Archive for the 'sex' Category

And in the order they were received, no less

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Anonymous Coworker
on May 14, 2008 @ 10:14 am
in contests, games, i am so fucking awesome, music, nerd stuff, potty humor, sex and word nerd
. 23 Comments

It was the middle of the longest lecture on apiculture Charles Mingus had ever sat through and he was beginning to regret giving up his bass, a jazz career overflowing with accolades, and all the money, women, and excitement that came with it. Jazz was a ruritania now that he was mired in the minutiae of “fixed-frame hives” and “smokers”.

In his disclosure of his wishes to the president of the North American Jazz Association for Jazz in America (NAJAJA) to pursue a life in beekeeping he expressed his desire for change. Mingus chuckled as he thought back to writing that going from jazz to bees would be “vicissitudinal to his spirit, his lifestyle, and his artistry.”

“What a magnificent douchebag I was,” thought Mingus, “to use an archaic version of the adjective form of ‘vicissitude’. I must have just thrown it in there because I’m a stupid cockface.”

Mingus contemplated further his life decisions and all the women he could have porked as the speaker droned on about the need to concatenate hive structures and the benefits of the new singular hive designs shaped like an upside-down uvula. Back then any woman would have jumped at the chance to be his penis holster: to have his purple-headed womb-ferret wriggling within their loins.

But now that he’d left jazz women looked at him with eyes full of arsenic.

“‘Irregardless’,” Mingus thought, “that’s a douchey word too. Why do I keep using such utterly pointless words? I am a cock.”

He cleared the phlegm from his throat and ruminated again on the career he abandoned because he worried about being the jazz bassist who had shark-jumped his craft.

At the front of the room slide after slide of oblong, squamous beehives filled the audience with glee. Mingus saw the mostly-male crowd was unaware of their vaginality: their eyes were moist at the sight of beehives! These men were children, really, better suited to playing tag and wiping their boogers on each other. They had no place in the real world. He could take it no longer.

“Listen up, cats, we’re talkin’ ’bout bees! Yeah, they make that sweet honey, but they don’t make the world spin. Let’s cool out on the bees a while, huh?”

His shibboleth was palpable. A crowd of angry, confused, and irritated faces drove him out of the room, and he was happy to go, revealing his callipygian side as he turned to leave. As he reached the door the room heard a malevolent borborygmus, and though Mingus knew it was coming it was so violent and explosive that when it burst from him he pronked.

Paper in the lecture room blew everywhere, and the cockbag at the podium was knocked over by the bowel-blowout. As if by prestidigitation Mingus produced a full upright bass from inside his vest and made his exit from beekeeping forever, leaving a room full of arsemongers and a life of tomfoolery behind.

He was barely out the door when he felt a hand on his shoulder. The shitcock from the lecture was forcibly turning Mingus to face him.

Now that Mingus and the speaker were face to face, Mingus could tell from the speaker’s comb-over and threadbare suit that he was a parsimonious little twat who had long ago nerfed himself through years of coddling and penissockery. He lived a life bereft of adventure.

Mingus bellowed, “Get you hands off of me! Your life is a monument to floccinaucinihilipilification, you shit-faced dildo-sandwich!”

“Why, I’ve never met anyone so ribald…”

“Ribald? I’m the living transubstantiation of emotion into music! Sometimes it gets a little raunchy, but that’s what life’s about. You’re too busy studying insects to notice you anal-riffic meat-wallet!”

“… S..sir,” said the speaker trembling with rage, “I’d thank you to leave our conference now.”

“No, I think it’s time for you to leave you little cock-carnageous bug-fucker!”

And with that Mingus defenestrated the speaker. He then stooped over, gathered up his bass, and free from the inanity of the beekeeping world went on to write a song about the silliness of antidisestablishmentarianism on the bus ride back to his condo, chuckling all the while at the day’s douchebaggery.

And what, bitches? - ACW

P.S. Felching.

Gas (with only one fart joke)

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Anonymous Coworker
on May 12, 2008 @ 9:58 am
in POS Tercel, bitches, driving, potty humor and sex
. 3 Comments

My shitty, shitty car (which is still for sale by the way! It gets great mileage!) tends to fog up like I’m driving around with a back seat full of half-naked teenagers drunk on grain-alcohol and energy drinks whenever it rains, so it’s essential to run the AC to clear up the windows. But my car is the model of Japanese efficiency, so engine power is sacrificed in favor of the AC running. 94 horsepower drops to what feels to be about 60 horsepower, and the normally very economical fuel consumption of about 30+ miles per gallon feels like it drops to about 25 or so. Point being, whenever I want to run the AC, I instinctively check the gas gauge to see if the luxury of conditioned air is something I can afford.

This morning, with the needle on the fuel gauge looking like it was fellating the lowest line in the letter “E”, I realized that AC was a luxury I couldn’t afford, but needed desperately. So I pulled into the first gas station I saw on my way to work and parked next to the first empty pump.

I popped my credit card in the card reader, removed it, and waited. I checked the display and it said, “Please remove credit card”. That was odd as the credit card had been removed. It was in my hand. So I swiped the card again, and again I got the same problem. I mashed a bunch of buttons until the request was canceled and then got back into my car and drove to another pump.

The next pump I pulled up to was broken, as was the next one after that. Finally I just got in line behind someone who was already pumping gas, figuring that if they would be able to use the pump, so would I. I waited and waited. And waited and waited and waited. And waited. And then I waited some more. Then I finally realized that there was no one in the fucking car in front of me. The douchewhistler had apparently started pumping gas and then wandered into the mini-mart to acquire packaged pork snacks to help sustain a day-long siege against the olfactory systems of their coworkers.

So I pulled up to another pump, went through the whole fucking tap dance again with the fucking machine, and left, having spent half an hour accomplishing exactly nothing.

I pulled up at the next gas station a little further down the road, and because gas was 2 cents more expensive there than at the previous place, the station was completely empty. The card reader worked like a fucking charm, and within a few minutes I was back on the road, defogging the ever-loving crap out of my windshield.

I’ll stop talking about my wiiner when I’m good and ready

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on May 6, 2008 @ 1:16 pm
in Mrs. ACW, awesome, beer, games, music, nerd stuff, ocd and sex
. 19 Comments

Because I’m thrilled that Mrs. ACW doesn’t look with scorn upon the Wii, the only video game system I’m aware of to have accomplished that feat, I am constantly encouraged to buy more games and accessories for our Wiiner.

So we bought Guitar Hero.

This has introduced a number of interesting behaviors that I’m sure will become full-blown OCD tendencies in no time.

1) It is impossible for me to not rock out while I am playing. I’m constantly dancing around and bopping along with the music, even if it’s The (remarkably shitty) Killers and the horrendous douchebag among douchebags, Brandon Flowers, he of the “ironic” pedophile mustache, is singing. I’m glad I got five stars on that song, because I’d hate to have to play it again. Seriously, does he realize that when he sings he sounds like a whiny baby with a poopy diaper? What a knob. If I have one wish it’s that The Killers and Fallout Boy eventually get into a rumble and they all die.

2) It is impossible for me to not drink while I am playing. Granted, I’ve only played twice so far, but finishing each song to take a swig from that fantastic, long-necked, brown-glass teat of diminishing fine-motor skills is about as close as I’ve come to paradise. I only wish that I could play and drink at the same time, sort of using the bottle like a slide guitar, but I’m not that good yet. And the game doesn’t really work that way. And I would probably break something. Shut up.

3) I have yet to master the “Star Power” usage. On the 360 it seemed to be a lot easier. Just pop the guitar neck up a little bit and viola: star power. With the Wii it can get a little temperamental, so the chance of you seeing me successfully execute star power is lesser than the chance of you seeing me successfully jerk the controller up and down like I’m some sort of spastic freak living in a fantasy world of tiny guitars that are attacking me for some reason and I’m trying to kill them. Also, I’ve yet to successfully pull off a star power activation combined with a Pete Townshend-esque guitar move, so until that day comes, I’m going to keep jumping and swinging my arm until I wind up hurting myself, which is the most likely outcome.

4) This is probably the worst one of all. Now that I’ve played a video game about playing a guitar, I totally feel like I can hang with people who actually know how to play guitar and talk about hammer ons, pull offs, harmonics, and fingering techniques. Double entendres aside, that is, which is what I would normally talk about if I heard those terms.

5) The best thing about Guitar Hero is that I can finally put into practice all the awesome band names that I’ve ever come up with. Seriously, I’m a band-naming machine. Need a band name? Just call me, I’ll do it for cheap. Ready? Here are 10 off the top of my head:

The Crap Monkeys
Flinger
The Gravymaker Express
The Rooster Pothole
Disco School
Satan’s Daycare
Forget the Alamo!
Windsock
Dreampickles
A Bucket Full of Pudding

It’s really frustrating to not pick up the spare

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Anonymous Coworker
on May 2, 2008 @ 9:15 am
in Mrs. ACW, awesome, happy hour, nerd stuff, ocd, potty humor, sex, suhmuhmuh bitch and the worldwide information super-tubeterwebs
. 12 Comments

The happy hour last night was pretty cool. As usual, there’s never enough time to get to really talk to everybody, so there are some folks that I would have liked to talk to that I didn’t really get a chance to talk to. To those people I say: your loss.

Also to those people who ridiculed me for having to leave early to feed my cats, I’ll have you know that since Wookie was starving she ate so fast that when she threw up a few minutes later I could see that she hadn’t even chewed any of her food. Her vomit is on YOUR hands.

Finally, Charissa wanted me to tell a story about how I saw a little kid with poop on his face jump out of a car or something. This is what she thinks my blog is about. Well, besides it being a lie, because everyone knows I would NEVER lie, the thought of a kid with poop on his face actually kind of grosses me out. Apparently Charissa is into that short sort of thing.

Let’s commence with the narcissism!

My favorite event on Wii sports is bowling. But like everything in my life that I enjoy, once I begin to enjoy it I also try to start finding a way to measure it. Unluckily for me the Wii measures how good/bad I am at bowling for me, so I’m constantly playing games as fast as I can just to see if I’ve improved rather than slowing down and enjoying the game for what it is: a distraction from the restraining order issued by Zack Efron and the entire cast of High School Musical that keeps me out of New York. Wait. What? That’s not even close to accurate. What I meant to say is that the stats distract me from playing the game as a game.

So I’ll try to keep that in mind as I slow down and try to have more fun with game until I don’t get a strike and find myself screaming at the remaining pin, “Go down you fucking slut! FUCK YOU!” and then angrily mumbling to myself about how the game cheats.

Then I usually switch to boxing so I can punch the bejesus out of a goofy looking cartoon boxer and alleviate some frustration. It’s a nice healthy workout.

I think I’m the only one who noticed the irony

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Anonymous Coworker
on April 30, 2008 @ 9:10 am
in awesome, beer, food, money, music and sex
. 24 Comments

Last weekend I had the honor of joining a friend at his bachelor party, and I have to admit that I’ve never been to a more masculine bachelor party.

We started out at my brother’s house drinking beers (10 man points) and playing video games (5 man points) eating half a tub of party mix (2 man points) and somehow consuming three pounds of onion dip (15 man points).

From there we went to a barbecue place for dinner (20 man points) and filled our bellies with various kinds of meat served to us in heaps (18 man points, 23 double entendre points). One of the attendees bit the inside of his cheek while eating and started bleeding profusely (3 man points (yes, bleeding counts as something manly)) and decided to “cauterize” the wound by taking a huge swig of the bottle of hot sauce that was on the bar (35 man points). Numerous shots (15 man points) and PBRs (5 man points) were consumed before we headed off to the next bar.

We started with more shots (20 man points) but generally took things pretty easy, primarily having beers (5 man points) and shooting the shit (2 man points). I think, however, we get extra man points for getting one of the waitresses drunk (5 man points).

From there we went to Max’s in Fell’s Point where we had boilermakers (30 man points) and the bachelor had a pimp-cup full of some high-falutin’ hefewiess microbrew that clocked in at about 10% alcohol (27 man points).

From Max’s the decision was made to go to a strip club (25 man points), and while strip clubs aren’t necessarily my thing (-45 man points) I was happy to have one of the other guys buy me two 10-dollar Miller Lites.

Numerous table dances (40 man points), lap dances (50 man points), and public spankings (100 man points?) later, we were closing out the strip club (200 man points). We piled back into the limo- did I mention it was a stretch Escalade? (50 man points)- to head home.

So let’s see, ignoring the fact that strip clubs aren’t my thing, as a whole, we scored 681 man points for the evening with the only thing missing being a bare-knuckled street brawl between our bachelor party and some other douchebag’s bachelor party which would have netted us 500 man points. It would have been 1000 man points if someone was killed.

But, alas, we lost a few points on the way home. As we were careening through the streets of Baltimore, drunk and with visions of strippers named Sugarplum dancing through our heads, someone tuned the radio to Tiny Dancer by Elton John (-200 man points).

And we all sang along. (-300 man points)

At the top of our lungs. (-500 man points)

I guess it could have been worse. We could have been singing it quietly, holding each other and weeping (forfeiture of penis).

All in all it was an awesome night, even if the man points were all lost in a wash at the end.

Now I’m able to go out and enjoy some serious cock, guilt free.

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Anonymous Coworker
on April 11, 2008 @ 10:08 am
in Mrs. ACW, bitches, devil cat, jokes, people are idiots, potty humor, sex and suhmuhmuh bitch
. 15 Comments

1) I was just recently contacted by somebody at bthesite.com (which doesn’t seem to be working as of this being written) about how they had grabbed my RSS and were posting my content onto their site. That’s totally fine with me. Blogtimore has been doing it for years. But nobody at Blogtimore cares if I put the word “cock” in the title of my blog posts for all the world to see. I’m pretty sure they also don’t mind “fisting” or “felching” or “transexual cornholing santorum lickers”, but we’ll see if bthesite minds. And just to be clear, I grabbed the title from this episode of Extras:

Skip to the one minute mark if you’re in a hurry.

2) Since we’ve switched Sherlock to a new cat food that’s supposed to keep his wee-wee wiener-friendly, rather than full of sharp and jagged crystals stabbing him with their jags, his shit has become even more offensive. And I don’t mean “offensive” like people thought Andrew Dice Clay was offensive but was really only just kind-of funny unless you were a fat guy with a porno mustache, gold chain, stupid haircut, and a bad sweater, and 2 years of a high-school education who lived in New Jersey in the late 80’s and never got any action but still lied to his friends that he did, because those guys thought he was hilarious. No, I mean offensive like Yankee Candle Company’s new scent is “Hangover Shits” crafted specifically after extensively researching the nostril singing aromas of two pitchers of Miller Lite and 50 nuclear chicken wings digested and excreted through the human body, and it’s your birthday and everybody gives you one of those candles.

3) Speaking of offensive aromas, the other day Mrs. ACW and I were at the Annapolis Mall and I suddenly got a whiff of hypersexualized teenage desperation and the triumph of money over taste. “Wow, did we just walk past a perfume store? They must have spilled something.”
“I guess so.”

But then as we kept walking the stink became more palpable, until I could actually reach out an palp it. It was then that I noticed we were beginning to approach the area of the mall that housed the Abercrombie and Fitch store. We weren’t even at the store yet and I was already gagging. Seriously, look at this map. The arrow is A&F and we were at the red dot to the left of JCPenney when we started smelling the horrible smell.

We went on to Nordstrom so Mrs. ACW could look at purses or tampons or nipple-clamps or whatever it is that women look at when they go shopping (I don’t know, I usually turn my brain off), and after finding what she was looking for (or not, I don’t really know) we left to go back into the mall and it was as if I was just punched in the face with the smell of Dawson’s Creek were tv shows to have their own scents.

This time we had to pass the stink-factory on the near side, and it was so overpowering that I covered my face with my hoodie and did the best I could to control the gag reflex while my eyes watered. I wondered how people could even work in there. Do the clothes in there come pre-scented or something? Uggh. It was horrible.

But walking past the store wasn’t even the worst of it! Three hours later I still smelled like I was a non-consensual participant in a boy-band gang-bang, and nothing I did would make the stink come off me. It was like I looked normal, but my shadow was a collar-popping douchebag who bathed in shitty cologne.

The cats don’t sit still long enough to keep my toes warm

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Anonymous Coworker
on February 20, 2008 @ 9:40 am
in Mrs. ACW, bitches, devil cat, house, money, nerd stuff and sex
. 22 Comments

For the last few weeks the temperature inside our house has been nut-shrinkingly cold. In an attempt to save a little money, and because we desire to open the electric bill and not see, “You owe us assrape dollars and non-consensual-fisting cents.” Our electric bill has never been too crazy, really, because I’m that guy who walks through the house and turns off all lights and unplugs items that aren’t being used, but still the bills were more than we wanted to pay. So we’ve set the thermostat for a steady 62 and dealt with it.

Before I go on and eventually reach the uninteresting point of this story, I’m going to preemptively defend myself from those of you who live in the arctic tundra north of the temperate zone better known as the mid-Atlantic seaboard of the United States. Yes, 62 is cold for us. Yes, the temperature in the winter usually only hovers around 20-40 degrees Fahrenheit. Yes, we know you are buried in snow for all but two weeks in the middle of the summer. Yes, we realize that Kelvin is just a guy on your street who stands on his porch in his underwear when it’s -273.15 degrees Celsius outside.* Yes, we realize that you set your thermostats at 2 degrees and you just throw on another sweater. That’s awesome. You’re awesome. We’re all glad that you’re so awesome that you can live in such unforgiving climates. Really, no one at all is tired of hearing you scoff, “27 degrees? Heh, that’s warm for us!” That never, ever gets tired, especially when we grew up in the reasonable climate we grew up in, and you grew up in a snowman’s armpit. So, yes, to conclude this diatribe, our house is kept at 62 degrees and that’s cold for us. Shut it.

Anyway, we’ve been getting by with hoodies, sweaters, and blankets on the couches. That generally keeps us from being so cold that we’re uncomfortable. But I’m 6′2″ and though I’ve got some padding around the middle, my fingers, and especially my toes, get cold fast. It’s not uncommon for my toes to go completely numb, even if I’m wearing socks and slippers. I’m tall and blood doesn’t circulate well to far-away places like my toes. No big deal. I can make do. For example, instead of wearing regular socks, I might throw on some wool socks or thick Xmas socks. Or I’ll sit cross legged and try to keep my toes warm with my hands. Or I might tuck the bottoms of my pants into the top of my socks, and my sweater into the top of my pants. This makes me look like an utter goon, but I don’t care, because it keeps me warm.

Every time Mrs. ACW sees me with my sweater tucked in, or with my pant legs tucked in to my socks she just shakes her head and says, “I can’t believe I’m married to you.” And I guess I could be offended, but the fact is that I really don’t care. She’s stuck with me, and my feet are cold, so until the weather gets a little warmer I’m going to look like the gooniest goon that ever gooned an automatic gooning machine. Also, I retort by saying, “Not only are you married to me, but we also have sex,” which usually just leaves her shaking her head and wondering where she went wrong.

*I so love nerd jokes.

Just Like Aaliyah Said

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on February 11, 2008 @ 9:50 am
in Mrs. ACW, people are idiots and sex
. 10 Comments

This weekend we celebrated the successful completion of Mrs. ACW’s 28th year. This birthday has caused her a not insignificant amount of existential stress that I’m completely unable to understand.

If you were to ask me how old I am when I’m not really paying attention, chances are good that I would answer incorrectly, think about what I said, correct myself, and then continue thinking for a minute about whether my first answer was wrong, my second answer, or both. It’s not something that I really pay attention to, or put much thought into. This is not to be confused with my birthday itself, which I pay quite a bit of attention to, and am very aware of.

Good grief, could I end more sentences with prepositions? I’m writing like an illiterate Republican. But I repeat myself. Zing! I’m just joking, almost all the Republicans I know are smart and well-spoken, but seriously, don’t forget to vote tomorrow. Wait, what’s that over there? It’s THE END OF THIS POINTLESS DIGRESSION!

So, yeah, I know some of you people get all worked up about your age too, and I really just don’t get it. First of all, like many things in our society, age is a construct created to classify what someone can/cannot do, or what someone should/should not do. It allows us to not have to ever think for ourselves and instead just slothfully lay about our homes, inhaling bowls of Doritos, and pointing at our televisions to laugh and judge people who are outside the norms. It’s why every few years as a crop of actresses get older we suddenly have “news” reports and articles in “magazines” like Cosmo about how 40 is the new 30, 30 is the new 20, and 20 is the new 18, and how it’s suddenly “okay” for 40 year olds to be sexy again. Why do we continue to buy this bullshit?

It’s akin to thinking that boys can’t be teachers because it’s a girl’s job, or that girl’s can’t be doctors because it’s a boy’s job.* That’s stupid. Why impose these ridiculous criterion based solely upon whether your baby-maker is an innie or an outie? That’s stupid. It’s not as if when you turn 50 you suddenly won’t be able to do anything you weren’t doing 10, or 15, or 20 years before that. Sure, you might not be in as good of shape as you were then, but that doesn’t mean you can’t still play some video games and eat some nachos and watch some VH1.

Of course, like anything, there are extremes than can reinforce even the most unreasonable social restrictions. For example, all those women out there dressing like their teen-aged daughters. Stop it. Why not dress at least like twenty year old instead of a 15 year old? Have a little self respect. You’re not Mrs. Robinson. Nobody wants to bang you.

All this obsession with age in our culture has driven us all completely batshit bonkers over making rules about what different people can do or be based soley upon how long they’ve lived? Want to be president? You have to be 35. I don’t know about you, but I can think of a few 50 and 60 year olds who would be COMPLETELY horrible at the job *coughhuckabeecough*. Want to drink a beer? You have to be 21. Want to die for your country? You have to be 18. Seriously. What the hell is that about? Want to see two or more adults consensually mashing their genitals together? You have to be at least 18, because before that magical day when you turn 18, the sight of such a thing would destroy your brain. I’m sure there aren’t any 15 year olds doing the three-knuckle shuffle to weirder stuff in their heads.

Finally, time itself is a construct. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, and years exist for no other reason than we decided to name them and start measuring them. Time, as we have named it, is meaningless. We could arbitrarily change it to whatever we wanted, and eventually people would get used to it and complain about turning 4 years old. Complaining doesn’t make any sense to me in a situation such as this. I’m much more of the mindset that, hey, it looks like I’ve got more than a few years left, so why not do some fun stuff to fill that time?

I realize not everyone is going to be swayed by this, and some folks will argue that because we live in a time of Dorito-eating finger-pointers, they are constrained by the judgmental gaze of the masses. To that I say: why do you even care what those imbeciles even think? The high-point of their lives will be that night when they were watching American Idol and the pizza guy forgot to charge them for the extra order of cheesy breadsticks. Who cares what that waste of skin thinks?

*In fairness to girls, the world would be a much nicer place if they’d get me a sandwich and then get back in the kitchen.

A message to superman_adonis@yahoo.com

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on February 4, 2008 @ 10:23 am
in awesome, i am so fucking awesome, money, people are idiots, potty humor, sex and the worldwide information super-tubeterwebs
. 30 Comments

I was GOING to write a post about the superbowl (a terrible game with 2 exciting drives bookended by boring, unfunny commercials) but the internet has provided the bounty, once again.

Here is the comment I got on Saturday from Man Enough to have fun at any club:

WOW,

This has nothing to do with you current post but one that had popped up from a few years ago about your experience at Baja Beach Club. Wow…………..you are a BITCH, lol. Most “real men” can handle themselves in a club full of screaming horny women but this seems not to be the case for you. As far as a tip goes, when you buy a bottles beer for 25 cents you fucking tip asshole. I don’t care if that beer came staright out of your boyfriends asshole it’s 25 cents for God’s sake, you tip. I have ran club after club after club and there are always wallflower, no game, losers like yourself who get bent when they get blownoff for being the cheapskate piece of shit that you are. It’s ok though, after reading your comments and opinions about Baja of Baltimore your scene would be best suited to the library you waste of space faggot, stay the fuck out of a crazy, exciting club where everyone but you has a great time. The funny thing is I was probably there that night and fucked both of the girls you came with, and they probably paid me to do it causing your little tantrem, that happens alot. Have a great day and enjoy the Science Center faggot. :) Next time bring monery when you go into any club and rememeber 25 cents bottles equal a tip…..reguardless of the service!!!!!!! now FUCK OFF!!!!!!!!!!

Did you read it all? If you didn’t, I suggest you go back and really soak in the idiocy of it all. Judging from the complete lack of spelling ability, poor grammar use, extremely low reading comprehension, child-like logic, and general dumbfuckery, I’d say we have a comment from your average, run of the mill club-rat: the poster-child for eugenics. For purposes of visualization, this is who I’m picturing:

spikeyhair

I’m not even sure where to start with this one, so I guess I’ll start at the beginning.

Dear Idiot,

Were you able to count higher than 4, I might begin to compare your lack of intelligence to that of a bag of hammers, or a bucket of rocks, but because you’re a mouth-breathing semi-functional illiterate, I’ll try to use as few words as possible, and make those words small ones whenever I can. Do you have your dictionary ready, or maybe a friend who passed the third grade? Great. Here we go.

If you had any reading comprehension skills whatsoever (and no, having your mommy read you the jokes in Maxim doesn’t count) you would have read that I was going to tip FOUR TIMES (sorry, I guess you’ll need a calculator too) the amount the bartender expected to be tipped, but because the bartender was a whiny little crybaby, I decided not to tip him at all. I figured the less money he had to spend on Drakkar Noir, the better. Somehow, though, you missed that part of my post, and I can only assume it’s because you could only understand one out of every 18 words that I typed. Don’t beat yourself up over it, though, lots of people have trouble reading. However, it would probably be in your best interest to stopping drinking gallon upon gallon of lead paint. Despite what you and your friends tell yourselves, it’s not making you smarter.

Now, on to the other issues to which you alluded. You appear to have quite a bit of aggression towards gay people. I’m not sure where this stems from, since I don’t know you, but I think it might be good for you to look up a term called, “projection”. Basically it means that you see something in other people that you don’t want to acknowledge in yourself. For example, you suggested I was gay about a half-dozen times, but I can see that you looked at the “About” section of my blog, and thus know that I’m happily married to a woman. But I have a surprise for you! You were able to see through the facade and find out that, yes, I’m really gay. I love having sex with men. In fact, I was just banging your dad, and he was really enjoying himself as well. Your mom was video-taping the whole thing, so you can borrow the tape from her if you want to check it out.

Also, it seems like you hate intelligence. This isn’t just something that I picked up from the barely legible missive you left in my comments, but also because you denigrated the Science Center and the library. Are you really so simple that intelligence is an affront to you? Your life must be incredibly difficult, not being able to figure out why it takes you so long to put your diaper on every morning.

Finally, no, you didn’t have sex with the two women I came in with. In fact, I’d say you probably never have sex with anyone. You go to a shitty club, swill shitty beer for a few hours, grind your way through the Baja Beach Club nightly sausage-party, ogle the few slutty white-trash trailer-bunnies that do show up, go home with an empty wallet and a tiny little erection, and masturbate furiously to scrambled porn in your parent’s basement. Doesn’t it make you even a little bit sad that your life peaked in high school, you prickless manchild?

I hope you continue to waste your money, life, and time at the Baja Beach Club, because the odds are in my favor that you’ll eventually contract Hepatitis C and die. In fact, I’d be surprised if you weren’t already riddled with a cocktail of chlamydia, herpes, and genital warts from rubbing your laughably small penis all over the other troglodytes in that den of idiocy.

Please sterilize yourself,

ACW

P.S. Here are the words you misspelled, now spelled correctly:

tantrum
blown off
straight
a lot
money
remember
regardless

You should probably write these down for the next time you try to make fun of somebody but instead end up looking like a moron.

You might be tempted to watch it now. Don’t.

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on January 30, 2008 @ 10:39 am
in movies, ocd, potty humor, sex and suhmuhmuh bitch
. 17 Comments

I’m not sure how many people know how much I love movies. If I’m flipping through the channels looking for something to watch and I see the stars spinning up over the Paramount logo, or the TriStar pegasus running towards the camera, or the Universal globe, or the MGM lion, that’s it, I’m done for. Whatever the movie is, for good or for bad, I’m watching it. Even if I all I catch is the opening credits with the theme music starting, I may as well be shackled to the chair.

For example, I once won free tickets to the over-long and under-entertaining Four Feathers (I realize the recently departed Mr. Ledger was in it, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t suck balls)*. Free tickets. FREE. And 7 hours into the first half of the movie when my friends wanted to leave, I was like, “No, let’s stay. I’m sure it will get better.” And two days later, it did get better when it ended. They must have shot that movie for 37 years for as long as it felt like it was. IMDB says it was only 130 minutes, but I’m pretty sure when I left I was collecting Social Security benefits.

A further example: Dr. T. and the Women. Dr. T and the Women is by far, bar none, the worst movie ever made. And I mean “worst” in every possible way. Everything about it was a horrible eye-sodomizing punch in the brain. The acting, the directing, the story, the music, the free merchandise distributed with the movie. Again, I got free tickets to see this movie, and even when I wanted to firebomb the whole theater before the opening credits were over, I still sat through the whole thing. They were giving out movie t-shirts before the movie, and once the movie was done I stood up, tore the tshirt they gave me into pieces, threw it on the floor, and stormed out of the theater. I hated every minute of that movie. I’ve never been so angry and unhappy in my life. I would gladly relive the horrible three month emasculation that was the breakup with my high-school girlfriend rather than ever watch that movie again.

Many people don’t believe me when I tell them how bad it is. Well, let me try to get you to where I am at this point. Imagine your least favorite movie. Whatever it is, Biodome, Chicago, Blair Witch, whatever, just picture watching it. Now, staple your genitals to a car battery, put your legs in a tree shredder, submerge your head in a bucket of shit, cover your left arm in leeches, and pay a sadist to peel the skin off your right arm. Imagining that? Good. That’s how the first 10 minutes of Dr. T and the Women feels. And I sat through the whole damn thing. I’ve blogged about my hatred of this movie before, if you’re interested, but I feel I must move on.

This is a transitional sentence!

I think there are two reasons why I’m so drawn to movies now. Part of it definitely has to do with the fact that I’m OCD and once I start something, I have trouble thinking clearly until I finish it. The other reason is that as a kid my parents never really took us to the movies. It was sort of a once yearly thing. I think they saw them as a big waste of money. I’m kind of inclined to agree with them, but still, my Netflix queue is 495 movies long, and it would be longer if Netflix allowed me to add any more than 500 movies. Case in point, I have the move “Medicine Man” in my queue which I’m pretty sure was roundly ignored by the entire planet, and yet, since I saw a commercial for it when I was 12, I still want to see it.

So what’s the point of all this? A pathetic attempt at self defense for the oncoming suggestions that I’m metro… because last night I watched The Lake House. Alone. I was flipping through the channels to see if there was anything I could watch before putting on Fast Food Nation, and I came across the Lake House just as the credits were rolling. Not knowing what it was, and OCD kicking in high-style, it took me about 20 minutes to realize I was watching dreck, but by then it was too late.

Lucky for me two of the themes of the movie are architecture and temporal relativity, otherwise I may have been bored out of my mind, and also luckily for me, this movie was really bad, which made it easy to laugh at. The cinematography was ham-handed and hackish at best, culminating in it’s crappiness on a wobbly zoom of Keanu in a reflection of a window and then holds there until he eventually sneezes. If it sounds stupid and confusing and dumb, you’re right, it is. But still, I watched it from beginning to end. From one tortured monologue to the next. Seriously, at points I was expecting the director to trot out holding a sign that says, “Here comes another tired and worn out cliche from chick flicks! Prepare yourself for the banality!” A little counter in the corner counting the cliches would have surely exploded within the first half hour. The movie was really that terrible.

I know some of you out there will want to argue with me. “But ACW, you have to admit, it was a sweet movie.” or “It was a good story, even if it was kind of stupid.” or maybe even, “Hey, my names Sandra Bullock and I was in that and I didn’t think it was that bad. At least, the cash wasn’t. Ch-ching! Ha ha, suckers!”

You are all wrong. The movie was terrible, and every DVD should be broken into a million pieces and stabbed into Richard Gere’s face lest he make another Dr. T and the Women. God how I hate that movie. I guess the fart and necrophilia jokes can wait until tomorrow.

*I think this counts as a “dick” joke.

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