Clandestine mannequin coitus

When I was in 6th grade, a classmate used the word 'dildo.' When I asked him what it meant and he told me that a dildo was a mannequin's penis. Hmmm.

I thought about how I'd never been in a department store, seen a mannequin with a huge bulge in the pants he was modeling and thought, 'Wow, that mannequin sure has a huge penis.' If women were buying mannequin penises, did women secretly want to have sex with mannequins? Were women all over the world engaging in clandestine mannequin coitus? My world was crashing down.

Then I came to the conclusion that when the mannequin factory workers (mannequin-gineers?) make the mannequin, it has all its body parts, then before it leaves the mannequin factory the factory workers take its penis and put it in a bin with all the other mannequin penises so that ladies can buy them at the store later.

This is how dildos are made, or so I thought in 6th grade.

(work.)

My roommate is a good guy, cat, hobbit

My roommate's a swell guy and I'll gladly vouch for him if ever the ladiez are debating grabbing a slice of short Hebrew lovin'.

'Hey girl, you know how is name is Katz? Turns out we've got a coincidence on our hands and he's like cats, too. He's got an abrasive tongue. You ever receive oral sex from a cat before? Baby, you haven't lived.'

'You've seen Lord of the Rings before, right? Did you find those furry little hobbits sexy? If so, you should meet my roommate. He's got a ring for you, baby. It's his O-ring. C'mon, be the Samwise Gamgee to his Frodo Baggins.'

I've found that the best way to get a man laid is to compare him to animals and talk about Lord of the Rings. Women like that stuff, right?

(work.)

Google Analytics keyword WTF

Recently the site has seen about a tenfold increase in traffic coming in from people searching for stuff. Fortunately, I have Google Analytics, which can tell me exactly what people were searching for when they found this blog. Most of the searches involve away messages for Facebook, but some of the others...are a little off. Check this out:
Frisky ferret dildo?! Why, God, Why?!

I haven't used these words together before, but separately? Sure:
Frisky - "The printer is frisky, needs sex" - I accidentally told a guy that a printer was horny
Ferret - "AHHHHH FERRET CAGE!" - in reference to the Most Hated Smell pen project
Dildo -"a purple dildo dipped in paint" - the only writing utensil more embarrassing than a pink princess pen

But, to date, I've never used those words together. At least, not until now, which means one thing: I've got the "frisky ferret dildo" search locked down.

(not actually on AIM 'cause the computer's sick.)

Other interesting searches that got someone here:

• "funny boob away messages" - because tits are hilarious...?
• "how to write sweet messages for my girlfriend" - you found the wrong place, buddy
• "dreams of water while sleeping" - from the guy who just searched for "best laundry detergent to get pee out of bed sheets"
• "show your titts blog" - I have yet to post a picture of an exposed breast, but if someone were to offer one...

An awkward chat with Chachee

When I worked at a grocery store over the summer three years ago, I had trouble talking to my coworkers.

For example, one time Chachee (sic), an attractive married woman in her early 20s, was telling me about how she gave Bryce, an also-married coworker who shared some sexual tension with Chachee, a ride home.

'So Bryce was flirting with me as usual during the car ride, then when I dropped him off, I told him, 'I'm going to go home and have sex with my husband now!''
And I, being socially inept, responded to her story with, 'Poor guy.' Then realizing she may think I was saying her husband was unlucky, I added, 'Bryce, I mean. Not your husband. He gets to have sex with you.'

Awkward.

(work.)

Making chit chat with my coworkers at the grocery store was hard for me. I'm surprised I didn't say something like, "Bryce is the poor guy, I mean. You know, because he doesn't get to have sex with your husband."

Voting and sodomy

I expect all of you to Rock the Vote, just don't tell anybody for whom you're voting because that's really inappropriate.

This lady I used to work with at the bindery once got mad when I told her my preferred candidate in the 2004 election. She got offended and said, 'The two things you aren't supposed to talk about are politics and religion.' However, weeks earlier she had told me what it's like to have anal sex.

'It's just like when you're pooping. If something's in your butt, you want to get it out. That's what anal sex feels like.'

I learned that if you mention who you're voting for, that's uncalled for, but if you tell your coworker what it's like to have a butt full of dong, that's A-OK.

So rather than asking all of you your preferred candidates, I'm going to ask you this:

What's sodomy like?

Happy voting!

(home.)

Apparently she had sex with strangers

One of the problems with being a nice guy is that when you're single, women tend to overlook you as a potential candidate in the Election for Vaginal President.

A girl may tell you that you're just like a friend from home, and just because you remind her of someone who has always been a friend, you'll always be a friend, too.

She'll think of you as a friend she never dated, but you don't want that, do you? In fact, you want the exact opposite. You want to be a stranger that she has sex with all the time.

You want this:
'Hey lady, you ready for sex?'
'Yes, but I don't want to know your name.'
'Okay, let's get to work.'

Am I right?

(work.)

Pfffft, that figures. You take the time to get to know a girl and then it turns out she consistently bangs anonymous dudes, and you're not one of them.

Somehow being one of those dudes would ease the pain of really, really liking a huge slut.

Drink 'til you do Katz

My roommate, Katz, is a really nice guy. Sure, he's not some big, strong man, but he's really nice, even if he's always flipping me off for no reason.

He's a good guy, but he's also single, and I think he deserves a girlfriend. Because of this, whenever a girl's in the apartment, I get excited. Hey! Maybe they'll suddenly fuck!

At parties, when Katz is there, and girls are there, we used to get the girls to play a game called 'Drink 'Til You Do Katz.' To date, no ladies have 'won,' and by 'won' I mean 'gotten blind drunk and made out with my roommate.'

So if you have a friend, ex-girlfriend, or sister that you think Katz should make out with, shoot me an IM, and I'll see if I can rub her face against his until they fall in love (or at least have some sex).

(work.)

Thinking "Maybe they'll suddenly fuck" makes sex seem like a "stop, drop, and roll" kind of thing. "It was just a reflex. The sex alarm went off."

Oh man, if they sell sex alarms, I'm buying one. How can you argue with an alarm? Is it worth jeopardizing your safety by not having sex? It's an alarm, people.

Seriously, though, if anybody knows a respectable lady in the Ann Arbor area, hit me up. We'll arrange a playdate.

Ointment is not sexy

Did you know that if you use the word 'ointment' on a first date that your odds of getting a second date can be reduced by up to 70%?

'Ointment' is one of the unsexiest words in the English language. Repeated use of the word 'ointment' can lead to social isolation, erectile dysfunction, and uncomfortable looks from people within earshot.

'Ointment' also makes a great safe word. Keep that in mind when negotiating a safe word with your leather-clad loved one.

(Work.)

A lady friend IMed me and said this:
"is that true? or only in the date situation? because I have used that word before and I still have a lot of sex."

I'm pretty sure you can use the word in casual, nonsexual conversation. For example, you could say "ointment" around your boss and not worry about whether or not your significant other is going to have sex with you later. However, you shouldn't say the word "ointment" around your boss if you plan on having sex with him or her.

I think if I were engaging in kinky S&M action, words like "ointment" and "eczema" are a great way to take you out of that butt-spanking mentality and back into a world where your skin isn't perfect, and neither is your life.

You're not perfect, and you will know that by the sound of "ointment."

Endangered Animal Sex Train

Amy was an extra in a feature film, she just doesn't know what it's about. The director had her look at a watch and sigh while waiting for a train. This is all we know about the plot. Aside from that, the movie could be about anything:

Setting: Train station
GUY 1: The train is late.
(Amy looks at her watch and sighs.)
GUY 2: I know. I need this train.
GUY 1: Me too. I haven't had sex with an endangered animal in a long time.
(Amy looks at her watch and sighs.)
GUY 2: I sure could go for some hot bald eagle action in my pants.
GUY 1: How much longer must we wait for the train that allows us to have sex with endangered animals?
(Amy looks at her watch and sighs.)
(A train pulls up with ENDANGERED ANIMAL SEX TRAIN written on its side. Mooing, quacking, and that sound a dolphin makes can be heard.)
GUY 1: Let's gangbang a manatee.
GUY 2: Shotgun blowhole!

(Work, 8-6.)

Before you start fact checking my jokes, know this: I deliberately chose quacking and mooing as the animal noises for the train. This isn't common knowledge, but endangered animals are very quiet. You ever hear a panda say, "Don't shoot me please. I have much to offer the world"? Of course not. They're all dead from being quiet little bamboo-lovin' bitches.

Also manatees don't really have blowholes. Someone fact checked that joke, but while they were technically correct, they were also technically a wang.

Fisty-fisting, trigonometry, perineum

3am, Pizza House:
Me; 'Ya know, in high school, everybody may not have been having sex, but they were all fisty-fist.'
Amy, with a horrified look on her face: 'fisty-fist?'
Me: 'I mean, um, there was a lot of -'
Our Waitress: 'Excuse me, lemme get these plates for you.'
Me: '- heavy petting. Thank you.'
Amy: '...'
Me: '...'
Waitress: (sound of picking up plates, silence)

And then I fisty-fisted the waitress.

There, I ended on a joke.

(Bed.)

I probably could have done without stating that the last statement was just a joke, but I'm sure a lot of younger kids have my screen name and the last thing I want is them thinking, "Oh no, internet man fisty-fists, whatever that is." I don't want to confuse them. (That's also why my away messages are never just a series of math equations.)

On second thought, I think I do want to confuse the 8th graders. Future away messages will use words uncommon to middle schoolers. And nothing else. Heck, let's start right now.

Rimming, trigonometry, felching, perineum (and grundle!), proletariat, evisceration, and teabagging.

There, that was like beat poetry for assholes. Wait, that was redundant. All beat poetry is for assholes.

So that was like beat poetry.

New Student Plus

After you beat some video games, they let you go back with all your abilities and experience and replay the game from the beginning.

Can you imagine doing that after graduation? You could go back to freshman year and know about dorm food and fraternities and really get the most of college because you've (hopefully) got your priorities in place after 4 years of personal growth.

However, there are people who stick around after graduation and and bang naive freshman chicks. These people haven't gone back in time to relive the good ol' days. They aren't time travelers. They're just douche bags.

So while my little 'what if' scenario may get you thinking, I don't want you becoming a douche bag because of it.

(Work 'til 11ish.)

For those of you who played Chrono Trigger (bam! now all references are lost on 99% of women), you may remember how you could replay the game with all your cool items and abilities. In college, that'd mean you have the self confidence of a senior in the same situations as the other freshmen.

To put this in perspective with video games, this would be the same thing as beating up really basic enemies with higher-level attacks. The challenge would be gone. You could woo every girl you ever crushed on, pass every exam easily, and open a beer bottle with your keyring.

So given my explanation here, conquering dungeons in a video game is comparable to getting laid.

And ladies, if only you knew how true that was.

T-Bone is everywhere because he lives nowhere

Last night I was with some friends and we saw T-Bone, the homeless man who wandered into the fishbowl one fateful night and told me he wanted to learn about computers.
Had we all openly shared our actual past experiences with this man, our exchange would have gone like this:
One friend said, 'Awww, man, that guy sleeps in my apartment's hallway.'
The other one said, 'That guy had sex in my apartment's laundry room.'
And I said, 'I showed that guy pornography and then he asked me if I had AIDS.'

Then this morning a coworker came in late because T-Bone was sleeping in her hallway and she had to wait for the cops to arrive and shoo him away.

This guy's like a celebrity, only he's not rich and he doesn't have a mansion (or even a condo!).

No real point to this, other than to say 'Wow, homeless guy, you sure are busy. What with all the sleeping and sexing and porno-watching. Good for you.'

(Out.)

I think about homeless people a lot, and I think there isn't really much left for me to say about them. They smell bad and they're usually drunk. Sure, there's that tragic aspect of them that includes facts like "Nobody cares about them" and "They have sad stories" but I don't care about that stuff because if someone smells awful and bothers me, then I'm not going to ask any more questions. You're already on my shit list, mister, so you should go sleep in your box and leave me alone.

I think I'm going to litter every away message with links to other stuff so that you have to click on eight things to understand one sentence. This is an internet technique known as "being a dickhead" and it's popular on websites such as Metafilter.com. (Also, for the record, I like MeFi, I just don't like clicking fifty links to get one joke.)

Anyway, I just wanted to catch everybody up on my hobo fixation. I think I've done that pretty well. Also this was another night where I came home drunk and decided to update the ol' blog. I imagine Hemingway would have done the same if he was around right now. But if Hemingway was around right now he'd be a freaking zombie and we'd have to chop his head off.

Do you have any idea how much money Hemingway's zombie head would go for on Ebay? No you don't, because a number that high hasn't even been invented yet.

Offend the horse bangers

The other day some DJs on 89x were talking about a recent controversy involving Tiger Woods.

In an interview, he talked about how he had messed up and described himself as 'a total spaz.'
People with cerebral palsy got all mad because 'spaz' refers to people with the palsy.
And the 89x DJ, without a bit of irony in her voice, said, 'That's lame.'
So I heard that and thought, 'Wow, she's retarded.'

Then someone read this and thought, 'Jokes about political correctness in an away message? That's gay.'

Think about it. We insult people by giving them culturally undesirable traits, some of which are inescapable.

Which is why I insult people by calling them horse fuckers. Nobody is going to say, 'Excuse me, I fuck horses, and I find that offensive.' And if they do, well, fuck them and the horse they rode in on.

(Work, double entendres, etc. Back by 11:15am.)

Alcoholism may be a disease, and homosexuality may be genetic, but nobody's going to come out of the womb yearning for horse sex.

Unless, of course, you live on a farm that raises horses that are really, really sexy. In which case, you stay in that magical horse farm and you bang those horses, but don't start picketing if I call someone a horse fucker.

Unnecessary audience blue balling

I don't know why the encore caught on as a concert tradition. I'm sure the first couple times it was a welcome surprise, but now, 300 years later, it's expected. The encore has just become this unnecessary audience blue balling.

Come on, you stupid band, I paid you money, I know it's happening, so how about you just play the last two songs right now and you don't walk away and pretend you're not coming back.

That'd be like marrying a girl, and then her making out with you, then pretending to fall asleep for sixty seconds before 'waking up' and doing you.

I paid you, so wake up and play me two more songs. With your naked wife body.

And that's why I hate encores: they cheapen the idea of marriage.

(Party.)

Every time a band leaves and then comes back to play songs, I feel like it's Christmas Day and I have to open presents while saying "Thank you, Santa" because I'm not allowed to admit that I know the secret of Christmas: that Santa isn't real and that the band is coming back. Like if I told the people around me that the band was definitely returning I'd be spoiling the concert for them.

However, some people really like clapping, so me telling them the truth may ruin their fun. I also feel this way at football games. "THEY'RE MAKING YOU CLAP BECAUSE NOTHING IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW." People clap between plays in football games because the cheerleaders tell them to. All the goddamn clapping accomplishes nothing. The next play will continue just like how the band is coming back. So stop hitting your hands together, you morons.

Now that I think about it, has clapping ever accomplished anything? Think about that, internet people. (The last three paragraphs were written while I was drunk. I feel like that's an achievement.)

Bathroom seduction

The other day I found evidence that implies that a couple boned in a 24-hour computer lab bathroom.

I found a newspaper that had 3 messages written on it:
1) '¿Wanna do it?'
In purple pen, so it was probably written by a woman.
2) '¿Quieres?'
Maybe the boyfriend only speaks Spanish. Heck, maybe he works at Wendy's.
3) 'You have to seduce me.'
Bitch, you just ruined it. You are about to suggest that you and a dude bang in a bathroom. If people poop there, chances are it's not a romantic venue.

No woman's been seduced into being humped in a public bathroom. Think of it this way: Your chances of getting sweet, forceful love are positively correlated with the probability of your man lighting candles for you.

And a man's only lighting candles in a bathroom if he's planning on taking a huge dump, not sexin' you down.

(Bed.)

Ya know, Wendy's is in the same building as this particular computer lab. There's a chance that some hot lady got 5 chicken nuggets for a dollar (a stellar deal!) and then decided to invite Miguel, no longer fictional, downstairs to the computer lab for some sweet talking and email checking.

But Miguel, being a simple, often made-up man, probably doesn't have an email address.

When I think about people who don't have email addresses, I initially think, "Oh, those poor souls." Then I remember that I hate having to check email and I come to envy them for not having an email address, the internet, or even a computer, and I think "Well, fuck them for having it so easy." Then I remember that I like the internet and my computer, so I combine the two feelings and get "Those poor souls, fuck them."

Macs vs PCs

I think one reason why Macs aren't very appealing to the unwashed masses if the fact that they're kinda feminine. Smooth, white, shiny, endorsed by techno artist/sensitive male Moby.

You take a look at PC towers and they're big, they're loud, they emit a blue glow. Men, they're just cyber-extensions of our dongs (admit it; you want a big blue glowing dong). Ladies, you just don't know any better. PCs have been the standard for so long that sure, you got one so you could type into the fancy technology box and check your emails all day. But did you know that if you got a Mac you wouldn't need me to get all the goddamn spyware off your computer? You'd get less popups and more shine. So ladies, get a Mac: because did you ever really want something electric, black, and noisy in your room that didn't live in your sock drawer? (I am, of course, referencing your PC and your gigantic vibrator, you sluts).

(Work.)

Fruitcake lady

Fruitcake Lady

You need to watch this old woman. She is a gem.

When you're old, you can say whatever the hell you want, because everyone's afraid you're going to die and nobody wants to call you an idiot right before you pass away. People could look like assholes at your funeral.

'Yeah, Great Aunt Margerie was a sweetheart.'
'Didn't you call her a crazy bitch and then she died?'
'Shit.'
(pause)
'She is going to haunt the shit out of you.'

So keep on telling it like it is, old woman. Screw on the floor, next to the air conditioner.

(Livonia.)

I need to learn how to draw, 'cause webcomics will make a hell of a lot more internet money than text. People don't want to read "she is going to haunt the shit out of you." They want a cartoon character with big anime hair saying it. So when I stay poor, it's not because I don't have ideas. It's because I can't draw anything other than smiley faces and penises.

Trick women into banging lawn mannequins

You know how in that old Axe commercial the lady would spray the man-dummy with Axe body spray and then seconds later she pressed her body up to the dummy because the Axe made her horny? I can only assume that after the cameras stopped rolling, she had sex with that dummy.

So my plan is to put a dummy in my front lawn, then douse it in Axe. Soon women will start having sex with it, and I can throw a big net over them and drag them down the street, offering one to each of my single friends.

I'd do this because I'm a nice enough guy to trick women into banging lawn mannequins just so my single friends can have deodorant-inspired sexual intercourse with strangers.

Commercials are stupid. I'm going to a lab meeting.

(Showering gives you ridiculous thoughts.)

Saturday afternoon, a random woman gave me a free sample container of some snake peel-scented Axe body wash. I normally don't accept soaps from strangers, but I decided I'd accept it as long as I could finally have a body wash that would make me smell like everyone's favorite smell, which is that of a snake's skin that has peeled off. Who doesn't get wistful for their childhood summers at Grandpa's Snake Farm when they get a whiff of some snake peel? Certainly not me, because I not only know what snake peel smells like, but I love it, too.

How long has snake peelbeen an acceptable smell for a person? I just got used to Right Guard making my armpits smell like "sport", but now my body can smell like snake peel? That's ridiculous.

Preggers Bitches Best Cover Up

The other day I saw a girl, probably around the age of 18, wearing a shirt that showed off her midriff. The problem here is that she was also very much pregnant.

The combination of pregnancy and revealing clothing tells us at least two things:
1) There is a good chance she is a slut, and
2) Daddy probably ran away once he put his demon seed in her whore garden.

You don't put up a help wanted sign if you've already got a full-time manager. In this metaphor, the help wanted sign is the skanky clothing, and the full-time manager is the baby daddy. What ties this together is the fact that boning the right people can make you a manager at some places, most notably fast food joints.

In conclusion, preggers bitches best cover up. Word.

(bed.)

Meet Your Future Wife in a Burning Building

I think what depresses me about bars is that hopefully nothing that happens there will be long-lasting. I'd be sad if I asked my parents where they met and their story went something like:
'Oh yeah, son, I saw your mother at the bar and I thought, 'Hey, I'd bang that,' so I bought her whatever beer was on special. Then when she was drunk enough to make eye contact with me, I took her home and we had some sex. Then she missed her period, we got married, and you were born.'

There isn't much magic about yelling to someone in a loud, smoky room. I want to rescue my future wife from a burning building.

Amy just read this and said, 'I don't want to be in a burning building.' Well, I guess we know who's not marrying me, then. She now says:
'I guess we know who's not getting any tonight, too.'

Damn.

(class.)

I didn't make this connection when I first typed this, but both bars and burning hospitals are filled with smoky rooms. However, with burning hospitals, there's a sense of urgency, but with bars, you're just yelling at people sitting a few feet away from you because the bad music they're playing is too goddamn loud.

Basically what I'm saying is that if you're trying to meet a woman at a bar, spice up the night by setting the shitty live band on fire and rescuing the pretty lady at the bar. If shortly after giving her CPR you find out she has a boyfriend, throw her back in. "I saved you to get some poontang, lady, now go have your precious boyfriend resuscitate you after you pass out from smoke inhalation."

Also, for the record, I would never set a bar on fire, rescue a hot lady stranger, ask her if she has a boyfriend, then throw her back into the flames when she says yes. This is because I have a girlfriend, thank you very much, and she'd probably get really mad if I saved another woman. So ladies, if you're on fire and I don't rescue you, it's nothing personal.