What The Hell Is Going On In Japan?

The time has come for me to admit I have no fucking clue what they’re up to over in Japan: The music, the TV shows, the women…they might as well be an alien species. Have you sat down and tried to watch one of those Anime Cartoons? If you’ve really no better way to waste thirty minutes of your life, I have a suggestion: Buy a cork screw and heat it to approximately 400 degrees. Then jam it in your eye socket until you hit bone. Because you’re better off hunting through the discount bin in Davy Jones’ Locker looking for an eye-patch that’s really “you.”

On a side note, one of my friends came up with an idea for a can’t-miss concept band: Pirate Metal. They’d play shows up and down the wharfs, rocking out with super up-beat metal versions of Sea-Shanties. Can’t you just imagine a lead singer with a mic looped through his hook? I even typed up a Wanted Ad:

Wanted: recovering amputee to front Sailor-Metal Band. Peg leg and prosthetic arm a plus. Extra consideration will go towards candidates who “lost their eye in a grog-house fight with a Turk.” Must be willing to work with Parrot.

Sorry, I’m easily distracted. What was I talking about? Oh yeah! The Japanese! Ordinarily, I love Adult Swim on Cartoon Network. But between those Anime shows, Tom Visits the Mayor, and those reruns of Saved by the Bell that they’re running, I’m seriously considering switching to Comedy Central. Anime is unwatchable.

I dated a girl who was into Anime. I even went as far as downloading a bunch of the X-Rated stuff for her. She was enthralled. I have no clue why. Here’s a typical moment from a Japanese Cartoon:

A girl is trying to break into prison. So she whistles and a squirrel the size of an autistic kid’s head jumps out of the tree and attacks the guards.

“What the fuck is that?” I demanded
“Oh…that’s sort of her pet squirrel.”
“How the hell was I supposed to know that? That thing’s never been on screen before. And who keeps squirrels as pets? Squirrels that are trained to attack people? If you’re looking at beefing up the home security, why would you want an attack squirrel? Wouldn’t a dog make more sense?”
“I don’t know…they never really explain it.”

And by the way…what’d the deal with every woman in Japanese Cartoons wearing bras that are, conservatively, quadruple G? They are, in the words of Celia Hodes of Weeds, “Freak show big. So large that smaller breast want to orbit them.” I’ve never seen a Japanese girl larger than a B. David Spade has bigger tits, ok? Trade in your training bras and give up the dream.

By far the weirdest thing produced by the Japanese, however, is the Porn. Look, I’m a guy with the normal appetites. Sometimes I like my videos a little raunchy. It’s not like I’m running home to download videos of choir practices. Go ahead and slap that ass! Give her a Pearl Necklace! It's all a fantasy, anyway.

A man can only go so far, however. That's why I’ve stopped downloading Japanese porn. Because no matter how kinky the porn you’re looking for, anything made by our rice-eating brethren to the east is assured of being 900% filthier. I think they’ve given up any straight fucking. Anytime you download a Japanese clip you’re guaranteed to see a video involving 12 live eels, penis warts, and a bathtub full of feces. Or a ten year-old girl getting skull-fucked by a 600 pound ape with Herpes. Or...well, you get the idea.

In college I knew this girl who desperately wanted to be Japanese. She spoke it, she read about the culture, she gave herself a Japanese name...she even refused to date guys who weren’t from there! And she was a skinny white girl from Upstate New York! Apple Pie and Hotdogs are more exotic than her. At any rate, I was out in the hall chatting with a bunch of our mutual friends and her when she slammed on me about something. I nodded laughed and made a mental note to get revenge. A few minutes later she said something that I asked her to repeat.

“I said, ‘I’m an egg.’ You know, white on the outside, yellow on the inside.”
“Oh.” I replied. “I thought it was because I’d get salmonella if I ate you raw.”

Hard Work And The Secret To Drinking

I think hard work, as a practice, is falling out of fashion. Think about it: job performance, movie quality, musical ability, and oral sex are all at all-time lows. Kids are all emulating rap-stars and pop-sluts. For some reason, people actually care what Paula Abdul thinks about talent. Paula, you are to “talent” what Tom Cruise is to “not fucking psychotic.” I’ve seen more watchable performances on re-runs of “The Gong Show.” True story: when I was in kindergarten, a bunch of kids told me that she was a transvestite. I’m still waiting on some glimmer of evidence to convince me otherwise.

I was auditioning people for a band I was putting together and dealing with all sorts of people who just assume that they’re going to be rock stars. This type of thing really pisses me off.

One girl wouldn’t come in unless she was promised full creative freedom and was allowed to play bass and sing. Small problem: she could neither sing NOR play bass. One kid talked to me on the phone for a week before telling me the night before, “OK, small problem: I don’t technically own an instrument.” News flash: if you don’t own an instrument, you’re not a musician: you’re a homeless guy without a sign. You don’t see your mom going to work without her snatch, do you? How else would she score crack?

The story that really takes the cake, though, is a guy who emailed me a few times, missed two auditioned and disappeared for three months. Then, when he finally resurfaced called me to find out if I could “help score amphetamines.” At what other job would that seem even sort of ok? “Hey, I know I skipped my job interview, professor, but do you know a guy for H?”

Judging from continued success of the penis pill companies and the general insecurity of women everywhere, it seems like people want to be good in bed, but aren’t willing to put in any effort. Not long ago I wrote a post about why some men aren’t big on giving head. Ladies, if you want to get, you’ve got to give and seriously step up the effort.

I was with a fantastic woman over the weekend who knows how to treat a man right. But before that, I have to go back a long way to find anyone who was even ok at it. One of my best friends still believes that good head is a myth. Ladies, that should be an embarrassment to all of you. If any of you had an ounce of respect for your gender, you’d knock out your teeth, fly down here and prove him wrong.

Effort, ladies and gentleman, goes a long way. If you want something, you have to work at it. Try to enjoy whatever task you’re doing, or at least imagine it’s something you like. For example, I was out with one of my friends who had never done a shot before. She kept coughing and choking each time she took one down. Being the good pal that I am, I broke it down into an action I knew she’d done plenty of times before.

“There’s nothing to it.” I said. “Just close your eyes, open wide, and aim for the back of your throat.”

REALLY fake breasts

It’s not often that I eye-rape inanimate objects. I mean, I’m just not the “blow-up” doll type. I figure if you’re going to be attracted to fake anatomical parts, you’re better off dating a transvestite.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not slamming on fake boobs…at least not the kind you’re thinking of. I was walking through the mall over the weekend, when, for possibly the first time ever, I noticed the breasts of the mannequins in the stores. Yes, they were all perfect plastic sweater-cows, the likes of which can only be seen in virtually any porno movie, but there was something else: they all had nipples. Each mannequin was sporting what appeared to be 2” nipples poking through the shirt, dress or sweater that they were wearing. It was enough to make me stop mid-stride.

It wasn’t as if this was a lingerie store, either. They were selling blouses and generic women clothing, which has definitely gotten racier over the years, but still…nipples? Why would anyone need to see that? It’s not like men were going to be buying the clothing because they thought the mannequins were hot. And why would women want to wear stuff that showed off their nipples? I mean, if they wanted to do that, they’d be better off sporting body paint.

What scares me most about the nipple development is not that I know that eventually 12 year old girls are going to assume that flashing is trendy. What concerns me is that I know that it will never stop here. Mark my words, three years from now I’ll be walking by a men’s department where a mannequin is sporting a full, 12” hard on. It’ll be dressed in a pink button-down shirt, halfway open, to show off enough golden chest-hair to weave a hut for a village of freezing Eskimos. Beige khakis will spill down into sandals and one hand will be casually holding a tennis racquet. But there, unmistakably, unavoidably, undeniably will be a giant, foot-long erection.

I imagine that even through the pants, it would be obviously circumcised. I only hope that by that time, they’ll have the technology to make the throbbing of it’s many noticeably veins fully realistic. Otherwise, what would be the point of dressing up a giant cock in dress pants?

Clothes are meant to cover your body. If you’re THAT into flashing your breasts to the entire world, give it up and just start going topless. Selling clothes using a mannequin that has blatantly obvious nipples is the equivalent of making cereal boxes with a fat dude taking an enormous shit right on the cover.

The fact that they have anatomically-correct mannequins doesn’t freak me out. What I’m really curious about, however, was the first mannequin manufacturer who said, “Damn it, Rupert! We need to make our mannequins with nipples. HUGE nipples. Think ‘porn star drowning in ice-water’ big.” What was the first company that didn’t immediately tell that guy to pack his shit up and get the fuck out?

I guess what the whole thing has taught me is that by the time my daughter (provided I ever ever have one) is 15, she’ll be hurrying off to school wearing nipple-tassels and a thong to show off her clit-piercing.

And people wonder why parents flip out and kill officials at little league games…

My Boycott Of Good Taste

I think that technology has peaked. It appears that there are no possible advancements left to make. At least that’s what razor advertisements have led me to believe.

About six years ago, there became a distinct new trend in the way they try to sell razors to men. It went from “if you shave, you’ll be swimming in pussy” to “Never in the history of mankind has any invention EVER been as revolutionary as this.” Essentially, razor companies are telling you that before their latest product, man was squatting in caves, masturbating furiously and eating bugs.

The change coincided with the release of the first shaving implement that had three blades. I sort of tune out when these commercials come on now, but from what I gather, they’re now up to 79 blades.

“The first 12 trim hair, the next 23 smooth cartilage and ligaments, the next 21 cut bone, while the remaining 23 manicure brain and spinal chords for the closest shave in history. Gentlemen, welcome to ‘The Guillotine.’”

I don’t mind that people are innovating, but come on. I think we’re overselling the evils of facial hair. I remember when I first saw advertisements for the “Mach 3.” The actual line that they used in the commercial was, “Our team of scientists has completed a breakthrough.” THEY ADDED ANOTHER BLADE TO AN EXISTING PRODUCT. It’s the equivalent of adding soap to a rope. Under what conditions do you imagine they’d need a “team” of “scientists”? I can see it now: 20 scientists in lab coats huddled around a blackboard.

“Now I know we should add something to the razor, but what?”

“Sandpaper!”
“Herpes!”
“Tapeworm!”
“Rotting cod!”

The commercials would ordinarily be enough to launch me into a boycott of the entire shaving industry. If I had the capabilities, I’d be walking around like the fourth member of Z.Z. Top. Unfortunately, I have the misfortune of being facial-hair retarded. I’m 26 and I STILL don’t have to shave anything from my bottom lip to my neck. Basically, when it comes to facial hair I can grow bitchin’ Mutton Chops or nothing at all. I may have no chance of understanding fashion, but I’m not ready to completely give-up and start dressing like a Dickens’ character…yet. On the other hand, the four bladed razors have been in stores for a good year and a half now. When they release the fifth blade, I may have to take my anger out on myself and the general public. I’ll just resign myself to having strangers come up to me on the street asking for more gruel.

Men are all blind to how bad their facial hair looks. A man could have the skankiest, ugliest, scraggliest child-molester mustache in the world and he’d still think he looked good. Come on, you KNOW Hitler thought he looked like a pimp.

For example, I was walking through the mall with two of my friends. We’d been ambling around for a while before one of them commented, “You know, we’ve been hanging out all afternoon and neither of you guys said anything about my mustache!”

I replied, “You mean you’re doing that on purpose? I just assumed you were letting yourself go!”

Hey, what are friends for?

Very Bad Things

The subject of “bad sex” recently came up in a conversation with my friends. Bad sex does exist for men, believe it or not and it can be caused by any number of factors. I guess I’ve been pretty lucky in my choices of women to only have had one absolute dud.

Generally, I pride myself on being able to read a woman’s sexuality. Somehow, I can look through a room full of women and pick the girls who genuinely LOVE sex. Sort of like Christopher Walken’s character from The Dead Zone.

“Wait…Tomorrow…you will get up…put on garters…black ones…and have the overwhelming urge for…REVERSE COWGIRL.”

It’s a gift that I try to use for good and not evil. Generally, I fail miserably.

At any rate, my ability to follow the old “divining rod” had steered me right in the past. Alas, every streak comes to an end.

As I stated in my “Dating Resume” I don’t discriminate based on religion or skin color. I’m an equal opportunity lover. So the girl I was seeing seemed fair enough. She wasn’t the shapeliest of individuals, but she had a cute face and a good sense of humor. Both of those things go a long way in my book. Essentially, she was a solid 6 in appearance with great personality.

I was ok with everything, until things started to get heated between us. I read somewhere that women have special garments that “lift and separate.” Apparently, I had no idea exactly how much lifting and separating was possible these days. When I saw her naked she had slipped from a 6 to a 3. It was a horror scene. Her stockings and panties must have been sown from reinforced steel. I'd seen better definition and muscle tone in waterbeds.

Despite that, I’m nothing if not determined. I’d already gotten this far and I decided that the least I could do was suck it up and take one for the team. “Do some charity work” as the kids say. If I had known what I know now, I would have cut and run right there.

I separate pubic hair in three distinct categories:

• Shaved
• Trimmed
• Julius Irving, Circa 1975

What I got, however, was totally unexpected. The only way I can really describe it is as a sort of pubic mullet. Generally, when you come across a girl who’s got a horrible 70s bush, you can sort of let it go saying to yourself, “Well, she doesn’t know any better. She’s not trying to do anything fancy down there.” But this…how could you NOT notice that. It looked as if a sweaty Cory Feldman was lying on her lower thighs and trying to eat her stomach.


I knew it was time to cut my losses when I had to grab her back-fat to pull her ass up high enough for doggy style. Let’s just say that the tread on her tires was completely gone. I’ve been down slip and slides with better grip.

Eventually, I decided that enough was enough and I took the easy way out: I faked an orgasm.

This alone should give you an idea about the level of desperation I had reached. Women, I now understand your pain. There was no way I was going to get off and all I wanted was the opportunity to pack up what was left of my self-respect and die in a hole somewhere.

I drove home in dead silence. I couldn’t even stand to have the radio on. Every now and then I would realize that I was chanting something: “Not clean! NOT CLEAN!” 40 minutes of hot shower did little to scrub away the horror of it. For months afterward, I woke up sitting bolt upright with icy sweat dripping down my body.

Basically, I no longer fear death.

I guess what I’m saying here is that the key element in choosing a partner, much like in drinking, is to know your limit. Eventually, you have to realize that the dream is dead and there are just some horrors out there that man is not meant to face. I know, I know. There are nights when you just want to get ripped and only have money for Avocado Schnapps. But sometimes, it’s just better to keep your self-respect.

Girls Who Want Me...Dead

I’ve decided that the main difference between how men and women view relationships is optimism and pessimism. Allow me to elaborate.

Men tend to assume that there are limitless possibilities in the dating pool. A while ago I said that if a guy brings a great girl over to meet his buddies, the buddies say to themselves, “I got to get me a girl like that.” The key word here is LIKE. In a man’s world, there’s always the possibility that someone better might come along. I think secretly all men are assuming that eventually something better will come along. This might be why some men are loath to commit. Deep down, we know that the world is a big place and there will always be women who don’t know better than to date us.

Women on the other hand think that the dating pool is more like a dating puddle. In a woman’s eyes there are, at any given time, no more than 78 datable men in the entire continental U.S. In the event that one is encountered, they must be pounced on and locked down at all costs. It doesn’t matter if he’s dating someone else. Employers, life-long friends, family members: they’re all are nothing more than obstacles standing between what should rightfully be yours.

I’m endlessly amused by women who accuse men of being mean-spirited. When a guy has a problem with another dude, they fight. They knock each other’s teeth out then buy a round for the loser. End of fight.

When women have problems, the whole thing becomes an entirely new level of nasty. A spat between females means spending the remainder of your existence into grinding your opponent into the dust. The idea is to smile to their face, but work behind the scenes to destroy their self-esteem, friendships, employment opportunities, and credit record. When a woman makes enemies, she won’t rest until her opponent dies broken, fat, miserable and alone.

Some people might think I’m over-reacting. Turns out I have a story.

A girl I dated (Let’s call her “Jill”) and I had some problems that led to me ending things. “What kind of problems?” you ask. Well other than decking my friend’s fiancé, being incapable of telling the truth, and having the sex drive of a rock, she was fine, I guess. At any rate, I broke up with her. All would have been ok, except she insisted on remaining friends. I tried to tell her, “Listen, if you want to stay friends that’s great. I’m all for that. But don’t just say you want to be friends and then do nothing but plot about getting back together.”

Of course, that’s exactly what she did. Regardless of what you ladies think, breaking up with someone is NO fun. What I soon discovered was that hanging out with Jill meant that each time I saw her I had to break up with her AGAIN. After the fourth time I completely flipped out.

In my defense, it was right towards the end of finals week. For some reason, I had decided that finals week was also the perfect time to start in with a new girl, who Jill knew nothing about. The result of these two activities was that I had gotten a total of about 6 hours sleep in the past week. I was in the middle of writing a 20 page thesis on “Post-Structuralist Theory and Modern Belief Systems” when I got an Instant Message from Jill.

“Hey. Don’t you think we were the cutest couple ever? Don’t you think that we could get back together maybe in a year or something after you’ve had a little space?”

I snapped. I’d told her a number of times that things were through and she just wasn’t getting it. So proceeded to point the obvious facts that she was:

1. Psychotic
2. Pathological
3. Terrible in bed
4. Had roughly the same build and beauty of a plank of wood.
5. In no way capable of emotion, love, honesty, improvement or understanding
6. Lacked a soul

I went medieval on her. I was wrong to do so.

Once a week later and then again a few months following, I sent her emails to apologize. I received no reply.

That had been my final semester at school, but when the year started up again I started hearing stories from my friends who still attended the university. Apparently, this girl had begun spreading the story to my old friends and professors that I had beaten her and given her an STD. Needless to say both stories were completely false.

I flipped out and called her. While it didn’t go well, I told her that I was sorry for the things I said at the end of our relationship and if she had any problems she could take them up with me directly.

I would have thought that the story would end here. Alas, it doesn’t. 5 years later, I found out from a friend that she (yes this is a direct quote) “prays and plots nightly for my pain, torture and lingering torment.”

I’ve had a lot of bad break-ups and arguments with people. But you know what? There are only a handful that I still keep grudges against. Of those few, there are none that I wouldn’t forgive if they came to me and said the right thing.

Fights, Feedback, and Fellatio...Well, Cunnilingus, Actually. But I Dig Alliteration!

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Impressing The Office With My Hot, Thick Meat

I was grilling during lunch today, when a guy from my office came up to me and said, “Dude, my grill is way bigger than yours. My grill is HUGE.”

I responded, “It’s not the size of the grill, it’s all about how you use it.”

“The classic response from the guy with a tiny grill.” He sneered.

“Yeah, but your big grill burns gas like nothing. I can cook all day with my little grill. Plus, I’m not trying to compensate for my dick size. Open wide and taste my sausage, bitch!”

It was just one of the many jokes involving “hot meat” made over lunch that completely annihilated any hopes of adhering to the company sexual harassment guidelines. It also reminded me of the interesting obsession that men have with their penises.

The whole “I have a bigger dick than you, therefore I’m more of a man than you” really peaked in high school. Back then, pretty much three quarters of everything spoken by a male was trying to convince the opposite sex that they were hung like porn stars. In retrospect, the logic that this would make you MORE attractive seems really, really bad. I somehow doubt any of the girls were itching to lose their virginity to Ron Jeremy. Also, the guys were all white boys from the suburbs. My guess is that their cocks reflected as much. What they should have done was not call attention to their genitalia. That way at least the girls wouldn’t have been so monumentally disappointed when they dropped their pants.

Early on in life, I realized that bragging doesn’t really impress women. So I only make dick jokes when I think it’s funny. You might say I like to walk softly and carry a big stick.

See, that was funny!

I have a friend who decided to take the opposite path. All he talked about was how tiny was. I remember one exchange between him and a girl that went like this:

“I swear I have the smallest dick in the world. The only thing shorter than my cock is a black man’s “To-Do” list.”

“Well, it’s not the size of the ship; it’s how fast you cross the Atlantic.”

“Yeah, but do you have any idea how long it takes to get to England in a row-boat?”

I’m just not convinced that women are falling for anything that a man says about his groin. Women are missing so many promised inches that they’re each entitled to more square feet than the Louisiana Purchase. Starving children in Somalia have been promised more undelivered meat. Taiwanese chicken farmers devastated by the bird flu have lost less cock.

You know, at this point in my life, I don’t really care about it any more. I mean, the kind word that I get now and then about my body is nice. But what I really prefer are compliment on my performance. Because the guys who still worry about the size of their grill, are completely missing the fact that the right spices, slow heat, and eating technique are way more important to a completely satisfying meal.

Espionage Of The Dating World

If my years of dealing with women have taught me nothing else, it’s to treat the flow of information as if it was the distribution of classified documents. Essentially, I want to be kept on a need to know basis. The reason is the same as why spies don’t want to know about stuff that doesn’t concern them: knowing too much can get you killed.

Women drama is sometimes caused by things virtually invisible to the male eye. Did you hold the car door open for your friend two weeks ago but not for her yesterday? Did you forget that she expressly told you last month that she doesn’t like pepperoni when you picked up a pizza for dinner? Did it slip your mind that sleeping with her sister was one of her “hot buttons”?

My point is that women like to freak out about things that, as a man, are completely imperceptible. I used to get concerned when a girl I was dating would get upset or passive aggressive or violent. Now I know better. At this point, my strategy is simply to ignore everything for as long as possible. The benefits of this policy are two fold:

1. If a problem is minor, it’ll blow over without me having to acknowledge it. This is MUCH better than me actually asking what’s wrong and screwing things up even worse by saying the wrong thing.
2. If we never argue about it, she never gets to say that she’s right. Arguing with a woman leads to losing. Losing leads to massive power shifts. Since we men tend to have little if any power in relationships, it’s better to keep what little influence and integrity we have left.

Besides, I can’t even count the times that I’ve asked a woman, who was obviously upset what was bothering her only to get the response, “Nothing. I’m fine.” I’m done playing that game. Why? Because if I do, I’ll never again be sure when a woman is telling the truth. It would forever be me wondering, “Did she REALLY mean that she didn’t want me to harvest her organs while she slept?” And who the hell can take that kind of uncertainty. Now I prefer to take everything at face value and when they explode because I wasn’t paying attention, I just say, “You said you were fine. I thought we could trust each other!!!”

The last time I fell for a girl’s, “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine” line was back in college. I was dating a super hot chick that was generally really outgoing. We went out one night and I noticed that there was obviously something bothering her. She was sullen, gave short answers, and generally acted as though I’d violated her ass on international Glass in the Vaseline Day.

At the end of the night, back in my room I sat down with her and tried to get her to discuss what was wrong. It was about 3 in the morning and we had both already showered and changed. I was in bed, and she was in a chair pretending that solitaire was the most fascinating thing in the world. I argued with her for about 20 minutes, asking her to tell me what was wrong, and each time getting the answer, “I’m fine. I’m not mad. Just go to sleep.”
So finally, I stopped asking and closed my eyes. I was awakened about 45 minutes later when a shoe flew across the room and hit me in the head.

“What the hell?” I demanded, blearily.

“You fucking bastard!!!”

Apparently, after about ten minutes of silence, she had decided to unburden herself of her problems, along with some deeply personal revelations about her past and strong feelings for me. She had been right in the middle of some monumentally emotional confession about how her daddy didn’t love her…when I began to snore.

And I thought she was mad before I went to sleep…

(Rich) Girls Gone Wild

I was on E Skelton’s blog yesterday and I couldn’t help but run across one of his posts about Anna Benson. For those of you not familiar with this particular black hole of intelligence, taste and clothing (Anna Benson, not E Skelton), her claim to fame is being married to a mediocre pitcher for the Baltimore Orioles. She’s a former stripper who dreams of being a super model. Or so I gather.

On a side note, what the hell is the difference between models and super models? The job of a model is to walk down a runway, spin and then walk back. How can one person be better at that than another? What are the regular models doing? Just spinning the whole way out there? Do they get to the end of the runway and forget to stop? What the fuck?

Anyway, back to Anna Benson. E Skelton bemoans the fact that she’s become famous when she has no redeeming qualities to offer the world. He also says that she’s not all that hot.

She’s definitely a celebrity in the vein of Paris Hilton: a rich, dumb skank. I’m really not sure why people keep paying attention to her. I mean seriously, if releasing a poorly made sex tape on the internet is all it takes to get your own TV show and movie roles, where the fuck is my contract? All I got out of that was a lawsuit and a bad case of genital warts. On the other hand, it goes a long way towards explaining Motley Crue’s continued existence.

Here is all the thought I put into Paris Hilton: “wow, that’s one strung-out looking grasshopper.”

Still, Anna Benson doesn’t really piss me off nearly as much. Why? I have three words for you: Anna Nicole Smith. Anna Benson is a failed reality show and 50,000 Big Macs away from being spit out the bottom of the Porn Industry. Paris is no fun because she’s always going to have Daddy’s money. In 7 years she’ll be a whore dying of hepatitis, but she’ll still be rich. Anna Benson is much more fun because she has no idea that her life has already peaked. I keep rooting for her because the more successful she is now, the more entertaining her crashing and burning is going to be.

Besides…I think she’s hot. She falls into this whole category of “hot” that I have, and girls, don’t EVEN tell me that it’s an exclusively male view. I think she might be even more attractive because I know she’s borderline retarded and brings nothing to the table in terms of a personality.

Allow me to explain. Her exterior is about flawless, but inside, she hardly qualifies as human. This means that no matter what you did to her, it would be guilt free. Sort of like having sex with a really attractive insect who’d managed to get breast implants. I want you to understand, I’ve never really had any particularly outrageous sexual urges…but for her, I’d make an exception. I’d fuck her like the South fucked black people.

I know someone’s going to chime in and say, “How could you write such an awful thing.” Ladies, don’t even tell me that you’re all waiting to jump Brad Pitt because his tight, hot personality. I’ve sat with girls through movies before. The shit they say about men is WAY more sexist than the foulest stuff I’ve heard from guys. And I don’t blame you for it! I salute your crassness and I completely understand.

My friend has similar feelings for Jessica Simpson. He was telling me how hot she was and all the unprintable things he’d do to her if given half a chance.

“You know she’s an idiot, right? Like, roughly the same intelligence of a brain-damaged chimp?”

“I don’t care!” he answered. “Have you seen her ass? I’d fuck the stupid right out of her.”

Crude. But, oh so true.