Can Charlie Sheen get any Awesomer???

If you are anywhere....a party, a bar, at work, at the ball game, at church, at a bar mitzvah, at your grandma's house for Easter dinner, anywhere....and someone tells you that "Charlie Sheen is out of control and needs help"....don't think about it for one second. Respond immediately by kicking that person directly in their dick and then drive a stake right into the middle of their heart. Because obviously they're dead and you need to take steps to make sure they aren't also a vampire. King Kong ain't got shit on Charlie Sheen! Chuck is up to his tits in liquor, coke, pills, hookers, yachts and porn stars. What the fuck does he need help with? His fucking taxes? The only help he needs is maybe an extra dick or two to occupy all this trim he rolls with. The news media is about to implode with sanctimonious bullshit over this non-issue. Who cares? Charlie looks pretty goddamned happy to me, not sure some boring assed rehab and a steady relationship with a "nice" girl is really what he's looking for. Charlie likes to drink vodka. Charlie likes to eat pills. Charlie likes to bang pros. Charlie likes to trash hotel rooms. And Charlie likes to get an up-close smell of Bolivian Marching Dust. If you don't like it, that is your problem--not Charlie's. You are up at 4:30 in the morning, at your desk high-stress slaving at 6:00, and probably don't get home until 7:00 p.m. Charlie is at an unknown location in the Caribbean on a rented yacht. He's got 1/2 a hollowed-out Bic pen in one hand, a glass of Grey Goose in the other, and Vivid Video's tart du jour bouncing up and down naked on his rod. So please explain to me just how in the fuck you are winning in this particular game? You ever see that Michael Jordan poster where he is about to dunk the shit out of the ball, right over top of a white-as-hell Jack Sikma of the Milwaukee Bucks who has a "Oh jeez, black man jump high" look on his Chevy Chase? That is what Charlie is doing to the world right now. He doesn't give one fuck what you or anyone else thinks about it. At one point during his tirade on a radio call-in show, he referred to Thomas Jefferson as a "Pussy". Why? I haven't a fucking clue, but he did it. The current score is Charlie Sheen 123, Us 0. Go Charlie, GO!!! If I tried to hang out with Sheen at this point, my life span would be measured in hours rather than years or days.

Eddie Bauer can Eat a Bowl of Shit

I got a perfectly serviceable pair of gloves from my grandma for Christmas. However, I have small hands. Like carnival folk, only my hands don't also smell like crystal meth and 13 year old girls' panties. No big deal, I'll just return them. Well they're all out in Columbus, Ohio. Okay, fuck you, I'll return them at the big megastore on Michigan Ave in Chicago. Only problem being the Chicago store is also sold out, and further they are sold out globally. No big deal. I'll just find a similar pair in my size and be done with it. Well fuck me, because all the other gloves are queer as all fuck. But Johnny sales asshole at Eddie Bauer has a better idea. "We have a much better pair over huhyar.....looksee at these fuckers!" Yep, the Bauer/Whittaker Mountaineering Series First Ascent gloves. All sorts of yellow leather, black space-age material, and scientifically proven pussy-getting features. They even have a goddamned honest-to-god panel on the thumb specifically for wiping snot off your honker. But I'm not quite sold. He did make a good point by telling me that the perfectly good gloves my grandma bought me have a price tag of $30, which when you subtract from the $125 the First Ascents cost, plus Chicago sales tax of course (nearly 11%), that means I'm only paying $108 out-of-pocket to return my Christmas gift. Just in case the promise of being able to beat off on the North Pole with toasty warm hands wasn't enough to sell me, he makes his closing argument: "They used these gloves in the IMAX film where they climbed Mt. Everest". Sir, you had me at "They". Sold. Well guess what? When they got to the top of Mt. Everest they must have had to chop all 10 of their fucking frost-bitten fingers right off their goddamned frozen hands. These things couldn't be more fucking worthless. Your fingers are frozen stiff after 5 minutes in sub-25 degree weather. In fact I was in Vail skiing and lost a pair of different gloves. So pissed off I bought a pair of shitty off-brand gloves from the bargain bin to get me through the trip. Those gloves are like sticking your gasoline-glazed hands into a fucking roaring fire compared to these taint-licking Eddie Bauer gloves. I actually wear the First Ascents to the park when it is wet or muddy to play with my dog, because I don't want to ruin the El Genero brand gloves. Fucking Eddie Bauer. Saw me walking in like a big white whale, ready to bend over and take whatever he gave me. Never saw it coming. If anyone is planning to climb Everest soon let me know and I'll let you borrow them. They'll chopper your ass out of base camp for frost bite before you even start up the mountain.

Life is a Zero-Sum Game

I will not attempt to torture the reader or myself with the full explanation of what a zero-sum game is. This was a particularly painful epoch in my past during my Economics major training. My professor was an in-the-closet homosexual, and also a sadist, who took out his frustrations of not being able to live freely and happily as a gay man on the students who paid him to teach them. It was not teaching, it was sadistic torture. So in layman's terms, a zero-sum game is that in which gains are offset exactly by losses, and nothing is created or destroyed. As I crossed from the west side of LaSalle Street to the east side at Adams, where my building is located, I was accosted as I am most mornings by a local vagrant. I don't know his name, but I think I know his game. He is white, has a long ponytail (which I suspect is a George Carlin-like "skullet") flowing from beneath a military beret. He usually wears combat fatigues. His face looks like someone put a brush fire out on it with a pitchfork. And also, his legs are both amputated at the knee. He tries to play the wounded Vietnam veteran who has fallen on hard times angle. I don't personally buy it, but if he can get away with it, then kudos to him. I speculate his amputations are more likely the result of shooting smack into his toes one too many times, then ignoring the stench of gangrene in his lower extremities as he chased the dragon through Honolee. But if he wants to tell people he lost the legs 50 clicks up the Danang, I'm not going to stop him. Some sample greetings (and these are real) that I have received from him are as follows:
"Good morning, have a great day sir"
"Hummnnnnaaa farfffallffffelll mmmiiinnnnggggeeeennie"
(and my personal favorite) "You're all a bunch of fucking CUNTS!"
So you never know what you are going to get. As I pass him most days I think, "I am glad I'm not that dude". Today I decided that line of thinking is erroneous. I have a warm home, a wife, a dog, regular meals. But I also have payments to make, schedules to keep. Oh, and I walk into a building each morning to sit at an ugly desk and whore myself out for 8 hours of soul-crushing white collar labor for people who don't care if I fuck off and die on my way home tonight. Meanwhile Ron Kovic out there in the wheelchair doesn't have steady meals, unlikely has a warm home or a wife. But you know what? He doesn't have to pay shit. No one squeezes his soul through a cheese cloth each day so that someone he's never met can make more money than 1,000,000 people together would not have need for. He's out there doing whatever the fuck he wants all day, and all he has to do is figure out how to get high every 12 hours or so. So I guess you could tell him that I have a comfortable condo and a car and a designer mutt. But he might, very fairly, fire back "At what cost?". Touche Ron Kovic, touche. And now I know, it all evens out. For my seeming glut of comfort in domesticity, he has an equal but opposite overabundance of freedom. And this is why life is a zero-sum game.

Why are Dudes Compelled to Spit in Urinals?

It is a question as old as time immemorial. If you read the Bible, and you better fucking believe I read that pig every goddamn day, in Mark 7:22 we see the first reference to this age-old tradition: "As we had stopped our winebar crawl through Jerusalem so as to drain our lizards at Hebekiah's House of Grapes, so did Jesus of Nazareth steppeth unto the 2nd urinal from the left. Before Jesus blesseth the urinal with his lemonade he stoppeth and did expunge from his blessed mouth not one but two holy gobs of spit. Looking unto his faithful disciples did Jesus then proceed to whippeth it out and lay back his divine head and moan as the whiz left his being. And so it was." This is not a phenomenon I have ever been able to explain. It is one of those instinctual reflexes developed over millions of years of evolution. Its like falling and extending your arms to break your fall. In this case you approach a urinal, you spit. Why? I haven't the fucking foggiest. But everyone does it. Obama has spit in the urinal thrice already today. Hell, Hillary Clinton has probably spit in the urinal today as well. Perhaps when the urinal was invented it was thought an evil spirit lived inside, and the spitting was to prevent your dick being set on fire?

Asian Dude Straight RAKING at XSport Fitness this Morning

I was strolling past the aerobics room this morning which is typically kept dark until classes start around 7:00 a.m. People generally use the room for stretching and various self-directed routines until this time. So you can accurately say I was a bit surprised by what I saw today: An Asian dude coiled like a fucking cobra with a softball bat, waiting to unload on a non-existent pitcher and a ghost softball. And then he uncoiled. We're all lucky there was no ball, field, or other players. None of these people, places or things would have survived that moon-shot. I was completely mesmerized. Cat was taking solo batting practice, in a gym, in a dark room, with no pitcher or ball. That is so fucking badass I almost shit my pants. I hope people stayed the fuck out of his way, too. He was so focused on beer-league greatness this summer. So focused in fact, that he was wearing headphones. So he was swinging a real softball bat, hard as fuck, in a dark room full of girls stretching, and couldn't hear anything outside his headphones. And you just know he had some Michael Jackson cued up aggressively loud in his iPod too. This mutherfucker is going to own your sorry ass this summer in Grant Park. It is going to be a straight-up laser show and my man Wang is the fucking star. Deal with it. Just to leave no doubt about how serious he was, dude was decked-out in a teal colored tee shirt which read "I'MMA SHAKE IT TIL MY HIPS BREAK". Game, set, match. While you are home in your warm bed sleeping, homeboy is in the gym getting better. Remember that when his frozen rope goes sailing over your head in June.

Could Everyone Quit Fucking "Checking In" Already

The Internet giveth, and the Internet taketh away. We as humans cannot blame the Creator for the sharks or the influenza or the cockroaches or The View or any of the Kardashians. We can only praise him for the good things in the world. He is not to be held responsible for anything negative which exists in the universe he/she/it(we can't rule out that a creator who created RuPaul is a Boston-Batwanger itself) created. In much the same way we cannot hold Al Gore responsible for any negative spectres which have materialized in the Internet world he created. Al Gore is to be praised only for YouTube groin injury videos, pornography, anonymous character attacks and The Star Wars Kid. Al Gore is not responsible for Perez Hilton, Trojan Horse viruses, Graigslist rapes, and he sure as goddamned shit isn't responsible for this insidious "Checking In" suckfest on Facebook. Mark Zuckerberg is responsible for that atrocity, and may he be damned all the way to hell and back for it. No one cares what new fair-trade coffee shop/Hello Kitty vintage schwag store in Brooklyn you and your iPad-toting hipster douchebag friends just walked into. No one is impressed that you checked into the just opened Rockit Ranch bar du jour in Chicago, when in reality you are standing outside freezing your dick off with your brahs behind a velvet rope with visions of cherry bombs dancing in your head. Rather than sit here and bitch while offering no resolutions per usual, here are some ideas I have for check in destinations that someone might actually care about:
-John Doe checking in @ some pussy
-Mike Hunt checking in @ blacked out drunk
-Hung Low checking in @ my coke dealer's car
-Jane Hoe checking in @ office bathroom, 3rd stall, masturbating vigorously
-Seymour Butts checking in @ Ray's Big 'Ol Titties and Chicken Wing Shack
-Joe Blow checking in @ Lindsay Lohan's box
-Anthony Cooker checking in @ alley behind liquor store, stabbing vagrant to death to see if they bleed real blood
-Ima Tweeker checking in @ Red Roof Inn, shooting meth under toenails
-Michael Jackson checking in @ little boy's booty
-Paul Cook checking in @ strangling hooker
-Missy Urcock checking in @ methadone clinic
-Ron Awesomeheir checking in @ fucking your sister. no seriously, fucking your sister, hard
-Oprah Winfrey checking in @ in the closet
-Sandra Lovesdik checking in @ welfare office
These are some places we might actually want to show up and watch what you are doing. But so long as you are "checking in @ Golden Gate Bridge", go ahead and disable this feature in Facebook. Unless of course you are jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge. Then by all means, let us know.

Studio 54 should have been rated NC/17

Given that I'm slowing dying faster than a Medieval peasant after sticking his hand in a rat den, I had the opportunity to re-watch Studio 54 this morning. It was the only alternative to morning talk show drivel, not to mention it features Selma Hayek's jugs. It is one of those movies, much like Robin Hood Prince of Thieves, where upon seeing it for the first time when it came out, I thought it was a brilliant piece of cinema. Then when I see it 10 years later I realize it was a steaming pile of shit with asymmetrical corn in it. Ryan Phillipe is lucky he's hot. If he looked like Steve Buschemi his next job offer after this movie would have been as spokesman for an auto glass factory. That being said, my real point is that this movie was only rated R. I feel this really slipped under the movie ratings radar. At minimum it should have been NC/17, if not Rated X. And here's why:

There is a scene approximately 2/3 of the way through the film where Steve Rubell, the character played by Mike Myers, coerces Greg Randazzo, played by Breckin Meyer, into his bed chamber under the guise of being too drug and alcohol addled to get there himself. What transpired thereafter has left me emotionally shaken for the rest of my life. As Randazzo tries to determine what ulterior motives Rubell has for bringing him into his lair, Rubell cuts right to the chase. I cannot do this scene justice in written word, but I will die trying. Rubell looks at Randazzo and says, after sleazily stuttering through several attempts at starting his oratory, "...I wanna suck your cock". Once again, this format fails to capture the utter horror of not only the look on his face, but the annunciation of the word "cock". It was similar to, yet worse than, "The Crying Game". As my friend Aaron from college very astutely opined, "It was the 'Rosemary's Baby' of our generation". Thankfully the writers chose to have Randazzo's character retreat in fear so as to save us the misery of watching him agonize through a homosexual blowjob which was forced upon him. Had they not, well, the movie "Road Trip" never happens as Breckin Meyer would have been the modern era's version of Ned Beatty. It was such a virtuoso performance by Myers that the debate amongst my friends still rages: Did Myers deserve an Oscar for so believably delivering this most horrendous of lines? Or should he have been forced, in his real life, to register as a sex offender and go door-to-door warning his would-be neighbors? Given that I can only surmise what Myers had to do in real-life to prepare for this role, I'm leaning towards the latter. I contracted hepatitis from merely watching that scene. No amount of Hayek's tits splattered across the screen like a slasher film could ever erase that scene from our collective consciousness.