With the sky filling up with smog, there just isn’t enough sun to go around. But, Sarah Palin cares about the rest of us. So, while she was governor, she bought a tanning bed for her mansion. That way, the rest of the world got the sun, while Sarah Palin sacrificed by lying naked in a $35,000 bed full of UV rays. Want to know a great little piece of irony? The Republican presidential nominee has had cancer four times while the vice-presidential nominee bought herself a tanning bed. Instead of “drill, baby, drill”, I say “burn, baby, burn”!

The American Electorate Part 4: The Blue Collar Worker

2008-09-16T09:28:00.000-07:00

“Where all the white women at?” – "Blazing Saddles"

The fourth in a continuing series on the American electorate.

This Week: The Blue Collar Worker

Who They Are: Imagine living in a world where everything you stand for is represented by one party but everything that stands for you is represented by another party. That’s what blue collar workers have to contend with. Socially conservative, they don’t like abortions or science, much like Republicans. But, they know the only people willing to offer them support once they get replaced at the factory with a six year old Filipino girl are Democrats. Luckily, most of these people vote with their brains, and tend to go Democratic when election year arrives.
Who They’ll Vote For: John McCain
Why They’ll Vote For Him: Wait, didn’t I just say blue collar workers only vote for Democrats? Yes, I did. But, I forgot to mention only the white Democrats. You see, no matter how much John McCain would be a disaster for the blue collar worker, half of them are scared of electing a black guy (he'll take our women and drink our malt liquor!) and the other half are on their periods and angry that Clinton lost.
Are You One Of Them?: Do you have a job that a machine or a guy in Delhi can do? Do you go out after work and drink with your high school buddies? Ever go on a vacation that involved more than 12 hours at a time in a car? Enjoy any of the comedians from the “Blue Collar Comedy Tour”? If you answered yes to any of these questions, then you’re a blue collar worker.
Tell Us How You Really Feel Howie: Listen to me blue collar types: Hillary lost, so now you’re voting for John McCain? What are you, stupid? I mean, the only thing separating Hillary and Obama is a cock. Aside from that, they were virtually identical on all policy issues. So, just because Obama is black; just because Obama is a man, doesn’t mean you should get all pissy and vote for a guy that doesn’t give a shit about you. Can you tell me how many homes you have? Yes. Can John McCain tell me how many homes he has? No, not without checking with his staff. So, wake up white America. Don’t embarrass us again this year like you did in 2000 and 2004.

Anti-Terminator: The Sarah Palin Chronicles - Introduction

2008-09-14T20:12:00.000-07:00

“I’m like a dog chasing cars; I wouldn’t know what to do with one if I caught it!” – The Dark Knight

I have to admit something: I’m not as religious as I used to be. Is it because religious fanatics are insane? Maybe. Is it because being sodomized by a crucifix sounds horrible? More likely. But, I think my faith may have been restored over the past several weeks. Just when I thought God doesn’t exist, or possibly just hates me like most other people, he goes and totally redeems himself by putting this woman into my life:

Wait Howie. You’re happy John McCain chose Sarah Palin? Aren’t you supporting Obama?

Yes and yes. You know why? Because now I have something to live for: I must make fun of this moron who could be our president. John McCain dies of skin cancer? President Palin! John McCain slips and falls in the shower? President Palin!

So, I am proud to present:

Anti-Terminator: The Sarah Palin Chronicles

I don’t know where to begin. I honestly am sitting here, literally giddy, over the fact that I now know who Sarah Palin is. As I sit here typing, I have a full-blown erection.

Let’s start with something of substance. Before I make fun of her pregnant daughter and retarded son, I think I’ll discuss some of her views.

Sarah Palin is a hardcore right-wing Republican. She loves shooting things, hating people, and not practicing what she preaches. She also abuses her position of power and presents lies as facts. Unsurprisingly, John McCain has referred to her as his soul-mate. But, when he introduced her, he accidentally said, “meet my next wife!” instead of “meet the next vice president!”

Palin was a beauty queen, local news anchor, small town mayor, and finally governor. And, since Alaska is so close to Russia, she knows the national security issues of the day. Unfortunately, she doesn’t understand them. No wonder why so many Americans like her!

On social issues, Palin is as far right as you can be. If she were anymore right, she’d accidentally be over on the left (Trotsky, meet Twatsky). Anyway, she is completely against abortion and all for abstinence education, which explains why she has a retarded son and has a grandkid on the way.

Let’s be honest: the only reason McCain chose her is the fact that he wants women to vote for him. Because, after all, women won’t vote based on issues important to them, they’ll vote for whoever has a vagina! I hope most women voters aren’t as stupid or closed minded as Governor Palin.

Next Time on the Anti-Terminator: The Sarah Palin Chronicles: Her Family

Happy Birthday Howie

2008-09-10T09:33:00.000-07:00

"I'm not dead yet, but I will be." - Anonymous

That’s right, another year older. Twenty-four years and nothing to show for it but a huge collection of dress pants and cheap ties. I’d like to think I’ll be less miserable today than usual, but that really depends on how much cash I collect in birthday cards. So, what will my birthday look like? Allow me to take you through the schedule.

7:30: Wake up. Realize that it’s my birthday but also a Wednesday, therefore have less motivation to get up than usual.

7:30-7:34: Give myself my “birthday gift”.

7:35-7:40: Stand in front of the mirror staring at myself while I try to find any redeemable qualities.

7:40-7:55: Shower, lamenting the fact that I still haven’t thought of anything nice to say about myself.

7:55-8:05: Shave and brush my teeth, knowing deep down that it will make no difference.

8:05-8:30: Get dressed, with the knowledge that the clothes make the man.

8:30-8:31: Look in the mirror again, seeing nothing to signify anything more than an oversized boy in those clothes.

8:31-8:45: Walk to work, taking satisfaction in the fact that I make more money than most people I walk by.

8:45-9:00: Play “Let’s See How Many Obscene Websites I Can Visit Before I Get Fired”.

9:00-13:00: Work Part 1.

13:00-14:00: Walk home, eat, watch “Home Improvement” on TBS, walk back to work.

14:00-17:00: Work Part 2 (Like Work Part 1, just with less actual work).

17:00-17:20: Walk home, knowing everyone I walk by at this time of day makes more money than me.

17:20-17:30: Check the mail, noting I didn’t get as many checks as I felt I deserved.

17:30-19:00: Nap, interrupted by the coldest and most detached form of birthday wishes: text messages.

19:00-22:00: Go out and try to drink my misery away. Even the line “how about a birthday kiss” doesn’t generate sympathy, so resort to using the line “how about a birthday kiss or I’ll kill myself”?

22:00: “Birthday gift” yet again followed by bed, know that I’ll have to do this all again tomorrow, minus the text messages from people pretending to care and the drinking/social interactions.

Notes From Obesity: Sex

2008-09-08T09:45:00.000-07:00

“I’m grotesque!” – George Costanza

I have sympathy for very few people in this world. Can’t feed your kids? Should have stopped at kid number 5 Mr. and Mrs. the-bible-says-condoms-are-immoral (get a dental dam or something reverend!). Living in Darfur and being slaughtered? Should have done what the rest of us do when a new black family moves in next door: move out.

You know what class of people I do feel bad for? Girls that were drunk or mentally handicapped enough (or perhaps both) to have or consider having sex with that mammoth known as Old Howie. That is who I truly have sympathy for. Imagine how desperate one must be to see the largest thing in the room and decide to jump on it.

For the girls out there, let’s think about this for a second. Imagine going out with your friends, having fun and a few drinks. Then, your friends see this Chris Farley-looking-guy talking to you. Fat and funny, but clearly hiding the fact that he hates himself from everyone including himself, he is the room’s center of attention and center of gravity. You, maybe feeling sorry for me or maybe in debt and enticed by a financial offer, decide going home with Chef Paul Prudhomme is a good idea.

Your friends, none of which apparently care about you, do nothing about it.

You go home with me, sobering up enough to realize the sooner you start the sooner I’ll finish. So, my fun and your nightmare begins. About three minutes after my stomach begins to crush you, I’m finally in. You start grabbing around anywhere on me, gasping for air as you're trying to find a spot where your hands don’t sink three inches deep into me. Meanwhile, I’m barely two inches deep in you. You finally work your way to my ass. Gelatinous and hairy, you almost forget I’m a person and not a polar bear. After the longest thirty seconds of your life, I finish and you finally realize: you thought you were going to be pleasured by the fun fat guy, but instead you were awkwardly fucked by an ogre.

You leave as quick as possible, covered in my sweat, the sound of my labored breathing still ringing in your ear.

Poor people? Genocide victims? They can fend for themselves. Those poor young women mentioned above, they are the true victims.

Fat Girls and Jonas Brothers

2008-09-04T09:53:00.000-07:00

I was walking through Times Square the other day, and I saw a big crowd of fat pre-teen girls standing outside of MTV with signs for something called “Jonas Brothers”. First of all, what the fuck is a “Jonas Brother”? Is it something created by MTV? Is it something musical? Is it pronounced “Jonas Brotha” and therefore black? I have no idea. All I know is, what I don’t understand I don’t like. So, whatever a “Jonas Brother” is, I don’t want to be one.

Anyway, as I was walking through this crowd of fat young girls, I began to wonder, what in the world happened to the role models? Remember when people complained that girls were being taught to be too skinny by the media and society? Well, clearly those days are long gone, because every girl I saw waiting for this Jonas Brother was barely squeezing into their tight black t-shirts. If an XL t-shirt is a belly shirt on you, it’s time to reevaluate things.

Seriously, remember when chicks like Britney Spears set the bar so high for young girls, they needed to resort to eating disorders and starvation just to survive? I miss those days. Now, everyone is happy to just “be who they are”. Trust me sweetheart, if you’re half of who you are, there’s still too much of you.

You want diabetes Ms. 14 year-old? Didn’t think so. Take my advice: lose your lunch today, save you foot tomorrow you future diabetic freak. Also, what are you doing standing outside of TRL on a school day? Maybe if you went to gym class instead of stuffing your face full of street hot dogs outside of TRL, things will improve.

How Did '24' Know A Year And A Half Before America?

2008-09-02T09:51:00.000-07:00

Summer Vacation

2008-08-23T12:26:00.000-07:00

With Healy just about out of rehab and Howie recently freed from Gitmo for past blog posts, posting will resume after Labor Day. In the meantime...

Click this link to get a free Obama button:

http://pol.moveon.org/obamabuttons/?id=-10151547-mrd2Mex&rc=

The American Electorate Part 3: Rudy Giuliani

2008-07-17T08:17:00.000-07:00

“Rape. Murder. It’s just a shot away.” – John McCain 2008 campaign slogan

The third in a continuing series on the American electorate.

This Week: Rudy Giuliani

Who They Are: Oh Rudy, you crazy, stupid son of a bitch. Some people see things as they are and ask why. You saw things as they were and wondered, “how does this benefit me?” Back in 2001, everyone loved Rudy. When we were under attack, Rudy was the real hero: going on TV and telling us about what we were seeing. Every crisis needs a narrator. Anyway, Rudy, using the murder of 3000+ people (killed on 9/11, not by NYC cops during his two terms as mayor), decided to run for president on a militant national security policy. He’d make us safer by such simple steps as nuking small nations over trade disputes, and going into the mountains of Pakistan to personally kick the shit out of the terrorists. Luckily, in an unusual display of cognitive reasoning, voters saw through this, and he only really competed in one primary, which he lost big.
Who They’ll Vote For: John McCain
Why They’ll Vote For Him: Rudy has made clear that if Obama is elected, millions of Americans will die. He never specified whether it’d be at the hands of terrorists or an act of revenge from Mayor Giuliani himself.
Are You One Of Them?: Did you put an emergency command center in a building that had been attacked by terrorists before, against the advice of your advisors and experts? Did you try to turn a national tragedy into a personal opportunity? Did you get your marriage to your cousin annulled? If you answered yes to any of these questions, you’re Rudy Giuliani.
Tell Us How You Really Feel Howie: Joe Biden once said everything Rudy said consisted of “a noun, a verb, and 9/11”. I question Senator Biden’s intelligence in thinking Rudy was smart enough to have a noun and verb in a sentence. The only reason this guy had a candidacy was because thousands of people died on his watch. And now, he’s John McCain’s national security expert. That’s like hiring a body guard because he got the shit beat out of him a few times. Yep, the kind of guy you want speaking on your behalf.

Life After College: Job Interviews

2008-07-15T09:23:00.000-07:00

“Life’s full of molehills and deep valleys.” – Anonymous

I find it hard to believe that I graduated from college over a year ago. I think about all I’ve missed in the past year: 52 “Thirsty Thursdays”, girls almost-but-not-quite-drunk-enough to find me attractive, complete financial dependence, and not a care in the world aside from being in a classroom a few hours a day, four days a week. Now, suddenly, I’m in the real world, where both failure and sex offender registries actually do exist outside of “Dateline” specials.

When you’re a kid, assuming you’re family is safely above the poverty line, every adult tells you that you can be anything you want to be… all your dreams will come true. A college diploma is basically a sheet of paper that says, “We lied to you. The next step is a miserable existence consisting of an unfulfilling job, a marriage with a 50% chance of failure, and children you secretly resent because you can no longer spend that Christmas bonus on hookers and blow. Don’t worry though, eventually you’ll be on the government’s payroll, and if you’re lucky, you’ll die in your sleep instead of in an American hospital (37th best health care system in the world!).”

A little too bleak of an outlook? Probably.

So, here is the next in a continuing series of “Life After College” features.

Job Interviews

Imagine going out on a weekend to a bar. This bar is different though. It has no alcohol, no music, the lights are on, and you have no interest in being there. That’s basically what a job interview is, just with more lying and cheaper clothes. Sure, you’re auditioning for the chance to make more money and advance your “career”, but let’s be honest: you know you won’t be making the money you think you deserve and have no interest in beginning any kind of “career”. But, you need to pay the bills. How do you respond to the most asked job interview questions? Don't worry, I'm looking out for you.

“Why do you think you’re right for this position?”
This question is actually pretty easy. You know you’re right for the position because you applied for it. And, since you have basically no qualifications, they can pay you shit. But, you obviously can’t say that. So how do you answer this question? Just lie your ass off about how responsible you are and how you’re willing to do anything to succeed. Everyone likes somebody they think is truly motivated, even in the worst circumstances (Clinton 2008!).

“Where do you see yourself in five years?”
You want to just blurt out something like “making more money” or “anything but this” or “your wife”. Of course, saying this isn’t going to get you that elusive second interview. Best way to answer this question without giving an actual answer? “My main focus would be to do this job the best I can, and then see where I can go in this company.” Needless to say, the second something better comes along, you’re jumping ship.

“When would you be able to start?”
Again, nothing here that can't be handled with a blatant lie. You either have no job or a dead-end job you don’t feel the need to give two weeks notice at. Therefore, you tell them two weeks anyway and quit your current job by making them fire you as soon as possible. You just finished a half-assed job search, you need a vacation.

Appendix for drop-outs, or "MySpace users":
You’re not right for the position.
“Landscaping.”
“As soon as I’m sure I can pass the drug test.”

Facebook: Happy Birthday Healy!

2008-07-10T18:28:00.000-07:00

Birthdays used to be cool and something to look forward to. When you’re a kid, you go to an arcade with your friends, eat pizza, and buy a cheap Mo Vaughn poster with the tickets you stole from the ski ball machine. Your 16th birthday brings the freedom of a license, along with the sex drive of a middle-aged man singing Elvis on a Viagra commercial. The 18th birthday allows you to buy cigarettes, vastly increase your porn collection, and potentially be featured in the video of Toby Keith’s never released single, “I support this war even though I never fought in it.” And then comes the 21st birthday where you are encouraged and cheered on by friends to risk alcohol poisoning with the ultimate reward of waking up naked with a PENIS the size of Tommy Lee’s tattooed in black Sharpie all over your vomit covered body. But then with each passing birthday, you struggle to find self worth like Steve Urkel trying to find work after “Family Matters” was cancelled. And that’s where I stand right now.

I turn 23 tomorrow and have been out of college for over a year. Like most recent graduates, I have a dead end job. But unlike most recent graduates, this dead end job allows me to travel the country, live out of a suitcase, and get drunk in towns I didn’t know existed without the help of Wikipedia. So to recap, the only career skill I have acquired in the last year is to recognize and brag to girls that I’ve been to most of the hometowns of future contestants on “The Bachelorette.” Thank you Virginia Tech Career Services:

Steve Furlong, Insurance Salesman, Snohomish, WA
Mike Breez, Bar Owner, Albany, GA
Kevin Sullivan, Alpine Skier, Colorado Springs, CO
Joe Donahue, Real Estate Appraiser, Fort Walton Beach, FL

On top of this, when not traveling, I live with my parents in a bedroom with a singing pumpkin for a lamp, drive a car that was new when Bugle Boy was popular, and get mistaken for a high school kid skipping school when walking to the train every morning with my L.L. Bean backpack. Each day, I feel numb, indifference, have a lack of ambition, and wonder how Mario Lopez became the biggest success from the “Saved by the Bell” cast. I don’t think this is what they meant with “getting high on life.”

Everything in life is telling me that tomorrow is just another depressing day: wake up, go to work, jerk off, take a shower, watch another fat kid become famous by lip syncing an 80s song on You Tube, go to bed, and start it all over again. But not so fast I say! Facebook has given new meaning to each birthday with the expectations of hundreds of wall posts from people I haven’t seen in years: the girl from high school who has two kids, the guy I never met, but we’re friends because we have the same last name, and the former ex-girlfriend who just changed her profile pic to her wedding night. So as you look through my profile and think of something witty to say, I hope you are fooled by the false sense of hope in each of my smiles as you click through the various albums. And when it comes to answering that never-ending question, “Happy Birthday, how are things,?” I will instinctively respond, “Things are great, hope all is well with you!” And then I will wait to hear back again in another 365 days, where nothing will change, except hopefully Mario Lopez’s expiring game show contract. Thank you Social Networking. You always do know how to make me feel loved!

The American Electorate Part 2: The Disillusioned Evangelical

2008-07-10T15:07:00.000-07:00

“For the red, white and blue
All the funny things you do
America
America
This is you.” – Theme, "America’s Funniest Home Videos"

The second in a continuing series on the voters in America.

This Week: The Disillusioned Evangelical

Who They Are: The bible tells us that the modern day evangelical was created by Ronald Regan in the 1980’s in order to pave the way for a government where decisions are not made by intelligent discussion or debate, but by God or gut. Mission Accomplished, Mr. President. Anyway, this group, so influential in getting Bush: First Blood Part II elected, feel they have no candidate. They. Are. Pissed.
Who They’ll Vote For: Bob Barr, the libertarian? Jesus, the lord and savior?
Why They’ll Vote For Him: They’d vote for Bob Barr because he isn’t McCain and stands for some republican principles. They’ll use Jesus as a write-in candidate so America can prove to the world just who the greatest theocracy on Earth is. Take that, President Ahmadinejad!
Are You One Of Them?: Compassion for your fellow man? Giving to the needy? If you answered yes to either one of these, then you aren’t one of them. Should abortion doctors be murdered (in the name of God, of course)? Should soldiers’ funerals be protested in order to spread a message of hate and intolerance (in the name of God, of course)? If you answered yes to these, welcome to evangelism.
Tell Us How You Really Feel Howie: Sorry, but that Jerry Falwell College degree doesn’t entitle you to a big Justice Department job. Also, when did debating an issue become treason? Oh, that’s right, when the evangelicals decided to anoint Bush the second coming because he claims that God tells him what to do. I’ve been going to church (admittedly off and on) for nearly 24 years, and nothing I heard along the way indicated that the God I was told about would tell some former coke-head turned former alcoholic turned failed businessman turned failed president to invade a sovereign Arab nation. Then again, I slept through a lot of sermons, so what do I know?

Summer Movie Preview Part 3: July

2008-07-08T14:05:00.000-07:00

So, the June movies weren’t terrible. “Hulk” didn’t suck, “Wall-E” was awesome, and “The Love Guru” bombed, which reaffirms my faith in humanity. Please July, don’t disappoint us.

Hancock
It wouldn’t be the Fourth of July without the Declaration of Independence and Will Smith. I kind of wanted to see this movie, then I learned it completely sucked. Apparently it isn’t a funny movie about a drunk superhero; it’s a dramatic movie about a drunk superhero. Maybe if next summer, instead of starring in a movie with a great concept and shitty execution, Will Smith can do “Bad Boys 3”, and just deliver what we all expect: a really long shitty movie that makes us forget about alcoholism, not remind us of our crippling addiction.

Haven’t I Seen This Before?: “Superman Returns” had a heroine addicted Superman. Unfortunately, the man of steel couldn’t get that needle between his toes, resorting to snorting the drug. Lois Lane found him passed out in his own vomit.

Meet Dave
There’s a special place in hell reserved for actors like Eddie Murphy and Mike Meyers. Two actors that used to be great, now are so full of themselves that they feel the need to play every role in every movie they star in. “Meet Dave” is about a small captain, played by Murphy, who captains a ship shaped like, you guess it, Murphy. Sound stupid? Sound like it’d suck? Just the next movie from the man that brought you “Norbit”.

What Next Eddie?: Murphy is apparently set to star in a fourth “Beverly Hills Cop”, this one meant for kids. I don’t want to live in a world where I’m forced to long for the good old days of “The Nutty Professor 2”.

The Dark Knight
I can’t fucking wait for this movie.

Anything Else?: I can’t fucking wait for this movie.

Mama Mia!
A movie based on a Broadway musical based on the ABBA song catalogue. To be honest, I feel uncomfortable just knowing this movie exists. I saw the trailer for this before every movie I saw in the past six months. I think it’s about some whore that sleeps with three guys and doesn’t know who the father is, resulting in hilarity and singing. Didn’t I see this somewhere before? Oh, that’s right, on “Maury” this morning. Except on “Maury”, it wasn’t Meryl Streep and three old white guys, it was some seventeen year-old named Levitra and three black guys that insisted the baby looked nothing like them.

I Used To Be James Bond…: Pierce Brosnan is in this. That’s right, the guy that played James Bond for seven years is now singing ABBA songs. I guess he exchanged his “license to kill” for a “license to thrill!”. I know that joke wasn’t funny, but I’m way to disappointed right now to give a damn. Next up? Daniel Craig in a musical based on the “Wham” songbook.

Company Slogans: Part I

2008-07-07T20:55:00.000-07:00

A successful company slogan is unique, immediately recognizable, and leaves an unforgettable impression with its audience. Think Lindsay Lohan’s vagina on the hard drive of a 13-year-old boy's lab top. But more importantly, a company slogan needs to tell the truth because a business or organization can’t move forward without the trust of its customers. Here are some samples of slogans I would create if I were in charge of the following companies:

Starbucks

“Where a gallon of gas will always cost less than a cup of coffee”

Ford Windstar

“Children Ruin Dreams”

Army

“It’s either us or community college”

American Eagle

“It’s your 16th birthday and your parents couldn’t afford Abercrombie”

Lacoste

“Trust funds are recession proof”

University of Phoenix Online

“Where admission is based on internet connection”

McDonald's

“Like a free abortion clinic, we sacrifice health for cost with the lower class”

Trojan

“May cause allergic reactions in Catholics, professional athletes, and rappers”

Harley-Davidson

“Ugly, middle aged women with tattoos in backseat sold separately”

Verizon Blackberry

"Not intended for use with entry-level salaries"

The American Electorate Part 1: The Northeast Liberal

2008-07-03T19:43:00.000-07:00

“Vote or die.” – P. Diddy

Shut up Puffy, you’re not helping.

There’s something truly special about an election year. Nothing brings the elderly, people with cars, those without criminal records, and people that still believe their vote counts out in droves like a good old fashion election. This year is no exception.

In honor of this historic election year, a year that pits the past against the future, old against young, Wilford Brimley against Carleton Banks, I present an ongoing series that showcases the key voting groups that will think they are shaping this country.

This week: The Northeast Liberal

Who They Are: A small group of college educated or beyond elitists who think their opinions are facts. If you go to church, watch reality TV, or can’t decide between the Democrat or anyone else, they look down on you. They can typically be seen on their Macbooks in a Starbucks or working as PA’s on independent films. Way to use that liberal arts degree.
Who They’ll Vote For: Barack Obama
Why They’ll Vote For Him: They like his policies, and they want to show their fathers how progressive they are by pointing out the fact that they’re voting for a black man. Doesn’t bringing up race defeat the purpose?
Are You One Of Them?: Do you believe Hillary Clinton is too conservative? If yes, you’re one of these people. Was the end of the last episode of “The Sopranos” Tony getting killed or was it meant to symbolize something deeper? If you answered symbolism, then you’re a Northeast Liberal. You didn’t take all of those pop culture classes at Overpriced University to not overanalyze something so simple and trivial.
Tell Us How You Really Feel Howie: Please, Mr. and Ms. (marriage is, after all, for the uneducated) Super-liberal pseudo-communist bisexual, stop telling everyone how much smarter than them you are. You people give all Democrats a bad name. Guess whose fault it is that the label “liberal” is more insulting than “warmonger”? That’s right, it’s you. Nobody cares how open minded you are or the fact that you make donations to MoveOn.org. No undecided voter ever chose a candidate because his supporters berated the voter for going to a community college and being on the fence on abortion. You can suck it, Eugene McCarthy.

Notes From Obesity: First Communion

2008-06-26T17:16:00.000-07:00

Growing up Catholic was truly a joy. Losing a precious hour of my short life every week, being badgered by nuns that just needed a good hard fucking (just stamped my one-way ticket to hell), and being told to be guilty about everything from “gluttony” to “touching myself” (although a pastor doing the same is apparently not a sin, go figure). Of course, the best part of all were the sacraments. My personal favorite? First Communion!

Now, of course you realize I’m being sarcastic. By saying communion was my favorite, I really mean I have horrible memories of it that I just can’t suppress. You’d think I would have loved it. You get to eat and drink alcohol, all while your parents take pictures of you and relatives give you money. Replace the photographers with drunk friends, put those pictures on Facebook, and you’re describing the average college experience circa 2008. Unfortunately, being fat, I was unable to enjoy the experience.

The traditional dress for a young man at a First Communion is a white suit. Since I had parents that were neither deadbeats nor poor, they set about getting me said suit. The first three stores we went to didn’t have any suits in my size... size “husky”, since “Big N’ Tall” is apparently too harsh a word for an eight year old. The fourth store had sizes that were either too small or designed for a man the size of a pre-stroke Luther Vandross. Things looked grim.

After searching several more stores across Massachusetts, northern Rhode Island and Connecticut, and southern Maine, we were lost. Not one clothing store sold a white suit designed for a second grade boy with the physique of a young Star Jones. So, in an act of desperation, we attempted to get a suit made by a tailor. But, by then it was too late. They wouldn’t be able to get the suit made in time. Plus, no tailor had that amount of fabric in stock. So, we were forced to get me a navy blue suit.

The day arrived, and my parents had me convinced I wouldn’t be the only boy there not wearing white. There had to be someone else my size, right?

Wrong.

Walking in the church, I saw every girl wore a white dress and every boy wore a white suit. It looked like a mass wedding in an Atlanta church. So, things got started, and there was a see of white with one dark spot in the middle. I was like the lone self-loathing black guy at a McCain rally.

Riding In Trains With Whores

2008-06-18T12:34:00.000-07:00

Travel and people can be a deadly combination. A few weeks ago, I visited the time machine, a.k.a. home, where I go from a 23-year-old living on his own to a 14-year-old that apparently can’t think for himself. Anyway, I took Amtrak home, and had a nice four-hour ride. I expected my return trip that Sunday to be the same, but no. As I was trying to find a seat, I walked through the dining car, and recognized this girl I had met maybe once before. Kelly? Kim? Kaisha? I don’t care, but it was something with a K. Anyway, I go against my better judgment and say hello, and I get invited to sit down. So, now I have four hours to sit in an uncomfortable booth (why wouldn’t you sit in a comfortable chair instead of a filthy booth?) with someone I barely know. Howie the conversationalist, are you there?

For the first ten minutes of the trip, I had to try to remember where I knew this girl from. Apparently, she’s a “friend-of-a-friend”, or as I like to call it, “someone I have no reason to care about”. The first hour progressed with small talk and BS that I don’t remember. I call this portion of the conversation the “hoping for a knob job in the Amtrak bathroom” part.

After hour one, it became clear said knob job wasn’t going to happen. Also at this point, I apparently gave off a “you can tell me anything!” vibe, because this girl began to tell me everything. For two hours, all I heard were sex and drug stories. I felt like Robert Downey Jr.’s NA sponsor. When I say she told me everything, I mean she told me everything.

First there were the drug stories. The only one I can remember involved a basement crack den in Harlem she lived in for a week because of some problem with her landlord. All I know is she had a basement party that involved two gang members being killed and a closet she referred to as the “abortion closet”. Freaky shit.

Next, she started telling sex stories. For the first few minutes I’m poppin’ rodneys like it’s nobodies business, then she starts talking about all these things I’ve never heard of. “Maharishi’s Revenge”? “The Algonquin Shuffle”? Never heard of either of them. Apparently one involved her, three guys, and one of those things the dentist uses to suck extra spit out of your mouth. Also, most of her stories ended with her getting the R. Kelly treatment. I can usually tolerate listening to a lot of weird things, but I think I drew the line at her golden shower story.

Hopes for the BBJ dimmed as the train rolled into Penn Station. We said our goodbyes, and I made a vow right there to never travel anything but first or business class ever again.

Life After College: Company Business Trip

2008-06-17T17:34:00.000-07:00

The company business trip is a rite of passage into adulthood along with depression, short shorts, and the loss of a sex life. Nothing defines success for a young professional more than frequent flyer miles and Hilton Honors points. Suddenly, what you do and how much you make takes a backseat to how many hotel towels you’ve masturbated on in the last fiscal quarter. For young professionals looking for a false sense of purpose in life, the phrase “I’m here on business” almost makes up for a dead end job and indifference for the will to live. Here’s what to look out for during your next company business trip as you try to act like Nicole Richie on a red carpet by fooling yourself into thinking you’re more important than you actually are.

Airports: Airports surround you with the leftovers of corporate America: middle-aged men in decade old suits happy to escape screaming children and their spouse’s expanding waist lines. But instead of dressing like a shoe salesmen in a department store, you look like a 12-year-old heading to summer camp in your cargo shots and Adidas duffle bag. In order to look important, you need only to grab a Starbucks coffee in the terminal and check any messages on an out of service Blackberry. The wardrobe may fake the importance of a job, but the accessories will fake the importance of a career.

Rental Car: The company rental car sets the bar for how successful a young professional is viewed on the road. A pickup truck makes one look like an Assistant Manager at a “Home Depot,” while a Mustang makes one look like an 18-year-old fresh out of boot camp. The four door sedan is the most conservative rental choice, but the wrong color can quickly turn your sexuality into looking like a high school girls basketball coach. Either way, it beats the shit box sitting in your parent’s driveway with a busted Air Conditioner.

Work: Working on the road is a lot like going on a third grade field trip to the city Science Museum, but you don’t have to eat your soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwich out of a brown bag with a crushed Capri Sun. With your bosses off your back and your new “chaperones” unaware of your responsibilities and lack of ambition, you’re free to take two hour lunches and come and go as you please. Unfortunately, your rides back home in a yellow school bus listening to “Kris Kross” have turned into the middle seat on the airplane and a flat glass of Ginger Ale.

Hotel Room: For those still living with their parents, the hotel room gives you the key to your own penthouse for a couple of days. And instead of walking in on your parent’s having sex, you can order Cinemax from the Front Desk and charge it to your company credit card. Just tell your bosses that “Debby Does Dallas” is a video on teaching client satisfaction and that $19.99 will save your company thousands in the long run.

Hotel Bar: The hotel bar is a breeding ground for functional alcoholics to share war stories about life on the road. But “I’m on business” can mean different things to different people. It could mean stalking an ex-wife for one man and it could mean having an affair with their Secretary for another. The alcohol may release the stress of another hard day’s work, but soon enough the restraining orders and alimony payments will catch up for those not careful enough to reserve rooms under false names.

Life After College: Five Day Work Week
Life After College: Co-Workers
Life After College: Office Happy Hours
Life After College: Dating
Life After College: Alumni Weekends
Life After College: Summer Vacations
Life After College: Company Golf Outing

Hallmark Presents: Your Father

2008-06-11T11:04:00.000-07:00

"You have humiliated me for the last time. You are a rude, thoughtless little pig, ok?" - Alec Baldwin, father

There’s nothing I loathe more than buying greeting cards. Nothing says, “I love you” or “I care” like buying a piece of paper with an impersonal thought that millions of other people will receive. The worst thing about the whole process though? The fact that card writers are complete idiots devoid of real human emotion or any real life experiences.

I went shopping for a Father’s Day card for my father (a Father’s day card for a father? No shit!), and found something interesting: every card was designed for a stereotypical man that probably doesn’t exist. Pouring through one shit card after another, I realized that apparently, all greeting card writers are orphans. These orphans, having no father to base their thoughts on, seemingly researched the topic in two places: reruns of “Home Improvement” and Blue Collar Comedy Tour shows. So, here now is a list of traits that apparently all fathers have, according to the great minds at the Hallmark Company.

Dad Loves Golf!
Apparently, fathers love golf. Every man that has ever had a child plays golf weekly, and just can’t get enough of it. Dad loves golf so much that half of the greeting cards say that instead of spending time with his family, a.k.a. the reason he is getting this card, he should be itching to get out on the golf course. Of course, dad’s love of golf is hilarious, because apparently he is terrible at it!

Dad’s An Idiot!
Something broke in the house? Let dad try to fix it. Of course, since dad is such an incompetent buffoon, he’ll screw it up massively, leaving mom to have to call the repairman. Oh dad, always trying to accomplish a task above his apparently retard-like I.Q. Dad can’t put a nail in a wall without forcing the house to comically fall down, yet somehow manages to provide for a family. Ah, the paradox of fatherhood.

Dad Lives A Disgusting Unhealthy Lifestyle!
Dad obviously loves recliners and beer, what father doesn’t? So, for Fathers Day, he should combine those two things: wake up at 7 AM, get a six pack of beer, and sit in his recliner and drink until he passes out. And a message to the kids: it’s Father’s Day, so let dad sit shit-faced on his recliner alone, since this is the one day a year he should enjoy. Of course, being so drunk and lazy means you don’t get up for anything, so you start to smell terrible (dad smells bad, hilarious!). Also, since dad constantly drinks beer, he rips ass like Britney Spears after a Mexican meal. Better buy dad some new underwear next year!

Dad’s An Abusive Grill-Hound!
If dad can’t be on the golf course alone, he wants to be in the backyard on the grill alone. There’s nothing that gives dad more pleasure than using his grill, except for screaming at his children doing child-like things. Yep, whether it be car rides, home improvement projects, a tie for a gift (again!), or the spending of his money, dad gets pretty cartoonishly annoyed pretty often. But fear not dad! All of those emotional abuses and angry tirades against stereotypical and sitcom-y situations will all be swept under the rug when we laugh about them in next year’s card.

Shit that pisses me off: "Alumni Car Decals"

2008-06-08T16:53:00.000-07:00

Virginia Tech, Class of 2007. Yep, that's my car. A 1989 Honda Accord. It's safe to say this won't be featured in the Alumni Magazine.

(click to enlarge)

I Will Never Get Married

2008-06-05T09:19:00.000-07:00

“Marriage is like an unfunny episode of ‘Everybody Loves Raymond’” – “Knocked Up”

To a 23-year-old guy, nothing looks as miserable as marriage. I can’t imagine a life where I have a wife and kids. Coincidently, I also can’t imagine being able to handle being even more miserable than I already am.

Ever see an older person that has never been married? They’re the person people always say “wow, you look great for your age”. Ever see an older married couple? I went to lunch with some friends of mine that recently got married. It looked like I was eating with Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson. Clearly, marriage ages you.

Also, you have to look at the fact that most marriages don’t work. Genetically, we aren’t designed to be in marriages. In the animal kingdom, the male humps the female, then leaves to do it to another, while the female raises her children. It’s in your genes. If a marriage is to work, you’d better hope you have children to blunt the animosity that is inevitably going to develop and a healthy collection of hardcore pornography to get you through the lonely nights.

If you must get divorced, be warned: women and poor men don’t end up winning in the end. When rich older men get divorced, they date younger women that use them for their money. When older women get divorced, they get “companions”, or the men not rich enough to get the younger women. Do the rich men win? Not in the end. Sure they have the younger woman, but once that prostate has to go, you’re fucked. And the young women getting the money? You’ve wasted your youth changing adult diapers, all for a sum of money that is a lot less than you thought you’d get.

In marriage, there are no winners. That’s why I will never get married, unless I’m in a situation where I can save money on taxes or have to prove I’m not gay.

Summer Movie Preview Part 2: June

2008-06-04T12:27:00.000-07:00

Everyone see all the big May blockbusters? Shia LeBouf was Indy's son! Samuel L. Jackson appears after the credits of "Iron Man"! Samantha took her morning-after pill just in time! Anyway, let's see what June has in store for us. Remember, June is the month that allows us to take a break between the good May movies and the good July movies.

You Don’t Mess With The Zohan
This was funny when it was “Borat” two years ago. Not so much today.

The Incredible Hulk
They might as well rename “The Hulk” “The Incredibly Shitty and Boring Hulk” and rename this one “The Better By Direct Comparison Hulk”. This film is a sequel/reboot of 2003’s “The Hulk”, a 21st century comic book adaptation where people actually complained about the long and boring origin story. To make a modern comic book movie where fans admit the boring first hour is actually a boring first hour is a big accomplishment. So, the bar is set low for you, “The Incredible Hulk”.

What’s changed?: Edward Norton is replacing Eric Bana. That’s the equivalent of replacing a professional ultimate fighter with a wheelchair-bound drama student.

Get Smart
I saw an advance screening of this a few months ago, so legally, I can’t write anything about it.

It’ll cost more to sue me than you could ever make in any lawsuit: James Caan plays a parody of President Shit-For-Brains (Bush obviously) and Bill Murray hides in a tree for a cameo. Just accept it.

The Love Guru
I can’t remember the last time Mike Myers wrote a funny movie (Austin Powers 2) or acted in a good movie (Shrek 2). He’s been on a downward spiral since “Wayne’s World”. And now he brings us a gross stereotype of Hindu culture, a culture that I know nothing of besides stereotypes. The big draw for this film, which looks worse than a late term abortion on a hot summer day, is the cast. It stars Myers, of course, as well as Jessica Alba, an actress that makes Heather Graham look like Meryl Streep. It also stars Justin Timberlake, the male acting equivalent to Mariah Carey and Verne Troyer, a.k.a. Mini-Me, a.k.a. the alcoholic midget from “Surreal Life”.

Saving grace?: Ben Kingsley is in the movie, who won an Oscar playing another Hindu, Ghandi. Keep in mind though that he’s been wiping his ass with the Oscar ever since.

Wall-E
Is Pixar so void of inanimate objects to animate that they’ve resorted to scrap metal? First there were toys, then cars, and now scrap metal? If a post-apocalyptic world full of robots made of scraps is your thing, then enjoy. The only thing saving this movie from sucking is the fact that it doesn’t have Jack Black animated as a fat panda Jack Black

Franchise?: The rat from “Ratatouille” wandered into a New York City Taco Bell and was carried out in a Gordita, so that franchise is dead. I’m sure Pixar will find plenty of other oddly shaped metals to fashion a love interest out of for the sequel.

Who Has Worse Facial Hair?

2008-06-02T15:24:00.000-07:00

(click to enlarge)

Known as "the Hick from French Lick," Larry Bird led the Boston Celtics to championship dominance throughout the 1980s. Known as the douchebag who gets to have sex with Heidi on "The Hills," Spencer Pratt has made a career out of awkward silences with uninterrupted pauses and stares inside Hollywood's most exclusive clubs. What do the two have in common? The ability to grow the most perfect, blond, pubic facial hair known to man. If gray hair represents age and wisdom, the blond pubic hair represents pop culture dominance, whether it's a 1984 NBA Finals or a 2008 scripted reality show with an unemployed 24-year-old living in a million-dollar West Hollywood Condo. So the question is who has worse facial hair? Bird or Pratt?

(Photo Courtesy of College Roommate Jim)

Life After College: Company Golf Outing

2008-05-31T18:54:00.001-07:00

Golf is the one situation where it's okay for a man to forget about his family for a weekend and not look back until Monday. Or as Michael Lohan calls it: adolescence. In corporate America, how well you hit a five iron is a major predictor of success to go along with race, sexuality, and hair line. The ability to play golf, or at least pretend to, can be the difference between a promotion and a sexual harassment lawsuit. And as OJ Simpson has demonstrated for over a decade, nothing proves innocence like an 8 AM tee time. When you're asked to attend your next corporate golf outing, following these easy tips won't make you play like Tiger, but they also won't make you wait in the unemployment line or go door to door selling steak knives.

Dress Code: The company golf outing is an extension of the office. How you dress can tell a lot about who you are. Cargo? Sorry, but it's not 1999 and tomorrow isn't your first day of school. Plaid? Last time I checked, this wasn't a fundraiser for your frat's philanthropy. This is golf and not a 1980s MC Hammer music video. The fewer pockets and the less color, the better. These shorts may have gotten you a hand job in high school, but they won't give you references in the real world.

Brag about your Sex Life: Golf and sex are two activities tailored for middle-aged men with money, power, and insecurities. In order to fit in with senior management, you need to not only lie about your handicap, but also your sex life. Here's a sample of stories you might hear from co-workers vs. the truth.

My wife and I have had sex twice since this morning. It woke up the neighbors.
My wife and I have had sex twice since our wedding. Their names are Tommy and Kelly.

My wife and I need a new bed because we broke the last one after the Christmas party.
My wife and I sleep in separate beds.

Indecent Exposure: Taking a piss in public usually gets you a criminal record, community service, and a canceled dinner party with your neighbors who have young children. But on a golf course, sharing a bathroom in public is the first step to employee trust followed closely by alcohol, cigars, and a 25 foot putt.

Lie about golf courses you’ve played at: In corporate America, lying about golf courses you've played at is a lot like lying about girls you slept with in high school, but the risks of water hazards begin to replace the risks of STD's the more you “play.” Pebble Beach? You shot a 72. TPC at Sawgrass? That rough is deadly. Sure, you've never physically played at these courses, but with today's technology, your Sunday afternoons playing the new "Tiger Woods" demo at Best Buy is the next best thing. Just tell those 11-year-old kids behind you with the “Hannah Montana” DVD’s to wait their turn.

Make excuses about your back if playing bad: Your supervisors haven't worked their way up to middle management for nothing. They’re not quite high enough on the corporate ladder for a corner office or the ability to afford a luxury sedan. But they're also not low enough to have to take the blame for their mistakes or buy their ties from Marshall’s. Take their example for avoiding the blame in and out of the office. Excuses can be a young professional's best friend. And with your yearly review coming up along with your struggles with the Driver, there's no better time to ask about your company's health benefits than after that double bogey on twelve.

So You Think You Can Dance?

2008-05-31T18:40:00.000-07:00

Have I ever met this girl in my life? Of course not. Was my BAC above or below the legal limit to drive an automobile? You be the judge. Will this "Rihanna" song constantly remind her of my dance moves? I sure hope so.

Editor's note (2):
1: The High-Five at 42 seconds is from a stranger who respects greatness.
2. The spin move at the end wasn't nearly enough to get away. With 5 more inches and 150 more pounds, who's to say I wouldn't of had the ability to play at the NFL level?

Ted Kennedy

2008-05-22T15:03:00.000-07:00

“Ted, put your tits away…this is the White House!” – Jackie Kennedy Onasis

Unless you only get your news from TMZ, you’ve probably heard that Ted Kennedy, a.k.a. the “liberal lion”, a.k.a. the “hungry hungry hippo”, has a brain tumor, and things aren’t looking good. Ted, the only son of Joseph P. Kennedy Sr. not deemed worthy of being gunned down, has served in the senate since his brother’s election as president. Due to various embarrassing scandals, and with a healthy dose of his father’s connections and money, Kennedy has managed to stay in the senate for nearly five decades, never rising to the greatness of his war hero brother Joe or his presidential candidate/attorney general/senator brother Bobby or his president/war hero brother Jack or even his retarded sister Rosemary.

I think I speak for everyone when I say poor Teddy needs something to boost his spirits. So, with that in mind, I’m going to remind Teddy why he is so lucky right now, despite the illness and battle he currently faces.

Could Have Been Rendered Retarded by His Father
For those of you not aware, the story goes that Joe Sr., fearing his daughter Rosemary may be a little slow, went behind the family’s back and got her a lobotomy, which rendered her retarded. So, Teddy, you may face a brain tumor right now, but at least you have an entire brain to have a tumor on. Luckily, your father didn’t realize you’d grow up to become the Bluto Blutarsky of the United States Senate.

Could Have Drowned Upside Down In His Car
One would assume that being filled with beer and whiskey would make you a bad swimmer, but not ol’ Teddy. Back in 1969, Teddy was driving a girl home from a party. Horney and loaded, Teddy was probably trying to get a blow job from the girl when he plunged off a bridge. His car upside down in the water with a girl in the seat next to him, he did what any real man would do: he got out of the car, swam for the shore, walked back to the party, got a ride to a ferry, swam across a channel instead, got a motel room, woke up, wrote out a statement, then went to the cops to tell them a girl was in trouble. So, you may have a brain tumor now, but you out-lived that girl by forty years. Congratulations.

Could Have Gotten Alcohol Poisoning
It’s no secret that Teddy loves to drink. What a frat may call a “year’s supply of booze”, Ted calls “brunch”. Nevermind alcohol poisoning, Ted could have died from any number of alcohol fueled incidents: liver failure, drunk driving accident, or VD, just to name a few. Ted’s nights of drinking are legendary, like the night in 1991 when he was out with his nephews, one of whom was accused of rape the next day, or the night in 1979 when he decided to challenge a sitting president for the nomination of his party. Years of reckless drinking didn’t destroy you, it just made you red and bloated. Not a bad price to pay.

Could Have Been Assassinated
Damn you Kennedy killers. You take away the three best sons and leave behind Ted? No justice. Older brother Joe was shot down as a pilot during World War II, Jack was assassinated on a presidential trip to Dallas, and Bobby was assassinated as he claimed victory in the California Democratic primary. With a streak like this, you’d think Ted would have been killed too. Luckily for him, that never happened. For you see, Teddy’s own mediocrity and stupidity did what no assassin’s bullet needed to. Nobody deemed you worthy to murder Teddy. Again, congrats.

Life After College: Summer Vacations

2008-05-18T12:56:00.000-07:00

“Summer time and the livin’s easy”---Sublime

The lead singer for Sublime, Bradley Nowell, obviously never graduated from college. If he had put down his heroin long enough to attend a college recruiting fair, he would have learned that summer vacations disappear along with your sex life when you walk across that stage to get your degree. The only people approaching the legal age to rent a car that still work as a lifeguard or camp counselor are the ones who still live off their parents and have a hidden drug habit. Think Kim Kardashian without the fame.

For those forced to find a real job, your Tuesday afternoons napping and watching “Tool Time” and “The Steve Harvey Show” on TBS are replaced with paper jams and awkward conversations with your boss in the company bathroom. Suddenly, your three months of drinking in your parent’s basement and saving up for the next “Dave Matthews” concert diminishes into buying Girl Scout Cookies for your co-worker’s daughter and monthly car payments. Since we all can’t be guidos heading down to the Jersey Shore in search of unwed mothers and cheese balls, most of us are forced to accept the fact that summer vacations as we know it are over. But unless you work at a 7-11, the one thing society can’t take away from us are holiday weekends. And summer has some huge ones. Here’s what you need to know about each holiday and what to look out for as you try to rediscover your youthful innocence when your biggest decision was what flavor slush to order after a Little League All-Star game.

Memorial Day: Memorial Day marks the unofficial start of summer where tanning salons and V-necks immediately blur the lines of sexual orientation. But it is also the time when the most recent college seniors have graduated and will soon enter the confusing world of company 401K and Roth IRA plans. And more importantly, it is the precise moment when recent graduates become aware of their limited options in life. For men, the only decision is what company offers the most paid holidays. But women in search of an easy way out from the 40 years of awkward looking suit pants can also turn to pregnancy. With the right paternity test, a woman can move up the corporate ladder and take over a family business in only nine short months.

Country Fest: This might not be a nationally recognized holiday, but a summer Country Fest concert is a lot like St. Patty’s day. On St. Patty’s day, everyone is Irish, but not everyone has pasty white skin and a domestic abuse record. For Country Fest, everyone is Southern, but not everyone makes under $30,000 a year and has a fear of god. As you expand your cultural horizons, you might even be lucky enough to find yourself a southern belle for the night. Just don’t tell anyone she’s from Jersey.

July Fourth: The Fourth is the one day that defines summer with cookouts, fireworks, and lake houses. Or in the case of your entry-level salary, lean cuisines, glow sticks, and studio apartments. But this can all be overlooked with a rich friend that owns a boat. For some reason, partying on a boat on the Fourth is like being the gay friend taking the most popular girl in school to the Prom. To a stranger, you’re a lucky guy, but your sexuality or decision to not go to Law School will always be a disappointment to your parents.

Labor Day: It’s a well-known unwritten rule to not wear white after Labor Day. For college graduates, the lesser-known unwritten rule is to not wear plaid shorts or boat shoes. You’re starting to approach your mid 20’s. It’s about time you stop dressing like the “Young Men’s” section in the Target catalogue you get in the Sunday paper. But be sure to keep that wardrobe in close storage. You never know when it’s “Virgin Night” at your local bar.

For more "Life After College:"
Five Day Work Week
Co-Workers
Office Happy Hours
Dating
Alumni Weekends

Summer Movie Preview Part 1: May

2008-05-08T19:14:00.000-07:00

I love the summer. And do you know what my favorite part of it is? It isn’t beautiful weather, or going to the beach, or even being outside. No, it’s sitting in a darkened movie theater watching a movie compromised of 5% creativity, 5% art, and 90% money making ability. So, here’s my list of some of the big blockbusters coming up this summer and, of course, my opinion on each.

Iron Man
Nothing screams huge blockbuster movie like Robert Downy Jr.? Oh, wait… According to the trailer, Iron Man may either be about a recovering addict who designs a suit made of iron, or a Black Sabbath biopic. Either way, it’s already made more money than this blog could generate in a millennium.

What you won’t see in theaters: The awkward contract negotiations with Robert Downy Jr. concerning the “don’t pay the addict until filming wraps” clause.

Speed Racer
To be honest, this looks like pure shit. “Speed Racer” is supposedly made to be a live action anime movie. That description alone will keep me away from it. Also, it’s directed by the guys that did the Matrix Trilogy. Does anyone care about these two freaks anymore? Doubtful.

Newsflash: The anime fans in this country don’t make movies hits, the masses that will see anything advertised heavily enough will. Good luck marketing department.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull
Nineteen years ago, Indiana Jones rode off into the sunset with his father, played by Sean Connery. In May 2008, he rides back, with a character named Mutt, played by Shia LeBeouf. If this really unexpected? I mean, look what George Lucas has done since 1989’s “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade”: In the late 90’s, he took all three Star Wars movies and added unnecessary special effects. Then, in 1999, he began the process of ruining the three Star Wars movies forever by making three more of them. And now he’s making a new Indy movie. This can’t end well. Harrison Ford is pushing 90, so he can’t save this movie. Come on Spielberg! You’re our only hope. Also, to answer your on burning question: no, the little Asian kid from "Temple of Doom" will not be back.

Sequel?: “Indiana Jones and the Search For the Archeologists Tomb”: Mutt must raid the grave of Indiana Jones in order to stop the invading Transformer army. Somehow, Indy comes back to life and has an epic battle with a Decepticon. Toss in Michael Keaton somehow, and you’ve got a 1980’s orgy of a film.

Sex and the City Movie
Unless you're being fucked by a guy, you probably have no interest in this movie. A bunch of middle aged women going out drinking and trying to get laid. Sounds more like a Greek Tragedy than a feel good summer comedy. I can't think of one redeeming thing about this movie that would possibly make me want to see it. Kim Cattrall naked? If I want to see a 60 year old vagina, I'll get a picture of Mick jagger's neck.

Why People Will See This: Every woman thinks she's one of the old broads from "Sex and The City". In actuality, if you drank sugary drinks like they do and had sex like they do, you'd be overweight and have VD. Oh, you do already? Then you're not "the horse faced" one, "the old whore" one, "the cute moron" one or "the unattractive lesbian" one...you're the fat girl with VD watching your 'Sex and the City" DVD box set.

Crossing The Line Tribune: Area Man Loses Virginity, Sort Of

2008-05-06T14:00:00.000-07:00

Wilkes-Barre, PA – Local loser Matt McHale, 23, hadn’t even driven away from the spot where it happened when he made his first phone call.

“Yo, it’s me. Guess what just happened?” said an elated McHale on the phone with friend Rob Miller. “I just lost my virginity!”

Miller, 24, was shocked by the news, and initially didn’t believe his friend.

“I expected a phone call saying my dead grandfather rose from the dead before one saying Matt lost his virginity,” said a confused Miller.

Last Tuesday, McHale made what he described as his “most anticipated video game purchase of the year”: a copy of “Grand Theft Auto 4” for his PlayStation 3.

“I had played the other games before, but never with this much success,” said a cocky McHale. “Being the first in line at Best Buy that day, I just knew something special was bound to happen”.

Late Saturday night, McHale was driving around the streets of fictional Liberty City, when he decided to stop in for some fried chicken at a nameless all-night chicken establishment.

“It was like two in the morning, and my stamina and strength were at dangerously low levels from the knife fight I had just been in with two stereotypical Puerto Ricans under the Kings Bridge,” recalled McHale, “so I decided to replenish with some fried chicken.”

McHale drove into the parking lot, hitting and killing two gang members and an old lady with his Camero-like vehicle, and parked right in front of the door. Upon entering, he noticed he was dangerously low on cash.

“I had the heroine in the car to deliver to the crime boss, but figured I could use a little cash with my meal,” said McHale, “so I pulled out a sawed-off shot-gun and killed both cashiers”.

Following the murders, McHale jumped on the counter, ate some chicken until his stamina and strength were at sufficient levels, stole $300 and began to exit. Suddenly, he heard a voice from the other side of the restaurant.

“Ay papi, you a big strong man, ain’t you?” said a scantily clad and disproportionately large breasted woman.

“I saw her, and instantly knew she’d do me in my car, so I went for it” recalled McHale, clearly still elated from his experience.

The two entered McHale’s car, and drove around the back of the restaurant. McHale paid the woman $50, and they had sex for approximately 15-20 seconds.

“You should have seen how that car was bouncing,” smiled McHale. “If the Camero is a rocking, don’t come a knocking.”

As the woman exited the car, McHale recalled something from his experience
in Vice City.

“If I needed extra cash, I would just beat up hookers on the street and take their money,” said a proud Matt. “So, I decided to do the same to the prostitute that took my virginity.”

McHale leapt from his car and pulled out his chainsaw, repeatedly stabbing at the hooker until her money appeared next to her now lifeless body. He collected the cash and drove away, calling the two friends he has: Miller and Liberty City crime underboss Nunzio DeFante.

“I told Rob how I lost my virginity, and I told Carmine I had collected the heroine from the Puerto Ricans,” recalled McHale. “Then I killed a cop with a molatov cocktail before heading back to my secret hideout.”

Shit that pisses me off: "Paper Towel Guys in Bathroom"

2008-05-04T18:14:00.001-07:00

More "Shit that pisses me off:"
Baby on Board:
McDonald's Diet Coke:
One-Uppers:

Notes From Obesity: Draping The Beast

2008-04-27T15:36:00.000-07:00

“Now I know what the costume designer on “Free Willy” must have felt like” - The man who measured me for my prom tux

Most people will agree that buying clothes can be a pain in the ass. I mean, who wants to be around people or mirrors? I know I don’t. But, want to know what can make that experience a thousand times worse?

Being shaped like The Penguin.

Shopping for clothes was hell for me for the better part of two decades. I remember the first time I could really imagine what my jean size truly meant. It was like trying to fathom the size of the universe: you have no frame of reference for something that massive and abstract. Being a 10 year old with a size 36 waste is pretty unimaginably enormous. Also, your average jean company doesn’t make a pant with a waste/length ratio designed for such proportions. I had to roll the legs on my pants up so much that they acted as ankle braces.

As I got older, taller, and slightly more proportional, I had a much wider range of clothes selection. I even shopped at Abercrombie and Fitch back before they got super-gay. Then, the worst thing ever to happen to this country happened: vintage fit. To me, that was like 9/11, Pearl Harbor, The Kennedy assassination, and Tara Reid all happening at the same time.

For the uninformed, or “Wal-Mart shoppers” if you will, a brief explanation: You know how a shirt that is “XXL” is supposed to fit? Well, “vintage fit” has taken every size and turned it into an uncomfortable and unflattering mess. Wear a large regular shirt? Let’s hope they have that in a XXXL “vintage fit”. Where’s the outrage America?

Also, I have to wonder why they make ripped jeans in a size 42 waste / 28 length. Ever see a fat person wearing a pair of ripped jeans? It looks like a dam that’s sprung a leak and is about to burst.

Thankfully, I never had to shop in a big and tall store. Ever been in one of those? You'd think all fat men wore were Hawain shirts and NFL player-turned-commentator suits. Sorry corporate America, I was neither a big fat party animal nor a flashy black guy.

Finally, let me be honest: No fat person can look good in "trendy" clothes. It's literally impossible. Trust me, been there, done that. My advice? As long as your swimming t-shirt is thick enough to hide your man-boobs (moobs?), then you're golden.

Crossing the Line Tribune: Students Who Wear Polo Ten Times More Likely To Work For Daddy After Graduation

2008-04-24T14:13:00.000-07:00

OXFORD, MS----According to a survey released Wednesday by researchers at the University of Mississippi (Ole Miss), college seniors who wear Polo are ten times more likely to work for daddy after graduation compared to their bargain hunting peers.

The study, conducted by Ole Miss Career Services, polled more than 3,000 seniors in over 100 colleges and universities across the country. Students were asked a number of questions involving post-graduation plans and wardrobe preference.

According to the survey, 50% of students who regularly wear Polo (over two times a week) said they planned on taking a full-time job with their daddy’s company directly following graduation and a summer backpacking Europe. But less than 5% of students who don't regularly wear the famous horse and polo player said they would do the same.

David Montgomery, lead researcher of the study, said the findings provide an inside look into the socioeconomic backgrounds of college students.

"The statistics show that students who wear Polo probably come from a very privileged background," said a jealous Montgomery, while trying not to acknowledge the $20 "L.L. Bean" rip-off his wife bought him for his birthday a week before. "It also revealed that students who wear lower quality brands like American Eagle or Gap are much more likely to enter a career in the services industry, while students who wear Old Navy have the highest college drop-out rate."

When questioned about the other 50% of college seniors who wear Polo, but are not planning on working for daddy, Montgomery simply said, "We hypothesize that they must have bought them from outlet stores with a huge discount. The kids who are going to work for daddy probably paid full retail, which can easily exceed $75 per Polo."

The privileged, rich boy stereotypes resulting from the findings have caused some students to question the validity of the study.

Jeremiah Bloom, a senior marketing major at the University of Florida who plans to work for his daddy’s Manhattan hedge fund business after graduation, said the data's assumptions are false and degrading.

"I've had to work for everything I've ever gotten in my life," said Bloom, while wearing a pink Polo and racing down the highway in his new BMW 7 Series, compliments of an early graduation present from his daddy. "I'm not privileged, I'm ambitious."

But Tim O'Brien, a senior psychology major from Ohio State, said the study painfully proves what he's been going through for years.

"Ever since my parents bought me an Old Navy Performance Fleece during that ridiculous Christmas sale of 1999, I've felt discriminated against and that's not right," said O'Brien, while scanning the clearance racks at the local Marshalls. "Colleges are now starting to base their admissions on wardrobe and not qualifications."

The head of admissions at a top Ivy League school, who asked to remain nameless due to legal reasons, admitted that admission departments have been forced to recruit from the privileged for years and are even told exactly what to look for.

"The richer the daddy of the student we accept, the more money we get donated to the school and that allows us to remain on top of our competitors," she said. "But students wearing Polo is just one indicator of privilege. We also look for students who listen to Jack Johnson, wear plaid shorts, and own a pair of boat shoes."

The study is just one in a series that Montgomery and his team of Ole Miss researchers are conducting to find connections between undergraduate experiences and real world success. They are currently trying to find a correlation with exposure to fraternity hazing and the number of sexual harassment lawsuits filed in corporate America.

The entire Polo study can be seen by visiting the Ole Miss Career Services website at www.career.olemiss.edu.

Crossing the Line Tribune Archives:
Bald Man Sues Father For Suffering
Questions About His Temper "Really Fucking Pissing" McCain Off

Life After College: Alumni Weekends

2008-04-21T14:27:00.000-07:00

After you graduate college, certain things in life are easy to define as socially unacceptable. Like driving your parent's station wagon. Or working retail in a mall department store. But road trips back to your alma mater are a little more unclear. There is a questionable line between recent college graduate and creepy old man. But what is it? When are college road trips filled with public intoxication officially deemed socially unacceptable? Is it when you run out of friends at your old school and are forced to rent a hotel room? Is it after you get married and have your first kid? Or is it when it seems like a good idea to buy a coffee mug with your school’s logo on it from the campus bookstore? As you head back for your next college visit, take a look at some things you’ll run into when trying to escape the reality of growing up for at least a couple of days.

Friday Morning: After taking Friday off from work to get an early start on the weekend, you wake up around noon without a care in the world. It's just like your Friday mornings were in college, but instead of waking up next to the girl who sits behind you in Economics, you wake up to the family dog drooling and staring back at you. Five years ago, you were told the reason to go to college was to get an education and make something of yourself. But as you drive off in your same old shit box car retailed at $1,200, you realize the only things your college education has given you are student loans and a recreational drug habit. Enjoy the ride. Maybe it will give you time to think of your future.

Day Drinking: A few acceptable excuses for drinking before noon are bachelor parties, living in the Midwest, and alumni weekends. And although you already have your degree, you've never been one to forget about the advantages of secondary education. If the local townies can drink all day without being judged, why can't you? For this weekend, you're just like them with the only difference being that your salary lies slightly above the poverty line.

18-Year-Old Freshmen: When you were 18, these girls had yet to buy their first bra and still loved their father. Since then, things have changed. The definition of consensual sex with them has become legal, although the ones who hate their fathers the most are usually the ones still not wearing a bra. In a crowd of hundreds of girls, it's hard to pick out your soul-mate for the next few hours. Fortunately, the bouncers mark an "X," or bullseye on all of the underage girls entering the bar to give you a better idea of your sleeping arrangements for the night.

Sleeping Arrangements: Unless you're cheating on your wife or have a cocaine habit, renting a hotel room if you're under 30 is for losers. And you're not a loser. You're just saving your money for a long term investment. For the $100 you could have spent on a hotel, you're better off spending that on drinks to sneak to the underage girls in the bathroom. And unlike a hotel, a freshmen dormitory comes with free sex and prescription drugs, otherwise known as "Hilton Rewards." If you're unable to get lucky, you always have the floor of your old roommate's little brother to fall back on. Suddenly your parent's basement doesn't seem like such a bad thing.

Sunday Drive Home: By now, you know what Brett Favre felt like for the last 10 years of his career. Your head is ringing, your back is going in and out of spasms from sleeping on the floor, and you've realized that you're too old to continue keeping up with this lifestyle. But unlike Favre and football, a weekend of binge drinking is not a legitimate medical reason for a subscription of painkillers. And as you walk back to your car, you'll have to settle with the physical and emotional torture of a lonely ride back to the "real world."

Life After College: Five Day Work Week
Life After College: Co-Workers
Life After College: Office Happy Hours
Life After College: Dating

Crossing The Line Tribune: Questions About His Temper “Really Fucking Pissing” McCain Off

2008-04-20T15:54:00.000-07:00

Washington -- On the campaign trail yesterday, Senator and presumptive presidential nominee John McCain (R-AZ) lashed out at a reporter who questioned his notoriously bad temper.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” retorted a red-faced McCain. “My temper isn’t a fucking problem and is none of your fucking business!”

The reporter, a correspondent for the pre-teen news program “Kidz Newz”, politely apologized as McCain threw a bottle of water at him.

McCain’s temper has proven to be an issue during his entire career, but has recently been used to attack his fitness as commander in chief. At a recent press conference attacking Senator Barack Obama, Democratic candidate Senator Hillary Clinton touched on McCain’s temper.

“As much as I prefer Senator McCain to the black fellow trying to take away what I deserve, I agree that he does have a bit of a temper,” said Clinton.

“I think that cunt should mind her own business,” retorted McCain at a campaign rally in Indiana later that day.

Several past and current colleagues of McCain have offered differing accounts of his temper. These accounts range from “mildly amusing” to “violently off-putting”.

“I consider John a great friend,” recalled senate colleague Joe Lieberman (D?-CT). “Back in 1997 we got into a heated debate over a senate vote and he told me that he felt ‘Hitler hadn’t lived long enough’, but that was an isolated incident”.

Another incident occurred in early 1995 with then House Speaker Newt Gingrich. Gingrich was using the handicap stall in the House bathroom, when McCain confronted him over it.

“What’s wrong with you that you need to use the fucking handicap stall, you fat cocksucker,” said an angry McCain as he clenched Gingrich’s throat.

McCain’s staunchest defender has been his wife Cindy. In discussing her husband in a 2000 interview, she described him as a “warm and loving man” with a “slightly overpowering anger management issue”.

“My husband is a good man and I love him,” said a terrified Mrs. McCain. “Why else would I let him have sex with me from behind while screaming at me and pretending I’m his North Vietnamese captors?”

When asked for a comment for this article, McCain simply said “you know, this temper bullshit is really fucking pissing me off”. As he walked away, he muttered under his breathe, “I’d murder you if it wouldn’t hurt my chances in November”.

Crossing the Line Tribune: "Bald Man Sues Father for Suffering"

2008-04-16T14:28:00.000-07:00

(Editor's note: The "Crossing the Line Tribune" presents a new feature to the blog where we provide you with in-depth coverage of fake news stories to make you (us) feel better about our own lives. Think Jerry Springer)

HARTFORD, CT---Frustrated with loneliness and over two decades of virginity, a Connecticut man took the law into his own hands yesterday and sued his father for pain and suffering due to years of inherited male-pattern baldness.

Steve Nichols, a 28-year-old software consultant, described his decision to file a $1.3 million lawsuit against his father as painstaking and incredibly emotional.

"What was I supposed to do?" asked a visibly shaken up Steve to a throng of reporters at a morning press conference. "My father knew damn well the risks of passing down this genetically handicapped trait to a son. If a man with AIDS isn't allowed to reproduce, why should a man with no hair be?"

The youngest of three children with two older sisters, Steve refers to his condition as a disease and says that he's been ostracized by his peers since his widow's peak began to take shape during the summer going into his senior year of high school.

"I'm 28-years-old and still a virgin," whimpered Steve while unsuccessfully holding back his tears of pain. "When I saw the movie 40-year-old Virgin, instead of laughing, I cried. That could be me!"

Richard Nichols, Steve's father, expressed shame and disappointment with his son's decision.

"This has caused great embarrassment in our usually close-knit family," said Richard. "I only wish Steve could be happy and proud of the bald men that we are.”

Karen Nichols, Steve's oldest sister, stands by her father and hopes the case can be settled amongst family behind closed doors instead of an ugly court room battle.

"My father is a good, proud bald man," said Karen. "He's given his children everything we could have ever wanted in life."

But when asked if she would ever date a bald man, Karen held back laughter and proudly said, "Of course not. I'm better than that."

Judge Michael Owens, who will preside over the case, said that this type of lawsuit is surprisingly familiar.

"I've seen all types of family lawsuits where children blame their parents for their unusual physical appearances," said Owens. "But it usually involves teenage girls with mustaches or grown men with man-tits. Male-pattern baldness is relatively new. It should make for a landmark case."

The human interest of the case coupled with the increased media coverage has resulted in a heated debate between supporters of both father and son.

"Steve is giving a voice to every bald man in this world," said David Feller, a 42-year-old substitute teacher and insecure bald man since 1991. "I would have done the same thing, but I live with my parents so a lawsuit against them wouldn't have benefited me."

Donna Lopez, a psychiatrist and wife of a bald man, said that Steve's behavior is childish and he's just unwilling to hold himself accountable for his own unhappiness.

"This isn't his father's fault," said Lopez while her bald and embarrassed husband quietly shook his head in disagreement behind her. "If he's looking for someone to blame, he just needs to look in the mirror."

According to court documents, Richard Nichols wasn't the only one targeted by Steve in the family lawsuit. Steve's grandfather Robert Nichols, a second generation bald man, was initially named as a co-defendant in the case. But charges were dropped when it was revealed he was shot down and killed in his plane over Iwo Jima in World War II.

“Let me make it clear that I understand this isn't just my father's fault," said Steve. "He's just one in many of a long line of ignorant, bald Nichols men. But our embarrassing family tree, along with others around the world, needs to stop and I see it fit that I set an example with my father."

A court date has been scheduled for July 15 in Hartford Family Court.

First Annual Father of the Year Award

2008-04-14T17:10:00.000-07:00

"The Reverend Joe"

Most people see their children as financial burdens that eventually grow up to hate them. Joe Simpson instead decided to exploit his children for his own financial gain.

Joe Simpson has two daughters, and neither one has any natural talent besides the ability to be marketed incredibly well. Jessica, the successful one of the two, is an unsuccessful actress and singer that could have been big had she come along before every other girl pop singer. Ashlee, the younger sister, has two albums, a reality show, and a nose job under her belt.

Joe, a former Baptist minister that acts more like a Catholic priest, raised his girls the best he could. Like any good parent, the spiky bleach-blond haired want-to-be pimp encouraged his daughters to look and act like whores to make him more money. Currently, Jessica is divorced while Ashlee is knocked up by a guy from Fallout Boy. Yes, Fallout Boy. Sounds more like a family growing up in Harlem than a family growing up in a Christian church.

So, congratulations Joe Simpson. Your ability to look past your blood relation to your daughters and treat them as hooker-like objects rather than your own children makes you the Howie/Healy Father of the Year.

High School Reunion

2008-04-10T16:57:00.000-07:00

As we go on we remember
All the times we had together
And as our lives change come whatever
We will still be Friends Forever - Vitamin C, the voice of our generation

HowieHealy.blogspot.com circa 2002

If my math is right, I graduated from high school nearly five years ago. That can only mean one thing: five year reunion! Do I really want to go and drink at a townie bar with people I was forced to spend six hours a day with for the four (9 and counting) years of my life defined by acne and involuntary erections? Of course not. But, is there a chance that through a series of lies and dim lighting, I could pretend to be better than at least a few of those people? Of course! So, here are a few questions and answers (and true answers) that I expect.

Question: Howie! How are you?
Reunion Answer: Great!
Real Answer: I wish I died during birth.

Question: So, what are you doing for work?
Reunion Answer: Making like six figures working for TMZ.com and getting drunk every night.
Real Answer: I can barely afford the Hannah Montana poster I have hidden in my closet.

Question: You have a girlfriend?
Reunion Answer: Oh yeah, a great girl. She’s got a puppy and lives for making money and fucking me (not at the same time).
Real Answer: Who could love me?

Question: Taken any vacations lately?
Reunion Answer: Went to Mexico last weekend.
Real Answer: Watched all three seasons of “Arrested Development” last weekend.

Question: Wow, you live in New York City. How is that?
Reunion Answer: Oh, it’s awesome. Best time of my life.
Real Answer: My hooker neighbor threatened to slit my throat and I’m pretty sure the meth lab in the apartment next to mine blew up a few days ago.

Question: Who you voting for?
Reunion Answer: Barack Obama
Real Answer: John McCain

The Best "Real World" Quotes

2008-04-10T13:58:00.000-07:00

Life isn't fair. Every day is a struggle. Unable to cope with the daily pressures, some turn to drugs. Some turn to alcohol. And a select few turn to snuff porn. But for the past 15 years, I've turned to reality television, and more specifically "The Real World," when facing my own harsh "realities" in life. After watching the "Real World Awards" last week, I learned two important parenting lessons if I ever have a daughter. The first is to forbid her to ever enter a hot tub until she's married. And the second is to teach her that only attractive people's lives are worth the time and effort to care about. In honor of the 20th season of "The Real World," I have come up with a list of my favorite quotes from the characters that give me a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

Dan Renzi, "Real World: Miami"

"Was it yours to fucking open, you stupid bitch?" - (in response to a roommate opening his private mail)

In May 2004, Dan was arrested in Kansas City for masturbating in a porn theater. He defended himself in court by saying, "IT WAS MINE TO TOUCH!"

Stephen Nichols and Davis Mallory, "Real World: Denver"

Stephen: "I don't like you because you're gay!"
Davis: "What if I were to say I don't like you because you're black?"

What if I were to say you can solve both your problems by voting Republican?

Brad Fiorenza, "Real World: San Diego"

"Congratulations, you're a meathead son. But you know what? Don't ever put your fucking hands on my underwear." - (as seen on the Inferno II)

There are only three rules to follow if you ever accuse someone of being a meathead:
1. Don't be blacked out
2. Don't be shirtless
3. Don't use "son," "bro," or any other slang that can be heard at a Frat House on a Saturday night.
Brad failed all three.

CT Tamburello, "Real World: Paris"

"I will work you Adam. WORK YOU!" - (threatening his undersized roommate on the streets of Paris)

CT used fear and intimidation to become one of the most popular and notorious cast member in the show’s history. If only the same could be said about President Bush. "I will work you Iraq. WORK YOU!"

Colie Edison, "Real World: Denver"

"I'm not good at kissing, but I'm good at baseball."

While watching the premiere of this episode, her disappointed father said, "I was never good at parenting, but now I'm good at drinking."

David Broom, "Real World: New Orleans"

"Come on be my baby tonight, I’ve seen the way you’ve treated other thugs you’ve been with, Come on be my baby tonight."
(Editor’s note: Tragically, the actual footage of David singing could not be found. Instead, I found this parody. But if you close your eyes, you’ll be taken to a better time in life and remember exactly where you were when you heard this unforgettable performance. Also, listen for his roommate’s reactions at around 50 seconds)

After the show, David was arrested for patronizing a prostitute. He soon learned that it costs extra for them to spend the night.

Irene McGee, "Real World: Seattle"

"You know why a marriage with us would never work Stephen? Because you're a homosexual." - (just prior to the "bitch slap heard around the world")

Somebody forgot to mention this to Marc Anthony and Jennifer Lopez.

Wes Bergman, "Real World: Austin"

"I'm going to make out with like 30 chicks tonight."

Judging by this picture, he forgot to mention his plans for roofies and a dark room.

Presidential Primer: The Republicans

2008-04-07T21:35:00.000-07:00

Too little too late? I don't even care anymore.

"Marriage is a sacred bond between a man and a woman, but fuck it: a mouth's a mouth." - Republican National Committee mandate

John McCain

Senator John McCain can best be described as a "lovable old coot". Proudly displaying a flag pin on his lapel and an extra adult diaper in his pocket, McCain has a tendency to have "senior moments". For instance, he can't figure out the difference between Sunnis and Shiites (To be honest, I can't tell the difference between the 80 or so kinds of Muslims that want to kill me and each other either, but I'm not running for president (yet)). Also, he's known for his horrible temper and his ability to hold grudges for up to 500 years.

Former President He Can Be Compared To: A diaper clad Ronald Reagan meets an impotent Dr. Evil.

Why I’d Vote For Him: The guy goes off and fights in a war, only to be shot down and held prisoner for five years. He gets home, and what does he find? His wife got fat. That's just too many wrongs that need to be made up for.

Why I Wouldn’t Vote For Him: He's already guaranteed a hundred more years in Iraq, several more wars, and the bombing of Iran. So, am I against him for saying this, or am I against him because he doesn't remember saying it? No idea.

Little Known Fact: Bit Teddy Roosevelt's ear off in a bar brawl in 1901.

Notes From Obesity: The First School Dance

2008-04-02T18:20:00.000-07:00

This Week’s Adventure: Chubby Gets A Chubby

Middle school was awesome. As I’ve related before, I began public school in fifth grade after going to Catholic school (the nun kind, not the grab-happy priest kind), and the differences were striking. The brown and yellow school uniforms gave way to have to pick clothes to wear. I’ll never forget my third day of school when I wore a pair of sweatpants (XXL of course) which had a zipper. Ever see how a zipper reacts on sweatpants? Well, I have, and I was known for a while as the new (fat) kid with the boner during lunch. Fat kid with a lunchtime boner, life is cruel.

Anyway, being socially awkward as well as homely and fat, I rarely ventured out of my house with anyone but myself. But, in sixth grade, I decided I had enough…I was going to my first dance.

I remember getting ready that night. I put on my jeans which barely buttoned, and rolled up the extra foot of pant legs into some nice big cuffs. I then put on my coolest shirt (Bugle Boy), and I was ready to hit the town.

Since I had no friends, I did the only thing I thought to do: stand next to the retarded kids so I looked better. It must have worked, because somehow, some girl danced with me.

I remember everything going through my head as No Doubt’s “Don’t Speak” played. This girl was dancing with me! I was sure we’d be together forever. As she wrapped her arms around my neck, kindly ignoring my second chin, I could feel the love. I was happy, she didn’t smile once, and there was no eye contact (throw in a financial transaction and you’ve got my weekend).

Oh, that wasn’t love; that was a raging erection popping up to see what all the fuss was about. As soon as I felt that, I knew I was in trouble. What if it reached her thigh (HA!), and she thought I was (am) some kind of creep? My feelings of love for this hideous beast woman I just met soon turned into dread. But, wait. I’m saved! My dick couldn’t quite get out from under my stomach! Sweet fatness, you saved me before you slowly tried to kill me.

After that one dance, I tried to get my love to dance with me again. Unfortunately, creepily following her around didn’t do the trick, and my romance ended up being all too brief. While I don’t remember her name, and all I remember about how she looked was her horrible teeth, and I’m not even 100% sure I got the song right, she’ll always hold a special place in my heart: The girl willing to dance with the fat kid.

Sick Day vs. Reality: Office Email

2008-04-02T14:28:00.000-07:00

From: shortstopsammy@gmail.com
To: hr@uselessjob.com
Subject: Sick Day

(Insert Boss's name),

I've been sick all weekend and I think I might have the flu. I thought I might feel a little better with a good night sleep, but woke up feeling just as bad this morning. I have scheduled an appointment with my Doctor for this afternoon. I hope he will be able to tell me what's wrong and give me the proper medicine. Until then, I will continue to rest and do my work from home.

See you tomorrow,

Sam

From: shortstopsammy@gmail.com
To: hr@uselessjob.com
Subject: Where am I?

(Insert Boss's name),

I've been drinking all weekend and my friends thought that I had alcohol poisoning on Saturday night. After being released from the hospital, I thought I might feel a little better with a good night sleep, but my hangover is still fucking killing me this morning. My parents have scheduled an appointment with a Rehab Clinic for this afternoon. I hope listening to other people's problems will be funny and entertaining. Until then, I will watch Drew Carey awkwardly host "The Price is Right" and continue doing what I'd be working on in the office: NOTHING.

See you tomorrow,

Sam

Fox News

2008-03-31T17:51:00.000-07:00

"Now, I don't want to send the lynching party after Michelle Obama, but..." - Bill O'Reilly, journalist

Ah, Fox News. For over a decade now, bigoted white men have finally had a forum to congregate and share their views. In honor of nothing really, I’ve compiled a list of the strangest graphics I’ve seen on Fox News…EVER (along with commentary, of course)!

1. Nation Fears Obama Election: Will Our Country Be Renamed “Tyler Perry’s United States of America”?
Ok Fox, we get it: Electing a black man or a woman will threaten the status quo and may alter the current path the country is on. I’ll take that into consideration in November.

2. Anna Nicole Smith: 1 Year Later
Fox News’ second favorite blonde whore, coming in a close second to Greta Van Susteren (http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,42016,00.html), Anna Nicole Smith apparently did something to be famous, because from February of 2007 up until now, Fox became all Anna Nicole Smith All The Time. To put it all in perspective, here is some math I’ve come up with off the top of my head:

Anna Nicole Smith: Ratio of people dead vs. hours of coverage (February 2007-Present): 1:4,000
Iraq War: Ratio of people dead vs. hours of coverage (March 2003-Present): 4,000:1

3. Her Husband Likes Fat Chicks, What Does That Tell Us About Hillary?
Fox News hates Hillary Clinton. Sean Hannity, who represents objective journalism like Britney Spears represents good parenting, devotes an hour a week to the “Stop Hillary Express”. A Fox News anchor once accidentally misspoke and referred to Clinton as “Hillary Cuntin” (which, aside from being so degrading and awful, is honestly pretty hilarious). They also like to use the fact that Bill and Hillary are more Tony and Carmela than Ozzie and Harriet to argue against another Clinton presidency. One thing you’ll never hear: anything remotely related to policy.

4. Hot Teenage White Girl Missing
Are you a missing guy? Sorry, better go to CNN. A missing ugly girl? Well, I bet the local news is covering you just fine. A missing minority? How’d you get past security? Hot missing blonde girl? Breaking News!

5. Terror Threat Level: Elevated
Number of terrorists that tried to kill me last week: 0
Number of crazy foreigners that tried to kill me last week: 1

Life After College: Co-Workers

2008-03-31T15:15:00.000-07:00

"Turns out not where but who you're with that really matters"

It turns out this DMB quote in the AIM profiles of girls you haven't talked to since high school is true. Co-workers are people you pretend to like in order to get something in return. It's the same relationship you would have with your wife after 20 years of marriage, except you substitute the sex for advice on paper jams. Similar to the porn industry, who you work with is more important than what you do. If you're not careful, even a high paying, glamorous job can turn into the equivalent of a gay porn scene with the wrong mix of co-workers. As you navigate through the mazes of corporate America, here's a list of people to look out for.

Mr. Fraternity: Mistaking his cubicle for a freshmen dorm room, Mr. Fraternity starts every conversation with "went out for a couple drinks" and ends it with a story involving vasoline and a donkey. Most likely a "one-upper," nothing he says can be taken seriously. If you tell him you went out on a date over the weekend, he'll tell you he had a threesome in Vegas. All in all, Mr. Fraternity is harmless with the exception of an occasional sexual harassment allegation. But without sexual harassment or computer solitaire, what else is there to do from 9 to 5?

How to spot Mr. Fraternity: Wears shower shoes to the company bathroom.

Happy-Go-Lucky: Even on a cold, January morning, Happy-Go-Lucky acts as if it's the Friday before July Fourth weekend. Secretly depressed and insecure about her weight, Happy-Go-Lucky will unsuccessfully use conversation to fill her loneliness. "How was your weekend?" or "What are you doing for lunch?" are just some of the annoying questions she asks to direct attention away from her size 16 business suit. If you play your cards right, you can turn these insecurities into your own personal assistant. Does she want to make copies for you? Sure beats charging her vibrator when she gets home. How about typing up an excel spreadsheet as a favor? Maybe that's what it feels like to prepare wedding invitations.

How to spot Happy-Go-Lucky: Eats a lean cuisine for lunch five days a week.

The Overachiever: The Overachiever is like the kid in middle school who used to ask the teacher if there was any homework as the bell rang. He makes everyone else look bad by taking his entry-level job as seriously as if he was the final contestant on the "Apprentice." With no friends or personal life, the Overachiever desperately craves attention from co-workers, but is never invited to the office happy hour or Friday lunches. Like the annoying sixth grader who asked about homework, the Overachiever may be the hardest worker in the office, but still ends up alone on Saturday nights playing "Gameday 98" in his parent's furnished basement.

How to spot the Overachiever: Constantly checks his Blackberry for text messages that never come.

I'm to smart for this job: Anybody who says "I'm to smart for this job" is really saying that they're better than you. Graduating with honors from a Liberal Arts college, this person was misled into believing the statistics of the high employment rates of their school's recent graduates. But if you take out waiters or bartenders from the survey, the school probably boasts a lower employment rate than blacks in the NHL. Maybe it's time for this person to go back to Grad School to earn another useless degree.

How to spot "I'm to smart for this job:" Can be seen working from the same cubicle in 20 years.

Office Bitch: Divorced and in her 40's, the office bitch stops making everyone's life a living hell only when taking her hourly cigarette breaks. Having been with the company for over 20 years and with no kids, she has more vacation days to waste than Owen Wilson after his suicide attempt. Besides complaints of printer trouble and celebrity tabloids being blocked on her computer, all you know is that her ex-husband is an asshole, according to the overheard phone conversations with her lesbian roommate.

How to spot the Office Bitch: Has a picture of her three cats for her computer background.

Day Trip: DC to Boston

2008-03-26T15:43:00.001-07:00

“Marriage is like that show ‘Everybody Loves Raymond’, but it’s not funny.” – Knocked Up

After graduating high school in Foxboro, MA in 2003, I have spent little time in the state made famous by Matt Damon and Ben Affleck's 1997 "Good Will Hunting." Luckily, I was able to make a trip into Boston on Tuesday. Unfortunately, I was only in town for 45 minutes.

The previous weekend my dad had driven down from his apartment in Boston to visit me in Northern Virginia. The weekend went according to plan with a nice dinner in Georgetown Friday night and the stereotypical tour of DC on Saturday, where you feel like a sixth grader who just won a Model Senate competition. On Sunday, all hell broke loose when my dad started having Coach K like back spasms.

What's the only thing more depressing than living with your mom and step-dad and having a college degree? Just add a father with a thrown out back to that formula and you have the script for the next Ben Stiller, straight to DVD summer comedy.

Unable to drive his car back to Boston after two days, I woke up on Tuesday at 4 am and drove my dad back home in seven and a half hours. After taking a quick nap, I hopped onto a shuttle to Logan airport and caught a plane back to D.C. Hopefully next time I’ll be in town long enough to hear a Curt Schilling “Dunkin Donuts” commercial on the radio.

Life After College: Dating

2008-03-20T16:56:00.000-07:00

In college, a date was no more than buying a girl a $3 red cup, doing a keg stand, and having drunk sex, while forgetting you left a frozen pizza in the oven. Unfortunately, dating for young professionals is a lot more expensive. After paying for dinner, drinks, and a movie, your total bill for the night is well over $100. For that kind of money, you’re better off purchasing a hooker, which at least guarantees you a happy ending. Due to the high costs of dating and limited amounts of sex, many young professionals make the mistake of getting married too young. Unless your girlfriend is pregnant or you’re in the military with a G.E.D., you don’t have to walk down the aisle just yet. Here are some alternatives for young professionals looking for love at a discounted price.

Internet Dating: Young professionals are just beginning to learn what pedophiles have known for years. Internet dating is fast, easy, and cheap. And more often than not, the victim on the other end is insecure and easy to manipulate. For pedophiles, the ideal victim is a 14-year-old girl rebelling against her parents. For young professionals, the ideal victim is a good-looking woman approaching 30 who is willing to lower her standards in order to brag to her friends. Luckily, you fit this description perfectly!

Bachelorette Party: A bachelorette party catches you by surprise like a late-night “Girls Gone Wild” commercial without the censors. With their biological clocks running out, girls are drunk, jealous, and wondering if “Mr. Right” is out there. This is the perfect formula for a one-night stand. And for tonight, “Mr. Right” just happens to be a 22-year-old former Liberal Arts major who lives in his parent’s basement. Please just try to stay away from the bride.

Cougars: Along with MILFS, Cougars have generated billions of dollars for the porn industry in recent years. More importantly, a real world Cougar has the money to support herself due to the monthly alimony payments she receives from her second husband. Always on the prowl, these women in their 40s want nothing more than a boy-toy to live out their adolescent fantasies. Finally, young males with acne and pre-pubescent mustaches have a shot in life that doesn’t involve Vocational school.

Homeless: Nothing says low maintenance like a crack-head missing her front teeth and screaming obscenities under a dumpster. Once you’ve been kicked out of the bar for drunk and disorderly conduct, you’ll consider this behavior kinky and arousing. Offer her a couple dollars and she’ll surely take you back to her park bench. What could be more romantic than a night out under the stars?

Prostitutes: Dating a prostitute has many advantages. You don’t have to cuddle after sex. You don’t have to say, “I love you.” And best of all, being quick isn’t a turn-off. It’s actually good for business. It looks like you’ve found your soul-mate. Just be sure to know her weekly specials.

Welcome to the Bible Belt

2008-03-18T19:17:00.000-07:00

Former president Bill Clinton spoke last week at Tulane University in New Orleans to discuss Global Environmental Change. I happened to be in the area at the time and witnessed some of Jesus’ most devoted followers take advantage of their First Amendment rights by outlining the types of people who worship the devil. “People who listen to Paul Simon and shop at Trader Joe’s are going to hell,” screamed a former extra on the set of “American History X.” Judging by the pictures I took, here are a couple of things this entourage of misfits left off their list that doesn’t have to do with a 70’s soft rock legend or healthy shopping alternatives.

Jean Shorts
Male-Pattern Baldness
Obesity
Custom-printed T-shirts
Unemployment
Abstinence (Involuntarily)
Trailer Parks
Incest
$3 Sunglasses
Garth Brooks

After the demonstration, I invited my new friends to a local karaoke bar to sing “I’ve got friends in low places!” They declined. Apparently, fraternity pledging rituals are just a few more devil characteristics they left off their list.

Life After College: Office Happy Hours

2008-03-08T13:28:00.000-08:00

Office happy hours are like recess for young professionals. The only difference is you weren't threatened to get kicked out of third grade for doing body shots off the girl standing next to you in the square ball line. Unless you're Mel Gibson, alcohol and work don't mix well. But this hasn't stopped thousands of young professionals from jeopardizing their careers for that extra tequila shot or the drunken attempt to sleep with their office crush. Before you plan your next office happy hour, take a look at what your night could look like if "moderation" isn't a topic in your company's HR Handbook.

4 PM: Trembling and shaking like a heroin addict in withdrawal, you can no longer hang onto your excitement for the night ahead. And with only an hour left until happy hour, the only medicine to fight off your ADD is to check Facebook, which has quickly turned into a 21st century prescription for Ritalin. Status Update: Sam is getting wasted....4:03 p.m.

5 PM: The first sip takes you back to a better time in life. To a time when you had no classes on Friday. To a time when public intoxication was an accomplishment, not written evidence on a police report. Sure, your drink of choice has changed (no more Natty Light). And your new corporate wardrobe looks like you just got out of a J.C. Penny Memorial Day Sale. But deep down, you're the same person you've always been, just without the dreams and ambition you once had.

6 PM: Dancing and sex are two things that are too awkward for white people to do sober. After a couple of drinks, your inhibitions, as well as you standards in women rapidly vanish. It's time to humiliate yourself for the first time in front of your co-workers. So request a song that's unexpected. "Baby got back" or any "N Sync" song will do the trick. Warning: Sex with a fat girl may soon follow.

7 PM: Time for SHOTS!!!! Look! No hands! This is the make or break point of the night. By agreeing to take a couple rounds of shots, you have accepted the fact that your night will most likely end with you covered in vomit on your bathroom floor. But this might not be such a bad option compared to the fat girl you were dancing with earlier. So enjoy your shots and be sure to get a girl to take pictures because they will serve as your memory for the rest of the night.

8 PM: An office happy hour hasn't officially started until you've sexually assaulted a female co-worker. HR would call this behavior "terms for expulsion," but you know your behavior is more like a team-building exercise similar to a "YMCA Ropes Course." Office communication is the biggest factor in determining job satisfaction. And without your frat boy antics, there would be nothing for the office to talk about at the water cooler the following day.

9 PM: At your current pace, alcohol poisoning or being kicked out of the bar are the only two things that can stop your drinking. Luckily for you, the bouncer has had his eyes on you since you walked into the bar with that shit-eating grin on your face. And with the constant complaints from female customers combined with your attempt at break dancing, he has no choice but to throw out your free entertainment.

9 AM: You’ve lost your debit card along with your dignity. You call in sick to work only to learn that you've been fired. Was it worth it? Probably not. But would you do it again? I sure hope so. In the meantime, it’s time to go back to bed. Your job search starts when you wake up.

Advertisement for Gillette Razors 2

2008-03-08T13:22:00.001-08:00

FROM PEDOPHILE

TO "TAKE YOUR SON TO WORK DAY"

GILLETTE: "THE BEST A MAN CAN GET"

Why Terrorists Hate America: Reality Television

2008-03-04T15:17:00.000-08:00

Why does most of the world hate us? Maybe it's our obsession with oil. Maybe it's simple jealousy over our freedom. Or it could just be Rosie O'Donnell. But nothing signifies America's crushed reputation more than the explosion of reality television. It's responsible for two of our society's major downfalls: the birth of D-list celebrities and the rise of terrorism. It's uncertain which of the two is worse, but let’s take a look at some reality shows and the tragic lessons they teach terrorists.

"Rock of Love"

Show Description: "Poison" lead singer Bret Michaels searches for love in all the right places: strippers, porn stars, and prostitutes.

What it teaches Terrorists: The ability to play an acoustic version of "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" has the same effects as a date rape drug without the evidence.

"Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew"

Show Description: Celebrities battle addiction and struggle to maintain sobriety in the privacy of a national audience.

What it teaches Terrorists: Gives the false and dangerous impression that the following people are celebrities:

"Real World/Road Rules Challenge"

Show Description: Unemployed men and women embarrass their families by competing in various challenges for cash and prizes.

What it teaches Terrorists: Americans hate soccer, but love this:

"Rob and Big"

Show Description: Follows the adventures of a white skateboarder and his big, black bodyguard in Hollywood.

What it teaches Terrorists: In the Middle East, innocent people are killed every day by suicide bombers. In America, skateboarders have bodyguards.

"A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila"

Show Description: MySpace star and proud bisexual Tila Tequila chooses between men and women in her search for a soul mate.

What it teaches Terrorists: MySpace: "Where musicians, comedians, pedophiles and bisexuals are discovered."

“Making the Band”

Show Description: P. Diddy searches for the next great musical talent, while forgetting that he no longer has any.

What it teaches Terrorists: With past winners including O-Town, Da Band, Danity Kane, Day 26 and Donnie J, the United States is no longer the “land of opportunity.”