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    Not sure if you’re a ho? Here’s how to tell…

    2009 - 11.25

    Some say there exists a double standard in which a female may be considered a ho for the things she does, whereas a male is given a free ride for doing the same things. That’s probably true to some extent, but maybe that just means you have loose moral fiber. There is one sure-fire way to cement your reputation as a ho; Shacking up with your boyfriend’s friends.

    When men are born, there are certain pacts they make with their creator, also known as Man-law. These pacts are signed in blood and stored in the Archives of Manland. Both Jesus and Satan have copies of these pacts, and if you fail to uphold your end, they make you run stairs in your respective afterlives. Some of these are well known, such as the principle of ¬†“bros before hoes,” while others must remain unmentioned for fear that the females may exploit them to deal from a greater position of power. The pact we are concerned with today is that of the “Compromising Photo/Sex Tape.”

    Think about it, what’s the point of a sex tape? Will you watch it again to see where you could make improvements like a football player? Doubtful. Why not just go do it again? They are made for one purpose; to show others. What do you do with a picture of yourself that’s taken with your digital camera that you don’t like? You delete it.

    Now granted, some people are exhibitionists and do enjoy the attention garnered from a sex tape or compromising photos. In that case, film away. But if you don’t want somebody to see you showing off the goat or grinding the stump monkey, then it’s best not to let anyone record it. Try as they might to avoid it, guys are required by Man-law to show these things off. I’m sorry, Honeybear, but Man-law is bigger than you.

    Another basic tenant of Man-law states that these photos should never be discussed in any public venue ever, unless they are common public knowledge. I.e. The Paris Hilton sex tape. Even more important than that, photos/vids should never, under any circumstances, be discussed in front of the female featured in them. You’d think this would go without saying, but unfortunately that is not the case. There is a term that is applied to people that break this rule, and that term is “Fucktard.” This term is typically bequeathed to an individual through some sort of forceful impact to the face. Usually in the form of a black eye, split lip, or bloody nose. Sometimes all three, depending on the transgression.

    So where does a ho play into this? Well, let’s say that our good friend, Fucktard, brings to light his knowledge of compromising photos in front of a girl featured in said photos. He mentions that her boyfriend showed them to her and that she is, in fact, “a ho.” (To clarify, compromising photos don’t make you a ho.) Fucktard has broken several major Manlaws here, and this girl’s boyfriend is well within his Man-rights to concuss Fucktard with extreme prejudice.

    After this ho-speak and concussing and naked photo revelations, one might expect the girl to be quite upset, especially if she doesn’t understand Man-law. What one would not expect is for this girl to take Fucktard’s side. Sure he just got punched, but he also called her a whore. I’m pretty sure most of those girls I’ve ever dated would add insult to injury at this juncture. That’s what she did though.

    Come Monday morning, the girl and Fucktard are all hugged up and dating. Our (former) boyfriend, who followed Man-law to the letter, will be signing pieces of the train wreckage of his relationship out by the Quad this weekend, whilst Fucktard gets to rest his little head on her bosom knowing that Satan will make him run stairs in Hell (with a black eye). As for the girl? Well, she may not have been a ho on Friday, but she’s certainly a ho now. Best hurry up, Honey, the meter’s running…

    Author’s Note: Regardless of what the Bible says, I’m pretty sure that whichever side of this anecdote you fall on determines whether you go to Heaven or Hell. Don’t be a Fucktard. Sack up and do right by your friends. A real man tolerates no hoes. Do you think the Dos Equis man ever let a woman walk all over him? ¬†Doubtful. On the plus side, (Ex) Boyfriend and Fucktard are now Eskimo Brothers. Perhaps he can get some free fries out of the deal or something…

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    La Cucaracha

    2009 - 11.23

    Cockroaches are odd things. They’re pretty much disgusting on land, but give one some claws, increase its size ten-fold, and you have a delicious treat. Those crabs are clever marketers. Crabs: The cockroach you want to eat.

    My sophomore year of college, I decided I needed an apartment, rather than live in the dorms another year. A friend who was in similar need of a place of residence joined me in my quest for a dwelling. We were both pretty poor, so our options were limited. After a brief search, we stumbled across a place we could both afford within walking distance of campus. Just to give you an idea of the quality of this place, our rent was a shocking $150 a month per person.

    You should also know something about Milledgeville. During the fall, it is infested with roaches. From about September to November, a walk down the streets after dark results in this disturbing crunching sound. I think the experts will tell you that those are palmetto bugs or water bugs or some nonsense, but when one of those bastards gets in your house, it’s a roach.

    Anyway, this apartment Trevor and I rented had one of those massive porcelain sinks in the kitchen. The kind where not only the sink is porcelain, but the backsplash and the side thing where the dish drainer goes is porcelain as well. It was probably about 4 feet wide and I’m sure weighed a couple hundred pounds. It wasn’t attached to a counter, but it was supported by this rickety cabinet. This cabinet, bowed by years of supporting this weight, allowed the sink to lean away from the wall. This created about a one inch gap between the wall and the backsplash, which might as well have been the portal to Hell as far as I’m concerned. Bad things lived down there.

    Further compounding this unfortunate bug haven, was the fact that my roommate virtually refused to wash dishes. Ever. He would let them pile up and when he needed a dish, he just washed the one he needed and left the others in dirty-dish purgatory. I’ll probably never win an award for the cleanliness of my household, but know this: for all the clutter laying around my house, I sure as hell wash the dishes.

    One fine fall Saturday morning, I intended to cook Angela (you may remember her from the Kiss of Death story) and myself some breakfast. This process was severely hampered by the fact that there were no clean dishes. I cursed under my breath and proceeded to wash out the frying pan so I could scramble some eggs like an American. As soon as I cut the water on and squeezed some soap onto the scrubber, all hell broke loose.

    Evidently, the deluge of water pouring over the countless dishes in the sink disturbed the slumber of a gaggle of cockroaches, fat and happy after gorging themselves on pizza scraps. As disturbing as this is, it would have been okay had the roaches simply scattered. But no, one of those little bastards felt it necessary to go all Flavor of Love and accost me.

    I was slightly startled by the cockroaches, needless to say, but I didn’t lose my shit until one went kamikaze and flew at my head. I was not aware that cockroaches could fly, let alone possess the mental capacity to propel itself towards the one area of my body where I least wanted it. In the ensuing melee of flailing limbs, Cockroach San made it into my shirt and I screamed like a little bitch. I ripped the t-shirt I was wearing off faster than you’d ever think possible.

    A few seconds later, when Angela rushed into the kitchen, I was stomping up and down like a madman on my t-shirt. I guess after a second or two she figured out what happened and started laughing uncontrollably. And so goes the story of my life, but you know what? I’m writing this story here today, and guess who’s no longer with us? La Cucaracha. Go back and tell the others what you saw here today…

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    Teeth: Evolution’s red-headed step child

    2009 - 11.19

    Let’s be perfectly clear here, I have an amazingly British set of teeth. I swear, my Mom must have nursed me with Coca-Cola. They chip, they crack. No amount of brushing or flossing makes a damn bit of difference. Every time I go to the dentist, I will have cavities. I just have to accept it. Fortunately, my company’s health insurance offers pretty good dental insurance. I pay handsomely for it, but it’s really the only time I ever use my health insurance, since I’m not sickly. On the plus side, each root canal comes with a two week supply of Vicodin…

    Teeth (like fingernails) are the red-headed step children (that’s an odd singular/plural thing there) of evolution. Although we’re not nearly as carnivorous as we once were, our teeth still play a huge role in our lives. You can gum some salad and be alright, but even the most devout vegan can’t gum a soy burger. Teeth on the whole are painfully lacking. If you go to Africa or another part of the world where people still live in the wild, healthy and free, they’ve most likely got some busted teeth. No matter how well you take care of your body, you’re teeth will not last as long as you live. Why is that?

    My teeth are slightly better...

    My teeth are slightly better...

    I’m pretty sure that teeth are made from the bones of fornicators and we all know they have weak constitutions, and weak teeth are the result. That’s probably not true, but have you ever wondered why we get two sets of teeth for our first 10 years of life, but none for the next 75? How much better would things be if we got an additional set about age 45 or so, to get us through the homestretch?

    Sharks have all those additional rows of teeth. Why can’t we have some extras for when we snap one gnawing on gravel? We’ve evolved all these wonderous things; opposable thumbs, huge brains, boobs. Why are we stuck with these Cro-magnon teeth? Also, why do we have twenty something individual teeth? Why not just two solid rows? Individual teeth just create gaps for food and other assorted nastiness to gather and create cavities. How many teeth related problems would be solved by having two solid rows. Probably a good 90% of them.

    Oh, and while we’re at it, what’s the point of fingernails and toenails now? They’re no longer claws, the don’t do anything but get ripped off and smashed. Then we nibble on them and they look shitty and ingrown. Let’s evolve those right the hell out of here.

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    Bicycles: Satan’s Transportation

    2009 - 11.18

    Truckers hate car-drivers. Car-drivers hate truckers. Everyone hates bicyclists.
    -A wise, wise man.

    Some cities are very bicycle friendly. Atlanta is not. Portions of it are pretty decent, with wide streets and dedicated bicycle lanes, but for the most part bicyclists are forced to share narrow lanes with heavy traffic at their own risk. The popular “Share the Road” campaign has evolved from merely tolerating the presence of an occasional bicycle during your commute to accepting that they will make you 10 minutes late to work on a bi-weekly basis.

    As I was driving to work the other day, I saw a bicyclist get clipped by a car. He took a nice little tumble, but fortunately he was wearing a helmet, and other than a few bumps and bruises, he appeared to be ok. Once I figured out that he wasn’t hurt, I took a little bit of satisfaction in his misfortune. Here’s why. We were on a narrow stretch of road and the light ahead was red. Three or four cars were stopped ahead of me and I as I pulled up to the light, this gentleman on the bike passed me on the right. Cars normally park on the street on this stretch of road, but there wasn’t one beside me, so there was plenty of room. However, there was one parked next to the second car in line. As the bicyclist attempted to navigate between the parked car and the SUV that was second in line, the light turned green and the SUV accelerated. I couldn’t tell exactly which portion of the SUV clipped the bicycle, but I saw the bicycle flip into the intersection. Fortunately away from traffic rather than into it. The SUV driver immediately stopped to check on the bicyclist along with a couple of other cars.

    Obviously, the bicyclist exercised poor judgement here. He thought he could squeeze through a tight spot and lost. I have bicyclists do this to me all the time. And they’re really fortunate they don’t get hit. Cars have these things called “blind spots” and as a general rule, it’s wise to not ride in them. You learn that awful quick on a motorcycle, but bicyclists seem oblivious to it. I guess they figure that they aren’t going all that fast and they can just whip out of the way of any potential danger. I can tell you from years of removing chunks of my hip bones riding a skateboard, that pavement hurts at any speed. It will eat your lunch.

    Why don't they ever attach the head in these things?

    Why don't they ever attach the head in these things?

    I suppose the argument is that bicycling is good for you and good for the environment. Point A is correct, provided you avoid getting hit by a car. Point B is only correct if you can ride without impeding the flow of traffic. Let’s say it’s Friday afternoon and you live a mile from the bank and you need to withdraw some money for the weekend. You could walk, but that takes too long. That’s too short a distance to really necessitate driving. The bicycle is the perfect solution. It’s fairly quick, you get some exercise, and because it’s not yet rush hour, you aren’t slowing down traffic.

    However, let’s say you want to commute home from work on your bicycle. It saves you some gas money, you get some exercise, and you release a little less smog into my beautiful Atlanta air. You know what else it does? It ruins the good time of everyone behind you in traffic. Nothing sucks worse than having to whoa up your car to avoid hitting a bicyclist cruising along at a measly 10 mph.

    I also think the environmental benefits are negated when you impede the flow of traffic. Cars are much more efficient when already in motion, traveling at constant speed. When a vehicle has to slow down to wait for an opportunity to pass a bicyclist, then accelerate around it, the emissions increase exponentially. The engine has to work much harder to round up the gumption to pass that bicycle, and so do all the other cars that are behind it.

    Think of traffic like waves on the ocean and a bicyclist like a wall that the waves slam into. What happens to all that energy that’s flowing along nicely in the waves when it hits the wall? It stops. In a car this energy has to be started up again once the vehicle passes the bicycle. The engine revs higher, increasing the emissions, as it accelerates back up to cruising speed. Every car behind it does the same thing. Then once everybody gets rolling along nicely again, a God-forsaken MARTA bus pulls out in front of you, starting the whole process again. But that’s another rant for another day.

    I don’t have the complete data to do a scientific assessment here, but the idea is sound. I’ve found that whenever there’s an environmental movement, there are always those first adopters that just say, “Damn the torpedoes, we have to do this AT ALL COSTS!” Seldom do they take into account the realistic implications of what they’re doing. These things are a process, and the masses tend to be put off by extremists. Ride your bike during the off hours, lobby your county or city officials to create bike lanes when repaving roads, and be courteous to motorists. In return, maybe they’ll avoid hitting you. Actually, the next time you want to change the world, just consult me. I’ll tell you how to do it.

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    Make it rain!

    2009 - 11.16

    Girls, Girls, Girls,
    At The Dollhouse in Fort Lauderdale.
    Girls, Girls Girls,
    Rockin in Atlanta at The Tattletale.
    -Motley Crue Girls Girls Girls

    So let me tell you about my weekend. Friday night was to be the night of Woodshed Player Deuce’s bachelor party. He’ll be marrying Woodshed Player Leigh in just a few short weeks, and the rest of us decided to send him into marriage in style.

    We grilled out some steaks and drank a few dozen beers at the Narnia Harem. It was an unusually warm day in Atlanta, so we spent most of the evening in the yard around the fire. Our original plan was to go to The Pink Pony, which is a really nice gentleman’s club, but Wiley suggested we go somewhere else. ‘The Pink Pony is too nice.” He said. “We need some sleaze.” I concurred wholeheartedly. We settled on The Tattle Tale.

    The Tattle Tale is an Atlanta landmark, at least as far as I’m concerned. Up until recently it was probably best known for being mentioned in the Motley Crue hit, Girls Girls Girls from the album with the same title (which I own on vinyl). Evidently, some doucher named Josh Duhamel who is married to that douchette, Fergie, hooked up with a stripper from there. We should not be shocked by his decision making skills from here on out, given that he, A.) Married Fergie, and B.) Cheated on her with a stripper who then went to the tabloids. I ain’t sayin she’s a gold digger…

    There are really two trains of thought as far as (legit) strip clubs go. You can either have the really hot strippers with fake parts without any blemishes who are unobtainable, or you can have slightly less hot strippers that are real and unobtainable. The Pink Pony is the former and The Tattle Tale is the latter. I prefer the latter. These are the kinds of beanheads that you’d have no chance with, but if you met them in a bar, you’d probably still bother to try.

    The Woodshed Crew, Me, Deuce, Wiley, Arizona Bill, and Deuce’s brother, Chad, paid our cover charge and the waitress hooked us up with a table right by the main stage. I knew I was gonna dig this place as soon I walked in and AC/DC was playing.

    The first stripper was pretty hot, so I stood up and gave her a dollar dollar bill, yo. I enjoy encounters with strippers. They get treated like a commodity so often that if you break that mold just a little bit, you often get some interesting results. When I gave her the money, she asked what my name was. “Biloxi.” I replied. “What’s yours?” She told me but I had a hard time hearing it. “How old are you?” She asked. “27.” I replied. Then she says, “Wow. You look a lot younger than that.” “Well, I do a lot of lunges,” was my response. She got a pretty good chuckle out of that one.

    After that, they had this two-for-one deal, where you could get lap dances, well, two-for one. (Just in case you’re wondering, lap dances are sold by the song. So two-for-one means you get a lap dance that lasts 2 songs.) They have this thing where all the girls get out on the stage and dance and then you select the one you’d like to get a lap dance from. I wasn’t planning on purchasing a lap dance, but this one girl came up to me and she looked an awful lot someone I went to high school with, so I obliged her. Curiosity killed the cat, as they say.

    She started into her little routine and it was quite nice, I might add. I asked her her name and she said it was Zoey. Obviously a stripper name. She asked me mine and we went through that old chestnut. Then I noticed she had some pretty unique stripper shoes on, so I asked her where she got them. She told me this website she ordered them from, turns out it’s the same company that makes the boots for KISS. We then proceeded to spend the entirety of the next song discussing unique stripper shoes. When the song ended, I gave her a tip and she made me stand so I could see the difference that 8-inch stripper heels make. Odd, you might say, but you meet the most interesting people at the nudie bar.

    I guess Wiley was starting to get a bit drunk by this point, so he got up and started throwing dollar bills at the stage. The DJ was yelling out, “Make it rain! Make it rain!” Then Wiley stopped throwing money and the DJ goes, “Aww, make it drizzle.” That was pretty much the motto for the evening from that point forward.

    The most entertaining portion of the evening for me came a bit later on. I stood up to tip another stripper a dollar and like the one previously, she asked me my name. I gave her my first name, not Biloxi, and she’s like, “Wow! That’s my first name too! I don’t go by that on stage though.” Then a strange thing happened. She shook my hand. If you’ve never been to strip club, you should know that you’re not really supposed to touch strippers. One might give you a hug, if she’s off the stage or if you’ve met her before, but it’s pretty damn odd for one to shake your hand while on stage.

    She, I believe she went by Leslie, then started ruffling my hair. “How long do you spend on that?” She asked. “I just get out of the shower and let it go. This is how it turns out.” I responded. She says, “I really like it. It’s so soft. Strippers really dig guys with nice hair.” “I have absolutely no problems with that.” I said.

    There were a few more words exchanged and she may or may not have told me to Facebook her, but I walked away thinking, “That had to have been the longest conversation with a stripper on stage ever. And I’m pretty sure she was hitting on me. She might have just been trying to make a dollar, but she already had the money, why not just let it go at that?”

    We capped off the evening by going to Fontaine’s and shutting that joint down. As we were leaving, I decided to run across the street and grab a Gatorade from the gas station. When I walked in, I noticed a woman sitting on the curb. She was dressed up, and she was drunk as piss, and she obviously wasn’t homeless. But I didn’t really pay her much attention. I walked inside and grabbed my drink and when I came back out, this woman was face down in the parking lot.

    I was about three sheets to the wind at this point, but it just didn’t seem right to step over this woman and just walk my happy ass on home. So I tried to help her up and that’s when I noticed all the blood pouring out of her forehead. Awesome. I got her sitting up on the curb again and asked her where she lived. “Roswell.” She replied. We’re sure as hell weren’t anywhere near Roswell and she certainly wasn’t coming home to die on my couch. I told one of the other guys standing around to call the police or an ambulance. In the meantime, one of the gas station attendants brought out some paper towels and rubbing alcohol to clean up her face. Freaking rubbing alcohol!

    I got one of the paper towels wet down with the rubbing alcohol and handed it to her. “This is gonna burn like hell, honey.” I told her as she wiped down her face. She didn’t even flinch, and the blood certainly didn’t stop coming out. I just told her to hold her hand up against it till the ambulance got there. Evidently, she had tried to stand up and fell and hit her temple on one of those concrete parking blocks. I’m really surprised it didn’t knock her out. The cops showed up and Bill and Wiley and I just sorta disappeared. We weren’t really in the best shape to be conversing with Johnny Law.

    All in all, a pretty damn entertaining weekend. And I haven’t even gotten to Saturday night or the wedding at 11:00 Sunday morning…

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