Anal Justice

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Back To School

I was thinking today about how useless my seemingly endless years of schooling have been. The formal education portion of my life lasted about 18 years and included one of the most bizarre curriculums one could image.

I mean, 8 years later, I’m still waiting for that moment when my knowledge of fractions, the Scarlet Letter, and dodge ball will further my career. I get the feeling I’m going to be waiting a long time. I’ve never had to use a common denominator in a confrontation with a drunk over whether I was eyeballing his woman.

Never has the loudspeaker in my company blared out, “As all of you no doubt are aware, our annual reviews are upon us once more. In keeping with company tradition, this year’s round of promotions will go to the winners of our dodge ball competition. WELCOME TO THUNDERDOME!!!”

Think about it: let’s say that you had a kid and you could spend 18 years educating him on any subjects at all that would make him successful, happy, and confident. Where on that fucking list would you put “Trade Routes of the British Empire” or “Astronomy”? I don’t have anything against either of those two subjects…I’ve just never once had to estimate the next full moon for…well ANYTHING. EVER.

It’s all especially ludicrous, considering the amount of useful shit that noticeably absent from my curriculum. Shit that I’ve actually been expected to know and had to figure out on the fly. Off the top of my head, here’re some of the topics that should be added to any school:

• Sex. Enough of this Puritan bullshit already. I’m talking, hardcore, detailed, in depth, “let’s-hire-some-prostitutes-and-get-down” type training. The beauty of this course is that it also teaches kids how to recognize V.D.
• Self Defense. Number of times my ability to climb a rope has come in handy since graduation: 2. Number of times knowing how to drop a drunk guy in a street brawl outside my car at 3 a.m. would be useful: 200
• Driving. Let’s just save everyone time and make this part of the high school curriculum, ok? I want an advanced class that shows kids how to do 180 degree turns at 70 mph, perform jumps, and the fine art of staring someone down before a drag race.
• General mechanics. Being male, I’m somehow expected to understand the functions of an alternator. I’m also expected to be able to identify what the problem is on sight and be able to correct the problem with a hammer. My four years of Woodwork never got up to that, ok? In a pinch, I can build a nearly functional birdhouse. That’s the extent of my repair and building abilities.

You could throw in seduction, survival, stock market, and meditation as well. It’s almost enough to make me want to found a new school…especially if I get to personally interview the Sex Ed teachers. Rrrrrrrrrroawr.

Kids. What's The Matter With Kids These Days?

I was thinking today: Fuck the Amish.

Not really. I just thought it’d be a funny way to start today’s blog. I have a question: What the fuck is going on with High School killing sprees? What ever happened to the angry loners just repressing their rage and developing severe psychological trauma until they killed themselves 20 years later in a hunting shack in the middle of Washington State? Seriously, you little fucking pansies: suck it up and deal.

Waaaaaaaah! I’ve got acne and no one understands me. Waaaaaah! Daddy doesn’t love me! Waaaaaaaaaaaah! Grandpa used to touch me! Welcome to life, dipshit.

It’s ridiculous. Not because I don’t condone killing idiotic high school kids (What, did anyone else like “Carrie”?), but because it’s such a loser way out. Yeah, I know the kids are all anxious to shoot a dude in the head with a rifle after seeing their role model, Dick Cheney do it. But there are so many cooler ways to get revenge.

For example, is a dumb football jock picking on you because you shower in your underwear? Don’t shoot him in the head, taser him and then ritualistically castrate him.

Is the head cheerleader calling you a fat pig every day? Why make her swallow a shrapnel grenade when you can ether her and remove her nose, tongue and jaw with a paint scraper?

The point I’m trying to make here is that killing people is never the answer. Violence is. Besides, mass murder is such a pansy crime. If you want to have class, you should aim for a “Seven” style series of serial killings. Think about it: you already have no friends and are living in a fantasy world. How much of a change would it be use the 20 hours you spend downloading information on gay porn, vampire chats and napalm on something useful like…oh, I don’t know: torture techniques and Satanist rituals.

Damn kids are lazy. Anybody can go on a rampage. Put in a little effort and do something productive like serial killing or…date rapist! Yeah, that seems like a good hobby for burning off that excess aggression. When a girl says she just wants to be friends, just slip a pill into her school milk and go to town when she loses consciousness in homeroom.

In my day we didn’t kill our high school tormenters: we contented ourselves with the knowledge that in four years they’d be busted for raping an unconscious girl at house party or be kicked out of school for dealing drugs…true stories, by the way.

I guess what I’m saying is that kids today are really in need of a role model. Someone like Charles Manson or Jeffery Dahmer or even whomever killed Jonbenet Ramsey. It’s high time that kids learned the value of setting goals, channeling frustration and putting in a hard day’s work. Teenagers: stop smoking, wearing baggy pants, and playing with your skateboards. Do something productive and turn down that rap music for Christ’s sake.

Cocaine: Indiscriminate Destroyer Of Nose Cartilage And My Dating Life

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Hate The Game

If my companionship were a boat, these days I feel like it would be the Titanic. And true to form, it’s being evacuated women first. I’m beginning to wonder if I have enough bad karma to drown all the males who’re still lingering around.

Maybe I need a change. I’ve been watching a lot of HBO’s “The Wire” recently, and looking at the hair-cuts of some of the lead characters. Maybe I should get cornrows. Of course, that’d look pretty silly on my head, so maybe I should pimp out my pubes instead. That’d be classy.

I was speaking to a girl yesterday who accused me of being charming. I have to admit, that one really came out of left field. I’ve heard a lot of adjectives thrown out there in an attempt to describe me but “charming” has never been one of them.

“Thanks,” I said. “So can I fuck you up the ass next time we see each other, or do I have to get you drunk and wait until you pass out first?”

What I’ve realized is that being charming isn’t everything when it comes to attracting women. It’s like the phrase “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.” Except by “cat” I mean “pussy” and by “skin” I mean “fuck.”

I realize that I’m not a smooth mother fucker. I’ll never be James Bond, or Don Juan, or Joey Buttafuoco. I’m not that guy who says the right thing at the right time. Instead, my whole personality is about saying the wrong thing in the right way. I’ve embraced my awkwardness and focused on making it seem cute. But it takes a lot of work. It’s not that I’m not being me: I’m just being a more outgoing version of me.

Women are fun. Plus they’re soft, smell nice, and will sometimes scratch your back if you ask nicely. Also the fact that they don’t have penises makes them a lot more fun to spoon with. But they take effort, especially in the early “are you a psycho who’s trying to steal my kidney” phase of a relationship. Most of the time, I don’t mind it. In fact, getting them wouldn’t be quite so sweet if it weren’t so challenging.

I just want to go home, watch a movie and enjoy the sight of the top of a woman’s head. At the end of a long week, is that really so much to ask?

I’ve been going out a lot and generally enjoying myself. I’m mostly a private guy, but it felt good to be social and engaging. But right now it’s a depressing thought to try to plan a weekend of being socially presentable. So chances are good I’ll be spending the weekend in. If there are any women out there with a taste for DVDs and cock, speak up. Hmmm…perhaps that was a bad “slip of the tongue.” How’s a girl with a taste for cock going speak up? It’s impolite to speak with your mouth full. Yeah…that’s probably the reason’s no one’s called me back…

She Loves Tool

Maybe it’s a good thing that I didn’t have a lot of friends as a child. Because I believe it shaped my self-amusement skills. Some people might say that I missed out on building valuable social skills. To those people I say, “Why won’t you be my friend? Is it because I called your mother ‘Hitler with a bigger mustache’ or because I screamed incessantly ‘I don’t like to be touched’ for twenty minutes after that stranger bumped into me on the elevator?”

At any rate, what I lack in social skills, I make for in hours of endless self-amusement, which leads to me being seen laughing hysterically to myself, which, ironically, in turn leads to further deterioration of my ability to make friends. It’s a perfect circle.

Sure, “companionship” and “non-pariah-hood” might be nice. But it would also severely cut into the time I have set aside to laugh uncontrollably to dick jokes for half and hour like I did today.

A friend of mine mentioned she was going to a concert over the weekend. The name of the band happens to be “Tool.” By now I’m sure everyone can see where this post is headed. None-the-less, I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t list some the 20,000 cock jokes that followed over the next 30 minutes.

• So you’re a girl who loves Tool?
• You bought tickets to see Tool
• Have you ever been with Tool before?
• Sounds like you can’t get enough Tool
• Are you going to try to get all the Tool you can handle this weekend?
• What do you do after enjoying Tool? Smoke? Cuddle?
• Are you sick of the puns yet? Because I wouldn't want you to get worn out from too much Tool
• Do you get cranky if you don't get Tool on a regular basis?
• Do you go online and look for pictures of Tool?
• I hope you’re not disappointed. I heard that Tool is shorter than the pictures suggest.
• You like how they look, huh? So you're telling me that tomorrow you're going to spend the evening drooling over a hot Tool?
• If you’re close enough to the speakers, you should be able to feel Tool ripping through your body.
• In the car, do you ever shove Tool in while driving?
• Did you get good seats tomorrow? Nothing’s worse than having to squint at the Tool you paid good money to see. Hopefully you can have Tool right in your face all night
• Do you sing along? Because you strike me as someone who enjoys Tool coming out of her mouth.
• I hope, for your sake, that you get enough Tool to satisfy you. And if you want penis afterwards, just call me.

Classic. More tomorrow when I make fun of my friends who have tickets to go see Dave Mathews. There’s no pun there. He just fucking sucks.

The Church Of Ehren

The first thing that any religion needs is a fairytale about what happens when you die. Why are there so many people in the world obsessed with repressing all their natural urges and being Holier-than-Thou assholes? Because someone told them that bad shit would happen to them if they didn’t act that way. So essentially, when it comes to founding a religion, what you need is a vision of the afterlife that justifies being an enormous, unconscionable prick and still lets you sleep soundly at night knowing that you alone are walking the path to salvation.

So here’s my religion’s version of the afterlife: don’t sweat it. There’s a heaven and a hell but the more time you spend worrying about what happens when you die, the more likely you are to roast forever in a motel room in Jersey with Gilbert Godfrey while getting double penetrated up the ass by Lexington Steele and Peter North. Basically our creed is: Live In The Now.

Anything you do should be an action that improves your lot on earth, providing it doesn’t involve fucking people over…figuratively, of course. Literally fucking people over is fine, so long as they’re into that.

That means you shouldn’t be doing things just to try to score brownie points with God, because God HATES brown-nosers. And unlike the pansy God of the Christian World, our God is really big on vengeance, smoting and random acts of pestilence.

Basically, my religion says that God is a bad-ass mother-fucker. Kind of like an omniscient and omnipotent Samuel L. Jackson. God still lives at home with His mother, though and can’t quite get His shit together enough to get a job. So He watches a whole lot of day-time television and late-night infomercials. Your job is to be His entertainment and give Him something funny to watch before He gets bored and starts wrecking shit up.

Now on to the Ten Commandments:

1. Thou shalt not accept reach-arounds from 90 year-old Russian prostitutes. Cumming on their tits is still permissible, though.
2. Don’t fuck shit up for other people, or God will pimp-slap your sorry ass.
3. Killing = generally not cool. Exceptions can be made if the dude talked shit about your mom, tried to steal your watch, or cut you off in traffic.
4. Honor your father and mother…but not in that creepy, incestuous I’m-from-West-Virginia-and-live-in-a-trailer-and-mama-never-wears-a-bra sort of way.
5. Stealing: also not cool, unless you really need the money and you’re not fucking anyone else over.
6. Fucking = VERY COOL, if done safely, consensually or at least really, really hotly. God digs hard-core porn, unless his mom busts in on him and he has to cover up with the couch pillow and pretend he was watching Will and Grace.
7. Stay the fuck out of other people’s business. Every time you hassle someone you feel isn’t walking the true path, an angel has to give a handjob to 75 year-old crack addict with genital warts.
8. Trim that shit. The 70’s are over. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and when God picks the next Virgin Mary, you better have that bush under control if you expect Him to give head. And trust me, when it comes to taking Gods cock, you’re going to be MUCH happier if you’re properly lubricated first.
9. Get a sense of humor. Laugh at yourself at least four times a day or God will smite you with crabs.
10. Thou shalt not cut someone off in traffic. If you want to know why, see commandment number 3.

Now, I know a lot of people will want to known where my religion stands on pressing issues of the day such as Abortion, Stem Cell Research, and Gay Marriage. Allow me to elaborate.

• Abortions: allowed, but totally up to the woman. Guys, you’re only job in the process is to shut the fuck and fork over money as needed, either for the procedure or alimony.
• Stem Cell Research: Allowed. In fact, I support killing live babies, children and adults in the name of creating a genetically perfect army to do my unholy bidding.
• Gay Marriage: Opposed. Of course, ALL marriage is forbidden in my religion, except for the purpose of tax-fraud. There’s nothing that a ring is going to change that couldn’t be accomplished through years of psychological torment, guilt-trips and bad sex.

By this time, I’m sure you’re thinking, “Ehren, how do I join this utopian society?” Well, friends, the answer is easy. To join, send 50 cents to my paypal account, run around on the ground three times ala Curley from the Three Stooges, and yell “Wooo, Woowoowoo, Woo, Woo, Woo!”

Peace be with you, brothers and sisters.

Mormons Are Weird

Among the many small joys of my day-to-day work experience is that of dealing with people who have completely lost all grip with any kind of reality. Why do I enjoy it? Because they are individuals who have no idea that the louder they scream, the harder I laugh.

My company has a number of websites which post free news feeds. Anytime a new story goes up, we get about 50 emails: 25 from radical left-wing militants convinced we’re republican shills lying to the American public, and 25 from insane right-wing conservatives screaming about how we’re undermining the president. Ordinarily, I’d take this to mean we’re doing a pretty good job. EXCEPT we simply POST the stories. That’s right. Every single day, 50 people waste twenty minutes of their lives writing outraged emails to me about stories that are clearly marked as being supplied by someone else.

Occasionally, however, these same lunatics also manage to educate me at the same time. For example, did you know that Mormons can’t drink coffee? I came to this little nugget through a rather round-about way.

One of the websites posted an interactive survey about how often people drink coffee. A number of lunatics wrote in livid that we would do a poll on such a sacrilegious and Godless topic.

At first, I couldn’t make heads or tails of the comments. For a while I thought maybe Tom Cruise had joined a new religion or something. Finally, some of my associates on the West Coast alerted me to the fact that this was a Mormon thing. Honestly, if it hadn’t been for them, I’d still be in the dark because I don’t believe that I’ve ever met a Mormon. Frankly, until I hear otherwise, I’m working under the assumption that they’ll turn into some sort of insect when exposed to the cold of the North East.

Maybe some people think I’m being a little hard on the Mormons. Nothing could be further from the truth.

If you’re a Mormon, listen: I think…what’s his name…Jimmy Christ is bitchin’. Really. He’s totally tits. But just because other people talk about something that you don’t believe in doesn’t mean it’s an abomination. I’m Jewish. I’ve somehow managed to never be offended by someone ordering pork chops. And frankly, you have no time to be offended considering the whole polygamy thing. I mean if you’re a Mormon, what the fuck are you doing on the internet? If you’re male, you’ve got 14 wives to fuck. If you’re female, you should knocked up and dealing with 12 screaming kids. Granted, you free up some time compared to the average married woman considering you have a lot fewer orgasms to fake, but come on. If I were you, I’d spend less time being offended and more time worrying about trying to keep skin on my nipples.

Honestly, I didn’t realize that the not drinking coffee was such a pillar in the Mormon community. I mean, considering they’re allowed to marry like 18 wives it makes very little sense to me. Seems like they’re a group of people that would benefit the most from the extra caffeine boost.

Let me go over this once more, just so I’m absolutely sure I’ve got this straight. According to Mormons:

Wedding 37 16-year-old girls = ok
Sipping a single Mocha Latte = Eternal Damnation

Have I got that right?

I'm sure that you're all expecting me to launch into an attack on the Mormon "religion" but really, I only have one thing to say: Halle-fucking-lujah. Finally, a faith that hates Starbucks and loves polygamy as much as I do. Clearly this is a group of people with their priorities straight. I might convert tomorrow. The only downer would be that whole leaving-the-civilized-world-to-join-some-cult-in-the-middle-of-bumble-fuck-nowhere-Utah thing. Sure it might be nice to legally own 37 prepubescent female slaves. But even if it borders Nevada, I’m not sure I’m ready to give up on myself and move to Utah. I mean, I have to guess that Utah is sort of the New Jersey of the Southwest, only without the cheap gas.

I think I have to start my own religion. I mean, idiots are still joining scientology. I figure I can come up with a way cooler cult than that or the fucking Mormons. Seriously, what kind of religion preaches about polygamy AND avoiding promiscuity? Talk about sending mixed messages. Hmmm…More tomorrow when I release the fundamental doctrines of The Church of Ehren. In case you’re curious, odds are good that avoiding promiscuity won't make the cut.

Nicknames and Holy Wars

I was walking through the video store with a friend of mine recently when we started discussing names for our group of comrades. We’re an odd bunch: 2 Jews, 4 Muslims, and one huge Irish Atheist.

Basically, imagine every single religious war that could be imagined and then multiply that by 50. That’s what it’s like every time we go out.

“How many Muslims does it take to screw in a light bulb?”
“How many?”
“None! They’ll sit in the dark and blame it on the Jews!”

Personally, I’m shocked that they continue sitting down at the poker table with myself and my religious cohort. I mean, you know how we Jews are with money.

“Dude, I can’t BELIEVE you called me.”
“What are you going to do, bomb me?”

And that’s before alcohol gets involved. A night out on the town usually ends with cries to kill the infidels and threats to ruin other people’s credit records.

My friend is really into nicknames and secret handshakes. In high school, he and I worked out a handshake routine before baseball games that took about 10 minutes to complete. We had to start it on the bus before we arrived at the actual field. So it was only a matter of time before he decided to name our group of friends. I reflected for a moment and said:

The MuJews, featuring Handsome Spence.

Now you’ll know the name of the gang of idiots starting a religious war next to you in the bar this weekend. Short post today, bitches! I’m off to drink some Muslims under the table.

Excuse Me, Brother, Could You Spare Some Pants?

I don’t normally make claims of my own social graces. In fact, I generally describe my level of smoothness somewhere between hacksaw blades and glass in the Vaseline. As we speak, there are probably 15 raving, bible-toting lunatics on street corners in New York who’d be less awkward to have dinner with. Basically, there are only two groups of people with whom I can banter that won’t immediately peg me for the degenerate psychopath I truly am: friends, and parents of girls I date. And honestly, with the first group, it’s only about 50% of the time that I manage to pull that off.

I really don’t know why I get along well with parents. I suspect it’s because I’m missing the section of my brain that can identify what is “cool.” I mean, I still think corn cob pipes, Velcro and Christopher Walken are neat.

“What? Your daughter’s last boyfriend drove a motorcycle and listened to ‘the hip-hop’? How amusing! Now what say we sit down and discuss the future, responsibility, and good, old-fashioned, American chastity?”

To give you an idea of my level of smoothness, I once dated a catholic girl.

The dad: a Dominican ex-cop who had retired to run his own martial arts school.
The mom: a stay-at-home deeply religious catholic.
The girl: Daddy’s little angel, apple of her family’s eye.
Me: white, fast-talking city Jew, here to corrupt Ms. Perfect

I showed up at the house and built her dad a deck for their pool. After dinner I drove home and showed up the next morning early enough to cook breakfast with mom.

When we broke up a few months later, they called me to apologize for their daughter.

That was an extreme case. But like I said, I can charm the pants off a girl’s family. However, when I do it, I like to do it on my own terms. Meaning I take some time to look vaguely respectable and coherent. Sometimes, however, fate doesn’t allow us prep time.

I was lying in bed, clothed only in boxers and wrapped around a girl when suddenly the door was flung open.

“Hey Sis! What—oh.”

There I was, pants-less; his sister: also pants-less. Lying on the dresser next to me, blatantly obvious and impossible to miss was a stack of condoms. As far as first impressions go, this about the bottom of the barrel. I would have been better off snorting coke off his dead grandmother.

In all fairness, he was pretty cool. I, on the other hand, was trying to split my time between wondering whether it would make matters worse to try to hide the condoms, and inwardly praying to be struck dead by a congenital heart defect.

I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried to have a conversation with a fully clothed person you’re trying to impress while clad only in boxer shorts. The only way I can think to describe the situation is this: imagine that you are picked by your employer to give the single most important speech in your company's history. You prepare diligently, spending weeks on your presentation. When the day comes, you know you’re not going to be good: you’re going to be great. You’ve never been so confident about anything before in your life. You have a great night of sleep and awaken energized, and ready to go. Checking the mirror on your way out the door, you see that you look fantastic. Your suit is so sharp that you make Sinatra look like a 1930's dust farmer. As you drive in, you catch every green light and find a parking space close to the door. That attractive receptionist holds the elevator for you on your way in, and blushes profusely during the ride up. The meeting starts, they announce your name and you tell your ice-breaking joke. Everyone laughs. Then you flip on your slide-show presentation and all that comes up is page after page of Monkey porn.

Honestly, I have no idea how the conversation with the brother went. In fact, I can’t even remember anything that I said. However, I DID think of a great line to use should I ever run into him again.

Me: Hey, I’m Ehren.
Brother: I know. We actually met before.
Me: I know, but I wasn’t sure that you’d recognize me with my pants on.