Porn

As I’ve said before, there are few things more unnerving than people who are completely comfortable with porn. We’ve been raised our entire lives to believe that pornography is single-handedly responsible for blindness, hairy palms, deviancy, and moral decay. And most men have made peace with that. We’re content to be social pariahs in the privacy of our own basements. But when we emerge in public and have to interact with strangers who are really comfortable with this deviant sexual behavior, the whole experience is really unnerving. This is exactly why I dislike strip-clubs.

I’ve always been somewhat amused and bewildered by the comfort that men have watching or discussing porn with friends, however. Large groups of men tend towards bragging and homophobia, yet for some reason it's utterly acceptable to watch naked men engage in sodomy with a woman of doubtful enthousiasm and acting abilities. In fact, it's occationally a past-time that involves popcorn. Example:

Not long ago, I was planning on moving into a place with three of my friends. One of my more computer-literate pals was plotting on installing a server for the apartment, complete with a drive and files available to anyone on the network he’d set up.

The ears on another friend of mine perked up. “How much space are we talking about?”

“Ummm…Probably about 300 gigs.”

“Not good enough. I need like four of those. At least a terabyte of space dedicated completely to porn. I want to be the single largest supplier of porn on the east coast.”

This is the same kid who lost his porn collection after a hard-drive meltdown. To this day, he gets emotional when you bring the topic up. He acts as if he lost a child.

“Man, I know you had some good times with your old collection, but it’s gone now. It’s time to let go and move on with your life. Maybe stop the candle-light vigil and start to rebuild.”

“You don’t understand! No one understands! What we had was special. I’m not talking about this anymore!”

As comfortable as men are watching porn with their friends, there are a few rules that are absolutely non-negotiable. For example, you can watch, but don’t seem TOO interested. You can comment on what you see, even talk about another man’s hog, all while sharing a sofa with another man. But under no circumstances allow any part of your body or clothing to touch the guy sitting next to you.

I think that most women have made their peace with the fact that men possess pornography. I suspect that they’ve adopted a “as long as I don’t have to see it, I’ll pretend it doesn’t exist” attitude. Or maybe it’s more of a “boys and their toys” type of position, where they shake their heads and chuckle to themselves.

Personally, I find that my porno collection grows and shrinks, month to month, year to year. When I’m in a relationship where sex is plentiful, the collection dwindles. In those cold weeks of singles life, the collection expands. It’s like a measurement of my social life. I’d like to think that when I finally settle down with that perfect lady, I can forever delete my porn collection and finally clear about 70 gigs of space off my hard drive. Then again, from what I’ve heard of married life, it may be that I won’t really appreciate porn until I’m hitched.

There's Always Room For Jello-Shots!

I know what you’re all thinking: “Ehren, sure I like drinking, but isn’t there an easier way to ingest alcohol?” Well my friends, as luck would have it, there IS another way to get drunk. It came about like this:

One of my friends was having a party, so I went with him to the store to stock up. We wandered about the supermarket, picking up things that caught our eye: chips, dip, cards, and lots of Mardi gras beads. You know, to this day I’d really love to be there for the first transaction that went down in this way:

Man: Remove your top!
Busty Lass: I shall not!
Man: Show me your boobs!
Busty Lass: I, sir, am a lady of dignity, class and high breeding. That you think I would “show off my goodies” to you, an ill-mannered, drunken hooligan is an insult to women everywhere! Have we, the fair sex, toiled for so long in the name of equal treatment simply for me to debase myself for a perfect stranger in the midst of this common thoroughfare? Hang your head in shame, sirrah!
Man: I have shiny beads.
Busty Lass: Woooooo! Spring break! Fuck you, mom and dad! I’m gonna be on America’s Skankiest Cum-Dumpsters!

Seriously, at what point in our culture did the trade of beads for nudity and dignity become standard? Still, I guess I, as a man, should be happy that it came to this. All I know is that I’m not about to flash my testicles to girls for plastic jewlery.

At any rate, my friend and I at last came to stop in front of the Jello display. He was browsing through the various flavors, trying to find the perfect concoction to mix with alcohol when I called out his name.

“Greg!”
“What?” He drifted over.
“GREG!”
“What...” then he followed my eyes and there was a moment of silence.
“Greg, everyone always makes jello-shots…is there any reason we couldn’t make alcoholic pudding?”
"I don't know."
Another long pause before, in unison we said one word that would change house-parties forever: “Butterscotch.”

We combined the pudding ingredients along with Kailua and rum and proceeded to get absolutely hammered on the results. Basically, if you’re looking for a way to not only kill your liver, but send your cholesterol through the roof at the same time, we had the snack for you. Binging on it was the equivalent of living four days as wino on the streets of New York.

The whole experience was eye-opening for me. It made me wonder what other ways there were to get plastered. Perhaps my greatest moment was still to come. I was sitting (well, propped up, barely clinging to consciousness would be a better description) on the couch, licking the empty serving bowl when I yelled, “GREG!!!”

He stumbled in. “Yesh?” he stammered.

“Greg! Wherza pot-brownies you made lasht week?”

“Dunno…I think they’re gone. Shtop spinning, Ehren, ish not cool!”

“Greg…next time you make them, you should frost them with the alcoholic pudding.”

Long silence.

“Ehren, are you the devil?”

I’ve also been toying with the idea of an alcoholic ice cream. As soon as I figure out a way to get liquor to freeze, I’m going to make a fortune. I want to be clear here, I don’t mean liquor flavored ice cream—I mean get-you-so-drunk-you-fall-face-down-in-the-cone-and-drown-in-chocolate-sprinkles alcoholic ice cream. The way I see it, it’s the next natural progression from those Zima drinks that they serve now.

I’ve honestly never understood the purpose behind those things. They’re so loaded with sugar that you’re guaranteed to get sick. Not only that, I hear so many girls say, “I love them because you can’t taste the alcohol.” I don’t suppose these women ever considered that maybe tasting alcohol is a defense mechanism? Maybe if you don’t like the taste of alcohol after a few drinks, you shouldn’t be drinking that many in the first place. What are these girls doing? Seeing which one will get date-raped first? Then again, these are usually the same females wearing body glitter and pants with writing across the ass.

At this rate, we’ll be up to alcoholic I.V.s soon. Bartender, 300 CCs of Henessey, stat!

The Night I Lost My Casino Virginity.

Casinos are strange places. I really have no idea how they caught on, other than some fundamental joy people have in receiving pain.

The first time I ever went to a casino, I was 21. It was right at then end of a semester of college, and two of my friends were driving up to one of the Canadian casinos. “What the Hell?” I figured. “I’ll ride along, soak in the experience and maybe have a little fun.”

I’d played most card games a few times and I’d seen “Casino” and “Swingers.” That was pretty much the sum of my knowledge. Based on what I knew, I had formulated a plan for the evening:

1. Dress up like a high-roller
2. Lay $50 down on blackjack
3. Lose my $50
4. Have drink

Unfortunately, my friends had other plans. What is obvious to me now is that I went with the wrong crowd to have fun a casino. Allow me to elaborate.

Friend number one was a Puerto-Rican dude, with one eye, who drove a minivan and had an obsession with computer-science. He was also perhaps the most uncool kid I knew. And I don’t mean that with disrespect, because he’s sweet, smart and funny guy. But seriously, he made the inventor of Dungeons and Dragons look like John Shaft.

Friend number two was a six foot, female socialist who lived on a spiritualist commune. She was a very strange mixture of hippie and red-neck, because she was born and raised in a small town outside of Buffalo, NY. As a result, she had never actually SEEN a hippie, before college, and had sort of made up her own opinion of what they were. So she ate venison steaks, listened to Ani DeFranco, grew long hair, but drove a pick-up truck. I’m not really sure where the socialism came from…My guess is that she knew that people were protesting something in 60s, but never really figured out what. So just picked a random movement ending in “ism.”

So my friends came to pick me up and let me tell you, I looked like a million bucks: Black suit, black button-down shirt, black tie, black fedora, pulled down at an angle, silver tie-clip and cuff-links. It looked like I was three drinks and a bottle of cologne away from giving someone a dead fish wrapped in a newspaper.

My friend’s battered minivan rolled to a stop, and I opened the door and looked at my friends. Hippie girl was wearing a gortex hunting coat and jeans. The Puerto-Rican kid was wearing sweatpants and a ripped hoodie. It was like they had been picking through the trash all night and had decided to find threads appropriate for drinking the day away in dumpster behind a liquor shop.

“What the hell? How come you guys didn’t dress up?”

“Why bother? We’re just going to the casino and back.”

“You’re right. In fact, why bother with basic hygiene? Eventually, you’re just going to get dirty again.”

So we rolled into the casino that evening and I tried to salvage my optimism for the night. I was young, looked good, was prepared to lose some money, have drinks and maybe meet a cocktail waitress and tell her that I was "the guy behind the guy behind the guy." If you don’t know what that line means, for God’s sake, go rent “Swingers.”

Plus, I had a posse with me. However, little known fact: your posse loses credibility when they wear sweatpants and drive a minivan. My friends instantly found the nearest change machine and converted all their money, along with their remaining dignity, into tokens. I was trying to re-enact the high life of 1970s legalized gambling and they were intent on blending in with the group of seniors on a field trip from the retirement castle. What was next on the list for them? Prune juice and high-stakes shuffleboard?

Let me explain something to you: No one really has good odds when they walk into a casino. The whole purpose of the place is to make profit, so they’re not going to set up any games where you REALLY have a good chance of winning money—at least not THEIR money. If you sit down at poker, you’re going after the money of other players. But every other game is set up to be unfair. That shouldn’t be a shock to anyone. But the biggest scam of all is the slot machines. If you sit down to play the slots, you’re better off listening to Lewis Black’s plan for an evening in Vegas:

“Convert $500 to quarters, go your room, empty the quarters out on the bed and stare at them for a long time. Why? Because you’re never going to see them again. Then go into the bathroom and one by one, flush the quarters down the toilet. And the nice part about that is every once in a while the toilet will back up and you’ll feel like a WINNER!”

As unfair as the other games maybe, the slot machines are the only spot in the casino that NEVER have a losing day for a joint. Dice tables might get hot, someone could hit it big playing baccarat, but slots NEVER lose. BECAUSE THEY’RE LITTERALLY PROGRAMED TO NOT PAY OUT.

Needless to say, my evening did NOT go well. I lost my $50, got a drink and then had to wait around for 4 hours while my friends flushed their money away, playing nickel slots. My casino virginity had been taken and, figuratively, I was lying in a corner weeping, while scrubbing desperately at the dried semen and shame that was dripping down my pants legs.

A different group of friends and I are going to visit the Borgata in Atlantic City tomorrow. They’re a lot more socially graceful, a whole lot better dressed, and generally a lot of fun, but stepping back from the whole thrill of going, I have a difficult time of figuring out WHY people love to go. Because I know, the plan for everyone is to have some drinks and lose $300 at poker. The weirdest part is we’re going down to celebrate someone’s birthday. It’s a really strange present when rather than give anything, you take the birthday boy to a location where they’re more or less guaranteed to lose, everyone knows it, and everyone still wants to go anyway. Men are bizarre.

Jack Saddle: Great Friend, Ghost Writer, and Exorcism-Nominee

I’m sure that by now, a number of you are wondering about the people I hang out with. It seems as if every single post I write has a story that begins, “I have this friend who once…” And from there I launch into the most unlikely, or unbelievable account that you’ve ever heard. Well, lest anyone think that my stories are less than gospel truth, I proudly present my first ever post by a special guest. The rant below is courtesy of one of my friends who has chosen the pseudonym “Jack Saddle." He keeps telling me that if he ever makes a porno, that’ll be his screen name. I keep telling him they have laws against exploiting medical curiosities. Enjoy, Bitches!

Words form Jack Saddle:

Taking the suggestion that E has proposed (that he should have guest writers on his blog to show how strange some of his friends) are I jumped at the chance. So here goes.

You know what I was thinking about today? I was thinking about how you never really hear about Muslims or Jews being possessed by evil spirits. This department of possessions and exorcisms are exclusively held down by our wily Christian brethren. I mean there is a slue of movies depicting priests going around the world and performing exorcisms. You hear about stigmata in small Mexican towns. What the fuck, just because the Muslims and Jews don’t believe that Jesus was the Son of God we get gyped of the whole getting possessed thing? It’s like God said, “you don’t want to believe in my son you are cut off, no evil spirits will posses your kind.”

I mean, I have never met anyone that was possessed, but if it’s anything like the movies portray then, shit sign me up! What better way to freak out your mother, get out of school and work then a good old possession? You can clime walls and throw up green shit—you basically become spider man. Plus, all of a sudden you can speak Aramaic a 3000-year-old dead language. Shit, have enough trouble with Spanish but apparently when you are possessed your become quite the linguist. You basically become the life of every party. I know if I was high and I saw one of my friends crawl up a wall, I would find it cool. Come to think of it, I did see that but that’s a whole different story—most of that night is a blur anyway.

You could become one of the most feared Don’s in the Mafia history. Going by what movies have told me of course, who in their right mind would want to piss of a guy that has the spawn of satan living within. You’d be a bigger bad ass then Dick Chaney, and he shot a guy and then made him apologize.

Though I would imagine it would be a lonely life. Yeah you’d be fun at parties and feared in your day to day, but no one wants to fuck a guy who’s voice drops 7 octave below Barry White’s during sex. I wonder if you could some what control the demon that’s in you, it would be type awkward trying to pick up a girl. You ask her, “can I buy you a drink?” She says, “yeah, cuz you look stable enough.” And then half way to the bar you forget what she wanted and your head automatically turns 180 degrees to ask her again. I don’t know, I see some set backs in certain social situations.

I guess I have to meet someone that’s been through it and ask them how it was. I mean you don’t want to be stuck with something you don’t want, like that time I wanted rock ‘em sock ‘em robots and got them, but it turned out to be less fun then the commercial initially illustrated. In conclusion the super powers and linguistic skills would be cool but never getting laid again would be a problem for me. So I guess I am happy that Muslims and Jews can’t be possessed, good looking out, God. Keep up the good work.

-Jack Saddle

Boys, Toys, and Music Break-Ups

I’m a firm believer that men never really grow-up: they just get bigger and want more expensive toys. Our fascination with games, be they sports, video, or gambling, never disappears. Our toys get pricier and more elaborate: Computers, Stereo Equipment, Cars, and women. Most of us still don’t know how to dress ourselves, clean-up after ourselves, or feed ourselves.

But we’ve learned enough about how to dress up and play grown-up for job interviews, family functions, and women. Women…I wonder if they really are fooled by men who pretend to be grown-up. Probably not. In fact, I suspect that a number of girls find these characteristics rather charming.

Just look at a man who starts talking about cars. His eye light up, he gets really animated, and he begins reeling off numbers like a kid reciting the stats of his favorite ballplayer.

For a while now, I’ve had this theory that a date that would absolutely KILL would be a “six-year old date.” Here’s what I envision:

You pick up your date, and take her out to go sledding. Then you go back to your place for Hot Chocolate and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, with the crusts cut off. After that, you do finger painting, watch cartoons and, if all goes well, have nap time.

Think about it: it’s original, memorable, and absolutely adorable. I’m pretty sure I could get Mother Theresa to put out after a date like that.




On to other topics…

I’m auditioning a number of musician’s this week for my band: singers and bass players. Every time I go through this process, I’m amused at how much like being in a relationship it is when you’re in a band. When you’re in a band, it’s like being married to three or four other dudes.

Once I was playing music with a singer, and she skipped a few rehearsals. So I called her up to find out what was going on.

Her: Oh…Hi…Umm…look, we need to talk.
Me: uh…ok?
Her: You know, you’re great. You’re really talented and we had some good times, but I’m just not ready for this kind of thing. It’s not you, it’s me. I have a lot on my mind right now and I can’t commit to this right now. I think we should see other people.

So she hung up and I thought, “What the fuck was that about?” I mean, it wasn’t that big a deal if she wanted to quit. It's not like she was doing that great a job anyway. What was with the drama? Just when I thought the situation couldn’t get any weirder, I ran into her at a dinning hall with a friend of mine who played the drums.

Her: Oh…Ehren…Ummm…How’re you?
Me: Uh…fine? How’s it going?
Her: Oh, good. Really good. You look great…well. I actually have to run, but we should hang out sometime and catch up.

Things were just never the same with that girl again. The two of us had never dated, and I never had any kind of romantic interest in her, but we could never even be in the same room together there-after. Personally, I think things would have been LESS awkward if we had had sex. At least then I would have understood where the weirdness had come from. I just wanted to slap her and say, "Bitch! I never saw you naked! Cut it out!"

Oh well. I guess she wasn’t the one anyway…running off to see another drummer behind my back. That musical slut!

Generational Warfare

I’m usually the last person to rise up and defend my generation. I mean, how can you defend an age bracket that is single-handedly responsible for American Idol, Metro-sexuals, and Body-Piercing as a National Past-time? It’s a generation in need of a role-model and an old-fashioned ass-whooping. My generation needs an Ike Turner!

However, I’ve been seeing more and more negative press about my peers and I feel it’s time to lay my pimp hand down in defense. Basically, we’ve been accused of being a generation of slackers, too attached to mommy and daddy to strike out on our own. And frankly, from the stories, it appears that Mommy and Daddy are starting to resent us for it.

1. Fuck you for resenting your kids and not, gee, I don’t know: TAKING IT UP WITH THEM! You wonder why kids have a problem facing adversity? It’s because you sell-out yuppie parents can't even have an honest conversation with your own kids. Model some good behavior for once in your life!

2. Believe it or not, Mr. and Mrs. Hippie, the world is significantly more fucked up since you guys took power and completely sold our future and the revolution down the river. My parents rented an apartment for $500 a month the first year out of college. I can’t rent a piano crate for that now. Between that, the cost of living and the mountain of student loans we have because you convinced us that we’d be living in poverty with out a college education, we can’t even afford to pay the taxes that support your evil, generational-buddies in power. Isn’t it ironic? For my entire youth, I was told about how poor I’d be if I didn’t go to college. Now I graduate and find myself poor because I listened.

3. Do you, as a generation, have any remorse, conscious, or barring that, a soul of any kind beyond your own bloated wants? What the fuck did you think all those reports about inflation and the national debt were about? What exactly did you think those stories about rising oil prices, and falling average wages were for? And remember that President most of you voted for? Little guy, born in Connecticut but pretends to be from Texas? Goes on vacation every 20 minutes and was manning the switch when September 11 rolled around? You know, the one who cut all those programs that help people get on their feet? Yeah, those things actually affect people. So you’re not allowed to bitch about how your kids can’t move out. This is a situation where one, just ONE of your actions is coming back to bite you in the ass. Finally, a small bit of karma is richly coming through. The least you can do is take it with a shred of the dignity that’s been so sorely lacking your generation.

Believe me; kids aren’t staying at home because they like you. We’re staying at home because you traded your kid’s financial independence for that new SUV you drive. We’re staying at home because your decision to pay low taxes back in the 80s meant completely fucking the next four generations of Americans. We’re staying at home because all those decisions you made the day you cut your hair and got a job, the choices you made that were the equivalent of a baby crying “me, me, me!” have crippled your kids. Every time you got your way, you sold a bit more of your children’s future. At this point, we’re looking at a future that resembles South Africa: Street warfare, unimaginably wealthy plantations, staring down shanty-towns. All while a puppet leader struts and dances for show.

Since 1969, you have made the sum total of one selfless act: you killed one of the Bee Gees. Thanks.

We’re hardly a great generation. We’re not too bright, we’re not too ambitious, and we’re way over-medicated. But you show me a bad kid and I’ll show you a bad parent. We learned from the worst, Mom and Dad.

Why I Stopped Dating Hot Girls

I’ve been blessed in my love-life to say that I’ve been with a number of girls who were just flat-out hot. I don’t mean the kind of girl that your buddies say, “yeah, she’s cute.” I mean the kind of girl who enters a room and every single male instant begins eye-raping her.

There’s a certain smug sense of accomplishment to having a girl that is wanted by everyone, especially if you’re not a man of eye-candy status yourself. Ultimately, however, I decided that hot girls were way more trouble than they were worth. Hot girls are nearly all:

1. Self-Centered
2. Boring
3. Not especially bright
4. Lazy in bed
5. Shallow

Personally, I think it comes from the weight that we as a culture place on appearance. Everyone judges people based on appearance. When someone is hot it’s almost as if they don’t have to do anything else. So they become vain, don’t develop really good personal skills, and especially feel like they don’t have to do shit in bed. Hot girls have usually been with dudes who were so happy just to get them that they knocked themselves out trying to be the best lay Ms. Hot-Stuff ever had. As a result, hot girls never had to put in any kind of work. Sorry, Hon! But unlike the rest of the world, you can’t cut it in bed by lying there looking hot. If you don’t work that ass, I’m going to find a homely girl with a great work-ethic.

There are only two exceptions to the Hot Girl Rule: Girls who were late bloomers or Girls that don’t REALIZE they’re hot. They’re tough to track down. I mean, all girls like to bitch about being unattractive, but most of the hot ones know they’re not kidding anyone. They just complain so people won’t think that they’re the egomaniacal compliment-whores they are.

I switched over to cute girls not long ago and let me tell you: I’m hooked. Cute girls are where it’s at. They’re certainly attractive, almost all intelligent or, failing that, at least personable and fun, and to a girl have been dynamite in the sack. A while ago, I wrote a piece on how the girls who are the best in bed don’t have to advertise it. I think that with cute girls, this plays a role.

Some of the freakiest girls I’ve ever been with have been very sweet and innocent looking. Maybe it’s because if a girl acts and looks sweet for too long, her urge to cut loose gradually builds up until POW! Look out first exposed penis.

Man-Stench

Apparently, I’m the only person in the world who dislikes the smell of cologne. I’ve made it through my entire adult life on exactly three bottles of the stuff. When it comes to man-stench, I’m a firm believer that less is more.

Alas, not everyone shares my opinion. If I wear a cologne, I like to have just enough so someone could smell it when cuddling up to me. Apparently, some people believe that the true purpose of cologne is to create a wall of stench so powerful, that anyone in a 15 foot radius blacks out from lack of oxygen. Basically, it’s like bathing in ether.

I have to admit, I don’t really understand man-perfume. I mean, I have a friend who flipped out when he heard that I wasn’t coordinating my scents.

“Listen, you can’t just buy deodorant from the supermarket and use it with different cologne and then a totally different body-wash! What’s WRONG with you?”

Seriously, the guy looked at my like I had just suggested that sex with sheep wasn’t such a bad thing. Body-wash??? Does this man realize that I used to bath and shampoo with dish-soap? In fact, I started shaving my head because I was sick of having to buy shampoo!

I tried to coordinate my scents. I really did. I bought Armani deoderant, bathwash, aftershave, and cologne. But one day in, I snapped and rushed home to shower. I was sick of people smelling me ten minutes before my car pulled up.

Maybe I’m missing the boat on this whole thing, though. It may be that I don’t like the smell because it’s loaded with pheromones. I remember I had a female friend who checked my dust-covered bottle of Armani and said, “Oh my God! This is the greatest cologne EVER. It smells like baby-powder and sex!”

Honestly, I just can’t generate the patience to care about this stuff. I walked into Macy’s last week, with the intent of finding a really great scent. 20 minutes later I threw myself on the mercy of the saleslady. After 15 minutes of testing cologne I couldn’t smell a solitary thing. She could have sold me Sasquatch Urine and I never would have known the difference. It was three days before I could taste food again.

The only reassuring aspect of this whole sad story is that I know it’ll be another four years before I need to go through this again. In the meantime, I’ll be that dude rolling up smelling of Bigfoot musk.

DVD Extras

People, I think that the time has come to draw the line in the sand when it comes to DVD extras. Seriously, how much more of this can we take?

I’m not going to stand here and tell you that I’m not a DVD whore…I mean you’re looking at a guy who bought the special edition of Snatch two weeks after buying the regular edition. I’m sick.

At this point, it’s time we admit to ourselves that unless you’re planning on mailing body parts of yourself to Martin Scorsese or masturbating furiously to photos of Coppola, that no one has any use for the extra shit they cram on a disc. Like Lord of the Rings. The films were 3 hours long BEFORE the extended editions. Not even Quadriplegics can sit through movies that long.

On top of that, you’ve got 8 tracks of commentary in case you were in danger of forgetting the kinds of idiots who get work in Hollywood. Elijah Wood, your claim to fame is staring as the most prominent gay lead before Brokeback Mountain. Climb back in the hole with Mark Hamill. We’ll let you know when the next comic book convention roles around. Until then, we need you like the Middle East needs another cartoon demeaning Mohammed.

Each Lord of The Rings movie contains two entire DVDs of additional, behind the scenes footage. Who the fuck needs to watch 40 hours of behind the scenes footage? Are you going to call Peter Jackson with ideas about how he should have shot the film? Peter, I couldn’t even sit through your entire movie, what makes you think watching you film it is going to improve the experience for me?

Just once, I want them to make a REAL version of a “behind the scenes” documentary:

“Here’s Jason, the lead actor and teen heart-throb, snorting lines of coke and then taking it up the ass before his big scene. Wow, I haven't seen a man get nailed like that since Christ. You’ll notice the camera men eating donuts in the corner: they’re on strike to get their pay moved from $270 dollars an hour to $300. See that girl blowing the sound guy? She’s on screen for 10 seconds as a member of a crowd scene. To get that part she took more cocks inside her than a urinal at Yankee Stadium. What she doesn’t know is that a day after being gang banged by every crew member with a dick, her scene would be cut in editing. Welcome to Show-Biz, bitch!

“Oh, here’s one of my favorite scenes: Don, the director who never went to college, is throwing hot coffee at an intern with three PHD in film. Why don’t you get a degree in not fucking up my Latte, Asshole?”

Why I Hate Jersey: The Thrilling Conclusion

The New Jersey Road system was designed by a man who had never seen roads or cars before. While, this alone would hardly have distinguished him from the vast majority of valid New Jersey Drivers, our man set himself apart by having no concept of basic directions and having never actually visited New Jersey. In order to find your way around the state, you are constantly dealing with road signs that set up only to confuse the way-ward traveler.

Actual example: I was driving with my friend to a concert in New York. He decided that the best way to go would be to drive a little ways down to a park and ride and take the bus. So the two of us puttered down the road trying to ignore the horrible stench of Jersey, when we saw a sign: Park and Ride: 5 miles. We continued driving and saw another sign: Park and Ride: 2 miles. On we went. But there were no more signs. Fifteen minutes later, we turned around and saw the same succession of signs but northing else. Finally, we decided to use the odometer and actually track the number of miles from the last sign. Sure enough, two miles from the last road sign was a turn off. I made my friend stop the car so I could get out. There, 6 inches behind a massive tree was a sign that read, “Park and Ride: Turn Right.” The sign was conveniently placed in such a way that there was no physical way to see it from the road.

Because the signs are set up expressly to fuck with out-of-staters for the amusement of the locals, the only way to get somewhere in Jersey is to have been there before. Getting directions is like asking for the location of a mystical relic: drive east for 8 miles as the crow flies, then turn south at the large tree that points one finger towards the setting sun. Cross the river that flows around the boulder shaped like a man peeing and turn due north. Only then will you reach the greatest treasure our state has to offer: The mall.

I know. At this point many of my readers are probably thinking that I’m exaggerating. There’s no way it could really be THAT bad. Well I just happen to have another story.

I was driving down to Philadelphia last weekend and I took 95 south. All was well until I stopped to ask a toll-booth attendant for directions. Here’s what he said:

Take 95 South over the bridge and then take 95 North straight into Philly.

That’s right, 95 North and 95 South don’t run next to each other. The two are miles apart AND RUN PERPENDICULAR. 95 North actually runs from east to west, and then drifts south before looping up to run north again miles away from 95 South. I’ve included a picture from Mapquest in case you don’t believe me.

I’m fairly certain there’s something in the water that’s fucking with the residents. It’s like they’re all missing a chromosome. This mutation causes the following side effects:

• Women all think that fashion is a competitive sport, decided by who has the largest hair and finger-nails.
• All residents profess to have “Jersey Pride” but if out of staters ask where they’re from they say, “Near the City.”
• For some reason, they think that hailing from the state that produced Bon Jovi is something to brag about.

Listen to me: Bon Jovi is to rock what Vanilla Ice is to Gangsta Rap.

I’ve developed a new phrase that I really hope will catch on. When ever something is scummy, disgusting, or bad I say, “That’s Jersey.” Spread the hate, people. And Jersey, when you have something to contribute to society besides “Living on a Prayer” feel free to raise your hand. Until then, sit in the corner with Tennessee and think about what you’ve done.